By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  “Sorry?”

  “Get. Out. Of my shop. Immediately, Mrs. Finch. I’ll not have my inventory tainted by your poison.”

  “Miss Stirling, you misunderstand me. I’m not against you, I’m just curious—”

  “I understand exactly what you’re about, Mrs. Finch. Good day to you.” Belle strode to the door and flung it open.

  Mrs. Finch sniffed in annoyance, and left Belle with parting words: “You’d do well to cultivate what friends you have left, Miss Stirling.”

  “I’ll do exactly that.” Belle knew it was childish to slam the door, but was nonetheless gratified to watch Mrs. Finch jump at the rattling of the door’s panes as it banged shut behind her.

  Belle was certain she was the invisible but much gossiped about guest at Mrs. Finch’s next card party, for all of that lady’s friends sent along rude notes. Really, was it necessary for them to send letters informing her that their business would go elsewhere and that they were telling their seamstresses to shun Belle? Could they not merely stay away?

  After that, she avoided even glancing at the newspaper, for fear of seeing her name emblazoned across it or of accidentally reading some juicy bit of gossip snaking its way through its pages.

  Her fears increased with the feeling that someone was following her. She never saw anyone in particular, but she couldn’t shake the eerie feeling that someone was tracking her movements to and from the shop.

  I’m becoming unhinged. I see ghosts and spirits where there are none.

  Thank God for Lady Greycliffe, who made frequent visits to the shop for purchases and invited her next door routinely for tea. Belle suspected her neighbor was also encouraging some of her own friends to place orders with the Stirling Drapers shop, too.

  Belle’s worst day was when three men, dressed in the homespun of tradesmen, entered the shop. Lowly dressed men were not a frequent sight in a draper’s shop. Belle was instinctively glad she stood behind the counter, near her pistols.

  “You’re Miss Stirling?” asked one of the men without preamble.

  “I am. And who are you, Mr.—?”

  “Garret. John Garret. My friends and I hear that you’re one of us.”

  “One of you?”

  “Come, don’t be coy.” The man winked at her, a little too lasciviously for Belle’s comfort.

  “Pray, sir, please tell me what it means to be one of you.” She quietly slid open the cabinet door under the counter that hid her pistol box.

  “We hear you’re interested in seeing change come to England, by whatever means it takes. That you might not be afraid of London’s streets getting a bit bloody in the process.”

  Belle sighed. “Dare I ask where you might have heard this?”

  He shrugged. “Here and there. We hear tell you’re looking to avenge your brother’s death. You managed to escape taint in the Cato Street affair, didn’t you?”

  “Not particularly.”

  Garret made an appraising glance around the shop, at the shelves groaning under the weight of unsold fabrics. “Looks like you must have plenty of money. You could help finance us. We were thinking of kidnapping the king to raise money for our real goals, but if you were to help us, we could avoid touching His Royal Pigginess.”

  The other men laughed at the insult.

  “Are you deranged? What fool insinuated that I was unbalanced enough to immerse myself in some idiotic plan to subvert the government?” Actually, who didn’t share this opinion? “Hasn’t there been enough trouble already, Mr. Garret?”

  “We have it on pretty good say-so that you were as revolutionary as your brother. Even more so, tho’ he was the one the judge chose to dangle from the three-legged mare.”

  “Your information sources consist of rogues, villains, and miscreants, Mr. Garret. I had nothing to do with my brother’s activities, and have no intention of involving myself in radical activities. I do, however, intend to protect my livelihood.”

  She lifted the lid to her pistol box and pulled out the nearest one, pointing it directly at Mr. Garret’s chest. Completely unloaded, of course.

  Mr. Garret’s good humor disappeared. “Now let’s not be aiming your barking iron at me, miss. I came here in good faith.”

  “I’m going to assume, then—in good faith—that you plan to leave quietly before I have to shoot you. I have a shop to run, gentlemen, and I intend to do so, without the interference of wandering mischief-makers. Now, out with the lot of you!”

  Maybe she should consider locking the shop and evaluating patrons through the window before permitting them in.

  With grumbles of “Not our fault” and “Don’t need to work with a shrew,” the men hurried out of the building.

  She sat down, numb. Would this tiresome parade of half-wits never end? Where were all of these rumors originating? What if they traveled as far as Parliament and someone there took them seriously?

  And who was following her? Her sense that she was being silently pursued was unshakable.

  Put climbed the steps of Lord Burdett’s home in St. James’s Place, wearing his uncomfortable day clothes and carrying both a small tool chest and an awkward sack. The baronet had sent a carriage around to pick up Put so that he could repair his old walnut desk, which had a broken leg. Put wasn’t used to such finery for himself, feeling almost embarrassed as his workers watched him enter the black-lacquered coach with its fancy trims.

  The young maid who answered the door showed him to Lord Burdett’s private bedroom, where the desk sat at the foot of the baronet’s bed. She continued to flutter around him while he worked.

  “May I get you some tea to drink?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He opened his burlap sack full of walnut leg parts that he had brought along, matching them up until he found a style that was close to what the original cabinetmaker had used. It would only require a little carving and shaving to create a match.

  “Do you require more light? Here, let me draw back the draperies for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  The leg was damaged beyond repair. Put removed the straps from his portable tool chest and searched for his file and several carving tools. He poised the leg over the burlap bag, made some minor modifications to the shape of the leg, then filed it until it was smooth. Going back into his tool chest, he rooted around until he found a brush and his jar of boiled linseed oil. He quickly brushed oil on the entire leg with long, smooth strokes to prevent any drip marks, then rested it across two other legs to let it dry for a few minutes, then applied a second coat.

  Now to remove the old leg from the desk.

  The maid was now standing over him, wide-eyed and breathless.

  “It’s amazing work you’re doing, Mr. Boyce.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I imagine your wife really appreciates such talent.”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Really?” Her eyes grew wider.

  “I’m not married yet.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, I must be off to my dusting. Pull the rope next to the bed if you require anything.”

  Finally left alone to concentrate on his work, Put started by emptying the desk of its contents, so he could flip the piece over to figure out how the leg was attached and remove it. He carefully removed each drawer and set it on the floor so that he could remember the exact order in which they fit back into the desk.

  The baronet’s desk contained all of the usual things aristocrats maintained in drawers. A silver pocket watch, pens, pots of ink, parchment paper, a blotter, a personal journal tied with twine, a small pouch of tobacco, and a couple of sovereigns.

  Put shook his head. Funny how wealthy men zealously guarded their homes with armies of servants but left small, valuable goods lying about in an unlocked desk where anyone could find them.

  He carefully rolled the desk on its back, then upside down so he could carefully saw off the old leg. He planed down the place where the old leg was attached to the body of the desk, to pro
vide a smooth, even location to place the new one. He then chiseled out a mortise, so that he could glue in the replacement leg’s matching tenon for a strong joint between the pieces.

  He touched the recently varnished leg. Dry enough to work with. Using a combination of horsehide glue and nails, he added the new leg to the desk, and left it sitting upside down to partially set while he cleaned up his tools and sack of parts.

  Shavings were scattered on the rug where he’d been working. Well, he’d wait until he was ready to leave before calling anyone to come in and sweep, lest the maid return right away.

  Satisfied that the leg was sufficiently dry to sustain the weight of the desk, he went through the process of rolling the desk over again and setting it upright. He surveyed his work.

  “It’ll do,” he said aloud.

  His only remaining task was to put away the drawers. He gently pushed back in the wood boxes containing the watch, writing materials, journal, tobacco—

  Wait a moment.

  This reminded Put of something, something very important. What was it? He closed his eyes, trying to remember, but it was lying just out of reach.

  Put finished replacing the drawers and decided to unstrap his tool chest again for a fine-bristled goat’s-hair brush to dust inside the fine crevices of all the desk’s carvings. Perhaps Lord Burdett would appreciate Put’s attention to detail.

  Like as not, he wouldn’t even notice. But it gave Put time to think.

  The man had his personal diary lying in his desk.

  A desk. A diary.

  “Good Lord,” Put said, as he scrambled up quickly, pulled the bell rope, and shouted out to anyone who would listen that Lord Burdett’s rug needed cleaning. He clattered down the stairs with his belongings and rushed out to the street.

  He had to get to Grosvenor Square as quickly as possible.

  Belle spent the morning looking at potential new lodgings. She could no longer bear her current place, where Wesley’s room had been taken over by new tenants, a nice young couple who were nonetheless a reminder to Belle that her brother had not only ceased to exist but now had every last vestige of his life stripped from the earth.

  She’d stowed the crate of his belongings in her own room, and would take it to her new lodgings, wherever they might be.

  After purchasing a spiced meat pasty from a street vendor, she stopped to visit Lady Greycliffe, but a sign in the door indicated that the dollmaker’s shop was closed that day. Disappointed to miss her new friend, Belle returned to the shop for what would surely be a long afternoon.

  Put paced back and forth under gathering clouds outside the servants’ entrance to the Grosvenor Square residence. What can I possibly say to the worker who opens the door that will permit me entry? “Your master has a desk with a secret drawer he doesn’t know about?” “I’m a man under suspicion by His Majesty’s government, and the only way to clear my name is to suspiciously burrow through Lord Harrowby’s desk?”

  Think, Boyce, think.

  After several minutes of deliberation, he decided on his course. It was weak, and probably wouldn’t fool an infant, but it was all he could think of on such short notice. At least he still had his tools with him to lend his story credence.

  To his great surprise, it worked. The elderly housekeeper who opened the door believed his inane account of Lord Harrowby’s new desk having been varnished with potentially poisonous shellac. Put embellished the story by saying that he’d already been to several other distinguished homes in the area to cover up the old shellac with a new, non-poisonous coating. It was vital that he inspect the earl’s secretary immediately to ensure it had not received the lethal covering.

  What nonsense. Anyone even vaguely familiar with wood finishes would know that any sort of poisonous vapor would be long gone from a piece that was finished months ago. Unless the owner decided to make kindling of the desk and release noxious fumes in the air, an unlikely occurrence in Lord Harrowby’s case.

  But providence was with him. Lord Harrowby wasn’t home, nor was his wife, and the nervous servant didn’t want to be blamed later for turning away rescue of life-threatening furniture. So she admitted Put inside and led him to her employer’s study.

  The secretary stood magnificently against one wall of the room, across from the fireplace and two comfortable leather chairs.

  He turned back to the servant, who looked uncertainly between him and the piece of furniture. He said to her, “Perhaps you should close the door and leave me here alone, so as not to let the bad air into the rest of the house.”

  “Yes, a most advisable idea. Not meaning you any harm, of course.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Miraculously, he was alone with the secretary.

  “Mr. Bloom,” the housekeeper said, trying to keep her lips from quivering. “I might have done something wrong. I let a cabinetmaker into the master’s study. He says he made the new desk, and that it might be poisonous and he has to fix it. Mr. Bloom, he was talking about the desk that was part of that Cato Street business.”

  “How can a desk be poisonous?” the butler asked.

  “Well, I’m not sure, but he explained it right well. Now I’m thinking he’s up to something. What if he’s another one of them radicals? Oh dear, what have I done?” She rubbed her veined hands together.

  “I’ll see him myself.”

  “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Do you know where the master is? I think he’ll want to see this man himself.”

  “He went to his club. I’ll fetch him.”

  Belle climbed down from the ladder and brushed her hands together to release the dust from them.

  I really do need to clean those shelves, she thought. I can’t show customers dusty merchandise.

  She patted down some loose hairs. Presuming I ever have a full complement of customers again.

  Belle pulled some spools of ribbon out of her storage closet to cut pieces of them for her ribbon rack that dangled over the far end of the counter. Small clips held individual strips of ribbon, which Belle cut in the most highly desired lengths for tying bonnets and lacing handkerchiefs. The ribbon display helped the shop look cheerful and interesting, with its waterfall of brightly colored trims fluttering down, begging to be touched.

  So engrossed was Belle in measuring, cutting, and artfully hanging the ribbon, she hardly noticed her next customer’s arrival. Had the doorbell even rung as the woman entered?

  She was unsettlingly familiar, despite her bedraggled appearance. The woman smelled to high heaven and wore a long, narrow pouch at her waist, tied on with a length of filthy rope.

  Perfect. Another vagabond come to ask if Belle was a radical or wanted to join an extremist cause.

  Belle put down the rose-colored ribbon she was about to clip to the rack. “Welcome to Stirling Drapers. How may I help you, madam?”

  The woman didn’t respond, but merely glared at her through glassy eyes.

  Where had she seen her before?

  Oh! Belle knew her now. It was the woman from Wesley’s execution who had stared at her so malevolently. What was she doing here now?

  “Madam,” Belle said carefully, a prickle of unease creeping up her neck. “Do I know you?”

  The woman nodded with eerie slowness, as though she were a puppet being gently maneuvered from above. “Yes, you know me. You just don’t know how.”

  “I believe I do. I remember you from the day my brother was—from the regrettable day in front of Newgate.”

  That sluggish nodding again. “Yes, you’d surely remember me from there. But I’ve been here before. I promised I’d be back.”

  More recognition dawned in Belle’s mind. “You’re Miss Whitecastle. You asked me questions about my shop’s ownership.”

  “Except I’m not really Miss Whitecastle. I’m Miss Darcey White. Perhaps you remember my name?” The woman patted the pouch at her waist, as though to assure herself it was still there.

  Belle was more disturbe
d by this waif than by any other peculiar customer who had ever walked through the door. Miss Whitecastle was not altogether sound. She was here for some wicked purpose, for certain, but it was impossible to know what that purpose was.

  How is it that I can still be surprised at people’s ill intentions toward me?

  The past months had seen all manner of curiosity seeker, fanatic, and fortune hunter hound her for vile reasons.

  Fortune hunters! Wait, wasn’t it a Miss Whitecastle who sent her that incoherent note, claiming to now be Mrs. Stirling? Surely Wesley hadn’t married this unpleasant creature.

  “Would you be the same Miss Whitecastle who sent me a letter recently?”

  A smile spread across Miss Whitecastle’s face in her lingering style. “The same. Except, as I said, I’m not really Miss Whitecastle. Or even Miss White. I’m Mrs. Stirling, your dead brother’s wife, and you never bothered to respond to my letter. Today, though, we’re going to discuss it.”

  The woman went back to the front door, made sure it was firmly shut, threw the bolt, and turned the window sign to read “Closed.” Turning back to Belle, she said sweetly, “Ready for a chat, dearest sister-in-law?”

  The woman pulled a knife from the pouch at her side.

  Put paused only for a moment, wishing that he’d never built the damned secretary. He’d so wanted to believe it was for Belle that he hadn’t spent enough time questioning Wesley about it. He should have been more suspicious about the boy’s desire to give Belle such an extravagant gift.

  No matter, no matter. If the desk was hiding what Put thought it might be, all would be made clear and the rumors would stop. He pulled the slanted front down, and removed the usual desk items that were blocking the secret compartment, placing them carefully on a nearby sideboard already cluttered with bottles full of amber- and burgundy-colored liquids.

  He opened the drawer next to the secret one and pulled it out. Where was the pin? There was nothing in here but a couple of letters. Put set the drawer down on the floor and withdrew another one, then another, looking for the opening pin. Ah, here it was.