Page 24 of The Finest Print

23

The Mistaken Inspector?—

…Charles Lennox and William Barnaby maintained they’d arrived in Belgravia with the intention of attending a watercolor exhibition. Clementina thought swindling a crate of the host’s heirloom silver was its own kind of artistry—the thieves left behind a splatter of paint, which anyone with any sense could see contained the imprint of a boot.

The Inspector paid her no mind. The first of his many mistakes.

—Excerpt from Secrets of the Old Bailey, Number 9 (Draft)

“What do you mean today ?”

The last Monday of May found Lena lying sideways across Belle’s bed, her flaxen hair unspooling to the floor. She was staring at Belle with her face upside down, but even from this vantage her blue eyes were round with surprise.

“Just that. Ethan’s coming today,” Belle repeated, beaming at her own sunny reflection as she brushed out her waves. “He’s going to speak with Papa when we return from the courthouse later.”

“Does Papa know?” Lena asked excitedly. “Wait. Does Mama know?”

Belle frowned, trying to recall what Ethan had told her of his plans. As predicted, she’d been busy with her family in the days since her parents’ return, but according to the letters he’d sent, all was well at the shop. They’d printed a record number of copies of number nine, all bundled and assembled for the weekend. Ethan estimated that so long as sales held the next two weeks, they would be nearly there.

He hadn’t elaborated on nearly , and Belle had chosen not to press.

She hadn’t actually seen Ethan—except for a covert hour in the Inner Temple Garden, but they hadn’t done much talking. He’d pulled her to their secluded bench, now hidden behind abundant blooms, and kissed her with heedless abandon until she felt as wild and carefree as a girl running down a sloping summer hillside.

“Belle?” Lena waved her hand back and forth. “Did you hear me? I asked if Mama and Papa know you are about to be whisked away into a life of typesetting and working-class reform?”

“He said he would write.” Belle resumed the long strokes of her brush. “Do you suppose I should pretend I don’t know?”

“I’m still trying to understand what I know.” Lena sat up, flipping her hair over her head in a voluminous cloud. “Because nary a month ago, you sat outside with Cecily and me, bemoaning you couldn’t get him to look at you twice.”

“Well.” Belle cocked an eyebrow at her reflection. “He’s looking now.”

Lena squealed and threw a pillow at her. “You know, you should give up writing crime stories and start an advice column instead— How to Secure a Betrothal from A Handsome Tradesman Despite Never Leaving the Courthouse for Four Years .”

“Yes.” Belle reached for a jar of Pear’s Almond Bloom. “Unfortunately, Spinster’s Quarterly isn’t currently accepting submissions.”

Lena howled with laughter, pressing her face into the sole pillow remaining on Belle’s bed. At that moment, a brisk knock sounded, and Mama poked her head in.

“What’s all this?”

Lena was still curled on the bed in some sort of fit, so Belle rose from her dressing table, taking Mama’s hands and pulling her into a twirl; she proved a much more proficient partner than Sam.

“Your father and I leave for three weeks, and suddenly, you’re dancing in your night rail?” Mama laughed. “Why so sunny, darling? Did you receive word about your manuscript?”

Belle wondered how she must seem right now—pink-cheeked with glee for the first time since…well. It had been a very long time, hadn’t it? Her family must have a rather somber view of her, if a joy so small as a morning waltz surprised them.

“Not my writing…” Belle paused, nearly telling them her writing, too, was a source of unexpected happiness. But there was no need to digress from a pleasant topic to an awkward one. “It’s something else.” She squeezed her mother’s hands. “It’s someone else.”

“Oh?” Mama tilted her head. “Mr. Fletcher then.”

“Yes.” Belle’s heart skipped.

“What do you know of Mr. Fletcher?” Lena looked faintly rabid for news. “Did he write Papa?”

Mama looked bemused at Lena’s excitement. “Which of you is he coming for?”

“Belle, of course.” Lena raised her finger. “But I would like to bear witness.”

“To what?”

“Just…him.”

Lena looked devious, and Belle laughed.

“Is he really so handsome?” Mama pondered. “Even with the beard?”

“Yes.” Lena and Belle answered as one.

“The beard is rather part of the effect,” Belle added, and Lena bashed her with the pillow again.

“Your father informed me Mr. Fletcher sent word,” Mama finally admitted with a small smile. “He’s coming to call. He’ll offer for you?”

“Yes.” Belle slid her finger through the twine ring, which she wore on a long, thin chain around her neck. “He will. Are you…is Papa…”

She felt a sudden crush of nerves. It occurred to her that when Duncan spoke to her father, she hadn’t any idea until after Papa told her. Mama folded her arms, her lovely face placid and unreadable. Belle tried hard not to picture the very different expression on her mother’s face four years ago.

She put her hands on her mother’s shoulders. “It’s different this time.”

“Is it? Mr. Fletcher is not a rising man who requires a well-connected wife?” Mama narrowed her eyes.

Belle blinked. In her mind, Ethan was so dissimilar from Duncan, it was laughable to suggest they had anything in common. She gathered up a heavy handful of her hair and twisted it off her heated neck.

“You know, Ethan really is very talented, Mama. Very enterprising. It takes remarkable character and fortitude to build something out of nothing…and he’s done it over and over, his whole life. He knows how to take care of himself. He knows how to take care of me?—”

“Belle,” Mama said lightly.

“Moreover, why should he have to take care of me?” Belle’s voice rose with atypical passion. “Why shouldn’t I take care of him in turn? He needs someone, too, and?—”

“Belle. Enough.” Mama raised a hand, but her face had softened. “Your points are well-taken, and you can rest your defense. Besides, it’s not my decision.”

“Papa doesn’t make any decisions without you,” Belle protested. “If you’re upset with me, or with Ethan?—”

“I’m hardly upset. Cautious, perhaps, but not upset.” Mama cracked a sly smile. She had a single dimple in her left cheek, which had the effect of making her appear rather impish at times. “How could I possibly be? You’re in love.”

Belle’s blush brightened. “I…I never said that.”

Mama laughed. “Darling, you don’t have to.”

When Belle and her father entered the din of the Old Bailey at half past ten, it was immediately apparent the Old Court was busy today.

“The gallery might be full already,” Papa remarked as he and Belle crossed through the crowd toward his chambers. “We’re arriving a little later than I wanted.” He slid her a look. “My companion was part of a very involved tête-à-tête for half the morning.”

Belle laughed, tucking her hand through Papa’s arm. “You could have joined us,” she teased.

“I’m of the mind that information is not necessarily beneficial when it comes to raising daughters,” Papa mused. “I prefer a stratagem of plausible deniability.”

“Mama tells you everything,” Belle pointed out.

“Hmm.” Papa slowed his steps. “She does actually.”

He opened the door to the judge’s rooms, ushering Belle inside.

“Speaking of,” he said slowly as he lifted his heavy robe from the wardrobe. “I believe we are both aware I have an appointment later this evening?”

“Yes.”

She lowered to a chair opposite his desk and set her basket on her lap. She rifled through it, once again futilely looking for her court notes. Though she’d made progress this week in reordering her papers, she was still missing one of her journals. It was either at the shop or Fordham House, and she kept forgetting to ask. Drat . She’d have to make do again today.

“You’ll be nice to him, won’t you, Papa?” Belle tilted a wheedling smile at her father. “He’s a dear, you know.”

“No, I do not know,” Papa said soberly. “But I’ll hear him out. I’d like to hear you out first.”

Belle stood, straightening Papa’s cravat, which had twisted with his robes.

“You don’t need to worry this time,” she said softly. “I would very much like to marry Ethan.”

“You’re certain?”

“I’m certain.” She held her father’s blue stare. “ Most certain, Papa.”

He nodded slowly, polishing his spectacles on a handkerchief.

“As to any other business the two of you need to conduct, I’ll stay clear of it,” Belle said in a rush. “But you should know, he takes great pride in his endeavors. He values security above all else—though he’s rarely experienced it, and never at the hands of anyone else.” She paused. “He will be very uncomfortable with your conversation. I ask you not to hold it against him.”

She sat down and arranged her recent draft in front of her.

“Thank you for informing me,” Papa said thoughtfully. “I’m looking forward to our discussion.”

“You are not.” Belle chuckled.

“Well,” Papa said with a small smile. “It’s the sort of thing one says.”

A clerk knocked briskly. “Justice Sinclair, we’re ready.”

Papa turned to her. “Will I see you inside?”

“I’m going to stay here for a bit,” she said, digging for a pencil. “I want to finish this scene…unless you have something titillating coming up?”

“Up first is sentencing in the Lennox case,” the clerk said, looking at his list.

A small, cold prickle tugged at her.

Her pencil stilled.

Lennox …

“Remind me of that one?” Papa asked, flipping through his briefs.

“The silver theft at the banker’s house out in?—”

“Belgravia,” Belle said at the same time as the clerk.

An uncanny sensation of familiarity seized her so tightly, her skin broke into gooseflesh.

She stared at her hand, wrapped around the pencil, and had a near visceral recollection of that same pencil forming that same name.

“Did…” She blinked at the clerk. “Did you say Lennox ?”

“Yes.” The clerk squinted in concentration. “Trial was ten days ago. May?—”

“Nineteenth,” Belle said faintly. “Friday. May nineteenth. Chadwick Lennox and William Barnaby.”

“That’s right, Miss Sinclair.” The clerk’s face cleared. “Good memory, you have.”

Belle murmured a vague assent; she did have a good memory.

For instance, right now, she was remembering with perfect, terrible clarity sitting in the corridor of the courthouse on May 19th, hastily scribbling notes about a pair of swindlers who finagled their way into an artist’s exhibition at the home of a wealthy banker, only to make off with heirloom silver.

It was excellent fodder for a story—and she’d written down all the details in her court notes.

Word for word.

Her hand pressed her chest. Beneath her palm, her breath was coming in odd fits and spurts.

She kept a separate journal for court. Always .

But no.

Not always. Not lately. She had too many stories going. She’d taken to drafting in whatever notebook was nearest…

Charles Lennox and William Barnaby .

She’d used their trial for inspiration for number nine. But now a dreadful urgency gripped her, a snag in her recollection, and something wasn’t right…

The clerk was still talking, Papa was still nodding, but Belle was desperately trying to conjure the image of her fair copy.

Had…had she changed the names?

She must have.

Hadn’t she ?

Her stomach plummeted.

“Excuse me,” she said abruptly, already on her feet. “I need to…”

“Belle?” Her father looked perplexed. “Are you leaving?”

“I’ll be back,” she mumbled, her head spinning. “I’ll be back…later.”

She bolted down the passage, her body moving on instinct, her brain already bearing down on the horrifying prospect.

She needed to get to 62 Fleet. She needed to find her journal, to put her eyes on her fair copy.

Because if she hadn’t changed the names, if she hadn’t altered the details…then Ethan hadn’t printed a penny blood…

He had printed news .

And every single one of those assembled serials would be liable to stamp duty.

Oh God.

She pushed through the courthouse, her progress slowed by the blustering constables and self-important barristers blocking her exit. In a fit of impatience, she elbowed through, not caring about the muffled curses following her. She skirted past the crowd in the street, her petticoats in her fists, her lungs aching as she hurtled round the corner of Ludgate Hill.

What notebook had she given Ethan when he came to her house? She’d lifted it from her desk…his thumb turned the pages…her pages had been such a mess. She’d been in a strange mood, distracted and worried and…

She couldn’t remember .

She flung open the rickety door to the shop, blowing straight past a befuddled Sam Porter as she raced to her desk and rummaged through an assortment of papers.

“Belle?” Ethan looked up from the Columbian, his green eyes sharp. “What in hell?”

“The fair copy,” she managed. Her corset wasn’t tight, but she wasn’t breathing properly. “Where’s the copy…for nine?”

“We’ve finished with the fair copy,” Tobias said. “We printed it days ago.”

She was already pushing past him, tearing into the storeroom. Sam had the serials stacked and ready for Saturday, thousands of them— oh God, so much paper. She dropped to the dusty floor, her skirts pooling around her as she heaved a bundle into her lap. Her fingernails dug into the twine binding, the same twine as the crude ring on a long chain around her neck.

“Belle, what are you doing? Those are assembled.” Ethan filled the doorway of the storeroom, casting a long shadow that matched the cooling of her blood.

“I meant…I meant to revise my draft…” she said thickly, scrabbling with knots, scrabbling with recollections. “The silver theft. I needed to alter the details. I was working on it the morning my cousin brought the serial to breakfast…I was so ill-tempered…I was so distracted…”

“I remember.” Ethan knelt beside her. “Belle, you’re worrying me.”

His hand came around hers, trying to stop her.

But he couldn’t stop her.

And he should be worried.

“I—I don’t think I revised it.” She pressed her hands over her eyes; her head was blazing. “Because when would I? I gave you the journal that day…” She swore, half turning, reaching for his coat. “Christ, Ethan, I need your pocketknife.”

Seeming to sense she couldn’t be trusted with the blade, Ethan reached around her to slice through the binding. A pile of Secrets slid into her lap.

She stared at the opening sentences until the words blurred, willing the names to change, to scramble like her own name on the title page.

Then she ripped through another copy.

Another.

“Belle?”

Surely, one of these wouldn’t say Lennox and Barnaby.

One of these would have the wrong details.

One of these wouldn’t read like a bloody court report .

“Ten pounds,” she muttered. Her thumb sliced open on a ragged edge of pulp paper, but she hardly noticed the sting.

“What?”

“Ten pounds, this week and next, would get you nearly where you need to be,” she repeated his own letter as she continued rifling through the pile like a madwoman. “That’s what you said.”

“Belle.” He lifted to his haunches, his eyes darting between her and the papers he hadn’t yet realized were worthless. “Stop. Your thumb. Sweetheart?—”

“How much is the news tax?” She heard herself asking the question, a touch of hysteria audible to her own ringing ears. She knew the answer, but she wanted to be wrong. “Ethan, how much is the news tax?”

“A penny per paper.” His voice seemed to come from far away. “Why?”

A penny per paper.

An entire week’s profit .

Every Monday, she watched him tally. Everyone knew Ethan could not afford a setback. Not any setback. Let alone twice over—lost expenditure, lost profit.

An anguished sob tore through her. She’d let him down. He needed this business. He needed this chance .

“ Belle .” His hands were on her shoulders. “You need to tell me exactly what’s happening right now.”

“This shouldn’t have been the fair copy.”

It hurt to look at him.

“Ethan. I…I gave you the wrong journal.”

“What are you saying?” There was a cast to his expression she’d never seen before.

She reached for another stack, then another, unable to stop, even though every one of these useless papers was patently identical.

“These are real people in here. Authentic details.” She jabbed the nearest serial, and her bloody fingernail left a bright smear on the page. “It’s news. We printed news . We…we can’t sell this as fiction.”

She felt numb.

“We can’t sell it at all .”

Ethan’s face was pale and thunderous as he took in the mess she’d made of herself and the storeroom.

It was only then she realized he was wearing his nicest coat.

His nicest coat to speak to her father.

“Everything…was supposed to be fine.” She swallowed, pressing her snagged fingertip to her face. “Ethan. We were going to be fine.”

She loved him even then, in the midst of ruining his life.