By the King's Design (39 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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She nodded. Removing her hand from his cheek, Frances made a scooping hand toward her mouth.
“Dear cousin, I would love a slice of your pork pie. Afterwards, we'll discuss what to do to ensure no further trouble visits our door.”
 
Belle held the two letters in her hand. What was happening here?
First was the short missive from Put, informing her that due to unforeseen circumstances, he would be unable to see her for some time.
No explanation accompanied his curt declaration. What had caused him to do this? Was he angry with her for some reason? Was he tired of waiting for her to come round on their relationship? Admittedly, she'd never let the conversation return to anything near marriage. Or even courtship. But that was no reason to abandon her company entirely.
Even more disturbing was a note from a Darcey Whitecastle, who claimed she was once a patron in Belle's shop.
Except the woman claimed she was no longer Miss Whitecastle.
She was Mrs. Stirling.
The letter rambled at great, confusing length about how Miss Whitecastle and Wesley were married some weeks prior to the Cato Street debacle. They'd kept it a secret by fleeing to the Scottish border town of Gretna Green to get married, where they could avoid the English requirement of having banns read.
Impossible. Wesley had never been out of her sight long enough to make a trip to Gretna Green.
Had he?
He never mentioned any specific woman in all the time they'd been in London. Of course, Wesley was so full of secrets and silence toward the end that it was difficult to know what he might have been doing.
Oh, Wesley, I wish I could have known the true state of your mind. I wish I had been a better sister to you, but you always wanted the one thing I couldn't give you. And nothing else would satisfy you.
The letter went on to inform Belle that the new Mrs. Stirling intended
“to make my rights on Wesley's inheritance known.”
The woman claimed that Stirling Drapers actually belonged to her as Wesley's wife, and that Belle would be brought to justice for having stolen the shop from her husband.
What a ridiculous claim. Whoever this woman was, whether or not she had actually married Wesley—a highly dubious claim in Belle's mind—she certainly was in no position to make claim to her cloth shop. These were the ravings of a madwoman.
Probably some lunatic who had followed the trial and sought to profit from it. Belle crumpled up “Mrs. Stirling's” letter and tossed it aside for discard.
It was Put's letter that disturbed her more. Reading it again, she came to a different conclusion than what he himself stated.
... I must apologize in advance that I risk your displeasure—and perhaps the loss of your affection—by withdrawing my attentions until certain of my own private concerns are resolved. Yours & etc., Put
What circumstances were these? She doubted seriously that the cabinetmaker was in frightful circumstances. And why didn't he speak plainly to her? Hadn't she had enough intrigue with Wesley?
Her conclusion over Put's flowery, nonsensical words—most unusual in a tradesman, too—angered her more than all of the glass breaking and excrement throwing in the world.
Put is forsaking me, from fear for his own safety, out of cowardice, and because he is afraid to stand with me. So be it, Mr. Boyce. I've no need for your protection. I'll manage the Miss Whitecastles of the world on my own.
15
Most gracious queen, we thee implore
To go away and sin no more;
Or if that effort be too great,
To go away at any rate.
 
—Anonymous pamphleteer, on the occasion of Queen Caroline's trial for adultery, 1820
 
June 1820
Carlton House
 
G
eorge IV paraded up and down the length of the Blue Velvet Room. “That cow has made me look a fool from Lake Como to Jericho, and in every city in between where she's been parading her lover, Pergami. She thinks she has me cornered like a flea-bitten rat, but the two bags of incriminating documents I've delivered to Parliament will leave them no choice but to grant me a divorce. What I truly want is a bill of attainder, to enable me to have her stripped of every title, confiscate her undeserved property, and put her in my complete power. Then we'll see who the cat is and who is the rodent, eh? Ha! We need another Cato Street hanging and beheading.”
The king was in his most exquisite form today: the outraged, deceived husband. It was also when he was at his most tiresome, Lady Elizabeth Conyngham thought, as she nibbled on some sugared orange slices from her recamier sofa. She nodded to encourage George in his tirade.
“I told Liverpool in no uncertain terms that I demand a trial for that harpy. Anyone who says she should have been the man, and I the woman, in our marriage has no rights in
my
kingdom. I want her publicly discredited before my coronation next month.”
Flecks of foam flew from George's mouth as he paced back and forth, stopping only to spin a globe or clean his fingernails with a letter opener. Not that she could blame her lover, even though he railed exhaustingly about his wife. Lady Elizabeth had seen for herself that Caroline talked too much, dressed like a common trollop, had little moral sense, and had even less common sense.
But for heaven's sake, all of England knew of Caroline's shortcomings, and George had already subjected the woman to an investigation fifteen years ago. The “Delicate Investigation” resulted in a royal reprimand for Caroline, but the primary consequence was George's own waning popularity, and Caroline's increasing one. Even so, in 1814 she'd had the decency to leave the country, claiming that since the English court would not give her the honors due to a Princess of Wales, she was content to travel the Continent as just plain Caroline, “a happy, merry soul.”
Why couldn't he be content with that?
Lady Elizabeth supposed she should be happy that today he was vitriolic, instead of glum and morose, a far more difficult mood to break in him.
Personally, her only concern upon hearing that the queen consort had arrived in Dover in early June, and progressed her way to London to the accompaniment of wildly cheering crowds at Westminster Bridge and even as she passed Carlton House, was what it might mean for her own position. The people's madness for their queen might translate into hatred for the king's mistress.
It had already translated into loathing for the king himself.
Of course, the king was far too devoted to Lady Elizabeth, and certainly wouldn't give her up, no matter how vociferously the public might acclaim their queen. But he might make concessions, and it was what form those concessions might take that bothered her.
She wasn't about to move out of either Carlton House or the Pavilion. Especially the Pavilion. Her apartment there was being tastefully decorated in exquisite wallpapers and luxurious fabrics that begged to be stroked every time she entered her rooms.
As the king progressed further into his lather, Lady Elizabeth reflected on how amazing it was that George, the rightful ruler through either regency or legitimate inheritance of the throne, was made to be a pariah, whereas a screeching baboon like Caroline had been able to win the people's hearts and slavish devotion.
You'd think she'd fought and won more battles than Wellington, instead of having made a ridiculous exhibition of herself by living with Bartolomeo Pergami, an Italian Lothario, in an openly lascivious relationship.
It was grating, when one considered that Lady Elizabeth had enjoyed the same sort of liaison with the tsarevitch of Russia a few years ago and had been branded “vulgar.” Of course, Lady Elizabeth had never faced a trial, had she?
Yet the whole affair nagged at her. For certain the king wouldn't win his subjects' love by his relentless persecution of his wife, especially now that she was rightfully queen. No, George must be distracted by another path, one that would earn Britain's respect and set him apart from Caroline.
Lady Elizabeth downed the last orange segment. Maybe it was time she brought a more pious tone to George's life. It wouldn't hurt for the people to see their monarch consulting theological tomes and consulting with a priest or two.
She licked the sticky juices from her fingers. Yes, she would help recover the king's reputation and, in so doing, recover her own.
 
Lord Liverpool normally loved spending hours inside his library at Fife House, but not tonight. He shut the law book with a sigh and rubbed his temples.
“Did you find something, Robert?” asked his wife, Louisa, who sat nearby with one of her endless canvasses and a bottomless basket of threads.
“Fortunately, yes. Or, rather, unfortunately. It's an old and dubious process, far outside the legal system, but it might work.”
“What is it?”
“A bill of pains and penalties. Under it, if the king proves his case of her treasonous activities to a special session of the legislature, she would forfeit her rights as queen and be divorced by the king. It's intended for offenses of high treason, but does not allow for death as a punishment.”
Louisa put the embroidery down in her lap. “Are you saying the queen would not be permitted a trial?”
“She would be granted an irregular one, yes. We would try her in private in the House of Lords, then submit our findings to the Commons.”
“So the queen would not even be allowed a solicitor?”
“She would, although I have no idea what good it would do, given the foregone conclusion. But it gives the king what he wants—a divorce—yet doesn't go so far as to introduce a bill of attainder. He will undoubtedly be pleased.”
Louisa shook her head and returned to her embroidery.
“Truly, Wife, it goes against my conscience to persecute this woman, debauched as she is, when her husband has been the most notorious, dissolute rake of our time.” He sat back in his favorite leather chair. “But we examined the contents of the bags the king provided, and they really are of a scandalous nature.”
He shook his head and sighed once more. “And yet, I fear it's all going to be one long, embarrassing episode of nincompoopery.”
 
From her bedroom, Darcey breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the door shut behind her parents, sister, and servants, as they departed on the household's twice-yearly visit to church, once to celebrate the Resurrection and once to commemorate the death of her brother, who'd died as an infant so many years ago that it was impossible to understand why the family still made such a fuss over him.
It had been no easy feat convincing not only her parents but that old buzzard Mrs. Fraser that she was sick and needed to stay back.
Mrs. Fraser had been the housekeeper for as long as anyone could remember. Little got past her, and she was never one for missing an opportunity to report on the White children's bad behavior.
Mother and Father always listened to whatever Mrs. Fraser had to say. It was so unfair. After all, Darcey was an adult and quite capable of making her own decisions.
She just had to make them in secret.
Darcey shook her head. If she'd learned anything over the past year, it was to work like an angel and play like the devil himself, and this motto had thus far served her well. And today she'd seized an opportunity to cavort with the devil. Just this morning she'd developed the perfect idea for incriminating Belle Stirling in the Cato Street Conspiracy, thus vindicating her Wesley and ensuring that nasty drab lost everything she owned.
Which of course Darcey would swoop in to take for herself, as her due.
Then she got the news that her parents wanted to cart the entire household to church. Church! To listen to some popinjay thunder and roar about everyone else's sins when he was probably cavorting about with half the congregation's wives?
Darcey wasn't going, not if she could help it.
She complained of a sore throat and bodily aches, conditions not easily disproven, and asked her father prettily if she might have the privilege of reading from the Scriptures in her room, disappointed as she was not to be in a state to sit in the pew. As an added measure, she volunteered to pray for dearly departed whatever-the-babe's-name-was.
With only minimal eye rolling, her father acquiesced.
She waited in her room a full half hour after the carriages pulled away before executing her plan. She figured the household should be gone at least two hours, giving her plenty of time to complete her mission.
She laid open her Bible onto her bed, just in case they should come back early. She could then claim she'd been praying and reading, but her condition had worsened so she'd gone off to find some throat drops at the chemist's shop.
The Bible flipped open to the book of Proverbs. She glanced down at the words, and read:
These six things doth the LORD hate
yea, seven are an abomination unto him:
A proud look, a lying tongue,
and hands that shed innocent blood,
An heart that deviseth wicked imaginations,
feet that be swift in running to mischief,
A false witness that speaketh lies
and he that soweth discord among brethren.
Darcey grinned. Well, she was safe then, wasn't she? For she wasn't any of those things. And her feet might be making haste now, but not to anything evil. To the contrary, she was bringing about justice, for it was Belle whom the Lord chastised.
Wesley will be so proud of me when I tell him.
She crept down the stairs and into the streets of London, where she made her way to Grosvenor Square to wait, hoping that Lord Harrowby was a devout man.
She was quickly rewarded by the sight of a well-dressed man and woman leaving number 39. She darted out from behind shrubbery in the park across from his residence.
“My lord! Lord Harrowby!” Darcey called, running out in front of a carriage that had to swerve to avoid running her down. “I must speak with you!”
Lord Harrowby looked entirely too stricken by her appearance, even as he kept walking. She must learn to present herself calmly.
“Lord Harrowby, forgive me for intruding on you.” She curtseyed quickly to the earl and countess. “I have something of utmost importance to tell you. It's critical to the safety of the country.”
Lord Harrowby stepped in front of his wife so that Darcey couldn't see her. He brandished his cane at Darcey.
“Who are you, Miss—?”
Best not to tell him her name, lest he connect her to her father. “Who I am is not important, my lord. What is important is the secret information I have for you. About the Cato Street Conspiracy. There are others involved that you don't know about, others that still plan to attack the government. To attack you, Lord Harrowby.”
He lowered his cane. “I don't believe you. We thoroughly rooted out that affair and everyone was brought to justice. There couldn't possibly be any radicals remaining.”
Darcey sensed his indecision.
“But there are, there are. I know firsthand that one of the conspirators was deceived into the plot by his sister, who today remains free. And she's still plotting with other radicals to overthrow the government. In fact, she's leading them. Yes, she holds secret meetings. I can take you to her.”
The earl pursed his lips. “How would a street person such as you have access to such information?”
Darcey looked down at herself. Perhaps she should have changed into something she hadn't worn continuously the past five days.
The earl's crested carriage pulled around and stopped to pick up its passengers. The driver jumped down and held open the door. Darcey only had seconds left. Her words tumbled out in a rush.
“Her name is Annabelle Stirling. Wesley Stirling was her brother. He was implicated in the secretary that was brought to your home, my lord. But it was all Miss Stirling's idea. She goaded him. Shouldn't justice be served on her?”
Harrowby again put out his walking stick to block Darcey as he helped his wife into the carriage. “My dear, I don't know who you are, but you are obviously very troubled. I recommend that you return home to your husband or family and cease your fantasies.”
He stepped up into the carriage behind his wife. The driver shut the door and climbed up to his post.

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