11
To feel much for others and little for ourselves; to restrain our selfishness and exercise our benevolent affections, constitute the perfection of human nature.
—Adam Smith, Scottish moral philosophizer, 1723–1790
Friday, February 18, 1820
London
Put brushed long strokes of mordant—a combination of alum and water—to the drawers of the secretary-style desk he was building for Belle. The mordant saturated the wood and prepared it for accepting color. Sitting nearby was his own stain concoction of freshly cut brazilwood boiled in water with some more alum and a bit of potash. The ingredients were heated together for just the right amount of time to create a magnificent shade of red-brown.
Long after he shut up the shop for the day and his workers went home to their wives or to a tavern for a pint, he remained behind to work long into the night in the light of gas lamps. He’d even set up a pallet in the shop’s attic so that he didn’t need to waste time walking home each day while completing the piece. After all, a single intricately carved chair could take up to two weeks to create, making his time frame for the desk very short indeed.
He was content with the progress, though. Remembering Belle’s delight with the Earl of Essex’s desk at Madame Tussaud’s, he came up with an idea for a double secret compartment for Belle’s.
He looked out the window at the night sky. The light purple tinges of dawn were appearing above the buildings across from his, and soon the street vendors would be rolling their carts into place and hawking their wares.
It was probably time to climb the ladder into the attic to catch a few hours of sleep on his lumpy mattress before his employees returned to start a fresh day. But he needed to supervise the drying of the mordant, then the stain needed to be applied in up to a dozen coats, so, once again, he would work twenty-four hours straight without sleep.
He added more wood scraps into the fireplace and stoked the dying fire to warm his fingers for the work that lay ahead of him, work he knew was a labor of love.
Mr. and Mrs. Nash were in London, and paid a visit to Belle’s shop for the first time. Frigid February air blew into the shop behind the couple, but Belle was delighted to see them, and apologized for the scraps littering the floor.
“Never mind, Miss Stirling,” Nash said. “We can see you’ve built yourself quite a profitable business here, eh, Mrs. Nash?”
“Indeed so. In fact, I think I need a length of this tamboured muslin. My fichus have become quite tattered and I need to have new ones made.”
Belle cut the requested fabric, adding extra yardage to the cut, and presented it to Mrs. Nash as a gift. “You are too kind to give this to me, Miss Stirling. I’ll not forget it. You must join us for lunch, I insist.”
For once, Wesley was in the shop, working at something behind the counter. He was congenial to the Nashes, and nodded agreement to look after the shop before Belle could even finish the request. She joined the Nashes for luncheon at the same café where she’d seen Put and that woman dining together. She understood why he picked the place. The food was delicious. Midway through their Madeira-soaked pound cake, Belle and John Nash were absorbed in discussion about the Pavilion’s progress.
Belle hadn’t realized the extent to which they’d excluded Mary Ann Nash until she interrupted them. “You know, I do believe I’d like to go shopping for some hats and hairpins. After all, what good is a spruced-up bodice if one’s coiffure isn’t covered fashionably? Besides, I’ve never really walked through this area. Mr. Nash, I know you want to take a turn to look at Regent’s Park. Why don’t you and Miss Stirling do so, and I’ll meet you later at the hotel?”
Mary Ann Nash gathered up her cloak and gloves and left for her shopping jaunt along Oxford Street.
Nash watched his wife’s retreating back. “I suspect my wife wants to be seen strolling about this fashionable area, no matter that she may snap like an icicle out there, eh?”
And so Nash and Belle went to view the progress of not only the park but all of the new street between Carlton House and Regent’s Park. Nash offered her a fur-lined blanket to wrap around herself as they started out. Mrs. Nash’s initials were embroidered on one corner and it smelled faintly of her perfume.
The park and the construction surrounding the area were less than a mile away from Belle’s location on Oxford Street, yet her duties and constant travel to Brighton had prevented her from visiting the area herself.
Progress on the street and park itself was slowed during the bitterly cold month of February, but work continued on buildings surrounding the area. They rode past the demolition of the Little Theatre in nearby Haymarket, a century-old, decrepit building that would now be replaced on the same site by the new Theatre Royal, designed by Mr. Nash.
“The new theatre will be shifted just south, to line up with St. James’s Square, you see. I understand the new manager intends to stage Sheridan’s The Rivals as its first production.” Nash smiled as though pleased with that decision.
As their carriage rumbled along past other partially completed buildings, Belle used the opportunity to broach what she had learned from Wesley.
“Mr. Nash, if you knew that the king was plotting something dreadful, what would you do?”
“Have you somehow come into such knowledge?”
“Yes. I’ve learned that the king is gathering evidence against Queen Caroline in an effort to discredit her.”
“Miss Stirling, who isn’t in possession of that information? The king has been trying to rid himself of his wife since five minutes after he took his vows. And the newspapers are full of his outbursts and tirades against her.”
“Yes, but he’s employing others to manufacture evidence against her. She could end up at the tip of every satirist’s pen, if not locked up in the Tower.”
“I don’t think a queen has seen the inside of a Tower cell since Elizabeth. Besides, the visitors who now tour the Tower would find it immensely entertaining, hardly the king’s goal. The royal couple has already been lambasted by the likes of Rowlandson. One more piece of gossip won’t affect his scribbling one way or the other.”
Nash gazed thoughtfully at her.
“Miss Stirling, from where did you get this piece of scurrilous information?”
“I ... I can’t say. I overheard a conversation somewhere.”
Nash smiled. “Ah, perhaps your eye was to a keyhole when it should have been on a measuring tape, eh? Overheard conversations are generally misconstrued.”
Belle reddened. “I assure you, Mr. Nash, I overheard this conversation correctly. In fact, I confronted one of the parties involved, and he confessed as much.”
“So the exchange involved a man with whom you are well acquainted enough that you could confront him. You’ve mentioned no other men in your life, so who could that possibly be, besides your own brother?”
Belle didn’t reply, merely turning her head to look out the window.
“I see that I am prescient. And what could your brother, a mild-mannered lad if I ever saw one, have to do with any schemes of the king? Listen to me well, Miss Stirling. I don’t know your brother, but I can hardly countenance that he would be scheming at the uppermost heights of the kingdom. You, after all, are closer to the king than he could ever hope to be.”
“Yes, but—”
“And regardless of the sheer absurdity of your brother plotting such a thing with King George, who has an army of connivers and schemers surrounding him from which to draw, remember what I told you long ago: Mind your tongue where the king is concerned. He pays us well and we benefit even further from our society clientele. No good could come to you as a result of your groundless suspicions.”
“They aren’t groundless.”
“Moreover, what of your brother? If such a story got out, do you seriously think the king would suffer for it? No, he would let others, such as your brother, assume all blame. Your wisest course, Miss Stirling, is to stay as far away from this as possible. Believe me, there are many things you don’t necessarily understand about the king.”
“Such as?”
But Nash refused to say anything more, and a couple of days later he and Mrs. Nash returned to Brighton.
Belle, however, made up her mind. She would stop Wesley.
Saturday, February 19, 1820
Put’s first thought when Wesley entered the shop was that the boy was gaunt. Was Belle aware that her brother looked ill?
“I’ve come to check on the desk, Mr. Boyce,” Wesley said. “Have you made something worthy of my sister?”
“I believe so. Let me show you.” Put removed the burlap loosely draped over the secretary to protect it from the ever-present wood dust in the shop.
“Handsome,” was Wesley’s entire assessment.
Put considered throttling him. The desk was a masterpiece of marquetry and function. He showed Wesley its construction.
“As you can see, I’ve made the bookcase part separate from the drop-front bottom piece for easy transport, but it slides back on easily atop this raised rail.” Put slid the top part of the secretary forward so Wesley could see how it attached.
Damn the boy, he didn’t seem all that interested, given his great excitement over having the piece built right away.
“And here’s the truly unique aspect of the desk.” Put pulled down the slanted front of the desk, which served as a working space when open and resting on support rails that automatically popped out from below as the top was opened.
Inside the working space were a myriad of drawers and slots for holding papers, writing instruments, and whatever else Belle desired. Each drawer had a gleaming brass knob in its center. Put had furiously rubbed and polished each knob until his arms were sore.
He pulled out a drawer from inside the compartment and removed a thick pin that rattled around inside it. He set the drawer to one side, and inserted the pin into an unnoticeable hole in the wooden divider between the drawer and a vertical decorative column next to it.
The column popped forward, revealing it to be the front end of a thin compartment. Not wide enough for a book, but certainly large enough to hold some folded parchment or other narrow items.
Wesley waved his hand in the air in dismissal. “Yes, a common trick. Anyone knows about such secret compartments and could find it in an instant.”
“Is that so?” Put asked. “Perhaps you should watch further.”
He pulled the compartment out completely. He’d paid attention to detail everywhere in the desk, and had even carved a design in the sides of this compartment that no one but Belle would ever see. Put handed the entire box to Wesley.
Wesley peered down into the slot and turned it all around, examining not only the carving but Put’s signature along the bottom of it. He shook his head. “I don’t understand. What am I looking for?”
Put took it back from him. At the back of the narrow compartment, opposite the column, he slid a thin shaft of wood, meant to look like an immovable support piece. It revealed a narrow space running along the entire bottom of the compartment.
Wesley reached for it again to inspect the opening. He looked up again in admiration. “No one would ever find this twice-secret space,” he said. “And it’s large enough to hide money or jewelry in it, provided you put some wadding in here to prevent it from jangling around. In fact, it’s an ideal place to lodge one’s personal documents, or a diary. Must say I’m impressed, Mr. Boyce.”
Put nodded in acknowledgment of the younger man’s praise, then took the compartment back from him, slid the wood shaft back down, tucked the secret box back into the desk, pressing until he heard the click that let him know it was securely in place, and replaced the original drawer he’d removed.
“I believe Miss Stirling will be both pleased and amused by it. May I deliver it to her for you?”
Wesley handed him a slip of paper containing an address in Cato Street, not too far from the draper shop. “No. These are my new rooms. Please deliver it here.”
“Not directly to Miss Stirling?”
“No, no. I, er, I’ve just found these new lodgings and want to surprise Belle. She doesn’t know about them yet. A gift like this will make her more likely to forgive me for securing us a new place without telling her. You know how women can be, fickle and hysterical.”
There was something strange in what Wesley was planning, beyond the obvious idiocy of trying to assuage his sister’s wrath over a secret move by giving her a gift, but Put couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
He thought back to Belle’s visit. Hadn’t she said she herself had mucked up her relationship with Wesley? That he was angry with her? If so, why was Wesley now seeking amends? This pair of siblings was disconnected from one another.
But Put accepted the rest of Wesley’s payment for the desk, and agreed to bring it by personally in two days.
Monday, February 21, 1820
Put maintained his own delivery wagon, but borrowed a horse from a neighboring smithy whenever he needed to make a delivery. In return, Put had built several beds for the smithy’s growing family. Today, Put brought one of his journeymen, Gill, with him to help with moving Wesley’s secretary. He pulled his wagon up to the address in Cato Street.
Gill voiced Put’s own thoughts. “Are you sure this is right? Looks like stables to me.”
Gill scratched his head underneath his hat. Like Put, he despised uncomfortable street clothing. What they wore today for hauling the secretary might look unfashionable and lower-class to any member of society, but for a cabinetmaker it was like restraints.
Put looked down at his paper and back up at the wide set of doors that stretched the span of the brick building. The numbers matched.
“This is the place,” he told his employee.
“Let’s deliver it and get back to the shop so we can get out of these fetters, then.”
Together they put muscle into lifting the two sections of the secretary out of the wagon and placed them in front of the doors. Put knocked, but got no response. He and Gill banged in unison on the door, and were rewarded with a “You’ll wake last year’s dead!” from inside.
One of the doors swung inwards and Wesley stepped out. “Welcome, Mr. Boyce. Let me show you where to bring the desk.”
Gill stayed outside with the secretary while Put followed Wesley inside. Gill was right, this was a stable. And, from the smell of it, had not long ago been divested of its residents.
What the devil was the boy up to?
“The desk needs to go up there.” Wesley pointed up a ladder into what was surely a hayloft.
“You must be joking. You don’t actually live here, do you? And surely you don’t expect Miss Stirling to join you here?”
“Oh yes, once she puts her feminine gewgaws about the place I’m sure it will be to her liking.”
Either Belle’s brother was an unfortunate who belonged in Bedlam or he was up to something. But he’d squared his payment for the desk, so Put was in no position to argue about where it was to go.
The three men struggled to get the two pieces up the ladder, which rose almost vertically into the space above, but managed to do so without either section getting damaged.
As Put surveyed the loft, he realized not only that Belle was not intended to reside here but that it was highly unlikely that Wesley himself lived in this primitive place. Scattered benches, tables, and a few candlesticks did not make for a habitable location.
Put and Gill assembled the top to the bottom. The completed secretary stood impossibly proud in its odd surroundings, like a chestnut tree growing in the desert.
A few minutes later, as Put jiggled the reins to put the horse in motion, Gill asked him, “Why would someone want one of our pieces for that stinkhole? It was no better than a cell at Newgate.”
“I don’t know.”
“And it’s for his sister? Wasn’t that the gal you were sweet on?”
Put frowned at Gill. “Mind yourself. I’m not sweet on anyone, much less Annabelle Stirling.”
There, that should keep his employee from gossiping with the others in the shop.
But he missed Gill’s slowly curving smile as he wondered if Wesley really planned to give it to someone else and was extracting the best price possible from him by declaring it a gift for Belle.
Tuesday, February 22, 1820
A light morning snow was drifting down as Wesley slipped out of his lodgings with some rope he’d bought after seeing how difficult it was to maneuver the secretary up the hayloft ladder.
He stopped by the Horse and Groom to receive Darcey’s embrace, as well as her complaint that he had not yet moved his belongings there. He was faintly irritated that she was more concerned that he was not there to warm her bed than with his imminent plunge into a dangerous task. He shared a pipe with her, then headed across the street.
Everyone else was already in the hayloft, admiring the desk. Even Mr. Thistlewood congratulated him for managing to commission such a fine piece. Wesley forgot his annoyance with Darcey as he basked in the older man’s praise. It stirred a childhood memory in him of feeling proud when his father praised him for making accurate guesses as to the yardages on various bolts of fabrics that lay about the shop. Mr. Stirling would brag to everyone who would listen how smart his young Wesley was, and that one day he’d double the size of their business because of his sharp mind.
You were meant for more than to be Belle’s fetching boy. This today proves it.
But neither the opium nor his self-assurances could quell the gnawing in his innards that had started after commissioning the desk from Mr. Boyce. His involvement with the Cato Street lads was honorable and just, he knew it. After all, Mr. Thistlewood was a man of great bearing and character and he was convinced that their plan would change England for the better. So there was no cause for concern.
And yet. He looked around at his co-conspirators, half of them intensely serious about their work, the other half still drunk from the previous evening.
What would Father think if he saw you now?
He banished that niggling thought as Mr. Thistlewood went to the front of the room, the understood signal that he was about to speak and that they should pay attention.
Thistlewood rubbed his gloved hands together and blew on them in between snatches of speech intended to rouse the conspirators.
“Friends, our time is nigh. We are on the cusp of the greatest glad tidings our country—no, all of Europe, dare I say the world?—has ever seen. For we have our example in the French events of a quarter century ago, but we have English ingenuity and cunning on our side, and their foolish mistakes will not be repeated here.”
He dropped his voice.
“Imagine what a different world it will be just three days from now. Our grand uprising will be spoken of by schoolchildren for centuries. Lovers of freedom everywhere will imitate us in overthrowing their shackles of servitude. Our oppressors will accuse us of having the blood of innocents on our hands. But from where we will sit inside Mansion House, we will say to them, ‘No, we saved the blood of innocents.’ Does anyone here doubt our noble endeavor? Let him speak now.”
Silence.
“And if you are with me, let me know.”
Of course, the men roared their enthusiastic support. Wesley cringed inwardly. They were too noisy during this daylight meeting where passersby might notice them. But Mr. Thistlewood didn’t seem concerned. He dropped his speechmaking posture, and turned to the practicalities of what would happen following delivery of the secretary later that day.
He told the men that once they established where in Lord Harrowby’s house the dinner was to be held, Mr. Thistlewood would draw up exact posting locations for everyone. Only certain men would have the privilege of bursting in on the members and killing them. Everyone was to meet one final time in the hayloft the evening of the twenty-third, and at that time Thistlewood would be issuing guns and swords to his hand-selected assassins. Who those men were was his closely guarded secret.
Wesley held his breath. Would he be asked to partake in the bloodletting?
“I ask Messrs. Brunt, Edwards, and Stirling to return this afternoon and take the secretary to Lord Harrowby’s home. Pretend you are from the Company of Joiners and that you are presenting this fine desk to Lord and Lady Harrowby on the occasion of their anniversary. I will wait at the corner of Duke Street for your report.
“And now, friends, return to your businesses and your wives, pretend nothing is amiss, but be here promptly at six o’clock tomorrow.”
As everyone filed out, Thistlewood signaled for Wesley to stay behind. Thistlewood picked up a small leather satchel that was resting on the floor behind him and handed it to Wesley. “Do you have a secure hiding place for this inside your lodgings?”
At Thistlewood’s nod, Wesley opened the satchel. Inside was a stack of letters, written plans, timetables, and maps. Mr. Thistlewood was entrusting him with such a great responsibility? Not even Edwards or Davidson had received such a task. “I do.”
“See that these are well hidden. My own lodgings are above an overly educated and nosy bookseller.”
Thistlewood shook his hand and the two men departed together. Or, rather, Wesley pretended to leave, heading over to the Horse and Groom, but went back as soon as he saw that Thistlewood was gone.
Still clutching Thistlewood’s documents, he climbed the ladder into the hayloft, relit a recently extinguished candle, and dug around in an opening he’d discovered in the wall last week. His fingers touched the wrapped package containing his journal and writing supplies, and he pulled them out. He’d resorted to hiding his journal here ever since Belle’s false—but ultimately convenient—accusations.
He sat down at the table, facing the new secretary. It really was an exquisite work of art. It almost seemed a shame that Mr. Boyce wasn’t able to give it as a gift to his sister. For the man was obviously in love with Belle. Any goosecap could see that.
He pondered his entry. Wesley determined that it should be clever and glorious, like Mr. Thistlewood’s speeches. Something to read to his own children one day about his grandiose exploits. He tapped the end of the quill against his nose. Nothing was coming to him.
He leafed through the papers Mr. Thistlewood had given him. Some of them were innocuous—bills of fare from the Horse and Groom, receipts from the barber, that sort of thing—but other documents were incriminating indeed: a map showing several routes from their Cato Street location to 39 Grosvenor Square; a list of all the servants who currently worked for Lord Harrowby; another list of all the members of both houses of Parliament; a receipt for a dozen flintlock pistols. It would be disastrous if they should fall into the wrong hands.
The prime minister’s, for instance. Or even Belle’s. Actually, he wondered what Darcey might do with such items. She might hate her father, but was she really as loyal to Wesley’s interests as she proclaimed? Would she turn on him if she thought she could earn some other chance at independence and notoriety?
He shook off the thought.
But his nervousness at being in possession of the papers remained.
If Mr. Thistlewood was too afraid to keep them, why shouldn’t Wesley be equally nervous? His room was probably as safe as anywhere, but then, hadn’t he caught Belle rummaging around once already?
Even the opium haze wasn’t enough to quell the barrage of thoughts passing through him. Did Mr. Thistlewood care only for protecting himself, and not his co-conspirators? What would happen to Wesley if—God forbid—something went wrong in their attack, and all of these documents were found in his possession?
I’ll burn them.
But what if Mr. Thistlewood asked for them again? How would he explain their disappearance?
Even more troubling was the other potential outcome of tomorrow night. If they were thwarted and Wesley was injured or killed, how long would it take for the authorities to link him to Darcey? What might happen to her?
They wouldn’t imprison an innocent woman, would they?
And what about Belle? He supposed she couldn’t possibly be implicated.
He passed a hand over his eyes, all of a sudden feeling much older than he was. Finally, he spent an hour making what he considered to be his most important journal entry ever. He detailed everything about his involvement with Thistlewood, from his meetings with Darcey to his commissioning of the secretary desk. He put down his pen, and felt a wave of relief roll through him, as though he’d just cleansed and pardoned himself in advance for his sins of the future.
He tore out those pages, as well as all the others mentioning Darcey or Thistlewood, rolled them up into a tight scroll, and went to the secretary. Opening the slant front, he popped open the secret compartment as Put had shown him, then slid up the additional wood slat that revealed a secondary compartment hidden below the first one. He tucked his scroll inside and brought the slat back down to cover it.
There. In what more ironic, yet safe, place could his journal pages reside than in the home of Lord Harrowby? If Wednesday’s activities were successful, why, he’d have the secretary moved into his own rooms at Mansion House. If anything went wrong, well, no one would ever be the wiser.
On second thought ...
Wesley scooped all of Thistlewood’s papers out of the satchel and stuffed them into the primary secret compartment above the hollow where his journal entry was hidden. It was far better that Thistlewood’s papers not be found in the lodgings he shared with Belle.
Satisfied, he tucked the remaining pages of his journal back into the wall, blew out the candle, and headed down the ladder. He’d need some sleep in his own bed before the afternoon’s activities.
Wesley didn’t notice Put sitting at a window in the Horse and Groom, watching him leave.
He was also too tired to detect another, unfamiliar face staring down at him from the upper floor of the tavern.
The snow stopped long before Belle closed the shop and trudged home, weary from an unusual day of customer complaints about fabric shortages and late deliveries. She knew she needed to talk to the ever-absent Wesley about it, but what was the point?
No light shone from under his door and all was quiet. He must be out carousing again. She went upstairs, tossed her bonnet on her bed, and settled down in a chair next to the window to read in the quickly waning winter daylight. With less than three pages read of Ivanhoe, the latest novel by Mr. Scott, she lit a lamp on the table next to her. The reflection from the window created a comforting circle of light.
She sensed a motion outside the building, but it was too dark now to see anything. The front door opened; was that Wesley? She put her book down and took the lamp out to the landing to check.
It was indeed Wesley, who looked haggard and filthy. He carried a long length of rope slung over one shoulder.
“Brother?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He looked up at the landing and gave her a rare, lopsided grin. “Nothing for you to worry about. Had to help a friend move some furniture and it was heavier than I thought it would be.”
“This took all day?” Drat, she’d just decided not to bother confronting him. Couldn’t she ever hold her tongue?
He sighed wearily. “Yes, Belle, it took all day. I’m off to bed now. The rest of my week is very busy.”
But he remained still, staring at her as though just seeing her for the first time. To her surprise, he tossed the rope down, leaped up the steps two at a time, and pulled her close into an embrace, kissing both her cheeks and tugging on one of her curls.
“Sister, sometimes I don’t like you very much, but I do love you. Remember that, if in the future I don’t see you anymore.”
Belle gripped both his arms. “Wesley, sometimes you frighten me, but right now you terrify me. Why are you talking to me like you’re about to plunge yourself into the Thames?”
“Not to worry. I just wouldn’t want anything to remain ... unsaid. . . if circumstances come between us.”
“What do you mean? Wesley, please, whatever you’re planning to do for the king, stop it. It’s dangerous and foolhardy, and you’ll only end up sorry. I beg you, Brother. Please. I ... I’ll ... I’ll do as you wish. I’ll share the shop with you. Just stop what you’re doing.”
His smile this time had no joy in it at all. “I don’t think there will be time for a draper shop in my future, Belle. I’ll be too busy.” He kissed her one last time and went downstairs to retrieve his rope and return to his room.
Belle put her fingers to her cheek, still moist from his lips. Too busy? Doing what?
She had little time to consider it. After falling into a troubled sleep, Belle rose the next morning to find that Wesley was already gone for the day. She opened the shop, and had hardly made her list of activities she wanted to complete for the day when the door banged open, sending in a bitter blast of cold air.
She looked up from the counter to find Putnam Boyce in her shop. He turned and locked the door behind him, and set the “Closed” sign in the window.
Belle came around from behind the counter. “What, exactly, are you doing, sir? This is a place of business.”
“I have to talk to you, and it’s serious.”
Although Put was wearing a better-tailored coat than last time, he looked starched and uncomfortable, as usual.
“Mr. Boyce, I have many concerns on my mind right now, so if you’ll kindly unlock the door so that I can welcome customers—”
“You can worry about your customers later. Where can we talk privately?”
“I hardly think it’s proper for us to—”
“Lord, woman, but you try my patience. Is that a room back there?” He nodded toward a door at the back of the shop.
“Well, it’s more of a storage closet.”
“Come.” Put unceremoniously swung her around and marched her to the back room.
“How dare you!” she sputtered.
“There are far more daring things going on than you could ever imagine. Where’s a lamp? Ah, here we go.” Put lifted the oil lamp she kept on a hook by the door next to a shelf holding a tinderbox. Opening the box, he struck a piece of flint against the firesteel, letting the sparks fall onto the char cloth and lighting the lamp with the burning cloth. He replaced the lamp on its hook. “Stop tapping your foot, Miss Stirling, and pay attention to what I have to say.”
She did so grudgingly. “Mr. Boyce, you’d better have good reason for disrupting my day.”
“I believe your brother is involved in something dangerous.”
Put knew?
Impossible.
“What do you mean, ‘something dangerous,’ Mr. Boyce?”
“I mean that he is associating with a group of men that are up to no good, and I have a good suspicion he intends to do something treasonous.”
“It might not be treasonous if it’s for the—” She stopped.
He looked at her intently, waiting for her to finish, but when she clamped her mouth shut and refused he continued.
“Did you know your brother commissioned a very expensive secretary from me? It’s one of the finest pieces I’ve ever made. He told me it was to be a gift for you. But he had me deliver it to a very strange address on Cato Street. Wesley claimed it was the location of new lodgings for you both, that he had rented the place without telling you, and that the secretary was to be a peace offering when he finally brought you round to see the new location. Have you seen it? Honestly, it’s nothing more than an abandoned stable.”
Belle’s mind was whirling. New lodgings? A secretary? What was Wesley up to?
“I see you are completely unaware of what has transpired. His so-called lodgings amounted to some scattered benches and tables in a loft over the stable. The meanest felon would not be at home there; I hardly think he intended to introduce his sister to it.”
“But, I don’t understand. Why did he ask you to make a piece of furniture like that? I have nowhere to put it. My room is quite small at our lodging house.”
“I don’t know. I certainly didn’t question it at the time. I was quite happy to, er, well, I was happy enough for the commission. Anyway, the whole situation bothered me enough that I returned to keep an eye out on Wesley. I’ve been watching him from a tavern across from the stable. He’s been meeting daily with about a dozen men, and they’re definitely conspiring to do something. The leader is a tall, swarthy character.”
That must be Wesley’s friend, Mr. Thistlewood. Oh dear, her brother really was trying to help the king build up evidence against his wife. She had no idea what to tell Put. She couldn’t tell him what she knew, for he would seek the authorities. But she also couldn’t have him following Wesley around like a bloodhound on the scent of a deer.
“Mr. Boyce, I appreciate your concern. But you’ve probably misinterpreted what you’ve seen. Perhaps my brother has merely joined a club of some sort, and the secretary is for storing papers.”
That sounded ridiculous even in her own ears.
“If that were true, why the subterfuge about the desk being for you? Why couldn’t he tell me it was for his club? And do you seriously think some men starting a social club would meet in a stable? Or that they would make the purchase of a secretary their first expenditure?”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Miss Stirling, you don’t seem overly surprised by any of this, other than the desk. Why do I have the impression that you might know something about your brother’s activities? Is he involved in something illegal?”
“No. I don’t know. Wesley hardly tells me anything anymore. I told you before that I mucked up my relationship with him somehow, and the end result is that I have no idea what my brother does, who he sees, and where he goes. He could be dining with slavers every evening for all I know about his whereabouts.”
Curse Put and his penetrating gaze. She felt like he was absorbing every thought she’d ever had and keeping them for his own.
As if understanding how uncomfortable he was making her, Put relaxed his tone. “I’m sorry, Miss Stirling, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just worried for your brother, and by extension you, if he’s up to something that’s, shall we say, less than suitable for a draper. But you say you have no idea what it could be?”
Put knows I’m not telling the entire truth.
You could tell him. Maybe he could help you track Wesley down and talk some sense into him. And it would be comforting to share this.
But you don’t know him well enough. If he found out how serious Wesley’s connivances were, he’d run to the authorities. Then I’d be personally responsible for seeing Wesley into a cell in the Fleet.
She slowly shook her head and met that deep forest of a gaze. “No, I don’t know what he might be doing.”
He shook his head, and Belle sensed it was in frustration with her. Well, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time she’d exasperated him, would it?
Time to change the subject. With a sharpened tongue she said, “Tell me, Mr. Boyce, how fares your lady friend?”
“Ah, finally you’re willing to let me speak on the subject. My ‘lady friend’ whom you saw is my cousin, Frances. She’s mostly deaf, and she spends a part of each year with different relatives. I try to see her whenever she’s in London. And if you weren’t so mulish, you might have given me an opportunity to tell you about her. In fact, you could have joined us at our meal.”
Belle paused. “Oh. I see.”
“I think your problem, Miss Stirling, is that you don’t know who to trust. As a result, you place faith in the wrong people, and cast aside those of us you can depend upon.”
“I always thought my problem was that I’m entirely too quick to speak my mind.”
He laughed. “No, that’s what’s most interesting about you. So tell me, can I be forgiven enough to have you accompany me on a walk through Vauxhall Gardens?”
“My brother ...”
“I hardly think your brother has voice to this anymore, given his apparent dealings.”
Oh, how true. If only she could float out the door with Put this very instant, padlocking the shop forever, forgetting Wesley’s despicable dealings, the king’s peccadilloes, and Mr. Nash’s loveless marriage, and ... well, just everything. Just retreat somewhere idyllic where none of these men and none of her problems existed.
But she was a realist. And a proprietress. And a sister.
“That’s not what I mean. How can we consider such distractions when Wesley might be on the verge of such troub—rather, while he is under a cloud of your suspicion? No, my brother must be free of distrust before I can even consider it.”
“I see. And what if I’m not mistaken, and Wesley is indeed in grave circumstances?”
“Well, then, my concerns will be far greater than that of promenading through paths of boxwood, won’t they, Mr. Boyce?”