By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  “But the king should be able to intervene. After all, they were doing work for him. Although I hardly understand why it required so many men to manufacture false evidence against the queen.”

  “Pardon? What are you talking about?”

  “The conspiracy my brother was involved in. It was to help the king bring false evidence of treason against his wife.”

  Put shook his head sadly at her. “Belle, Wesley wasn’t doing any such thing. He was following a radical named Arthur Thistlewood, who imagined he could bring the violence of the French Revolution to England’s shores. Thistlewood has already confessed everything. His plan was to invade a cabinet dinner in Grosvenor Square and kill as many members as possible, then set up a temporary headquarters at Mansion House, directing the country’s revolution from there.

  “Unfortunately for Thistlewood, the newspaper advertisement for the cabinet dinner was a fake, planted by Parliament when they realized he intended sedition. They knew the lure of so many members in one place would be too attractive for him to resist.”

  “But how did they learn about him?”

  “Thistlewood has been followed on a regular basis since his involvement in the Spa Field Riots of four years ago. They had a man named George Edwards pretend to be a radical and join Thistlewood’s group, called the Spencean Philanthropists. Edwards pointed out the cabinet dinner notice to Thistlewood, and was able to relay the group’s movements to Parliament. Do you want to read more in the paper? I have it downstairs.”

  “No, no, I couldn’t bear it. I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Right. Well, Thistlewood promised most of his followers plum positions in the new government that would be created once Parliament was decimated. I suspect Wesley had one of these assurances.”

  “But what about the king? He would have still been in charge even if they murdered all of Parliament.”

  “They had some sort of idea of capturing him and holding him as a hostage. Utterly bumbling beyond all reckoning.”

  Belle digested what Put told her. “So what did the secretary have to do with anything?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not mentioned in the newspapers.”

  “I see. What are the charges being brought against the conspirators?”

  “High treason. And Thistlewood has the added charge of murder, because he stabbed one of the constables who entered the hayloft.”

  High treason. An offense punishable by hanging until dead, and posthumous beheading and quartering.

  It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t. At least England had abolished partial hanging and disemboweling its half-dead subjects. Wesley wouldn’t like that. She heard cackling laughter in the distance.

  “Belle?” Put leaned forward and took both her hands in his.

  And she realized that it was her own half-mad hysteria filling the room.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” he asked, his gentle voice calming her.

  Save my brother. Remove yesterday’s events from my mind. Make me sleep for another month.

  “I suppose not. I think I just need to sleep.”

  Belle turned her head to one side to let tears fall unchecked against her face. Put quietly departed, leaving her alone with her troubling thoughts.

  She awoke the next morning to the smell of sausages, which Frances delivered to her on a tray with toast and tea. Belle ate ravenously, and as she licked gooseberry conserve from her fingers she looked up to find Frances watching her, hands folded at her waist.

  “My apologies,” Belle said. Put’s cousin shook her head—It’s nothing—took away the tray, and offered Belle a wet cloth to wipe her hands.

  “I’m going to visit my brother today.”

  Frances cocked her head to one side and shook her head again, pointing to her lips. Say it again. I didn’t see your mouth when you said that.

  But this time Belle smiled and shook her head. No need to alarm Frances, who would run and tell Put, and heaven knew what he would do to prevent Belle from going to Newgate.

  “He’s in one of the wards in the chapel yard, ’less you plan to pay for more comfortable accommodation?” The man talking to her seemed to be no more than a prisoner himself.

  Belle replied carefully, hoping he couldn’t see, nor hear, the bulge of coins she’d sewn into her dress. Over her arm she carried her St. Bart’s basket, this time full of food as well as blankets. “I am, of course, concerned for my brother’s welfare.”

  The man shrugged and led her through dank, stinking hallways, poorly lit by inadequate gas lighting. They stepped through a courtyard, where a line of about thirty men, all chained together at the ankles, walked in a ragged circle. They made a motley group, some dressed comfortably in beaver hats and well-cut coats, while others were in threadbare tatters.

  Her escort turned to see why she’d stopped. “Exercise,” he said. “Now, c’mon.”

  Belle clutched her cloak tightly around her. She saw one of the men pointing at her basket as she hurried by.

  Her escort stopped at a forbidding iron door set in an endless row of such doors, studded with nails and with only tiny square openings in it for air and light. The man unlocked the door and it swung open, screeching on its hinges.

  Was that a rat she saw shuffling in the matted straw covering the floor?

  The cell was a large, open space surrounded by stone walls that were once whitewashed but now just oozed trails of moisture and slime. Along the edges of the walls were wooden bunks, some completely bare except for prisoners sitting on them or curled into balls, asleep. Other bunks were decently covered with blankets and pillows.

  The smell in the room was a noxious blend of excrement and unwashed bodies, but the prisoners, who sat or paced listlessly, didn’t seem to notice. Or care. Even the chilled air seemed stifling to everyone subjected to it.

  Some of the fortunate ones, if there was such a thing in this devil’s hold, were visited by wives and their crying children. She spotted Wesley huddled on the floor in front of a bunk, stripped to only his trousers and shivering.

  “Knock when you’re ready to be let out,” her escort told her, pulling the door shut behind her. She rushed to Wesley’s side and knelt before him.

  “Belle?” he asked, lifting his head and sitting up. His eyes were unnaturally bright and his lips were cracked.

  He eyed her basket. “Is there something in there for me?”

  She sat in front of him, placed the basket between them, lifted the lid, and removed a wool blanket, draping it over his shoulders. He pawed in the basket himself, chewing hungrily on cheese, bread, and smoked fish.

  “Here,” Belle said, removing and uncapping the jar of water. He downed it in two gulps.

  “Wesley, what happened to your clothes? Your shoes?”

  “I had to sell them for garnish.”

  “You had to sell your own clothing in order to be permitted into this filthy place?”

  “It’s how they do it. Did you bring me anything else? My pipe?” He dug around further in her basket.

  “I’m sorry, no. I stayed out of your room, although now I see that I needed to bring you some shirts.”

  “Yes, I need clothes and a blanket. And I need my pipe. Bring the entire pipe box.” Wesley grabbed Belle’s wrist, sending shooting pains into her injured shoulder. “Bring my pipe soon. I need it. I need money, too, so I can purchase ale in the taproom.”

  “There’s a tavern inside this fetid place?” She gently disengaged her wrist from his hand.

  “Yes, some inmates started a trade in spirits. I need money for that and for bribes. They won’t let me keep what you bring me unless I can continue paying for them. I also need to pay for exercise time.”

  Dear God.

  “What else can I bring you? Do you want a Bible?”

  He shrugged. “If you wish. But anything else would be stolen.” Averting his eyes from her face, he added, “This is no fit place for a man, Sister.”

  “I know.” She reache
d out a hand to stroke his cheek, but he jerked away from her.

  “I guess you know everything by now,” he said, face down as he picked at the skin around his fingernails.

  “Except for why you involved yourself with a radical like Arthur Thistlewood in the first place.”

  Wesley stopped playing with his hands and offered her the most honest and direct answer she thought she’d heard from him in years. “Because I wanted to prove myself to you, Belle. There was someone, a friend, who convinced me that I could make a mark in the world by becoming Mr. Thistlewood’s confidant. Fat lot of good that did me.

  “I hear he’s in one of the better cells and only has to share with a couple of other prisoners. Keep telling myself that’s because they want him to stay healthy so they can be sure to watch him swing. Me they probably don’t care about, so I’m stuck here with the other rabble. But maybe it means they’ll let me go.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Brother. There’s something else I’m wondering about.” She selected her next words warily. “I understand from Mr. Boyce that you asked him to build a secretary for me, but then you had him deliver it to Cato Street. What was the real purpose of it?”

  “Mr. Thistlewood wanted it.”

  “But why?”

  Wesley was working something over in his head, she knew it. He opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut.

  “Wesley?”

  “It was important to the cause.”

  How exasperating her brother could be, even when in a dire situation like this. “Where is the secretary now?”

  “It’s safe.”

  “Why won’t you tell me where it is?”

  “Because it contains damning information.”

  “How could it possibly be more damaging than your possible conviction of high treason?”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” Wesley folded his arms in front of him, signaling the end of that line of questioning.

  Belle sighed. “Do you know when you’ll go to trial?”

  “No. Perhaps in a couple of weeks.”

  “Well, I can’t sit by and watch this happen to you. I’m going to do something.”

  “What can you possibly do?”

  “I’m going to try and see the king, and beg him to bring his influence to bear. And if begging doesn’t work, I’ll demand it.”

  A shadow of a smile flitted across Wesley’s face. “You’ve always been part dragon. I’ve had dreams about dragons. Except in my dreams the fire-breather has been Alice Treadle. Do you remember Alice?”

  “The girl from the Pack Horse Inn who went to India with you.”

  He nodded. “She haunts me, Belle. I have waking nightmares of her. They stopped for a while, after I met Dar—I mean, after I met Mr. Thistlewood. But now they’re back.” He clutched Belle’s wrist again. “Lord, Belle, what if it’s Alice who drives me into the grave, instead of my jailers?”

  She winced at the sharp pain, but allowed him to hold on to her this time. “Let’s hush this talk of you going into the grave, Brother. I’ll return tomorrow with the things you want, then I’ll see the king and get things straightened out for you.”

  He released her, like a child who has been promised a toy he has been pleading for.

  Belle picked at the secret pouch she’d sewn into her cloak and pulled out a drawstring pouch full of coins. She pressed it into Wesley’s hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  And as she went to the cell’s door to knock, she heard Wesley’s voice float across the stench and the crying and the misery: “Don’t forget, I need my pipe.”

  And as the door clanged shut again behind her, she realized that Wesley had not apologized to her, nor had he thanked her for her visit.

  March 1820

  Brighton

  Belle waited for the king once again, this time in one of the refurbished drawing rooms. Only this time, it wasn’t just a draper and an architect in the vast room waiting upon a prince. There were numerous courtiers and government officials who had followed the king to Brighton, milling around, hoping for an audience, too.

  A liveried servant entered and everyone stilled. “His Majesty will now see Lord Crugg.”

  The rest of the room groaned in disappointment as Lord Crugg strode proudly to the door, to be led by the servant to the king’s presence.

  Looking at the number of people in the room, Belle suspected this could take all night.

  She found an empty bench under a window and sat down. Others eyed her suspiciously, most likely because women weren’t granted private audiences with the king. Unless they were his mistresses, that is.

  Let them think what they want. My reputation is nothing as compared to Wesley’s life.

  She surreptitiously rubbed her shoulder. It was still sore, although thankfully her headache was gone. In her haste to see the king, she’d ignored her own pain.

  After visiting Wesley at Newgate, she’d returned to Put’s home, where he and his cousin waited anxiously for her. Assuring them both that she was perfectly well now—a lie; her head still throbbed and her shoulder was in greater pain after Wesley’s pulls on her arm—she told them that she planned a trip to see the king to ask for his intervention on Wesley’s behalf.

  She still fumed, remembering Put’s look of pity and his observation that little could be done for Wesley. “He’s cooked his own goose.” Still, he offered to accompany her and, when she refused, asked her to at least bring along Frances for company. She turned that down, as well.

  Better to be alone with anxious thoughts, to plan what she would say to the king.

  Belle returned once again to Newgate before boarding the coach to Brighton, bringing Wesley clothing, more money, bedding, and his beloved pipe box. Putting everything else to one side, Wesley slid the top off his pipe box, pulled out the wooden stem, and caressed it. “Belle, you’ve made my intolerable situation just a bit more bearable.”

  “I’m glad. I’ll be back after I see the king. He’s fled to Brighton because of your ... well, because of the disturbance.”

  “Will he actually give you an audience, now that he’s king?”

  “I don’t know. But I have to try. I’ll do everything I can, Wesley.”

  He wagged the pipe at her. “See that you do, Sister. I believe I am out of other options.”

  She shook clear the thought that, once again, Wesley was less than grateful for her assistance. She had to free the thought from her mind, lest she turn herself over to anger over his stupid, spoilt behavior, not only with Arthur Thistlewood but in everything Wesley had ever done.

  Belle also didn’t want to think about why his pipe had become his most prized possession. The contemplation of what he might be smoking in it was too much to bear. She shouldn’t even have brought it to him, but what use was it to castigate a man whose life as he knew it was no more?

  No, if she remained a loving sister and they could get this all behind them, perhaps they could regain a warm relationship again.

  Although that did leave the problem of Mr. Putnam Boyce, didn’t it? What would her relationship be with him once this was all over?

  “His Majesty will now see Miss Annabelle Stirling.”

  She jumped, surprised that she was actually going to be granted an audience, much less that it would be so soon. She squared her shoulders with a wince, determined not to leave Brighton without the king’s commitment to help free Wesley.

  After a long day of meeting with petition seekers, the king shut the door to his bedchamber and turned to the plump woman in his black and gold canopied bed. “My dear, you have no idea how exhausting it is to run a country with as much care as I do. And sometimes I’m visited by the oddest creatures with the most unusual requests.”

  The woman lay on her side, propped up on her elbow. The diaphanous gown did little to hide her ample hips. She patted the bed next to her. “Did you have an odd creature today, Your Majesty?”

  She sat up against the pillows as the king sat down
heavily before her, lifting his arms so she could undress him. She was never quite sure if she had mastered the fine techniques of seductive undress, and made up for it by leaning forward and rubbing her bosom against him while she struggled to divest him of his clothes. The woman wondered if Lady Conyngham had this much trouble being a temptress.

  “I did. Mr. Nash’s assistant, or I suppose now she’s Mr. Crace’s assistant, I can’t remember. Her name is Annabelle Stirling. She thought I would be fool enough to intervene for her brother, who rots appropriately enough in Newgate.”

  Displaying no reaction at all to this news, she pushed his waistcoat back over his shoulders as gently as she could, pretending that it was a simple task and that he wasn’t a mountain of flesh that made her own figure look willowy. “What is his crime?”

  “He was one of the Cato Street conspirators. As though any clemency should be shown to that group of radicals. Why, they planned to kidnap me! Me, their sovereign king. Damned good riddance to the lot of them. No, she’ll see no quarter from me. And certainly not from Liverpool, I’ll wager. Scratch my back right there, would you, sweetheart? Ah, excellent. You give me great comfort.”

  Although the story of Miss Stirling and her unfortunate brother was of great interest to her personally, she lost her curiosity as her mind wandered on to whether the king would continue to see to her comfort, and that of her children, as payment for the great sacrifice she’d made for him in his chambers.

  April 1820

  London

  Darcey stamped her foot prettily. “Father, I tell you, it’s true.”

  Mr. White sighed as he put down his magnifying glass. What a plague his wife and daughters were. He just wanted to spend some time alone with his insect collection. He’d just received a rainbow scarab, and was admiring its metallic blue-green and copper colors and the long, curved horn extending from its head that marked it as a male.

  Fascinating creatures, dung beetles. The adult male and female worked together, as equals, to dig beneath the excrement they treasured as a food source for their young.