By the King's Design (33 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

BOOK: By the King's Design
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“You're lying in my bed after I carried you dozens of blocks to my residence, and now my cousin has been tending you for a day. I believe we can dispense with the formalities, can we not ... Belle?”
“I suppose I can't argue with you. Very well, Put-rhymes-with-shut, tell me, where is my brother? Is he safe? His so-called friends abandoned him. And how did you happen to be there?” She reached up to her shoulder. “I don't feel a bandage here, although the pain is considerable. Did the bullet pass through me?”
“You weren't shot.”
“I wasn't? Impossible! I saw the runner point his pistol at me, and heard it fire.”
“He pointed it at you, but the gunshot you heard was elsewhere, and killed one of the conspirators. You were struck by a rock thrown by one of the runners that unbalanced you, and your head made regrettably good contact with the ground.”
“And what of Wesley? Is he safe?”
Put cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, but your brother is sitting in Newgate Prison. He and about a dozen other men are all awaiting trial.”
“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 reached 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.”

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