By the King's Design (40 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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Darcey pressed her face to the carriage's window. “My lord, please, you must listen to me. London needs to see one more criminal swing. I can prove to you—”
The earl completely ignored her. He tapped his cane on the ceiling of the carriage and it started off with a lurch. Darcey jumped back to avoid being run over by the carriage wheels.
Incensed, she stomped off for home, plans for newspaper gossip and letters to radical men churning in her mind. If Lord Harrowby intended to ignore her, she still had many more ideas to pursue.
Something the earl said, though, lingered. He'd told her to get home to her husband. She'd nearly forgotten that part of things.
Hmmm.
That afternoon, over a beneficial helping of opium behind one of the Grosvenor Square mews, Darcey developed her best idea of all.
Imagine how proud Wesley will be when he visits next and I share this inspiration with him.
 
Belle's anger at Put continued unabated. He had abandoned her at a great precipice, and she was slowly being dragged to the edge, despite her great efforts to recoup her business and her reputation.
A longtime customer, Mrs. Finch, who had adored Wesley, simpering and cooing at anything he said as he convinced her to buy bundles of fabrics to cover her ample frame, arrived one morning. What a relief to have a friendly face show up in her shop.
“Mrs. Finch, welcome. Can I interest you in this beautiful Egyptian print? It just came in yesterday. The mechanical finishing processes have become quite good, as I'm sure you'll see—”
“I didn't actually come to purchase anything.”
“No? Then how may I help you?”
“Several of us were wondering—and I was the only one brave enough to come down and speak to you directly, you understand—several of us have heard the most scandalous tales about you and wanted to know if they're true.”
“I see. Tell me, Mrs. Finch, what salacious gossip you've heard.”
“Well! Mrs. Lloyd heard it from Mrs. Purcell, whose housekeeper is sisters with Lady Derby's over in Grosvenor Square, that you've been more than just a sister to Mr. Stirling.”
“Pardon me?”
“Yes, we hear that you've picked up his torch, so to speak, and are heavily involved with radicals. Is it true? Are you planning to blow up Parliament or something? Imagine having two Guy Fawkes Days each year to celebrate. And that I would be acquainted not only with a Cato Street conspirator, but another radical in the form of his sister.”
“Lady Derby said this?”
“Not exactly. It was her housekeeper.”
“I see. And on the word of someone who has never met me, you've run all the way over here with this succulent bone in your mouth, hoping to confirm its truth, so that you can be the luminary at your next evening of cards.”
“Hardly! I was just concerned for you. You know how much we all simply worshipped poor Mr. Stirling before the, er, unfortunate events of a few months ago. He was so kind and entertaining, and had a very talented eye for selecting ball gown fabrics.”
“Indeed. Although I don't recall you extending a single word of condolence following Wesley's death. Nor have you returned until this day to patronize the shop.”
“Of course not. That would have been unseemly, what with the Stirling name in tatters. But your brother's messiness is behind us, and the idea that his prim and demure
sister
might harbor militant notions, well, that required an investigation, didn't it?”
Belle blinked. This woman's audacity was beyond her capacity to form a response.
“Now, please be assured, Miss Stirling, we all sympathize with your situation. Our interest in you is merely wonder, not malice.”
“Get out.”
“Sorry?”
“Get. Out. Of my shop. Immediately, Mrs. Finch. I'll not have my inventory tainted by your poison.”
“Miss Stirling, you misunderstand me. I'm not against you, I'm just curious—”
“I understand exactly what you're about, Mrs. Finch. Good day to you.” Belle strode to the door and flung it open.
Mrs. Finch sniffed in annoyance, and left Belle with parting words: “You'd do well to cultivate what friends you have left, Miss Stirling.”
“I'll do exactly that.” Belle knew it was childish to slam the door, but was nonetheless gratified to watch Mrs. Finch jump at the rattling of the door's panes as it banged shut behind her.
Belle was certain she was the invisible but much gossiped about guest at Mrs. Finch's next card party, for all of that lady's friends sent along rude notes. Really, was it necessary for them to send letters informing her that their business would go elsewhere and that they were telling their seamstresses to shun Belle? Could they not merely stay away?
After that, she avoided even glancing at the newspaper, for fear of seeing her name emblazoned across it or of accidentally reading some juicy bit of gossip snaking its way through its pages.
Her fears increased with the feeling that someone was following her. She never saw anyone in particular, but she couldn't shake the eerie feeling that someone was tracking her movements to and from the shop.
I'm becoming unhinged. I see ghosts and spirits where there are none.
Thank God for Lady Greycliffe, who made frequent visits to the shop for purchases and invited her next door routinely for tea. Belle suspected her neighbor was also encouraging some of her own friends to place orders with the Stirling Drapers shop, too.
Belle's worst day was when three men, dressed in the homespun of tradesmen, entered the shop. Lowly dressed men were not a frequent sight in a draper's shop. Belle was instinctively glad she stood behind the counter, near her pistols.
“You're Miss Stirling?” asked one of the men without preamble.
“I am. And who are you, Mr.—?”
“Garret. John Garret. My friends and I hear that you're one of us.”
“One of you?”
“Come, don't be coy.” The man winked at her, a little too lasciviously for Belle's comfort.
“Pray, sir, please tell me what it means to be one of you.” She quietly slid open the cabinet door under the counter that hid her pistol box.
“We hear you're interested in seeing change come to England, by whatever means it takes. That you might not be afraid of London's streets getting a bit bloody in the process.”
Belle sighed. “Dare I ask where you might have heard this?”
He shrugged. “Here and there. We hear tell you're looking to avenge your brother's death. You managed to escape taint in the Cato Street affair, didn't you?”
“Not particularly.”
Garret made an appraising glance around the shop, at the shelves groaning under the weight of unsold fabrics. “Looks like you must have plenty of money. You could help finance us. We were thinking of kidnapping the king to raise money for our real goals, but if you were to help us, we could avoid touching His Royal Pigginess.”
The other men laughed at the insult.
“Are you deranged? What fool insinuated that I was unbalanced enough to immerse myself in some idiotic plan to subvert the government?” Actually, who
didn't
share this opinion? “Hasn't there been enough trouble already, Mr. Garret?”
“We have it on pretty good say-so that you were as revolutionary as your brother. Even more so, tho' he was the one the judge chose to dangle from the three-legged mare.”
“Your information sources consist of rogues, villains, and miscreants, Mr. Garret. I had nothing to do with my brother's activities, and have no intention of involving myself in radical activities. I do, however, intend to protect my livelihood.”
She lifted the lid to her pistol box and pulled out the nearest one, pointing it directly at Mr. Garret's chest. Completely unloaded, of course.
Mr. Garret's good humor disappeared. “Now let's not be aiming your barking iron at me, miss. I came here in good faith.”
“I'm going to assume, then—
in good faith
—that you plan to leave quietly before I have to shoot you. I have a shop to run, gentlemen, and I intend to do so, without the interference of wandering mischief-makers. Now, out with the lot of you!”
Maybe she should consider locking the shop and evaluating patrons through the window before permitting them in.
With grumbles of “Not our fault” and “Don't need to work with a shrew,” the men hurried out of the building.
She sat down, numb. Would this tiresome parade of half-wits never end? Where were all of these rumors originating? What if they traveled as far as Parliament and someone there took them seriously?
And who was following her? Her sense that she was being silently pursued was unshakable.
Put climbed the steps of Lord Burdett's home in St. James's Place, wearing his uncomfortable day clothes and carrying both a small tool chest and an awkward sack. The baronet had sent a carriage around to pick up Put so that he could repair his old walnut desk, which had a broken leg. Put wasn't used to such finery for himself, feeling almost embarrassed as his workers watched him enter the black-lacquered coach with its fancy trims.
The young maid who answered the door showed him to Lord Burdett's private bedroom, where the desk sat at the foot of the baronet's bed. She continued to flutter around him while he worked.
“May I get you some tea to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
He opened his burlap sack full of walnut leg parts that he had brought along, matching them up until he found a style that was close to what the original cabinetmaker had used. It would only require a little carving and shaving to create a match.
“Do you require more light? Here, let me draw back the draperies for you.”
“Thank you.”
The leg was damaged beyond repair. Put removed the straps from his portable tool chest and searched for his file and several carving tools. He poised the leg over the burlap bag, made some minor modifications to the shape of the leg, then filed it until it was smooth. Going back into his tool chest, he rooted around until he found a brush and his jar of boiled linseed oil. He quickly brushed oil on the entire leg with long, smooth strokes to prevent any drip marks, then rested it across two other legs to let it dry for a few minutes, then applied a second coat.
Now to remove the old leg from the desk.
The maid was now standing over him, wide-eyed and breathless.
“It's amazing work you're doing, Mr. Boyce.”
“Thank you.”
“I imagine your wife really appreciates such talent.”
“I'm not married.”
“Really?” Her eyes grew wider.
“I'm not married
yet
.”
“Oh. Right. Well, I must be off to my dusting. Pull the rope next to the bed if you require anything.”
Finally left alone to concentrate on his work, Put started by emptying the desk of its contents, so he could flip the piece over to figure out how the leg was attached and remove it. He carefully removed each drawer and set it on the floor so that he could remember the exact order in which they fit back into the desk.
The baronet's desk contained all of the usual things aristocrats maintained in drawers. A silver pocket watch, pens, pots of ink, parchment paper, a blotter, a personal journal tied with twine, a small pouch of tobacco, and a couple of sovereigns.
Put shook his head. Funny how wealthy men zealously guarded their homes with armies of servants but left small, valuable goods lying about in an unlocked desk where anyone could find them.
He carefully rolled the desk on its back, then upside down so he could carefully saw off the old leg. He planed down the place where the old leg was attached to the body of the desk, to provide a smooth, even location to place the new one. He then chiseled out a mortise, so that he could glue in the replacement leg's matching tenon for a strong joint between the pieces.

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