By the King's Design (28 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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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 appeal 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—”
“No, nothing else.” She didn't dare step into his lumberyard with him. Too dangerous.
“Very well. I guess you're too busy to spend time with a friend.” Put took her arm and slowly walked her to the door. “I can deliver the new writing box myself in two weeks' time—”
“That won't be necessary.”
“You'll pick it up personally?”
“No, have Merrick bring it round. That would be most convenient.”
They had reached the door of the shop. Belle put her hand out to the knob, but Put reached over and threw the latch, trapping her between him and the door.
She wasn't sure she liked being this close to him.
“Miss Stirling, what is bedeviling you? If I recall correctly, I am the injured party between the two of us. So if I'm willing to make amends, on what grounds will you not?”
She laughed weakly. “I'd no idea we were scheduled to make apologies today. I assumed this to be a business transaction.”
“Stop it,” he growled. “No more foolishness.”
He was pressed up against her, his head slightly turned so that his good eye plumbed the depths of both her own eyes.
“I don't know who you think that woman was, but let me assure you, she's not who you think she is. If you'd just let me explain—”
“That's just it! You can't explain. Because the explanation doesn't matter. She could be your wife or your sister or a complete figment of my imagination, but it's immaterial because I can't allow myself to destroy one more relationship, nor to let anyone take control of my life. I've already made such a wreck of things with my brother, and I don't even know how. He's so distant and cross and incensed over I know not what, and I'm—”
Put bent down, his lips almost touching her ear. “I'm not your brother, Belle.” He brought both hands up to cradle her face, and gently bumped his forehead against hers.
She held her breath. What would he say next?
He said nothing.
Instead, he brought his mouth down to hers, startling her with its warmth and deep affection. Put didn't force her to accept him, he merely enveloped her in his heady and intoxicating essence.
Good Lord, was this what it felt like to fall in love with someone? To have this tingling sensation of both floating away yet melding to the man who held you?
She responded eagerly to him, both lost in the feelings he was generating in her and irritated that she was losing control over her emotions.
She tried to ignore the knot of annoyance. But when Put finally broke the kiss and whispered her name, the irritation won out. She wrenched away from him, fumbling for the lock behind her. She knew her eyes were wet, but she couldn't help it, and cursed herself for her weakness.
“I cannot,” she whispered, finally yanking open the door and fleeing back into the chilly streets toward the safety of her shop. How had she so quickly succumbed to Put that
he
had been the one to end their kiss? How wanton would she have become had she stayed there?
He didn't follow her, and she never heard him say, almost to himself, “How can a man be rejected for spending time with his cousin?”
She was also unaware of the opportunity Put would soon receive to place himself in her path again.
 
Wesley waited expectantly in the hayloft for Mr. Thistlewood to arrive. Gads, but it was cold up here, although the others didn't seem to notice as they joked and conversed with each other in the dark room. A lone candle burned on the table at the front of the room, giving the gathering a mysterious atmosphere.
Wesley sat alone, quietly, to think. He'd just left Darcey in their room, where she'd relayed her visit to Belle to him.
So Belle hadn't even mentioned that he was even a worker in her shop, much less an integral component to its success.
Darcey was more excitable than Wesley had ever seen her before. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, with beads of sweat gathered above her lip and eyebrows, making him wonder if she'd been rummaging in his box without him. In this agitated state, she told Wesley that this was the proof he needed that Belle would never, ever share control of the draper shop with him, and that Belle, like her father, needed to be taught a lesson about oppressing those closest to them.
“Tonight, my love, you have to make your grandest gesture yet. Mr. Thistlewood already has the outline of a plan. Make yourself as useful as you can in it so you will not only be sure that my father is taken care of, but so that you can obtain a high place for yourself.”
Wesley had argued weakly his concern about the plan being discovered and what might happen if he and the others were caught, but Darcey dismissed him airily.
“Once the Revolution started in France, there was no going back. The king and his ministers were powerless to stop it.”
“Yes, but Robespierre ended up under the same blade as the king.”
“Oh, Mr. Thistlewood is much smarter than Robespierre. He has learned from whatever mistakes the French made, so that the revolution here will be much more successful. And you, my love, will rise to the top of the milk pitcher.”
And so, armed with Darcey's confidence and kisses, as well as the promise of a new intoxicant she wanted them to try together when he returned later, Wesley waited for Thistlewood to start the meeting so he could find a point in which to assert himself.
Ah, finally Mr. Thistlewood's head appeared in the ladder shaft. He emerged into the hayloft, drawing himself up with grace despite his imposing size. He headed to one end of the room and lifted his hands in a gesture for everyone to pay attention to him.
The room was instantly quiet.
“Friends, thank you for returning again tonight. We have so little time that I'll get right to the heart of things. Mr. Davidson, what have you to report to us?”
William Davidson stood, his dark skin nearly invisible in the murky shadows of the room. Thistlewood lit two more candles, increasing the visibility in the room.
“I was able to speak to one of Lord Harrowby's coachmen. He said the earl isn't even in London at the moment, but is off to the country visiting friends. There is no cabinet dinner planned.”
Murmurs of disbelief filled the air.
George Edwards jumped up. “What do you mean? The newspaper advertisement was very plain that Lord Harrowby was planning a cabinet dinner on the twenty-third. The coachman must be mistaken.” He looked to Thistlewood for affirmation.
Thistlewood pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. “I tend to think you're right, Edwards. Such an advertisement couldn't have been placed by mistake, after all. Either the servant is lying, or is confused about his master's whereabouts.”
Davidson shook his head. “I don't think he is lying, nor is he confused, sir. Benks and I were close friends while I was at Grosvenor Square. There's no reason for him to lie to me. And surely the earl's coachman knows where his master—”
Edwards interrupted again. “If Lord Harrowby is in the country, why isn't his coachman with him? How does the earl plan to return to London?”
Davidson turned to Edwards as though addressing a child. “I'm sure the earl has more than one carriage, and certainly more than one attendant for each carriage.”
“Why, you insulting little—”
“Friends, please, let's maintain our temperate constitutions,” Mr. Thistlewood said. “Save your heated passions for the moment you hold knives and pistols in your hands, eh? Now, I think the only way to resolve this is to decide who holds more credence, one of the earl's servants, or the earl himself, who placed announcement of the dinner in the newspaper. I suggest it is the latter. Therefore, Mr. Davidson, we will proceed with our assassinations as planned. However, you are to be commended for your excellent work thus far.”

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