“We are now at the precipice, fellows. Will we leap forward, or will we cower backward like ninnies? Others may say we are trying to milk the pigeon, but I say our goal is possible, and that we will be the catalyst for a brighter, better England!”
Now the men roared in agreement.
And as he always did to control his audiences, Thistlewood dropped his voice to nearly a whisper. “So we are in agreement that the uncertainty created by this change in the monarchy provides the right timing for rebellion. All that remains is to decide exactly what to do, eh?”
James Ings spoke in enthusiasm. “I was once a butcher, until everything dried up during the year without a summer. I’ll slaughter all of them in Parliament right proper and put their heads on exhibition at Westminster Bridge!”
Cheers went up all around.
Thistlewood laughed. “So we have one suggestion to send Mr. Ings in with his butcher’s knife to make steaks of the members. But may I present you with another plan?” Thistlewood motioned to George Edwards to join him at the front of the room.
Edwards, a man of average height and looks, unfolded a newspaper and read from it.
ANNOUNCEMENT
ON 23 RD FEBRUARY
SEVEN O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING
CABINET DINNER TO BE HELD AT THE HOME OF
LORD HARROWBY, LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COUNCIL.
LORD LIVERPOOL TO SPEAK ON ISSUES OF GREAT IMPORTANCE.
ALL MEMBERS FROM BOTH HOUSES INVITED TO ATTEND.
39 GROSVENOR SQUARE, LONDON
MEMBERS WILL ENJOY FINE LIBATIONS
AND CIGARS FOLLOWING DINNER.
Edwards looked back to Thistlewood, who clapped him on the shoulder as he took the newspaper from him. “My thanks to Mr. Edwards, my boon companion, who uncovered this advertisement in the New Times.”
Wesley frowned. How many boon companions did Mr. Thistlewood claim?
“I suggest that this dinner provides the perfect opportunity to overthrow the entire government at once, because the fools will all be sitting together, stuffing themselves into fatted calves, and we will simply go in, and, as Mr. Ings suggests, slaughter them.”
“And put their heads on pikes on Westminster Bridge,” Ings reminded him.
“As you wish, sir. Shall we make you Chief Dispenser of Justice, then?”
“I’d wear the title proudly, I would.” Ings sat back, smug. Wesley spoke up. “What then, Mr. Thistlewood? After Parliament has been destroyed.”
Their leader smiled warmly. “Ah, excellent question, Mr. Stirling. From there we will set up a Committee of Public Safety to oversee the revolution that we initiate. From my experience, I believe we may have bloodshed in the streets for about six months. After that, we will form a provisional government. Mr. Edwards has suggested that Mansion House is a likely candidate for housing our government, since the Lord Mayor will no longer have use for it. We’ll hold the king prisoner until we decide if he can be of any use.”
So Mr. Thistlewood had already worked out this entire plan with George Edwards, and was just presenting this to them to gather support for it. Part of Wesley was irritated. This was how Belle made decisions, completely without him.
Yet, on the other hand, if all went well and his own goals were achieved, what cause for complaint did he have? For now Wesley understood that, through revolution, more could be accomplished than the mere overthrow of the government and the establishment of an important position for him. For surely in a revolutionary melee the loss of any member of the House of Commons would be blamed on the revolution.
Wesley looked across the room. Or, more likely, the melee would be blamed on someone like an ex-butcher placing heads on pikes. He brought his focus back to Thistlewood.
“So all we lack are details about the cabinet meeting itself. We would be well armed to know if they are planning more tyranny for England’s subjects. We also need a way to get past Harrowby’s servants in advance, so we can figure out the exact lay of his home. Any suggestions?”
Wesley wondered if Thistlewood really sought ideas or if he already had that worked out, as well.
Ings piped up again. “I say we storm his home like it’s a castle defended by lily-livered Frenchmen!”
“Ha! An excellent idea if they were indeed Frogs. But what we need here is the element of stealth, not brute force.”
“I suggest even more,” Edwards said. “While some of us gain entry to Lord Harrowby’s home, it would be fitting for others to set fire to nearby houses, and throw hand-grenades into passing carriages to divert attention.”
“My friend,” Thistlewood said. “You think like a true revolutionary. But I fear such activities are better left for the critical day of overthrow.”
William Davidson, the Jamaican whose burnished skin reminded Wesley of cacao beans, stood and snapped his fingers to draw attention to himself.
“Mr. Thistlewood,” he said in his singsong voice. “May I propose myself as your instrument of stealth? I worked at Lord Harrowby’s former residence some years ago, and am quite sure he still has staff of my acquaintance. I can find out what you need to know.”
All focus was now on Davidson, including that of Thistlewood, who motioned for Edwards to sit down so that Davidson could step forward. Davidson received the same shoulder-slapping, boon companion treatment.
“Mr. Davidson, ’tis another sign of heavenly favor that you have joined our group. For how else could we have been blessed by a former servant of the Harrowby household? Indeed, I charge you with getting the exact details of the cabinet meeting—what they will be discussing, how many meal courses, even what kind of port they’ll be serving. We’ll also need to know what hours Harrowby keeps at Grosvenor Square. Most important, we need a layout of the home, and you should find out if his dining hall is large enough for the event or if he will move it elsewhere. Can you do all of this?”
“Indeed, sir, I can.”
“And you will report to us again on the morrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
Thistlewood brandished the paper above his head. “And so you see, my fellow compatriots, the English government is too stupid by far for the likes of the Spenceans!”
Everyone in the room was murmuring with excitement. Revolution was coming to England.
It was nearly midnight before Wesley slid down the ladder and back to the Horse and Groom. Bottles of vinegary wine were produced to celebrate their upcoming victory, with Thistlewood promising to open the well-stocked cellars of every palace in Britain once the goals of the revolution were accomplished. Wesley drank his fill, then decided he’d been gone long enough that Darcey might now be in a fit of pique.
If she hadn’t already left the tavern.
But she was waiting for him in their room, eyes blazing both in anger over his long absence and in fervor over what had happened. He took great pleasure in drawing out the story as long as he could, until she was finally begging him for details.
When Wesley concluded the details of the plan, Darcey got up and sat on the bed, lost in thought.
“A Committee of Public Safety, you say? Exquisite. My father is so bound up in etiquette and protocol that he’ll have no idea how to function inside a revolutionary form of government. It will send him completely off his beetlehead. Although”—she tilted her head at Wesley—“I suppose by that point he may no longer be in existence to have a nervous attack. My sister and I will be completely free of him.”
“And you won’t have to marry any of Mr. White’s selections.”
Darcey brought her knees up and hugged them, still facing Wesley. “No, I won’t. I’ll be as free as a falcon, soaring through the clouds and snatching whatever I want on the ground.”
“And what do you want on the ground?”
“I’m sure there will still be a tasty morsel or two for me to capture in my talons.” She reached out and cupped Wesley’s neck. “But first we have to be sure this will work. When did you say the dinner is?”
“The
twenty-third of this month. Three weeks away.”
She nodded. “I’m going to go home and pack a traveling case, steal some money from my father’s desk, then come back to the Horse and Groom. It doesn’t matter now if he knows I’ve run off, for he’ll have more serious matters to consider in a short time. Will you live here with me? Until everything is in motion and we can move into rooms at Mansion House together?”
“I’ll need to make excuses to Belle. It may take me a week to sort things out, but I’ll join you here.”
Wesley ignored the tiny nugget of warning deep inside himself. That inner voice sounded too much like Belle.
Wednesday, February 2, 1820
Belle put down the newspaper to greet her first customer of the day, a familiar face who frequented the shop regularly. Belle addressed the lady’s chattering with absentminded nods as she continued to think over what she’d read.
The Prince Regent had just become King George IV two days ago, but was already issuing orders that British ambassadors on the Continent use their diplomatic skills to ensure that monarchs in foreign courts follow his lead in recognizing Caroline only as a queen consort. Not queen. He was also demanding that the church omit her name from the liturgy.
The article went on to say that the new king was gathering incriminating evidence against his wife, evidence of gross misconduct and adultery while living abroad. The king intended to produce this evidence for Parliament soon. But Lord Liverpool was already hinting that he was disinclined to bring any action against the queen, no matter what evidence the king brought.
Belle cut a length of striped silk taffeta and handed it to her smiling customer, who asked for the purchase to be placed on her husband’s account. The doorbell tinkled behind the woman as she left, and Belle returned to the newspaper and her thoughts.
How could the king, such a philanderer and cruel husband, be obsessed with punishing Caroline? True, the new queen’s manners were reputed to be ghastly, and her personal hygiene only marginally better than that of a corpse. But she’d been sincere in her desire to be a good wife, and had provided the king with a daughter. Didn’t that count for something?
And if, after years of abuse heaped upon Caroline by her self-centered husband, she’d fled to Italy to find happiness, why was the king so consumed with this notion of bringing her to justice? Wasn’t marriage to him penalty enough?
And how would the prime minister’s refusal to examine the evidence affect the relationship between him and the king? And affect the ruling of the country?
Mr. Nash said she was not to ever gossip about the king, but a private thought was acceptable, wasn’t it? She sighed. Ah, well, she wasn’t in a position of influence over the king, was she?
Mind your business, she admonished herself. The king pays handsomely for your cloth.
She shook her head to clear it of her tangled views. After a review of what bolts had fewer than ten yards on them so she could prepare her next order, Belle stepped outside to check the weather. It looked like it might rain soon. Or snow. She shivered and stepped back into the warmth of the shop. For the thousandth time, she wondered where Wesley was today. She never heard him come home to their lodgings last night.
She glanced at the watch pinned to her dress. Eleven o’clock. Where was he off to all the time these days?
Every time she thought Wesley was finally coming round, he began his disappearing tricks. Belle needed to make a trip to Brighton to see what rooms were to be finished in time for the coronation and what fabrics and trims she would need to buy for those rooms. Wesley’s unreliability was making it impossible for her to leave the shop.
Honestly, maybe she should just shut the shop down and move to Brighton. She could serve the new king much more easily there, and so many of London’s aristocrats were buying seaside homes in Brighton that she could have business there for decades.
She wouldn’t have to run into Putnam Boyce anymore, either. Belle knew she needed to place an order with him for an ebonized writing box to go in Lady Logan’s bedchamber. Lady Logan had placed her old one atop her bed one day, and her Italian greyhound had wet on it as well as her bed pillows. The dog was given a biscuit afterwards, while Belle received a summons for a tongue-lashing, with Lady Logan castigating her for not having the pillows made in a fabric unattractive to canines.
But Belle hadn’t had the heart to face Put since gawking at him in the middle of the street. Soon, though, Lady Logan would be tapping a foot in impatience. Well, perhaps if Wesley finally showed up this afternoon she’d make a trip over to Shoreditch.
The door’s bell tinkled as another customer entered the shop. A young woman, probably younger than Belle, with the most beautiful, almond-shaped eyes she’d ever seen. The woman entered the shop as if she owned it, examining the shop’s layout as if determining whether to insist it be changed.
Belle went to the woman and folded her hands in front of her. “Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?”
“Perhaps, perhaps. You are, I assume, the proprietress here?”
“I am. I’m Annabelle Stirling, madam. Are you looking for material for a gown or for interior décor?”
“Hmm, I’m not quite sure yet.” The woman walked along the wall opposite the shop’s counter, fingering the hanging cloth from almost every single bolt in the store, and running her hand through baskets of buttons, thimbles, and threads.
“Madam, are you sure I cannot assist you in finding something?”
Those eyes blinked unhurriedly at her. She was as graceful as a leopard watching its prey from high atop a branch, deciding whether the prey was worth the effort of climbing down to capture it.
Belle reflexively stepped away from her customer, who had returned to examining another bolt of cloth. “That’s a lovely dotted muslin we just got in. It would make a fine day dress.”
“Yes, it probably would. Tell me, are you the sole owner of this shop?”
What? What difference did that make to a fabric purchase?
“Yes. I come from a long line of drapers, madam, originally from Yorkshire, which is, as I’m sure you know, the center of the cloth industry.”
“Actually, I didn’t know. Interesting. I come from a long line of important officeholders. So you say you run this shop entirely alone?”
Belle didn’t much care for this woman, who seemed determined to taunt her for some unknown reason.
“This shop belongs to me alone. Now, if you’ve a specific need, I’m happy to help you, Miss—?”
“White ... Whitecastle. I’m Miss Whitecastle.”
“Very well, Miss Whitecastle, if you’ve no actual business here ...”
“Oh, but we do have business together, Miss Stirling. Perhaps we’ll resume it another day. For now, I just wanted to meet you.” And on that, Miss Whitecastle strode out of the shop. Belle wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the woman had a tail swishing underneath her dress.
What in heaven’s name was that all about?
Sometimes the oddest people came through the door.
Belle brushed all thoughts of Miss Whitecastle from her mind as she steeled herself for a visit to Put. Drat Wesley and his long absences.
Put was conferring with a couple in his outer room when she arrived with the old and rank-smelling writing box. She placed it on a chair seat and tried to look as interested as she could in a grandfather clock near the door while he finished with them. Other than their conversation, the shop was quiet, so his workers must be out somewhere.
After an interminable length of time spent avoiding Put’s eyes, she was relieved when the couple left.
When she turned to face him, she saw that he was at his most comfortable, in his worn, leather apron over a white shirt and threadbare trousers. His hose needed darning, his shoes were scuffed, and, as usual, there was a sprinkling of wood shavings on his forearms. The man was noticeably happier in his trade garments.
It was baffling, though. How could she, a draper, actually find a
ppeal in someone so raggedly dressed?
“Miss Stirling,” Put said with a bow. “It has been long since I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance, since that day in Oxford Street—”
“Yes, I remember the day well.”
“I wanted to introduce you to my—”
Fiancée? Lover? Sweetheart? Whatever she was, Belle needed no introductions.
“Not to worry, Mr. Boyce. Your relationships don’t concern me anymore.”
“Anymore? What does that mean? Did they once concern you? And anyway, Frances is—”
“As I said, I can’t be concerned. I need to place an urgent order for a writing box to replace this one.” She picked it up from the chair and showed it to him.
He took it and sniffed at it. “What the hell happened to it?”
“An impudent, mannerless dog got the box, as well as some pillows I had made, into his sights, and the result was, well, this.”
Put shook his head. “The wood has been left to sit too long in urine. I might have been able to save it if your customer brought it to you sooner.”
“Yes. Well. Anyway, I recommended to her that we do something ebonized instead of in oak, since the new king has made ebony all the rage. She agreed that that was the thing to do.”
“Same dimensions?”
“Yes.”
“Any inlay? Marquetry? Secret compartments?”
“No, just what she had before.”
“As you wish, Miss Stirling.” He folded down the hinge of his work desk so that the surface area was flat, then put the writing box down on the center of it.
“How does your own business fare?” he asked.
“Well, thank you.”
“Can I interest you in some other pieces? Another gift for your brother, perhaps? A mirror for your dresser top? I just received some Brazilian cherrywood I can show you—”
By the King's Design Page 22
