Page 32 of The Finest Print

31

Secrets of the Old Bailey, Vol 1., No. 10

In Plain Sight

Some might say an oyster fork makes for an unconventional weapon. Judging by the scene awaiting Clementina at the safe house near the docks, Mrs. Parker was able to wield it just fine.

“Well,” Clementina thought as she studied the fork, “at least it was a patterned carpet.”

The Inspector, predictably, searched for the murder weapon late into the night.

It was no matter; Clementina had never needed to prove anything to anyone but herself.

“If it makes you feel better, you can tell me the story of the prison spikes again,” Ethan offered as they approached the Old Bailey. “I know how horrific facts soothe you.”

“You tease, and yet, you did, in fact, retain the lesson.” She glanced up at him. “ And you came around on London.”

“You’re right. It was Newgate that convinced me.”

“Truly, Ethan, you didn’t have to accompany me.” She tightened her grip on her basket. “I know you have a dozen other places to distribute today. I can manage here on my own.”

Her confidence was undermined by her galloping nerves. She was, truthfully, grateful for Ethan’s company. She hadn’t been to the Old Bailey since the Metropolitan article.

“I know you can. But it didn’t take as long as I expected at the railway stations today.” Ethan frowned. “Deptford wasn’t interested, but Euston’s bookstall took a substantial stack. Might be something there. We’ll see how Tobias fared at Paddington.”

“Do you suppose it’s working?” Belle gestured to the number nines in his crate. “Giving it away?”

He shrugged grimly. “It’s not hurting . Orders have been picking up, between the article and free papers. I’d feel a hell of a lot better if we had one big push.”

He opened the door for her.

“All right,” she said as they entered the bustling din. “If you go through the gallery, you can pass out copies to the spectators…and the jury. They have to sit through all the trials this session, so they might like something to read. Counselors will be at the round table in the center—place some copies there too.”

“And you?”

She swallowed hard at the thought of all those eyes on her, what they knew before, what they knew now.

Let them talk .

She resolutely reached for a stack of serials. “I’m going to circulate out here. Plenty of folks will pass by.”

“I’ll be back soon.” He indicated Doyle, the guard. “If anyone is bothering you, send Doyle to find me.”

Hefting his stack, Ethan strode into the Old Court.

Right . Circulate the serial. The one she’d written about the place she loved best. She could do this. If Ethan could haul copies to every port and train station in London over the last two days and still manage to come here with her, she would do her part too.

“Aye, Miss Sinclair.” Doyle came to stand beside her.

“Hello, Doyle.” She sighed, marginally cheered by the company of her old friend.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you about.”

“Yes, well. I’ve been maintaining my privacy,” Belle admitted. “I’m not presently a welcome face in some circles.”

She stuck her arm out to stop a trio of junior barristers she knew belonged to Gray’s Inn. “Gentlemen.” She forced a smile. “Might I offer a bit of reading material?”

“A penny blood?” One fellow grimaced. “I’ll decline. I don’t read stories written by hacks.”

“ She wrote it.” Another elbowed the first. “Justice Sinclair’s daughter.”

Three pairs of eyes grew keen.

“I did.” Belle kept her face as placid as possible. “About the Lennox trial, but with a more… surprising outcome.”

One man waved her off and went inside, but the other two took copies.

“Much obliged,” she called. “The sequel comes out tomorrow, you can find it on the Strand…”

“There.” She looked at Doyle. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“You needn’t be so nervous,” he advised. “I read it, you know.”

Belle blinked. “You do?”

“Even before I knew you wrote it,” Doyle said gruffly. “It’s good. Too gory for a lady.”

“Doyle.” She beamed. “That’s quite kind of you to say.”

A gaoler walked past, and Belle thrust two copies upon him, urging him to take one back to Newgate. He paused to flip through the serial as two barristers walked out of the Old Court. One glanced her over, nudging the other. He whispered audibly, and it wasn’t kind.

Belle ignored them.

The gaoler came back. “This the one that lady wrote?”

“Ah, yes.” Belle said. “She did.”

He shook his head and gave back the paper. “That ain’t right.”

A court reporter wandered over. “Number nine? I thought I’d missed it.”

She handed it over, reflecting on its factual contents. “You missed less than you might think,” she assured him.

The time passed quickly. For every one man who snubbed her, there was another interested in taking a gratis copy. Given that scowls couldn’t hurt their accounts, Belle thought they were faring well, all things considered.

“See, Miss Sinclair?” Doyle said when the gaoler returned to begrudgingly take a copy after all. “Gossip grows stale quick.”

“If anyone would know, it would be Belinda Sinclair,” a voice drawled behind her. “She does insist on cooking up a continuous batch for herself.”

Belle immediately stiffened. She turned around to see Duncan and a constable approaching from the Newgate passage. She clutched her last few papers and instinctively cataloged her appearance—hair was neat, skirts were smooth.

And then she stopped.

He wasn’t worth her neat hair or smooth skirts, and he certainly wasn’t worth her care.

She looked at her stack, realizing she only had two papers left. The rest had all been taken. She felt the stirring of pride—and the pride stiffened her spine for an entirely different reason.

“Inspector,” Belle said, looking straight at him. “What brings you to the courthouse on such a fine summer day?”

“I found myself with a free moment.” Duncan looked her over. “I’m sure you can sympathize, given that you’ve taken to playing costermonger.”

Belle squared her shoulders. “And here, I would expect you’d have no time for leisure, seeing as you’ve been so busy dallying with the Illustrated Metropolitan News .”

“I couldn’t possibly know what you’re referring to.” Duncan adjusted his coat.

Belle inhaled sharply. “Don’t you?”

He looked at her like he always did, as if he were deciding the best way to make her small. He fully expected her to keep quiet and let him do it.

Well, that was just another of his many mistakes.

Because Belle wasn’t so small, and she was no longer so quiet. And above all, she was furiously in love with a man who made her feel invincible.

She glanced at the constable. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.” She smiled. “I’m Miss Sinclair. You’ve possibly heard of me. I’m the wicked woman who ended an engagement to Inspector Duncan to pursue my own endeavors.”

Duncan smirked, but his mouth tightened as the constable pivoted to look at him.

“In spite of the poor terms on which our association ended, Inspector Duncan has been so kind as to remain a great supporter of my writing,” she informed his colleague. “So much so, he went very far out of his way to facilitate an advertising opportunity for me.”

“That so?” The constable gave him a dubious look. “I wouldn’t have expected it to be any of his business.”

“Nor would I. It came as a great shock, that he would still have anything to do with me at all. I must assume it’s because we’ve found ourselves treading in similar circles.” She turned to Duncan, her gaze steady. “I can’t imagine there will be any continued business between us?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Belinda.”

She felt the warm press of a familiar hand at her waist a half second before his deep voice moved past her.

“If you can’t discern what she means, you’re as lousy a detective as you are a man.”

Belle bit back a smile as Duncan’s cheek twitched.

Ethan went on, unperturbed. “My fiancée has a very polite way of saying we don’t give a damn about you, Inspector. You might as well give a few less damns about us. And if you don’t, you’ll have me to deal with.” He gently squeezed her hip. “Though I’d argue she’s the far more frightening one—and I’d guess about fifteen thousand readers a week agree.”

The constable laughed, and Duncan glared.

“And it’s Miss Sinclair,” she added. “I’d ask you to remember that.”

“Or don’t.” Ethan grinned. “In a fortnight, she will be Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Cheers.” The constable raised his serial, and Ethan tipped his hat in a way that would be infuriatingly smug if it didn’t also make her want to be Mrs. Fletcher at this very moment.

Duncan rolled his eyes, but without a willing audience, he was a cat without claws.

The image broadened her smile.

“Shall we?” Ethan offered his arm.

But maybe she had one last damn to give, because Duncan had, in fact, dragged her through it, and all because she saw him for exactly who he was.

It was high time she made him see her , in turn.

“Here you are, Inspector.” She pressed her sole remaining copy upon him. “It’s your good luck, because that’s my very last one. I know you were quite upset a few months ago, when you couldn’t find my story anywhere.” She nodded at the serial, now limp in his hand. “I don’t expect you’ll have much trouble anymore. Though you have to look for it early—we tend to sell out.”

And with that, she linked her arm through Ethan’s and let him lead her away.

They had work to do.

“Well, Mr. Fletcher, the day is upon us.” Charles Howe strode into the printshop like a man who might, in fact, own it. “June the fifteenth, my good man.”

Ethan no longer had a desk in the office, seeing as his intended had situated it in the front window of his parlor. He didn’t begrudge Belle moving his shabby furniture around. God knows the blasted thing likely wouldn’t withstand another relocation anyway.

But he would have preferred not to take this meeting over his composing case.

Beside him, Mr. Gabler, his perpetually anxious and generally useless solicitor, bounced on his heels.

“Well, then. Do you have my final payment, or do you have my deed?” Howe smiled genially, as if it didn’t matter one way or the other.

“Believe me, Howe.” Ethan shook his head at the blustery creditor. “I cannot believe it came down to this.”

The preceding days had been a blur. So much work, everyone pitching in—taking orders, making plans, fearing it wasn’t enough.

Doing it anyway .

“Don’t be hard on yourself, Fletcher.” Howe looked nearly sympathetic, and Gabler flinched. “Your uncle took out this loan two years ago to the day. In all that time, he hardly managed to pay a third of what he owed. You got close, my boy.”

Ethan reached into his coat pocket and lifted a banknote, holding it aloft between his first two fingers. “You’re damn right I did.”

It had been a day and a half since Ethan realized they were going to make it, and even still, he’d nearly missed the moment altogether. When the June 13th two o’clock post was delivered, containing three withering letters and two purchase orders, Ethan hardly registered its arrival. The mail had been much the same all week—an assortment of censures and sales.

It was only later that day when he finally had a spare minute to look over the post. He made swift work of burning the letters before turning to the orders, ready to note another incremental gain. Indeed, the first had been from a fancy hotel in Mayfair, placing a request for a dozen copies, which Ethan was only too happy to gouge them for.

But the second order was from a new bookstall at Euston station.

Ethan had silently passed Belle the note. He drank in the exact instant she understood, her hazel eyes round in wonder. She looked at him, a buoyant thrill crackling between them—and then the moment passed. He returned to his press and she picked up her pen, because for them, success would never be completing a job. It would always be continuing one.

Especially now they were under contract with the railway for two thousand copies a week .

A wall of utter exhaustion and euphoria hit him, and Ethan started laughing, even as Gabler and Howe stared. But he hadn’t appreciated it until this moment—extending his hand and passing Howe the money that had been his very last shackle.

He didn’t owe a goddamn thing to anyone .

Howe examined the banknote. “I’ll be.” He tucked it in his pocket. “Unfortunately, you’re six pounds short, Fletcher.”

“I know.” Ethan raised his palms. “I haven’t received payment for all my outstanding orders yet.”

He slid his account book to Howe. “Here you can see, this whole column is standing orders. Every week, Howe. I’m good for it. It’s just a bit too recent to have all the funds in hand.”

Howe gave him a pitying look, and Ethan’s stomach turned over once. He reminded himself he’d known this would likely happen, and he and Belle had come to an agreement. They were to be married in two weeks, and while they wouldn’t need to rely on her portion, they could certainly borrow six pounds from it.

Still, Ethan couldn’t help feeling just the slightest bruising of his pride. Damn… he’d nearly made it, hadn’t he?

Just then, a handful of sovereigns landed on the worktable.

Ethan looked up to find Tobias at his side.

“There’s the last six pounds.” Tobias shrugged. “No fathers-in-law necessary.”

“Porter.” Ethan shook his head. This was a month’s pay for the pressman. “No. I can’t possibly?—”

“Consider it a loan,” Tobias replied. “You just said you’re good for it. And I certainly know where to find you.”

Ethan experienced a poignant tug of gratitude.

“Pardon my interruption, gentlemen.” Howe collected the coins and made another note in his account book. “Whatever you’re considering is no concern of mine, so long as your money is.”

He slid Gabler a document as he pocketed the funds.

“That’s the last of what I was owed by your uncle’s estate, which means after you sign, we have no further business, Fletcher.” Howe signed his own initials with a flourish. “You’re free and clear. Unless, of course, you run into trouble.”

Ethan grunted noncommittally. He signed the paperwork, staring at his signature. Relief funneled from the pen to his fingers, until his entire body buzzed with it.

“Good for you, Fletcher,” Howe called as he took his leave. “You know, I really didn’t think you’d make it.”

When the door closed behind him, the air in the shop felt different.

For the first time in his life, Ethan was standing in a room he owned .

He was under no man’s thumb, no man’s direction. He could do whatever he damn well pleased.

“Not a loan,” he said abruptly, turning to Tobias. “That is, of course, I’ll repay you. But it occurs to me, I’d much prefer to think of it as an investment.”

“Oh?” Tobias frowned.

“Yes,” Ethan said, alight with conviction. “Tobias, you’ve kept this shop running—before I came, after I left. You helped Belle, you helped me. You shouldn’t be my pressman. You should be my business partner.”

“I thought you already had one of those.” Tobias nodded to where Belle was currently arguing with Newburn in the office.

“She’s about to promote me.” Ethan grinned, thinking of his looming wedding day. “So I’d say I could use all the help I can get around here.”

Tobias smiled in return. “I only paid six pounds. I think that makes me a poor shareholder.”

“Six pounds?” Ethan clapped his friend’s back and laughed. “Porter, right now, you’ve officially brought in more money than I have.”

“Truly, Fletcher?” Tobias grew serious. “I appreciate the offer, but it’s unnecessary. You hardly require an official associate…the operation isn’t so big as that.”

“Not yet,” Ethan countered. “It’s not big yet . We have no idea what’s next, do we?”

“I suppose not.”

Ethan turned to Gabler. “We should sit down this week and draw up a business contract.”

“Oh.” Gabler looked apologetic. “I don’t usually work with those sorts of documents.”

“One day, Gabler, we’re going to find your specialty,” Ethan promised him. “So far, it hasn’t been debt mediation or mailing letters. I have a good feeling about this one.”

Ethan looked about the shop—Belle in the office causing someone a headache, Sam whistling in the storeroom, he and Tobias at the press. They might not know what was next, but Ethan had an idea it would be something pretty damn special.

“You know, Porter, maybe it’s time I meet with your publishing colleagues at the coffeehouse,” Ethan said thoughtfully. “Seeing as I’m now the owner of a business in this infernal city, I might as well start improving the place. Starting with the godforsaken news tax.”

“You and your penny paper,” Tobias groused good-naturedly.

“Perhaps one day.” Ethan lifted his shoulder. “We’ve had more ludicrous notions than that, haven’t we?”

Belle poked her head into the workroom, smiling in a way that meant her problem was about to be his. “Ethan, darling?” She lifted her chin, doubling down on his many weaknesses. “Might you please inform Newburn I do, in fact, require full use of my adjectives?”

“Tell Newburn I’ll typeset your fair copy today,” Ethan replied, striding to her with casual confidence.

“Is that so?” She had ink on her cheek and the stirrings of an argument on her face. The intoxicating nearness of her had Ethan on the cusp of a kiss.

“Assuredly.” He smiled slowly, just the way he knew she liked it. “I’m in the mood to handle something fine.”

He waited for her reprimand; betrothed or not, they were in the middle of the shop. But she merely raised her brow in challenge and pinned her draft to his chest with a fingertip. In a flash, his hand was on top of hers, holding her palm against him.

And then he kissed her, swift and sweet enough, she couldn’t regret it.

After all, it would be a shame to waste such a damn good day.