Page 8 of The Finest Print

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

What Happened in the Study

Clementina eased into the study, slipping under viscid cobwebs and over creaking floors. She had only one chance to take what she needed, for the Magistrate’s wife was in grave danger. She found the desk and jostled open the top drawer.

There it was. The emerald ring, just as she’d suspected.

Unfortunately, it was still on the severed finger of the Magistrate.

On Saturday morning, Belle’s eyes flew open with the sun. She stretched beneath her heavy counterpane, grimacing at a dull ache in her shoulder and neck, residue of a wicked headache that seized her the day before.

The headaches were unpredictable—she could often go weeks without issue, but sometimes if she wrote for too long, there would be sudden hell to pay. The first warning shot was always in her right shoulder, the revolt clawing up her neck and scalp, the muscles gradually bunching and yanking sideways until it seemed her head would sever from the rest of her. Once the headache took hold, she was rotten for anything else, forced to wait for knots to unknot and tension to ease. She loathed laudanum, how it turned her woozy and disagreeable, but she’d had no choice but to resort to a tincture yesterday afternoon.

She felt sick twice over as she lay abed—in her aching head and in her frazzled nerves, for she had no sense of what was transpiring at the shop, whether Fletcher and the Porters were on schedule for publication. But last night, he’d sent word via messenger, and Harriet, the housemaid, brought it to Belle with her evening tea.

We’ve finished.

She pulled the note from beneath her pillow, studying the long slant of his terse scrawl. It had felt like a dream, the first moment she saw him at his composing case, his dark head bent in careful concentration as he nimbly arranged type, type he would later ink, ink he would later press to paper. Her words were no longer hidden in her journal but were laid bare in Ethan Fletcher’s hands. He was holding them, he was making them real. He was doing it right in front of her.

And today he’d placed five hundred copies around the city.

She climbed from bed and quickly dressed, fastening the bodice of a floral spring gown, then coiling her disheveled curls at the nape of her neck. She felt better now she was up and moving. Her headache had dissipated with a night’s rest, and not a moment too soon.

She had to find a newsagent.

She hurried down the staircase, buoyant with anticipation. What if there were no papers left? She might never get to see her own story?—

“Belle?” Mama’s voice floated from the parlor, and Belle paused at the foot of the stairs. “Are you going out, darling?”

Belle eyed the front door with longing but dutifully poked her head in the parlor, where she was greeted by a wall of fragrant color. Mama held a giant bouquet of white ranunculus in one arm, attempting to find a place for it on the sideboard with half a dozen other arrangements.

“Goodness, have we opened a florist shop?” Belle hurried over, moving an armful of purple hyacinths out of the way. She inhaled the cloying scent of crowded blooms and sneezed three times in rapid succession.

“There was a card with those,” Mama said, poking through the stems. “I think from Mr. Marsh…unless he was the tulips.”

Belle surveyed the crush of blossoms. “I take it Lena had a successful showing at Lady Beaumont’s ball?”

“That she did.” Mama maneuvered the ranunculus to the back of the sideboard. “This is a rather garish display, isn’t it?”

“They look lovely.” Belle plucked a tulip from a vase and tucked it in her mother’s bun.

“Of course they do. Flowers are meant to be lovely.” Mama put her hands on her hips. “Whether the promised affection lasts longer than the bouquets remains to be seen.”

Belle fought to keep a straight face. As a former governess, Emilia Sinclair had spent many years in the homes of wealthy gentry, and she was well-acquainted with all a shiny veneer could hide. She was famously unimpressed by Lena’s suitors, especially after Belle’s own disastrous courtship.

Belle lifted a creamy notecard from the tulips. “Mr. Turner’s messenger must have arrived at the florist with the sun,” she observed. “I wonder if the poor man even slept.”

“Mr. Turner?” Mama thought it over. “He was rather unsteady on his feet by the end of the evening. I imagine he stumbled headfirst into bed.”

“No, I meant his messenger .” Belle smiled mischievously. “Heaven knows I’d be sleepless if I had to deliver a note about ‘the potency of Helena’s blue orbs.’”

“Belle.” Mama laughed. “Be nice.” She read the card and cringed. “At least be nicer than this note. We can’t let Lena see it. The poor man will never stand a chance.”

Belle ran her fingertip over the waxy leaves of the nearest bouquet. “Is Lena still asleep?”

“I’m afraid so. Your sister, understandably, enjoyed the champagne more than she enjoyed the gentlemen,” Mama confided. “I’ve just brought her a cool compress, but I expect she’ll be the one with a headache today.”

“I hope she had more fun earning hers than I did.” Belle chuckled. “A headache born of swishing skirts and crisp champagne arguably has more merit than day-old pain of slouching behind a desk.”

She flashed briefly to Ethan Fletcher’s dark head kneeling beside her skirts, his broad shoulders flexing under his shirtsleeves as he fixed the rickety desk. He had indeed turned everything straight and steady, except for the lurch in her belly, which had only worsened.

“I’m sorry, darling.” Mama furrowed her brow, seemingly unaware of the heat creeping up Belle’s neck. “It was unspeakably rude of Lady Beaumont to leave you out. Lena and I should have declined.”

“Absolutely not.” Belle shook her head. “I’ve been left out for years, what does it matter now? Lena is twenty-one years old, at the cusp of life. I won’t see her missing out because of me.”

Mama looked pained. “Belle?—”

“Don’t be sour on my account,” Belle warned. “I had flowers once too…you know, before.”

Before a pride-injured Lawrence Duncan let rumors swirl about her. Before he downright encouraged rumors, then waltzed off to a new post. Her chest grew tight, slammed with an unwelcome echo from the past.

“I remember,” Mama said softly.

Understanding settled between them. Of course her mother remembered when the flowers came; so too did she remember when they stopped coming. Mama took Belle’s dwindling prospects in stride, but that didn’t mean she was unaffected.

“I don’t even care for bouquets.” Mama frowned. “I nevertheless wish some of these were for you.”

“Mama…” Belle reached for her hand. “You do know I harbor no grudge toward Lena, don’t you? These flowers don’t offend me. I don’t want you to fret.”

“I’m not fretting,” Mama protested. “I simply want both of my daughters to be happy.”

I’m trying to be. Belle brightened at the thought of the vendors who might, at this very moment, be selling her story. Her course had been corrected; she was finally on her way.

She was going to be fine.

“Not everyone needs champagne and dancing, Mama. After all, you never planned to marry. You had a life and work of your own.”

Mama was quiet for a moment. In the midmorning sun filtering into the parlor, she looked very young—exactly like Helena, though far more somber.

“That’s true. I did have work of my own. But, Belle…” Mama hesitated. “My independence was no honeyed life. I was unbearably lonely. Marriage wasn’t my plan, but it was my dream.”

“Oh, Mama,” Belle said fondly. “So sentimental, so early on a Saturday.”

“Indulge me.” Her mother gently cupped her cheek. “What I mean to say is this— you can have whatever dream you want, be that a family of your own or an entirely unforged path. Or both. Or neither.” Mama laughed, her dimpled smile returning in earnest. “As long as you understand it’s your choice, not your fate. Don’t let anyone else decide what’s closed off to you.”

An uncomfortable pinch seized behind Belle’s ribs. It was a wonderful notion, but not one she fully ascribed to. She was a black sheep in more ways than one; choices were a luxury no longer on offer.

“I suspect my bouquet days are long behind me,” Belle said quietly. “I prefer to think of what’s in front of me.”

They locked eyes—brown, hazel—and Belle suddenly felt she looked a bit like her mother, after all.

“Very well, darling.” Mama planted a swift kiss on her forehead. “Now, then, what is in front of you today? The courthouse?”

“Eventually,” Belle said. “I’ll meet Papa there later.”

“Oh?” Her mother tilted her head. “Where, then? Shall I accompany you?”

“You needn’t worry. There’s a new publication I want to find,” Belle hedged. “Nothing exciting, I fear.”

As expected, her mother didn’t press. Belle’s routine was peculiar but reliable, and her parents granted her the courtesy of privacy. Not that she required it; she was nearly always writing, researching, or with her father. She was a perfect spinster—out of the way, out of trouble.

Most of the time.

“Give Lena a kiss from me when she finally comes round,” Belle said, securing her bonnet.

“I certainly shall.” Mama returned to futilely arranging flowers.

“And please, do not let her read the cards until I’ve returned.” Belle twinkled. “I’d hate to miss out on the fun.”

She wouldn’t look for the penny blood until she was close to the shop. There was no telling where Fletcher distributed, and it wouldn’t do to pointlessly raise her hopes. But as she passed a stall on Fleet, she couldn’t resist skimming the displayed publications—and once her eyes snagged on a familiar title page, her feet followed.

Oh.

Secrets of the Old Bailey

A Tale of Mystery and Crime

Written in Weekly Parts by Irascible Nell

After vacillating between excitement about the serial and a fierce desire to avoid further scrutiny, Belle decided to publish under an anagram of her name. It had taken far too long to rearrange Belle Sinclair into anything that resembled a pseudonym, but Fletcher had finally cracked it. Irascible Nell . It was still her , but only the part of her she wanted the world to see.

She stared at the scrambled letters of her name until they blurred under a wash of warm, disbelieving tears.

It was real .

The wizened newsvendor eyed her oddly as she dug for a handkerchief and dabbed at her face with a small, helpless laugh.

“Don’t mind me.” She waved away the old man’s concern. “I…ah. I know the author.”

“Of the new story paper? He a friend of yours?”

“Something like that.” Belle tucked her handkerchief away, offering the man a watery smile.

“Good morning, Roberts.”

A deep, decidedly American voice floated over her shoulder, and Belle jumped about two feet off the ground.

“And to you as well, Miss Sinclair. I’d say I’m surprised to meet you here, but it seems impossible to do anything but meet you.”

She flushed before she could even turn around, a half second too slow at banishing the memory of the pleasurable shape of his frown. In the last two days, she’d only permitted herself sideways thoughts of him—the slope of his shoulder bending at her knee, the veins in his forearm as it pressed the door jam, the fissure in his green eyes when he barked orders from the workroom.

“Good morning—” She pivoted stiffly and looked up at him, her words dying in her throat at the sight of his shadowed jaw. He was growing his beard again. She stared, assailed by a shocking rush of heat before directing her focus to the relative safety of his ear. “Mr. Fletcher.”

“How are you today?” His eyes flicked over her. “Are you feeling better?”

“Quite,” she confirmed. “The headaches are a painful nuisance but are usually relieved by some rest…”

She trailed off, refusing to contemplate whether it was typical for a man’s beard to be so dark, so fast. He’d been clean-shaven on Thursday. Surely, she hadn’t imagined it.

Well, she had imagined it, quite a bit…which is how she knew she was right.

“How are we selling, Roberts?” Fletcher’s question snapped Belle back to herself. She looked to Mr. Roberts with avid interest.

“A fair few copies, Mr. Fletcher.” Roberts nodded thoughtfully. “Though, if I may be blunt, there’s a great many more to go if I’m to stock it next week.”

Belle’s rising hope skidded to a crashing halt. It hadn’t even occurred to her that newsagents and booksellers may not wish to carry the serial week to week. Now she could see the risk was plain—these shops were buying wholesale, and they would want the copies to move.

She glanced quickly at Fletcher, waiting for him to step in to convince Mr. Roberts sales would surely increase.

“I figured as much,” Fletcher said instead, narrowing his green eyes. “What about hourly circulation?”

“That’s doing better,” Roberts said. “You’re getting eyes on it, if not sales.”

Belle stared between the two men, neither of whom seemed remotely perturbed.

“What’s the issue, in your mind?” She studied the penny bloods next to hers, wondering if the lack of an illustration was a problem. She’d tried to convince Fletcher to hire an artist, but to no avail. “Why is it not selling?”

“It’s selling some.” Fletcher folded his arms. She watched the shoulder seam of his dark coat shift with the movement. The garment wasn’t tailored well, and yet, somehow, it was only doing him favors.

“Mr. Roberts, is it?” Belle turned to the newsvendor. “Why do you suppose this serial isn’t selling? Because it needs an illustration?”

“It’s too new,” Fletcher said easily. “There’s no audience yet.”

Belle ignored him. “Mr. Roberts?” she prompted politely.

“Too new,” Roberts confirmed. “There’s no audience yet.”

Her spirits sagged. “Well…how are we to get an audience if people will only read it if there’s already an audience?”

“Time,” Fletcher and Roberts answered in unison.

Belle hadn’t stamped her foot since she was a little girl, but she could very well understand the impulse right now. After all his lofty espousing of the need for expediency, Ethan Fletcher better not dare talk about taking his time.

“ Time ?” She whirled to face Fletcher. “You said there was no time. Wasn’t that part of your lesson on the mechanics of serial publication? The one you delivered as you manhandled me to your desk?”

A gasp came from behind him as a trio of dowagers passed.

“Nobody was manhandled,” he assured the scowling women. Sensing Mr. Roberts’s keen stare, Fletcher sighed and drew Belle to an alley.

“Apparently, we need to establish a second rule—don’t get me arrested. Unless you know how to break me out. Which, come to think of it, would not surprise me any more than finding you skulking around every corner of London.”

“How are you acting so cavalier right now?” She glanced over her shoulder as a pair of young men approached the stall. “Wait…oh. Look! They’re picking up Clementina…”

“I’m not cavalier. I’m realistic. This is only the first week. We’ll gradually increase the print run, and ideally, we’ll be printing at capacity by mid-May.”

Fletcher’s explanation of sales trajectory was lost to her, seeing as the lads were ignoring Clementina in favor of a long-running serial about a bandit.

“Oh blast! They’ve put it aside.”

“Once we establish a good routine, some of this will become much easier. I can make templates of the front copy, and we can even do a reissue, if we plan ahead?—”

“Do you suppose I should offer to purchase it for them?”

“God, no.” Fletcher shook his head, finally conceding she hadn’t taken in a word he’d said. “You are to do nothing of the sort. Do you propose to haunt every bookstall in the city, buying copies of your own story?”

She wished the prospect didn’t sound so ludicrous. Or so tempting.

“But we only printed five hundred copies,” Belle said anxiously. “If those copies don’t sell, what will we do?”

“Belle, it’s been a day. Not even a full day—it’s been a morning .” He shrugged. “The serial will be available throughout the week, and people will find it. Or they won’t. If they continue not finding it, we’ll try something new.”

“Something new ?” Her face grew hot. “How can you say that?”

“Because you asked me what we’re going to do.” Fletcher was looking at her as though she had two heads. “If you ask a question, I’m going to answer it. Do I strike you as the kind of man who hems and haws and needlessly flatters?”

He didn’t strike her as that kind of man at all. Ethan Fletcher had been nothing but unflinchingly honest, which is why she was about to cry in the middle of the street.

She couldn’t believe this. Only an hour ago, she’d thought she was finally on the way to success—even if it was small, even if it was secret. Now she was coming to learn she couldn’t even manage to sell penny papers.

“Listen,” he said, seeming to sense her distress. “It might not come to that at all. We need to see what happens.”

It was maddening, how rational and detached he was.

“It’s an experiment for you,” she said slowly.

“A bit, yes. Trial and error. Sometimes we try, sometimes we err. Then we try again.”

“To make the serial better?”

He appraised her, working his jaw. “To make the serial sell .”

Her stomach sank. For the last four days, ever since they struck their deal, Belle thought they were aiming to accomplish the same goal. Now she was all upside down, because she could see she’d been a fool. Fletcher had told her, that very first day, this endeavor was his means to an end.

For Belle, temporary or not, this might very well be the end. She may never be published again after June, and she desperately hoped to make the most of it.

“This…this isn’t an experiment for me,” she said, hating her fluster. “This is my life’s work. I’ve gone down a very difficult path for this manuscript.”

“ You’ve gone down a difficult path?” Fletcher raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sweetheart, this isn’t a game you want to play with me. I won’t deny your work might be challenging, but I’m sure the comfort of your down pillows and expensive skirts will ease the sting.”

Belle flinched, taking a half step back. Fletcher had no idea what he was talking about. Memories shifted beneath the surface, where she never let them rise. The not caring could be exhausting, could consume everything, if she let it.

I’m sorry, Belle. My mother said you can’t come to the wedding…

It’s unseemly. You understand…

Have you heard about Sinclair’s daughter?

Fletcher was staring at her, and she quickly composed herself, hoping the pink lining of her bonnet hid just how red her face had become.

“This isn’t a productive conversation,” she finally said, hugging her stomach. “Clearly, we cannot compare life experiences.”

“Clearly.”

“What is your strategy?” she asked briskly, glancing back at Roberts’s stall. “Aside from time?”

“Tobias and I have a distribution plan.”

“I didn’t see any records at the shop.” Belle had been at that desk all day Thursday with nary a plan in sight.

“It’s more…implied,” he allowed, pushing back his hat and tapping his temple. “You don’t need to worry about it. You need to keep writing and leave the rest to me.”

“Ethan.” He’d vexed her into rudeness. To be fair, he also had a tendency to be rather rude himself, what with his liberal use of her first name and inflammatory application of the word sweetheart . “I’m not leaving the rest to you.”

“Hmm.” He looked aggravatingly amused. “I wasn’t aware you had a choice.”

She wanted to shake him by his admittedly beautiful shoulders.

“Then I suppose you have my payment?” Belle tilted her chin, holding her ground. “Because as I recall, I agreed to forgo compensation as long as I was your partner .”

His sudden laugh took her by surprise. It was warm and rich, flowing from his chest to hers.

“All right, then, come along.”

“Where are we going?” Belle was again trailing after Ethan Fletcher.

“If you want to talk strategy, I’m due to meet with Porter at the shop. I hope you have sustenance in your fancy little basket because it’s going to be a long afternoon.”

Belle drew to a halt. She was supposed to go to the courthouse later. Her father would be waiting for her.

“I don’t think I can,” she started to explain. “My father expects me.”

“Such a good girl,” he observed dryly. “Hold, please.”

To her surprise, Ethan turned not in the direction of 62 Fleet, but back to Roberts’s stall, where the young men were purchasing a bandit story. Ethan approached the pair, angling his broad frame behind them.

“You’ll want this one as well,” he said casually, lifting Secrets of the Old Bailey from the stack and setting it on their pile. “I’ll spot you the penny.”

“What’s this?” the boy puzzled.

“Take a look.” He clapped the lad’s shoulder, but he was looking at Belle. “I heard the writer is beautifully gruesome.”

The expression on his face was unreadable yet wholly compelling. She couldn’t look away. But when she did, her eyes fell to her own story paper.

Clementina, in a boy’s hand .

They had done that. She and Ethan.

They had done it together.

“Fine,” she found herself saying, hastening to catch up to him. “Fine, yes. I’ll join you.”

“Oh?” He slid her a look. “What about your father?”

She hesitated.

Yes. What about her father? If she was to spend more time at the shop, she would need to devise an excuse. Perhaps she could say she joined a writing club? A publishing program? Some rationale that allowed her to explore this endeavor while still maintaining her privacy. She knew her family loved her, but it only made the prospect of yet another failure that much more unbearable.

Ethan was eyeing her expectantly, but Belle couldn’t voice her complicated wishes. She longed to lay claim to something she was proud of, but public scrutiny had left her with bruises that still ached. She wasn’t certain how much more of herself she could give away. For something she loved…maybe.

But not for a ten-week experiment .

“I’ll sort out my father,” she resolved. “If you’re planning, I’m planning.”

“Is that right?”

“I can’t have my new publisher folding to a creditor,” Belle said firmly. “I’m only just getting started.”

He loosened another big laugh, and though there was nothing amusing about the situation, she found herself smiling in return.

When they started down the street again, he let her walk a half step in front of him.