By the King's Design (43 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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She walked to Wesley, expecting his arms to open and enfold her. What was wrong with him? As he approached her, his eyes, they were so ... heated. But not in the lustful way she was used to seeing. Had she made a mistake? Did he expect to see more blood? Easily fixed. She withdrew the knife from her pouch again and held it up for him to examine.
The sight of it froze him in place and he locked gazes with Darcey once again.
From behind her, Darcey heard faint movement, a reminder that she must return to the business at hand—
“Drop that knife or I'll strangle you myself.” Wesley's voice boomed inside the shop. Whatever was the matter with him? Her Wesley would never treat her so roughly.
Why, this wasn't Wesley at all. Who was it? She needed time to think.
But the man refused to give her time to deliberate on what was happening. He grabbed her wrist and shook it to dislodge the knife, which clattered to the floor.
She reached out her free hand and scratched him, as deeply as she could manage, across the face. The man yelped in pain and released her. Darcey searched the floor for the knife. Ah, there it was. She bent down just as the man swiped at the air to grab her again, while clutching his other hand to his cheek.
May you suffer for eternity,
she thought,
for daring to impersonate my Wesley
.
The knife's leather handle felt warm and comfortable in her palm, like the touch of an old friend. She should have stolen it from her father's collection long ago.
The man reached for her again, but this time he made contact with her neck. So her attacker thought he might choke her, did he?
Darcey brought the blade up in the air, intending to thrust it into the man's neck, but he released her neck and stepped back from her, and she cut through air.
And thus her dance with the man continued relentlessly, he trying to divest her of her weapon, Darcey slicing through the air at him, the man dodging her lunges.
Dodging all of them, damn him.
But she still held the knife firmly in her grasp, and he would eventually tire. She would stab him, then return to Belle and slice her heart open, as well. And Wesley would be impressed by the quick dispatch of her two enemies.
“Darcey.” She heard her name spoken in a flat tone, and turned toward the sound of it.
She saw the cloud of smoke and flash of fire from behind the shop's counter just before the deafening bang that followed it. What was this? As if in a dream, she felt herself slowly falling backward, down, down—ah! Such exquisite pain as her head struck the floor. All was eerily silent in her murky dream. She turned her head in time to witness her knife dropping down beside her.
She tried to focus on the movements surrounding her. Familiar faces hovered above her own. Wesley? No, it was that other man. Why was he poking about her bodice? And why was Belle there? She should be dead, killed by Darcey's own hand. No, wait, she hadn't had an opportunity to stab her yet.
Darcey felt around blindly for her knife. Her entire upper body felt like it was weighted down and completely unmovable, preventing her from turning her head to one side and looking for it. Where was it? Gone, it was gone. How could she kill Belle now, and wipe that idiotic look of concern from her face?
What was that moaning? It sounded as if it were coming from beneath her. How irritating. It prevented Darcey from concentrating. So much to concentrate on. Her breathing, for instance. It was so difficult to take in air while lying on the floor like this. She really must sit up. If only everyone would get out of her way.
And now there was another figure in the room, dressed in a black hood and floating patiently behind the others. Ah, to be able to suspend oneself in the air, as graceful as the autumn leaves as they are carried on cool breezes in pleasing flashes of gold and scarlet. Darcey wished she were floating.
Suddenly, the black-hooded figure swept over her, and she was, indeed, suspended in the air. The figure whispered where he was taking her, and Darcey suddenly wished very much that she could instead remain on the floor, where it was so much safer than where she was headed.
 
Belle dropped to her knees next to Darcey and held the girl's hand, while Put investigated her bloody chest for signs of life.
Finally he sat back. “She's gone, Belle.”
Belle gazed down sadly at Darcey's body. “This was my brother's wife. Or so she claimed. I can't believe I killed my own sister-in-law.”
“She was no relation of yours. Wesley never married her. We can be thankful to him for that and more.”
“I think I owe you a debt of gratitude. How did you manage to show up at the right moment?”
“That's why I'm thankful to your brother. In that blasted secretary he left behind notes that condemned Darcey and exonerated you. For whatever he was while alive, Belle, he atoned for it all from the grave. We have much to discuss about it, but first, let me see that nasty wound on your head.” He offered her a hand up, and ran his fingers gingerly over the spot where Belle's head struck the counter he made. She winced, but didn't cry out.
“I'm fine, truly I am,” she said. “I just need sleep.” But she knew she was trembling. “I believe Darcey may have been following me for quite some time. I never saw her, but I knew someone was watching me.”
“Oh.” Put looked at her sheepishly. “Perhaps I am not a particularly good shadow. After I sent you that note—which I did to protect you from rumors swirling around me—I couldn't allow you to run around with no one to keep an eye on you, so I attempted to watch over you in the background. Rather unsuccessfully, I guess. It doesn't matter now, you're safe.”
Put pulled her close, planting kisses all over her face, neck, and hands. “Good Lord, what if I'd lost you?” he murmured over and over.
Belle threw her arms around his neck, clutching him to hear his heartbeat and feel the warmth of his damp skin. Clive, Amelia, Jane, Wesley, and now Darcey White, all gone. She'd had enough of death. She wanted life. Even if she had to find it in this most macabre of moments.
Put pulled back just enough to look at her. “Would this be an improper moment to tell you I love you and would like to skip all of the courtship fripperies and go straight to marriage?”
Belle smiled. “On one condition.”
“Name it.”
“You really must let me pick out some fabrics for a new wardrobe for you. You must be the most uncomfortably dressed man in England.”
“Granted.”
“And no more fights with tigresses.” She reached up to touch the scratch marks embedded on his cheek.
“Thy will be done, Annabelle Stirling.”
“Why then, Put-rhymes-with-shut, I accept your gallant offer.”
 
To Lord Harrowby's credit, he came through for the couple, presenting Wesley's diary to the authorities and ensuring the investigation of Darcey's death was wrapped up quietly with haste. Darcey's father, a member of Parliament, stayed out of the way, issuing a statement that his daughter was disturbed as of recently.
Lady Greycliffe fluttered around the shop upon her return, all hugs and kisses and the constant “
Je suis désolée
that I was away during your hour of need.”
To repent of her own perceived sin, the dollmaker sent some of her own maids to the shop to scrub the wood floors of blood and to remove any evidence of the altercation.
Belle and Put had banns read as quickly as possible, and were married privately by the same priest who helped them bury Wesley, Frances serving as their only, silent witness. The three supped together quietly afterwards at a nearby inn.
Frances put them through a mock bedding ceremony that evening. She dressed Belle privately in the bedroom, slipping a fine lawn nightgown trimmed in dark green ribbon over her head and dabbing lavender-scented water behind Belle's ears, wrists, and knees. After brushing Belle's hair out, she helped her into a seated position under the covers of the four-poster bed, which were also fragranced with lavender. Frances arranged Belle's hair around her shoulders and nodded.
I must look acceptable.
Frances slipped out the door, and came back several minutes later, holding Put's hand. He, too, had been dressed for the occasion, in a nightshirt. Frances was now nodding vigorously and pointing back and forth at them. With two great claps of her hands, she laughed in her barking way, and left.
Even in the darkness, lit only by a few candles, Belle could see Put reddening in embarrassment, the color completely concealing the fading scratch marks on his face.
He came around to her side of the bed.
She wasn't frightened, only worried that she would disappoint her husband.
He picked up a lock of hair from her shoulders and kissed it. “I have to tell you, Belle, this is exceedingly distressful for me.”
“You've not been married before, and now you have to share your room with me.”
“No, that's not what I mean. It's that I'm not used to these infernal nightshirts. What was my cousin thinking?” He pulled it off as though it were one of the stiff collars or fancy vests that he hated wearing.
Belle smiled at her new husband's irritation. Even the nightshirt couldn't hide the fact that years of working with saws, mallets, and heavy planks of wood had honed Putnam Boyce into a solid, finely crafted piece that would surely endure for decades.
Put relaxed at seeing Belle's amusement. He sat down on the bed next to her and kissed her, very gently at first, then with increasing intensity. His urgency transferred itself to her and she found herself gasping with need of him.
He put his hands to her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “And will you promise to come to bed every night of our lives just as God made you, Wife?”
“I will, but you may have to help me divest myself of my finery.”
“Gladly, woman.” And with an exaggerated bear growl, Put picked her up, set her feet on the floor, and proceeded to lovingly remove her simple nightgown.
No, she wasn't frightened at all.
Later, as the newly married couple lay ensconced in bed, Belle's head on Put's shoulder, she held out her hand to examine the gold band encircling her finger.
“You realize I'm now fully obligated to enter into an affair with the king?”
“Hmm?” Put asked drowsily, pulling her closer against him.
“Never mind. Just an old memory from an old life. Good night, Husband.”
 
November 10, 1820
Carlton House
 
“Ingrates! Fools! Whelps that should have all been drowned at birth!” The king was nearly howling in his rage, but not howling nearly as deafeningly as the public had after Lord Liverpool introduced the Bill of Pains and Penalties.
Liverpool discreetly added a few drops of laudanum to his glass of brandy. His physician had recommended it for demanding, tiresome occasions. The night might prove to be long and taxing indeed. He glanced over at Lady Conyngham, who was ostensibly tranquil, stretched out on a Grecian sofa the king had moved into his private rooms for her.
She nodded at Liverpool, a simple gesture full of her shared impatience at the king's temper tantrum.
“I blame you, Liverpool. You should have worked harder at convincing the Lords to move forward with it.” The king stopped his heavy clumping back and forth long enough to point a chubby, be-ringed finger at him.
The queen's trial had been lengthy and appalling, starting in August and limping to finality just today. The salacious details of her affair with Bartolomeo Pergami were read aloud, to the great amusement of all in attendance. A parade of witnesses gave testimony as to Caroline's unseemly familiarity with Pergami, while the queen sat through it all, unperturbed.
She remained unmoved by the effort to damage her, because more than eight hundred petitions and nearly a million signatures were sent in favoring her case. Talk of revolution in the queen's name reached Liverpool's ears, an unsettling thought after having just ferreted out the Cato Street Conspiracy—an episode that was still ringing in the country's ears.
The queen claimed to have committed adultery only once, and that with the husband of Mrs. Fitzherbert, the king. Londoners loved the joke and it endeared their queen to them more than ever.
Highly troubled by the entire proceedings even after the Lords passed the bill, Liverpool addressed the House and declared that since public tensions were so high, the government would withdraw the bill.
“Your Majesty, the people's outcry scared Parliament more than anything I could have done. There was little chance that the Commons would have passed it.”
“The people! As though they have any sympathy for me and my sorrows. Have I not been the most patriotic of men? The most solicitous of rulers? I am wounded—
humiliated
—at such disregard by my subjects. And plain incensed by Parliament's weak-kneed response. Very well, that voracious monster called my wife will herself be humiliated for all of England to witness. Get that rat cartoonist, Cruikshank, to do some satire on her.”

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