By the King's Design (31 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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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.

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