By the King's Design (41 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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He touched the recently varnished leg. Dry enough to work with. Using a combination of horsehide glue and nails, he added the new leg to the desk, and left it sitting upside down to partially set while he cleaned up his tools and sack of parts.
Shavings were scattered on the rug where he'd been working. Well, he'd wait until he was ready to leave before calling anyone to come in and sweep, lest the maid return right away.
Satisfied that the leg was sufficiently dry to sustain the weight of the desk, he went through the process of rolling the desk over again and setting it upright. He surveyed his work.
“It'll do,” he said aloud.
His only remaining task was to put away the drawers. He gently pushed back in the wood boxes containing the watch, writing materials, journal, tobacco—
Wait a moment.
This reminded Put of something, something very important. What was it? He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but it was lying just out of reach.
Put finished replacing the drawers and decided to unstrap his tool chest again for a fine-bristled goat's-hair brush to dust inside the fine crevices of all the desk's carvings. Perhaps Lord Burdett would appreciate Put's attention to detail.
Like as not, he wouldn't even notice. But it gave Put time to think.
The man had his personal diary lying in his desk.
A desk. A diary.
“Good Lord,” Put said, as he scrambled up quickly, pulled the bell rope, and shouted out to anyone who would listen that Lord Burdett's rug needed cleaning. He clattered down the stairs with his belongings and rushed out to the street.
He had to get to Grosvenor Square as quickly as possible.
 
Belle spent the morning looking at potential new lodgings. She could no longer bear her current place, where Wesley's room had been taken over by new tenants, a nice young couple who were nonetheless a reminder to Belle that her brother had not only ceased to exist but now had every last vestige of his life stripped from the earth.
She'd stowed the crate of his belongings in her own room, and would take it to her new lodgings, wherever they might be.
After purchasing a spiced meat pasty from a street vendor, she stopped to visit Lady Greycliffe, but a sign in the door indicated that the dollmaker's shop was closed that day. Disappointed to miss her new friend, Belle returned to the shop for what would surely be a long afternoon.
 
Put paced back and forth under gathering clouds outside the servants' entrance to the Grosvenor Square residence.
What can I possibly say to the worker who opens the door that will permit me entry? “Your master has a desk with a secret drawer he doesn't know about?” “I'm a man under suspicion by His Majesty's government, and the only way to clear my name is to suspiciously burrow through Lord Harrowby's desk?”
Think, Boyce, think.
After several minutes of deliberation, he decided on his course. It was weak, and probably wouldn't fool an infant, but it was all he could think of on such short notice. At least he still had his tools with him to lend his story credence.
To his great surprise, it worked. The elderly housekeeper who opened the door believed his inane account of Lord Harrowby's new desk having been varnished with potentially poisonous shellac. Put embellished the story by saying that he'd already been to several other distinguished homes in the area to cover up the old shellac with a new, non-poisonous coating. It was vital that he inspect the earl's secretary immediately to ensure it had not received the lethal covering.
What nonsense. Anyone even vaguely familiar with wood finishes would know that any sort of poisonous vapor would be long gone from a piece that was finished months ago. Unless the owner decided to make kindling of the desk and release noxious fumes in the air, an unlikely occurrence in Lord Harrowby's case.
But providence was with him. Lord Harrowby wasn't home, nor was his wife, and the nervous servant didn't want to be blamed later for turning away rescue of life-threatening furniture. So she admitted Put inside and led him to her employer's study.
The secretary stood magnificently against one wall of the room, across from the fireplace and two comfortable leather chairs.
He turned back to the servant, who looked uncertainly between him and the piece of furniture. He said to her, “Perhaps you should close the door and leave me here alone, so as not to let the bad air into the rest of the house.”
“Yes, a most advisable idea. Not meaning you any harm, of course.”
“No, of course not.”
Miraculously, he was alone with the secretary.
 
“Mr. Bloom,” the housekeeper said, trying to keep her lips from quivering. “I might have done something wrong. I let a cabinetmaker into the master's study. He says he made the new desk, and that it might be poisonous and he has to fix it. Mr. Bloom, he was talking about the desk that was part of that Cato Street business.”
“How can a desk be poisonous?” the butler asked.
“Well, I'm not sure, but he explained it right well. Now I'm thinking he's up to something. What if he's another one of them radicals? Oh dear, what have I done?” She rubbed her veined hands together.
“I'll see him myself.”
“No, I don't think that's a good idea. Do you know where the master is? I think he'll want to see this man himself.”
“He went to his club. I'll fetch him.”
 
Belle climbed down from the ladder and brushed her hands together to release the dust from them.
I really do need to clean those shelves,
she thought.
I can't show customers dusty merchandise.
She patted down some loose hairs.
Presuming I ever have a full complement of customers again.
Belle pulled some spools of ribbon out of her storage closet to cut pieces of them for her ribbon rack that dangled over the far end of the counter. Small clips held individual strips of ribbon, which Belle cut in the most highly desired lengths for tying bonnets and lacing handkerchiefs. The ribbon display helped the shop look cheerful and interesting, with its waterfall of brightly colored trims fluttering down, begging to be touched.
So engrossed was Belle in measuring, cutting, and artfully hanging the ribbon, she hardly noticed her next customer's arrival. Had the doorbell even rung as the woman entered?
She was unsettlingly familiar, despite her bedraggled appearance. The woman smelled to high heaven and wore a long, narrow pouch at her waist, tied on with a length of filthy rope.
Perfect. Another vagabond come to ask if Belle was a radical or wanted to join an extremist cause.
Belle put down the rose-colored ribbon she was about to clip to the rack. “Welcome to Stirling Drapers. How may I help you, madam?”
The woman didn't respond, but merely glared at her through glassy eyes.
Where had she seen her before?
Oh! Belle knew her now. It was the woman from Wesley's execution who had stared at her so malevolently. What was she doing here now?
“Madam,” Belle said carefully, a prickle of unease creeping up her neck. “Do I know you?”
The woman nodded with eerie slowness, as though she were a puppet being gently maneuvered from above. “Yes, you know me. You just don't know how.”
“I believe I do. I remember you from the day my brother was—from the regrettable day in front of Newgate.”
That sluggish nodding again. “Yes, you'd surely remember me from there. But I've been here before. I promised I'd be back.”
More recognition dawned in Belle's mind. “You're Miss Whitecastle. You asked me questions about my shop's ownership.”
“Except I'm not really Miss Whitecastle. I'm Miss Darcey White. Perhaps you remember my name?” The woman patted the pouch at her waist, as though to assure herself it was still there.
Belle was more disturbed by this waif than by any other peculiar customer who had ever walked through the door. Miss Whitecastle was not altogether sound. She was here for some wicked purpose, for certain, but it was impossible to know what that purpose was.
How is it that I can still be surprised at people's ill intentions toward me?
The past months had seen all manner of curiosity seeker, fanatic, and fortune hunter hound her for vile reasons.
Fortune hunters!
Wait, wasn't it a Miss Whitecastle who sent her that incoherent note, claiming to now be Mrs. Stirling? Surely Wesley hadn't married this unpleasant creature.
“Would you be the same Miss Whitecastle who sent me a letter recently?”
A smile spread across Miss Whitecastle's face in her lingering style. “The same. Except, as I said, I'm not really Miss Whitecastle. Or even Miss White. I'm Mrs. Stirling, your dead brother's wife, and you never bothered to respond to my letter. Today, though, we're going to discuss it.”
The woman went back to the front door, made sure it was firmly shut, threw the bolt, and turned the window sign to read “Closed.” Turning back to Belle, she said sweetly, “Ready for a chat, dearest sister-in-law?”
The woman pulled a knife from the pouch at her side.
 
Put paused only for a moment, wishing that he'd never built the damned secretary. He'd so wanted to believe it was for Belle that he hadn't spent enough time questioning Wesley about it. He should have been more suspicious about the boy's desire to give Belle such an extravagant gift.
No matter, no matter. If the desk was hiding what Put thought it might be, all would be made clear and the rumors would stop. He pulled the slanted front down, and removed the usual desk items that were blocking the secret compartment, placing them carefully on a nearby sideboard already cluttered with bottles full of amber- and burgundy-colored liquids.
He opened the drawer next to the secret one and pulled it out. Where was the pin? There was nothing in here but a couple of letters. Put set the drawer down on the floor and withdrew another one, then another, looking for the opening pin. Ah, here it was.
He inserted the pin in its slot, and felt the compartment release gently into his hand. Dread shot through his spine as he slowly pulled it out. What if nothing remained in the secret compartment beyond what was presented at trial? What if he was utterly, completely mistaken in his belief? How could he then exonerate Belle—
“What in the name of St. Peter are you doing here?” thundered a voice from behind him.
 
“I don't believe you. Do you have a marriage certificate?” The longer Belle listened to this woman, the more she was convinced she was an escaped lunatic.
“You'll not ask any more questions. I'll ask them. First, where is my pipe? I need it.”
“Your pipe? You mean Wesley's pipe?”
“No, it's rightfully mine. He and I shared it and he meant to leave it for me. He'll be furious when I tell him I don't have it.”
What was she talking about?
“I have it at my lodgings. I can pick it up and bring it back here to you tomorrow morning,” Belle said.
“Oh yes, you believe you're very clever, don't you, Miss Stirling? You'll dash out of here, never to return, and because Darcey White is just a simple, stupid member's daughter, who will believe any outrageous lie fed to her, she'll go along with it. Is that what you think? Is it?”
“Miss White, I—”
“I'm not Miss White! I'm Mrs. Stirling! Wesley's beloved.”
Doubtful. “My apologies, Mrs. Stirling. What would you like me to do?”
“I'd like you to shut your gob. I said
I
would be asking the questions. Don't interrupt me. Be quiet so I can think.”
Darcey's eyes rolled back in her head as she rubbed her temples.
Belle looked down the length of the counter. Could she reach the other end and open her pistol box before Darcey realized what was happening? The girl was crazed, but didn't seem dangerous. At least not yet. But Belle had enough experience to know that the sight of a revolver in her hand calmed the barmiest opponent. So far, she'd had no cause to actually fire it at anyone.
Of further concern were Darcey's glazed eyes, reminding Belle of Wesley's glassy looks that accompanied his periodic outbursts.
The slow smile returned. Darcey was calm again. “You do know your man is probably in Newgate by now, don't you?”
“My man?”
“Putnam Boyce. He made the secretary that was delivered to Lord Harrowby.”
“Yes, but Mr. Boyce had nothing to do with the conspiracy.”

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