By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  What the devil was the boy up to?

  “The desk needs to go up there.” Wesley pointed up a ladder into what was surely a hayloft.

  “You must be joking. You don’t actually live here, do you? And surely you don’t expect Miss Stirling to join you here?”

  “Oh yes, once she puts her feminine gewgaws about the place I’m sure it will be to her liking.”

  Either Belle’s brother was an unfortunate who belonged in Bedlam or he was up to something. But he’d squared his payment for the desk, so Put was in no position to argue about where it was to go.

  The three men struggled to get the two pieces up the ladder, which rose almost vertically into the space above, but managed to do so without either section getting damaged.

  As Put surveyed the loft, he realized not only that Belle was not intended to reside here but that it was highly unlikely that Wesley himself lived in this primitive place. Scattered benches, tables, and a few candlesticks did not make for a habitable location.

  Put and Gill assembled the top to the bottom. The completed secretary stood impossibly proud in its odd surroundings, like a chestnut tree growing in the desert.

  A few minutes later, as Put jiggled the reins to put the horse in motion, Gill asked him, “Why would someone want one of our pieces for that stinkhole? It was no better than a cell at Newgate.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And it’s for his sister? Wasn’t that the gal you were sweet on?”

  Put frowned at Gill. “Mind yourself. I’m not sweet on anyone, much less Annabelle Stirling.”

  There, that should keep his employee from gossiping with the others in the shop.

  But he missed Gill’s slowly curving smile as he wondered if Wesley really planned to give it to someone else and was extracting the best price possible from him by declaring it a gift for Belle.

  Tuesday, February 22, 1820

  A light morning snow was drifting down as Wesley slipped out of his lodgings with some rope he’d bought after seeing how difficult it was to maneuver the secretary up the hayloft ladder.

  He stopped by the Horse and Groom to receive Darcey’s embrace, as well as her complaint that he had not yet moved his belongings there. He was faintly irritated that she was more concerned that he was not there to warm her bed than with his imminent plunge into a dangerous task. He shared a pipe with her, then headed across the street.

  Everyone else was already in the hayloft, admiring the desk. Even Mr. Thistlewood congratulated him for managing to commission such a fine piece. Wesley forgot his annoyance with Darcey as he basked in the older man’s praise. It stirred a childhood memory in him of feeling proud when his father praised him for making accurate guesses as to the yardages on various bolts of fabrics that lay about the shop. Mr. Stirling would brag to everyone who would listen how smart his young Wesley was, and that one day he’d double the size of their business because of his sharp mind.

  You were meant for more than to be Belle’s fetching boy. This today proves it.

  But neither the opium nor his self-assurances could quell the gnawing in his innards that had started after commissioning the desk from Mr. Boyce. His involvement with the Cato Street lads was honorable and just, he knew it. After all, Mr. Thistlewood was a man of great bearing and character and he was convinced that their plan would change England for the better. So there was no cause for concern.

  And yet. He looked around at his co-conspirators, half of them intensely serious about their work, the other half still drunk from the previous evening.

  What would Father think if he saw you now?

  He banished that niggling thought as Mr. Thistlewood went to the front of the room, the understood signal that he was about to speak and that they should pay attention.

  Thistlewood rubbed his gloved hands together and blew on them in between snatches of speech intended to rouse the conspirators.

  “Friends, our time is nigh. We are on the cusp of the greatest glad tidings our country—no, all of Europe, dare I say the world?—has ever seen. For we have our example in the French events of a quarter century ago, but we have English ingenuity and cunning on our side, and their foolish mistakes will not be repeated here.”

  He dropped his voice.

  “Imagine what a different world it will be just three days from now. Our grand uprising will be spoken of by schoolchildren for centuries. Lovers of freedom everywhere will imitate us in overthrowing their shackles of servitude. Our oppressors will accuse us of having the blood of innocents on our hands. But from where we will sit inside Mansion House, we will say to them, ‘No, we saved the blood of innocents.’ Does anyone here doubt our noble endeavor? Let him speak now.”

  Silence.

  “And if you are with me, let me know.”

  Of course, the men roared their enthusiastic support. Wesley cringed inwardly. They were too noisy during this daylight meeting where passersby might notice them. But Mr. Thistlewood didn’t seem concerned. He dropped his speechmaking posture, and turned to the practicalities of what would happen following delivery of the secretary later that day.

  He told the men that once they established where in Lord Harrowby’s house the dinner was to be held, Mr. Thistlewood would draw up exact posting locations for everyone. Only certain men would have the privilege of bursting in on the members and killing them. Everyone was to meet one final time in the hayloft the evening of the twenty-third, and at that time Thistlewood would be issuing guns and swords to his hand-selected assassins. Who those men were was his closely guarded secret.

  Wesley held his breath. Would he be asked to partake in the bloodletting?

  “I ask Messrs. Brunt, Edwards, and Stirling to return this afternoon and take the secretary to Lord Harrowby’s home. Pretend you are from the Company of Joiners and that you are presenting this fine desk to Lord and Lady Harrowby on the occasion of their anniversary. I will wait at the corner of Duke Street for your report.

  “And now, friends, return to your businesses and your wives, pretend nothing is amiss, but be here promptly at six o’clock tomorrow.”

  As everyone filed out, Thistlewood signaled for Wesley to stay behind. Thistlewood picked up a small leather satchel that was resting on the floor behind him and handed it to Wesley. “Do you have a secure hiding place for this inside your lodgings?”

  At Thistlewood’s nod, Wesley opened the satchel. Inside was a stack of letters, written plans, timetables, and maps. Mr. Thistlewood was entrusting him with such a great responsibility? Not even Edwards or Davidson had received such a task. “I do.”

  “See that these are well hidden. My own lodgings are above an overly educated and nosy bookseller.”

  Thistlewood shook his hand and the two men departed together. Or, rather, Wesley pretended to leave, heading over to the Horse and Groom, but went back as soon as he saw that Thistlewood was gone.

  Still clutching Thistlewood’s documents, he climbed the ladder into the hayloft, relit a recently extinguished candle, and dug around in an opening he’d discovered in the wall last week. His fingers touched the wrapped package containing his journal and writing supplies, and he pulled them out. He’d resorted to hiding his journal here ever since Belle’s false—but ultimately convenient—accusations.

  He sat down at the table, facing the new secretary. It really was an exquisite work of art. It almost seemed a shame that Mr. Boyce wasn’t able to give it as a gift to his sister. For the man was obviously in love with Belle. Any goosecap could see that.

  He pondered his entry. Wesley determined that it should be clever and glorious, like Mr. Thistlewood’s speeches. Something to read to his own children one day about his grandiose exploits. He tapped the end of the quill against his nose. Nothing was coming to him.

  He leafed through the papers Mr. Thistlewood had given him. Some of them were innocuous—bills of fare from the Horse and Groom, receipts from the barber, that sort of thing—but other documents were incriminating indeed: a map showin
g several routes from their Cato Street location to 39 Grosvenor Square; a list of all the servants who currently worked for Lord Harrowby; another list of all the members of both houses of Parliament; a receipt for a dozen flintlock pistols. It would be disastrous if they should fall into the wrong hands.

  The prime minister’s, for instance. Or even Belle’s. Actually, he wondered what Darcey might do with such items. She might hate her father, but was she really as loyal to Wesley’s interests as she proclaimed? Would she turn on him if she thought she could earn some other chance at independence and notoriety?

  He shook off the thought.

  But his nervousness at being in possession of the papers remained.

  If Mr. Thistlewood was too afraid to keep them, why shouldn’t Wesley be equally nervous? His room was probably as safe as anywhere, but then, hadn’t he caught Belle rummaging around once already?

  Even the opium haze wasn’t enough to quell the barrage of thoughts passing through him. Did Mr. Thistlewood care only for protecting himself, and not his co-conspirators? What would happen to Wesley if—God forbid—something went wrong in their attack, and all of these documents were found in his possession?

  I’ll burn them.

  But what if Mr. Thistlewood asked for them again? How would he explain their disappearance?

  Even more troubling was the other potential outcome of tomorrow night. If they were thwarted and Wesley was injured or killed, how long would it take for the authorities to link him to Darcey? What might happen to her?

  They wouldn’t imprison an innocent woman, would they?

  And what about Belle? He supposed she couldn’t possibly be implicated.

  He passed a hand over his eyes, all of a sudden feeling much older than he was. Finally, he spent an hour making what he considered to be his most important journal entry ever. He detailed everything about his involvement with Thistlewood, from his meetings with Darcey to his commissioning of the secretary desk. He put down his pen, and felt a wave of relief roll through him, as though he’d just cleansed and pardoned himself in advance for his sins of the future.

  He tore out those pages, as well as all the others mentioning Darcey or Thistlewood, rolled them up into a tight scroll, and went to the secretary. Opening the slant front, he popped open the secret compartment as Put had shown him, then slid up the additional wood slat that revealed a secondary compartment hidden below the first one. He tucked his scroll inside and brought the slat back down to cover it.

  There. In what more ironic, yet safe, place could his journal pages reside than in the home of Lord Harrowby? If Wednesday’s activities were successful, why, he’d have the secretary moved into his own rooms at Mansion House. If anything went wrong, well, no one would ever be the wiser.

  On second thought ...

  Wesley scooped all of Thistlewood’s papers out of the satchel and stuffed them into the primary secret compartment above the hollow where his journal entry was hidden. It was far better that Thistlewood’s papers not be found in the lodgings he shared with Belle.

  Satisfied, he tucked the remaining pages of his journal back into the wall, blew out the candle, and headed down the ladder. He’d need some sleep in his own bed before the afternoon’s activities.

  Wesley didn’t notice Put sitting at a window in the Horse and Groom, watching him leave.

  He was also too tired to detect another, unfamiliar face staring down at him from the upper floor of the tavern.

  The snow stopped long before Belle closed the shop and trudged home, weary from an unusual day of customer complaints about fabric shortages and late deliveries. She knew she needed to talk to the ever-absent Wesley about it, but what was the point?

  No light shone from under his door and all was quiet. He must be out carousing again. She went upstairs, tossed her bonnet on her bed, and settled down in a chair next to the window to read in the quickly waning winter daylight. With less than three pages read of Ivanhoe, the latest novel by Mr. Scott, she lit a lamp on the table next to her. The reflection from the window created a comforting circle of light.

  She sensed a motion outside the building, but it was too dark now to see anything. The front door opened; was that Wesley? She put her book down and took the lamp out to the landing to check.

  It was indeed Wesley, who looked haggard and filthy. He carried a long length of rope slung over one shoulder.

  “Brother?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

  He looked up at the landing and gave her a rare, lopsided grin. “Nothing for you to worry about. Had to help a friend move some furniture and it was heavier than I thought it would be.”

  “This took all day?” Drat, she’d just decided not to bother confronting him. Couldn’t she ever hold her tongue?

  He sighed wearily. “Yes, Belle, it took all day. I’m off to bed now. The rest of my week is very busy.”

  But he remained still, staring at her as though just seeing her for the first time. To her surprise, he tossed the rope down, leaped up the steps two at a time, and pulled her close into an embrace, kissing both her cheeks and tugging on one of her curls.

  “Sister, sometimes I don’t like you very much, but I do love you. Remember that, if in the future I don’t see you anymore.”

  Belle gripped both his arms. “Wesley, sometimes you frighten me, but right now you terrify me. Why are you talking to me like you’re about to plunge yourself into the Thames?”

  “Not to worry. I just wouldn’t want anything to remain ... unsaid. . . if circumstances come between us.”

  “What do you mean? Wesley, please, whatever you’re planning to do for the king, stop it. It’s dangerous and foolhardy, and you’ll only end up sorry. I beg you, Brother. Please. I ... I’ll ... I’ll do as you wish. I’ll share the shop with you. Just stop what you’re doing.”

  His smile this time had no joy in it at all. “I don’t think there will be time for a draper shop in my future, Belle. I’ll be too busy.” He kissed her one last time and went downstairs to retrieve his rope and return to his room.

  Belle put her fingers to her cheek, still moist from his lips. Too busy? Doing what?

  She had little time to consider it. After falling into a troubled sleep, Belle rose the next morning to find that Wesley was already gone for the day. She opened the shop, and had hardly made her list of activities she wanted to complete for the day when the door banged open, sending in a bitter blast of cold air.

  She looked up from the counter to find Putnam Boyce in her shop. He turned and locked the door behind him, and set the “Closed” sign in the window.

  Belle came around from behind the counter. “What, exactly, are you doing, sir? This is a place of business.”

  “I have to talk to you, and it’s serious.”

  Although Put was wearing a better-tailored coat than last time, he looked starched and uncomfortable, as usual.

  “Mr. Boyce, I have many concerns on my mind right now, so if you’ll kindly unlock the door so that I can welcome customers—”

  “You can worry about your customers later. Where can we talk privately?”

  “I hardly think it’s proper for us to—”

  “Lord, woman, but you try my patience. Is that a room back there?” He nodded toward a door at the back of the shop.

  “Well, it’s more of a storage closet.”

  “Come.” Put unceremoniously swung her around and marched her to the back room.

  “How dare you!” she sputtered.

  “There are far more daring things going on than you could ever imagine. Where’s a lamp? Ah, here we go.” Put lifted the oil lamp she kept on a hook by the door next to a shelf holding a tinderbox. Opening the box, he struck a piece of flint against the firesteel, letting the sparks fall onto the char cloth and lighting the lamp with the burning cloth. He replaced the lamp on its hook. “Stop tapping your foot, Miss Stirling, and pay attention to what I have to say.”

  She did so grudgingly. “Mr. Boyce, you’d better have good
reason for disrupting my day.”

  “I believe your brother is involved in something dangerous.”

  Put knew?

  Impossible.

  “What do you mean, ‘something dangerous,’ Mr. Boyce?”

  “I mean that he is associating with a group of men that are up to no good, and I have a good suspicion he intends to do something treasonous.”

  “It might not be treasonous if it’s for the—” She stopped.

  He looked at her intently, waiting for her to finish, but when she clamped her mouth shut and refused he continued.

  “Did you know your brother commissioned a very expensive secretary from me? It’s one of the finest pieces I’ve ever made. He told me it was to be a gift for you. But he had me deliver it to a very strange address on Cato Street. Wesley claimed it was the location of new lodgings for you both, that he had rented the place without telling you, and that the secretary was to be a peace offering when he finally brought you round to see the new location. Have you seen it? Honestly, it’s nothing more than an abandoned stable.”

  Belle’s mind was whirling. New lodgings? A secretary? What was Wesley up to?

  “I see you are completely unaware of what has transpired. His so-called lodgings amounted to some scattered benches and tables in a loft over the stable. The meanest felon would not be at home there; I hardly think he intended to introduce his sister to it.”

  “But, I don’t understand. Why did he ask you to make a piece of furniture like that? I have nowhere to put it. My room is quite small at our lodging house.”

  “I don’t know. I certainly didn’t question it at the time. I was quite happy to, er, well, I was happy enough for the commission. Anyway, the whole situation bothered me enough that I returned to keep an eye out on Wesley. I’ve been watching him from a tavern across from the stable. He’s been meeting daily with about a dozen men, and they’re definitely conspiring to do something. The leader is a tall, swarthy character.”

  That must be Wesley’s friend, Mr. Thistlewood. Oh dear, her brother really was trying to help the king build up evidence against his wife. She had no idea what to tell Put. She couldn’t tell him what she knew, for he would seek the authorities. But she also couldn’t have him following Wesley around like a bloodhound on the scent of a deer.