Page 17 of The Finest Print

16

Accounting Ledger of E. Fletcher

Week of 6 May 1848

Secrets of the Old Bailey Vol. 1, No. 5

Earnings less expenditures—￡15

Reprint 9 May 1848

Earnings less expenditures—￡4 10s

Remaining debt owed—￡65

“Describe Clementina Bloom.” Victor Marks, aspiring illustrator of penny bloods, stared at Belle with rapt attention. “I want to capture her essence .”

Ethan stood next to Belle’s chair, his arms crossed over his chest. There was no chair for him, as Victor Marks was sitting in Ethan’s chair with a sketchbook on his lap. He didn’t mind standing at Belle’s shoulder; not only did it give him considerable height over the long-haired artist, it gave him an advantageous view of her neckline.

Ethan was trying not to stare—he was, in fact, a professional—but it required effort.

The trouble was, he could claim blissful ignorance no longer. He now knew precisely what awaited him beneath the floral muslin of her bodice. How sensitive. How soft. How pink her nipples turned when he?—

“What does our heroine look like? On the outside, on the inside .” Marks leaned forward, and Ethan nearly put a hand on Belle’s shoulder to stop her doing likewise.

But of course he couldn’t touch her right now.

He had to wait .

He was always waiting. Over the last few days, despite the frenzy of the serial, Ethan felt he was in some sort of purgatory—waiting for Belle to arrive early at the shop, waiting for the others to step out. Waiting to get his hands on her whenever he could, however he could.

Waiting, most of all, for an elusive stretch of privacy when he could finally, finally make love to her, with no threat of workmen or newsboys or interruption from sundown to sunup.

“Clementina is quiet.” Belle pondered. “She’s discreet. She prefers to slip in and out, never stand out.”

“Marvelous,” Victor Marks murmured. “An enigma .”

The artist’s charcoal was flying, and Belle eagerly craned her neck. Ethan frowned. He’d set up this meeting to appease her, but he wasn’t keen to hire an illustrator. He’d already had to grasp the nettle and bring on a new compositor this week. At this moment, George Newburn, a wiry, straw-haired fellow possessed of preternatural concentration, was setting type in the workroom. Ethan didn’t welcome paying two additional salaries, but Belle was right. Illustrations would keep Secrets relevant, and they couldn’t lose momentum now.

He couldn’t believe he was doubling down on this penny blood, but it had somehow become what they’d scarcely dared to dream.

A success .

Saturday’s print run had caused absolute mayhem—Ethan sent Belle scrambling upstairs with her corset in her hands while he tucked in his shirt and bellowed to the newsboys to give a man a minute. Once he looked plausibly presentable, he quickly ascertained at least half a dozen stalls were already sold out of Secrets of the Old Bailey . When Belle reappeared with her dress buttoned and her hair tidy, she sat at the desk like the queen of her kingdom, beaming and taking slips from cheeky newsboys, never letting on that she herself was the mysterious Irascible Nell.

By the time the Porters arrived, Belle’s tallies made clear they would benefit from a midweek reprint, and for the first time since he arrived in London, Ethan had standing orders for coming issues.

Somehow, someway, they were pulling the damn thing off.

Now Ethan cleared his throat and widened his stance to remind Victor Marks of his role as the publisher of this operation, a man far too busy to entertain a bohemian artist’s failing attempts to seduce Belle Sinclair.

He had more important things to do.

Namely, to successfully seduce Belle Sinclair himself.

Surely, she sensed his impatience. She must , for she had started to trace the side of her neck. Up, down, over her collarbone. Her thumb slid over a loose lock of hair, and she looked up at him, devilishly wide-eyed.

God help him .

“What do you think she looks like, Mr. Fletcher?” Belle inquired, a faint tease edging her smile. “On the outside, on the inside .”

God help her .

Before Ethan could wrangle a response, Newburn, his new and alarmingly efficient typesetter, appeared in the doorway with a satchel over his shoulder. “Fletcher? I’ve finished the next two frames. I’m taking my meal.”

Ethan eyed the clock. Newburn was stepping out; the Porters had gone to the type foundry and weren’t due back until early afternoon.

Finally—a damn window.

He just needed to get Michelangelo out of here.

“It doesn’t matter what Clementina Bloom looks like,” he said brusquely. “Make her look however you like. Make her a silhouette. Show her from behind. Use any face at all?—”

“Just a thought, Mr. Fletcher.” Marks eyed Belle. “If she’s modeled after Miss Sinclair, for instance…”

Belle blushed prettily, and Ethan wondered if he could reasonably snap the damn charcoal in two.

Marks was now sketching with intent. “I don’t know if anyone has ever told you, Miss Sinclair, you’re a very beautiful woman.”

“She’s been told,” Ethan rumbled, placing his hands on the back of her chair. “She’s aware.”

She half turned, meeting his eye, a flush gathering in her cheeks. He’d told her she was beautiful just last evening, after Sam and Tobias had packed up for the day and he lifted her to the desk and teased his thumbs beneath the tops of her stockings.

Ethan shifted, glancing significantly at the artist.

“Ah, I think that’s all for today, Mr. Marks,” Belle said, licking her bottom lip. “You may leave your sample for us. We’ll use it while making our final decision.”

“ If we make a decision,” Ethan clarified. “We have a number of deliberations as the serial expands.”

“Of course,” Belle said pertly. “It would be irresponsible if we didn’t leave room for growth.”

Her eyes flicked over Ethan, and he nearly thickened on the spot.

“And, Marks…” He hastily marshaled his wayward thoughts. “Regarding Miss Sinclair’s involvement. Nobody outside the shop knows she’s the author of Secrets . I expect you to keep it that way.”

Belle nodded, silently confirming her wishes.

“Of course.” Marks looked at her appreciatively. “ Fascinating . An enigma, indeed.”

“Oh!” Belle’s exclamation cut off Ethan’s growl. “I nearly forgot. We also need our illustrator to assist a bit with assembly. Folding and stacking the papers and what have you. It’s become an all-hands situation.”

“Certainly.” Marks tilted his head. “My hands are at your disposal?—"

“Right.” Ethan circled the desk and yanked back Marks’s chair. “Here you are—all your papers, don’t leave anything behind. Your pencil too. And your payment for today.”

A moment later, Ethan had all but shoved the artist and his overeager charcoal out the door. Before the shingle stopped swinging, he was hauling Belle to the storeroom and pressing her against the shelves.

Ten minutes . He only needed ten minutes alone with her…

“Ethan.” Her smile was wide as she slid her arms around his shoulders and pushed away his coat.

“Mmm.” He settled his mouth against the plush curve of her lips. Kissing her was intoxication, a drunken, languid ecstasy. He wanted to kiss her everywhere. He reached around her back, seeking the fastenings on her bodice, hungry for the sensation of her pebbled nipple on his tongue.

“You were rather rude to Mr. Marks,” she breathlessly admonished him, twisting to loosen her corset.

“I’ll be nice now,” he muttered. “How many petticoats am I fighting today?”

“Three.” She gasped as he fisted them in one hand. “But no drawers.”

“You’re so good to me.” He pulled her into another long kiss, drawing his palm up her thigh.

“Did you find…” She blushed. “Ah. You know…”

He knew. “No, I have not managed to procure a condom in the last two hours.” His fingers moved between her legs, playing in her soft, damp curls. “I will.”

“There are other ways to prevent a child,” she said weakly, spreading her legs wider. “My mother instructed me on measures, when we were preparing for my wedding. I could use a sponge. I have one, actually—she told me how to use it, said it might be more comfortable than other…ah, strategies…”

“Do you have it with you?” He couldn’t believe he was considering bedding her while George Newburn was at a tavern.

“No.” She moaned as his finger lightly circled her. “I don’t. You could withdraw…”

“I don’t want you worrying about that.” He gently sucked her bottom lip. “Soon, sweetheart. I promise.”

“I just…I wish you would make love to me.”

He saw black. “Christ, Belle. You can’t say things like that.”

“Why can’t I?” She unknotted his tie, opening the collar of his shirt. She practically purred as she stroked the hair on his chest. “I think about it all the time. I imagine it, you moving inside me.”

She was so damn earnest; she was making him insane, insane…

He had her petticoats over one arm, making room for his other hand to cease teasing. He pushed one finger inside her, stretching her a little, and she cried out.

“Go on, then.” He pressed his forehead to hers, stroking deeper. “Imagine it.”

Imagine it . He imagined it too.

He imagined he was a different man, a man with prospects, a man who could give her the expansive life she deserved, instead of close, stolen moments.

But God , what glorious theft.

“Harder,” she pleaded. He drank in the helpless demand on her face and ground the heel of his hand into her quim, adding a second broad finger to her soaked channel.

“Yes…” She sighed, her head sinking back onto a shelf. “Yes.”

He leaned into her, unable to stop from rocking his rampant arousal against her. The many layers of broadcloth and wool and cotton between them were sobering torture. He was so hard, even the faintest brush of her body against his trousers was enough. He spread his legs to either side of her, until he could drag his covered length back and forth along her stomach. He would spend if he did this much longer. He wanted to. It would feel so good, to release against her, with her mouth open under his, her desire all over his hand.

He closed his eyes, sucking her damp neck, and let himself pretend for one sweet minute he was lifting her, settling her on his cock, all her wet heat around him. She would take him like a dream, of this he was certain. He rocked into her one more selfish, delirious minute, then groaned, pulling his hips away, even as his fingers thrust harder.

Her face was drowsy with pleasure, but she noticed his shift.

“Ethan,” she murmured. “Open your trousers. I…I can help you.”

Stop her. He would have to pull his hands from her body to do so. Her eyes were glazed and determined as she unfastened his trousers, freeing the jutting weight of his arousal.

His tip was wet and he wanted her thumb on it and he couldn’t make her stop.

“If you tell me what to do…”

She followed the rigid line of his cock with one rounded fingernail. He inhaled through his teeth, his need so sharp, anything would blunt it.

“I want to touch you, Ethan.”

“ Hell.”

The relief of her slender fingers sliding around his heated flesh was indescribable. He’d been taking himself in hand every night, half-mad with memories of her spread legs, of how sweetly she asked for him…but this —her skin, so soft…

Hesitation was beyond him.

“Put your hand to my mouth,” he muttered, still working her with his fingers. She moaned, and he licked her palm, wetting it.

“Make a fist,” he managed, closing his eyes against the sound of her pleased hum.

“Ethan?”

“Yes…good, Belle, that’s good. Move slow.”

She began to stroke him, following his hoarse directions. He felt her quiver against his hand, and blood rushed to his cock.

“You like it slow.” She gasped at his ministrations, which were anything but.

“You like it fast.” He half laughed, groaning at how good she felt wrapped around him.

He kissed her forehead, and she tilted her face, wanting his mouth.

He gave it to her.

They moved together, a fierce tangle of lips and hands. The sensation gradually changed, more than lust, more than desire. Making love, in its own way.

Giving. Taking. Selfless, helpless, pleasure-seeking.

He couldn’t keep her; he couldn’t ask her for that.

But maybe just a bit more, a bit longer.

He could give her this.

“Are you going to come, sweetheart?”

“Are you?” She moved her fist faster, chasing the rock of his hips.

“Yes.” He nudged her head back, brushing his lips over hers. “I’ll come for you.”

“I will too.” She closed her eyes, laughing on a moan.

If Charles Howe were to walk in and promise to forgive every cent of the debt so long as Ethan stepped away from her, he could not, with any certainty, say he would do it.

On Saturday, Belle woke in a quiet house. She slipped her wrapper over her night rail and wandered down the sunny, silent corridor with nary a soul in sight. Lena had decided to spend weekends at Fordham House, and Harriet and Mrs. Bowers were at the market.

She had the place to herself.

She made a cup of tea and took it to the small kitchen garden. She curled up on the little iron bench and tucked her bare feet beneath her, watching an enterprising bumblebee drift through the lavender. Her hair was braided over her shoulder, the end of her plait tickling her wrist as she raised the teacup and blew at the steam.

When she was a girl, Belle had wanted a little garden just like this, should she ever find herself mistress of her own home. She used to imagine herself sitting in the morning sun, writing, while her husband puttered inside, shaving and dressing and paying a messenger for his morning paper. She would cut a posy of flowers for the breakfast table; she would pour her husband’s tea and fasten his cuffs; she would send him on his way and once again pick up her pen. She’d imagined her life to fit around his.

That idle daydream changed many times over the years, shifting in ways painful and unexpected until it brought her back to where she’d started—her parents’ house with the provisions they’d made for her.

And now the daydream was transforming again.

She sipped her tea, considering.

The residence above the printshop had no garden, but she would settle for a window seat overlooking Fleet. She could buy flowers from a stall in Covent Garden, but she suspected Ethan rose earlier than she did, so it wouldn’t be much of a surprise. He wouldn’t need to shave, only trim his beard, and he drank coffee, not tea. The paper he read would be the paper he published, though she would stock two more to make sure he had something to complain about. After he finished grousing, he would pull her into his lap and lift her plait and kiss her neck while she read him her latest chapter. And the two halves of their lives would fit right next to each other.

I cannot offer you anything . She knew he believed this. She understood when he balanced his accounts, he weighed his shortcomings highest of all. She didn’t mind. Her scales were tipped quite differently. They were already fixed with hope.

She slipped today’s issue of Secrets from the pocket of her wrapper, the first copy with Victor Marks’s etching. Her nom de plume winked from the title page, her scrambled name above the drawing of a loose-haired young woman tucked into the shadows of a morgue.

Thousands of copies of this installment were at bookstalls around the city today. The quantity thrilled but so did it reassure. If those copies moved, it would be another twenty pounds sterling. More than half of Ethan’s debt would be repaid, with higher returns every week.

It was working . They would keep making it work. She envisioned the sum evaporating, turning thinner and smaller until she could blow it away as easily as the steam from her tea.

She went inside and readied for the day, dressing and packing her basket. She penned a letter to post to her father, then jotted a note to inform Mrs. Bowers she was stepping out this morning.

Having accounted for her physical whereabouts, she set off for the shop, her mind slipping to her latest draft. She had a responsibility now to maintain their readership. Ethan was right—expanding story arcs over multiple issues was a canny business decision. But it meant each case needed more . More intrigue, more scandal, more?—

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher?”

Belle drew up short. A stout young man was looking at her expectantly. It took her a moment to place his bright red jacket—the postman who walked up and down Fleet a dozen times a day.

“Oh. I’m not…” Her voice was dry; she hadn’t yet spoken aloud today. She cleared her throat. “May I help you?”

“I have Mr. Fletcher’s mail here,” the letter carrier said, digging in his sack for a tidy bundle. “I was heading to the printshop, but I saw you and figured I’d ask if you know of any vendors along this way that might have a copy of Secrets of the Old Bailey ?”

“Yes.” She frowned. “There should be a few places quite close. Mr. Roberts carries it, and two of the bookstalls on the Strand as well.”

The postman sighed. “I’ve been to all three with no luck.”

“No luck?” Her pulse quickened. “They haven’t any copies?”

“All gone already,” the young man grimaced. “I was itching to know what happened to that countess’s chaperone.”

“Contessa,” she corrected vaguely. “She married a lesser Italian count.”

“Right.” The postman handed over Ethan’s mail. “Between us, I wouldn’t know the difference.”

Belle badly wanted to explain the geographical significance of Ursula DeVry’s malevolent husband but refrained from revealing herself as the author. She instead accepted Ethan’s mail, promising she would take it to the shop.

“Oh,” she added as the young man turned away. “Wait—I have one copy of the issue.” She dug through her basket. “Here you are. I would perhaps just take note of Count Fulco. His proximity to the Adriatic Coast is rather important.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Fletcher.” The postman waved genially and continued on his way.

“It’s Miss Sinclair,” she explained to his retreating back. She didn’t say it very loudly.

She continued on, sorting through the mail as she walked. Invoices, an updated promissory note from Mr. Howe, a letter from…

She halted, surprised by the number and variety of stamps.

New York City .

Her finger slid over the fat envelope. She flipped it over, but the wax seal was unadorned. Only a name and address across the top— The Daily Sun, Park Row, New York City.

A newspaper.

“Miss Sinclair!”

Belle looked up to see Sam rushing toward her from the opposite end of Fleet, waving his arm above the crowd. She stacked the envelope with the other letters and put the lot in her basket.

“Sam, where have you been?”

“Checking in at the bookstalls.” He grinned. “ Gone . Two weeks in a row. Paulie is right sore he didn’t order more.”

“The postman said the same,” Belle said, hurrying alongside Sam. “He couldn’t find any. I gave him my own copy.”

They rounded the corner, and there was Ethan, standing outside No. 62.

Waiting for her.

“Ethan,” she called, excitement blooming as she pushed down the street. “The serial, it’s?—”

“Sold out! ” His grin flashed easy and bright, and he raised his arms wide. “ Again . Not a fluke, Belle. We’re the genuine article.”

“It must be the heirloom sextant.” She laughed, covering her mouth with her hands. “The bloodied compass, pointing directly to the portrait of the murderer.” She waved away her own jest. “I’m only teasing. It was the illustration, of course, just as I knew it would be.”

“Damn right, it was the bloodied compass.” He strode up to her, dropping his palms to her arms. “Come here, you morbid little genius.”

“Ethan! You can’t …” She gasped, incredulous as he tugged her closer. “People will see. I’m standing in the middle of the street?—”

“Lucky for the street.”

His arms came around her, strong, encircling, lifting her clear off the ground. He whooped, spinning her in circles. His hat fell off, toppling into a puddle, and the harried passersby threw them an assortment of affronted looks. Belle only laughed harder, holding on to her bonnet with one hand.

Joy .

Oh, this was never meant to be hers, such unfettered, unbothered acceptance. She was suddenly greedy for it, for more , to become more and more herself, for Ethan to keep embracing the enormity of exactly who she was.

“We need to celebrate,” Ethan announced, setting her down and winking at Sam. “Tonight. Sam, spread the word—I’m buying everyone a drink when we finish today.” He turned to Belle as Sam cheered and swung into the shop. “Can you join us? Where is your sister staying tonight?”

“Lena is at my aunt’s.” She bit her lip. “I can tell Mrs. Bowers I’ll stay there too. She’s supposed to visit her daughter anyway. I won’t have any trouble being neither place I ought to be.”

Ethan slowly cocked his eyebrow, and her stomach spun out. “Aren’t you a wicked thing.”

“Not yet.” She meant to play coy, but fervent anticipation tore through her.

“Pretty damn close,” he rumbled, his gaze hot with intent.

Her heart pounded as Ethan bent to rescue his hat from the mud. He shook it off with a grimace and surveyed the street.

“Hell. Do you suppose I need to burn this?”

I love you .

The words floated within her, as light as the dust spinning above her desk in the close air of the printshop. Invisible to the eye until a slice of swollen sunlight slanted just right, illuminating what was already there, setting hidden truth stark and sparkling.

She was in love with him.

She’d supposed, if it ever happened to her, it would be the result of some grand declaration, some poetic gesture. Surely, such a cataclysmic realization would be sweepingly romantic, heralded by a moment of shattering significance.

Surely, it wouldn’t happen because of good luck and a muddy hat.

She’d been wrong.

It happened like this— just like this. In the middle of the morning, in the middle of the street. With a pencil behind his ear, with her story in his hands, with so much promise between them.

“Shall we?” Ethan offered her his arm, lifting the corner of his mouth, right where she wanted to put her lips.

I love you .

For years, Belle had been saving her words.

But in the end, she only needed three.