By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  “You promised!” he shouted. “I paid good money for you and you’ll do as I tell you.” He kicked Alice and she fell from the landing down the stairs to the floor.

  Wesley knew it was his responsibility to save Alice, but something—fear? revulsion? his altered condition?—caused him to shrink back inside the doorway of the study, where he could observe but not be seen himself.

  Alice was bleeding more profusely now, but the fall had not broken her spirit. She gamely stood up and shook a fist at them as they came down the stairs after her.

  “I’ll not be ordered around by a filthy bludger. I’m the lady of this house and I say what jaunts will be had inside the bedroom. Not you pack of—”

  She couldn’t finish her words because the businessman grabbed her by the throat.

  “Watch your next words, English doxy.” He nodded at his servants. The two picked Alice up and carried her struggling body to the front door. The businessman opened it in an almost gentlemanly fashion, bowing as the servants carried Alice onto the verandah, and quietly closing it behind him as if letting out the cat.

  Wesley crept to a window at the front of the house to see what was happening. Alice was on her feet now between the two men, but still struggling. Wesley struggled, too.

  Go, man, go help her. You don’t love her, but she’s your responsibility for God’s sake.

  But he stayed rooted to the spot.

  You don’t know where they’re taking her. Or if they’ll bring her back. Save her. Rescue her from them.

  And still he didn’t move. Only when they were out of sight did he turn back to the study and pick up his opium again.

  But they did bring her back. The next morning he found her crumpled, lifeless body dumped outside his study window. As if they knew he’d been watching from there and were mocking him.

  He’d quit his post and jumped aboard the next packet ship headed for England after that, never explaining to anyone his sudden return. His parents had been only too happy to forgive and forget.

  He was back in Yorkshire with his old haunts and new friends, including Clive Pryce, in charge of his own destiny, and he didn’t have to divulge to anyone what had happened to him in India. Other than the occasional waking dream about Alice, it was as if that chapter of his life had never occurred.

  Except that he wasn’t really in charge of his destiny, was he?

  And he needed to be. It was the only way to erase Alice’s lingering stain on his dreams. Well, there was no help for it. He had to talk to his sister again.

  As if on cue, he heard Belle entering the lodging house. Rebelling against the inner whisper telling him to wait, not to approach his sister when he wasn’t in full control of his faculties, he jumped up from his bed and went out to confront her.

  He clamored up the stairs behind her to her room.

  “Wesley, what’s got you so excited?” Belle asked. “What’s wrong? Your face looks so pinched.”

  No, he wouldn’t allow her to control the conversation by pointing out some imagined flaw.

  “Sister, it’s time we talked again.” Did he sound firm?

  “All right.” She removed her bonnet and sat down in a chair, while Wesley walked back and forth in her room.

  “Tell me, Sister,” he said. “How do you enjoy working in Brighton, at the prince’s Pavilion?”

  She stiffened visibly. “I’m faring well enough, I suppose. Why do you ask?”

  Wesley ignored her question and posed another of his own. “And my work at the shop, do you find it to be agreeable?”

  “Agreeable? You’re my brother. We’ve always worked well together.”

  An evasive answer. Belle had a wily mind, he must admit.

  “Yet, you don’t think we work that well together, for you still don’t entirely trust me, do you?”

  Belle was wary of a trap now. He could see her mentally pacing back and forth, anticipating his next move.

  “I trust you.”

  “If you trust me, then surely you would like me to be independent of your considerable restrictions.”

  “What restrictions do you mean, Wesley?”

  “I mean nothing untoward. Just that I’m capable of helping you far more than I’m now doing, and we both know I’ve proven my worth. You never would have been able to start the shop without my arrival with everything from Leeds.”

  “Oh, you mean your arrival with my goods that you nearly destroyed?”

  He winced. That was probably not his best point. Better to press on.

  “And I’ve managed the shop well during your frequent absences. I’ve also attracted many new customers into the shop. More than you have, since you require your patron’s assistance to build your customer base.”

  “My frequent absences? Wesley Stirling, have you lost your senses? You bring in customers with your winking, flirting, and who knows what else. That is, when you haven’t run off without warning for days at a time to seek some unknown amusement. Our customers don’t complain, so I don’t ask questions. In return, I expect you to let me be, to run the shop as I see fit.”

  “But that’s just it, Sister. Your days of running it may be very close to an end. Do you really think that an esteemed architect like Mr. Nash was so impressed by your ability to select fabrics that he championed you to the Prince Regent of England? Honestly? Has it not ever occurred to you that he has other motives in mind?”

  “My acquaintance with John Nash was purely coincidental, and we are just colleagues now.”

  Wesley gave her a look of pity. “Has it ever occurred to you that Mr. Nash wants to take possession of your shop? I’m sure he knows our family’s reputation for good cloth. He’s put you in a position to attract many wealthy clients. You can be sure Mr. Nash will figure out how to profit handsomely from it. He’s a man of business, after all.”

  “Mr. Nash doesn’t own me, Wesley. He has no power to do it.”

  “No, but he has the prince’s ear. And, ultimately, the prince does own you. Maybe John Nash plans to ruin you through scurrilous gossip, rumors of cheating customers, that sort of thing. Simple enough for someone in Nash’s position. He’ll buy you out for pence on the pound and reap for himself a good secondary business.

  “Then you’ll be left with no customers and be forced to sell. Not only that, your only prospect will be to find some old lecher to marry you. After you lose the shop, you’ll be spending your time managing your elderly husband’s household accounts on his far-off Cornwall estate.”

  He could see Belle’s mind working behind her eyes. Excellent. Let her worry a bit first. Not that Wesley thought for a moment that Mr. Nash had any intentions on something as far beneath him as a draper shop.

  “You know,” he said, raising a finger in the air as though struck with a brilliant idea. “I have a thought. I believe I know how we could solve both our problems.”

  “Is that so?” Belle narrowed her eyes. Why did the woman have to be so suspicious of him?

  “It occurs to me that, since you will have no taste whatsoever for a decrepit old lecher, and I am anxious to be my own shop owner, it’s really just a matter of legitimately removing you from Mr. Nash’s control.”

  “Thus far, you’re making no sense.”

  “What I’m saying is that if you were to turn the shop over to me, a mere piece of paperwork that wouldn’t really mean anything between brother and sister, then no poacher could ever take it away from you. It would always be here for you, just in my safekeeping. And of course I wouldn’t make any decisions without you.”

  Belle stood utterly still, her mouth open. Poor dear thing, she was overcome by the offer. It was hard not to laugh in delight at her complete shock.

  “Don’t you see how perfect it is, Belle? What a force we will be together. Under my guiding hand, the shop will flourish, and you can rest assured of your legacy in the cloth industry. In fact, with my elevated position, I might be able to help you make a grand marriage one day.”

  “So you
would ... we would be ...” Belle was incapable of speech, her eyes wide open and unblinking. He’d best finish before she fainted dead away from astonishment.

  He dropped to his right knee, and took Belle’s right hand in both of his own. “Annabelle, dear sister, please, let’s improve both our lots in life together by reversing our roles in the shop.”

  Belle was quiet. That was a good sign, for she didn’t immediately singe him with a dismissive, caustic comment. Wesley started to imagine himself as the proprietor of the shop. His first order of business before the ink had been blotted and dried on their legal agreement would be to have a new sign made for the outside, replacing Belle’s name with his own as proprietor of Stirling Drapers. And no more extravagant donations to St. Bart’s. Enough had been done there already.

  What’s more, she had nicer rooms here at the lodging house. He should ask her to switch. Besides, her upper-story location was far more private for late-night, er, meetings, and Belle certainly had no need for the convenience.

  “... not be possible.”

  Wesley was jarred out of his pleasant daydream.

  “What did you say?”

  Belle withdrew her hand from his. “I’m sorry, Brother, but no matter how John Nash or the prince or you might try to control my life for me, I’m still confident that I can take care of myself.”

  What? Had Belle just refused him?

  “I don’t understand. I’m offering you a grand opportunity, Belle. A girl of your station couldn’t hope for better.”

  Belle stood, her arms crossed in front of her. “And that’s just it, Wesley. Just as Mr. Nash doesn’t recognize ‘stations’ in life, nor shall I. I’ll make my own way. I am my own mistress. No man will own my business, and that includes my brother. But I do thank you for this most amusing performance. For the briefest of moments, I actually thought you had a valid point. But you’re just being foolish. Now, if you have nothing further to say ... ?”

  “Belle, please, I only want what’s best for us. Why do you always work against me?” How the hell was he all of a sudden pleading with his sister again?

  He suddenly very much wished for a smoke of opium. He patted his trouser pockets. Nothing. His earlier smoke hadn’t lasted nearly long enough. He needed more and more of it these days.

  He caught a movement out of the corner of one eye. What was it? Belle continued explaining to him her nonsensical ideas about maintaining independence and not turning her life over to another Clive. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Endless chattering. Wesley put his hands over his ears and his sister’s voice faded away.

  The room started swaying, so he stood up and backed up against the window for balance.

  She had returned.

  He felt Alice whispering in his ear again. Did you think you could find happiness without me? That you could do anything in your life to forget me? That I wouldn’t find out what you’re doing? Foolish, foolish boy. The way she said “foolish boy” reminded Wesley of Belle, but he was too overcome to consider why.

  “I’m not foolish. This is my only hope of shedding the past and finding peace.”

  He knew Belle was responding to those words, but she’d receded into the wallpaper and he couldn’t hear a word of it. Not with Alice clinging to him, burning him with her stinging, sour breath.

  How many times must I tell you, sweet one? Your destiny is with mine. There is no happiness for you without me. We will be together. Always. You owe it to me. Remember how you allowed those men to take me. Remember? Alice raised her voice to a snarl.

  “Yes, yes.” He hoped he wasn’t weeping in front of Belle.

  And now I see that you’re trying to abandon me. To replace me with your family’s business. Do you truly think that would enable you to be rid of me? Alice punctuated her comments by sticking her forked tongue in his ear, pointing and searching wetly for what? His inner thoughts? His entire brain?

  Wesley jerked away from her, but she was already doing what she always did, wrapping her endless arms around his body, laughing and singing all at once. Why must he always be her helpless fly?

  No, he wouldn’t do it this time. He would cast her off. He struggled against her suffocating grasp, thrusting his head and trying to run in any direction he could. He was no longer sure where he was in his room. If he was even still in the room at all.

  There. He could feel her loosening her grip on his legs. He must run faster, harder. If he could only get some distance from Alice, he’d be free of her. Free of her mocking demands for his attention. He was certain Alice would disappear entirely from his life once he was settled in the shop with Belle in her proper place.

  Wesley heard hollow laughter in the distance. He thought it was Alice, but realized it was coming from his own throat. Why was Belle above him, calling his name?

  “Wesley? Wesley? What happened? Are you ill? Why did you fall?” His sister’s face was blurry above his.

  No, he wasn’t ill, just trapped by the women in his life. Belle in his waking hours and Alice in his nightmares. How ironic, the charming and roguish Wesley Stirling held hostage by two women.

  And now his laughter was hysterical.

  8

  Under the pressure of the cares and sorrows of our mortal condition, men have at all times, and in all countries, called in some physical aid to their moral consolations—wine, beer, opium, brandy, or tobacco.

  —Edmund Burke, Irish statesman, 1729–1797

  May 1818

  London

  Belle had now been in London for six years. It was hard to imagine that work still continued at Brighton, seemingly without end.

  Wesley spent more and more time away from the shop, although he managed to be on hand when Belle needed to be away at Brighton. Their relationship had reached a polite impasse, with neither one of them willing to bend any further to the other.

  Their strained bond made it impossible for Belle to make comment on Wesley’s activities. In particular, she didn’t like that Mr. Ashby, whom Wesley claimed as a tavern friend, and who came skulking about the lodging house at all hours. She also suspected Wesley was lifting coins from their money box, but had no heart for accusing him.

  Things were only slightly better with Put Boyce. Belle had sent out a peace dove by making a request for his shop to build her a new counter for the shop. She wanted one with more shelves and drawers on the proprietor’s side, including a secret cabinet in which to hide her pistols.

  Put crafted the counter in several pieces, and came personally to first dry-fit the pieces together, then do a final assembly. Ironically, he replaced her old oak counter with one made of walnut.

  Yet she was certain he was only charging her an oak price.

  After that, they continued to send each other small commissions. He purchased fabric from her for his occasional chair seats, and she gave him orders for various custom pieces for her London customers who sought her design assistance.

  But Mr. Boyce was keeping himself a yardstick’s length from her.

  Belle sighed. How had she managed to distance herself from both Wesley and Putnam Boyce?

  But things were at least cordial with Mr. Crace. He might not be particularly enthused with the prince’s draper, but Belle had at least earned a bit of respect for her taste in color and texture.

  Mr. Nash and the prince continued to champion her. In fact, the prince had just imported a carpet from Turkey for Carlton House’s entrance, and he wanted all of the chairs in the space to be recovered in complementary shades of green and yellow. Nash was currently in London monitoring his canal project, and suggested that Belle handle it on her own.

  The carpet was rolled up alongside one wall of the home’s spacious entry. Belle first pushed all of the chairs and occasional tables up against the wall. She then cut the muslin ties securing the cotton casing around the folded rug, and struggled to remove the casing and unfurl the carpet so she could see the entire pattern and get a feel for what fabrics would be right to blend with it. Once she ma
de notes about colors, she planned to measure out how much fabric would be needed for the furniture in the room.

  She was sweating and had nearly tumbled over in her skirts several times before finally getting the carpet unrolled. She should have brought Wesley with her to help, but he was just so moody these days that she wasn’t sure how helpful he would have been.

  As she stood gazing down at the carpet, tapping a pencil against her cheek, lost in thought, she heard an “Ahem!” behind her.

  She turned to see the Prince Regent there, dressed in an Oriental kimono emblazoned with large, colorfully embroidered dragons worn over his pantaloons. The prince’s love for Oriental design was permeating every aspect of his life.

  It required several dragons to fully enclose the prince’s girth.

  “Ah, Miss Stirling, so you’re here to improve my pitiful little hovel?”

  Belle curtseyed. “Your Highness’s home is beautiful as it is, but I am happy to help you complement your new carpet.”

  “I selected the colors specifically to enhance the artwork in here.” He pointed to one wall. On it was a half-length portrait of a stunning woman wearing a mass of dark curls, sitting at a table and leaning on an open book.

  “It’s a Gainsborough,” he said.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  The prince perked up. “You appreciate the fine work of Gainsborough? Not everyone does.”

  “I’m not sure I’m qualified to judge art, sir, but the woman in the portrait is breathtaking. Is she a princess from some royal house?”

  The Prince Regent laughed. “Far from it. I bought this painting because of how the subject’s story touched my heart. Her name was Giovanna Baccelli, and she died, let’s see ... has it been nearly twenty years ago? She was an Italian ballerina whose heart was broken into brittle little pieces by her lover, the Duke of Dorset. After ten years with her as his sun, as the dancing center of his universe, he was forced by his family to cast her off in order to marry an heiress. The Baccelli moved from the duke’s country estate into a small townhome in London, and died there a few years later. Of a broken heart, I am certain.”