Page 9 of The Finest Print

8

Accounting Ledger of E. Fletcher

Week of 8 April 1848

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

Earnings less expenditures—13 shill.

Remaining debt owed—￡99

“What the hell is on my desk?” Ethan stomped into the shop late Monday morning, disagreeable after paying his first deposit to Howe. When he’d left an hour ago, the desk had been usable. Now it was half-covered by pink and yellow flowers.

“Present company, Fletcher,” Tobias Porter murmured, nodding toward Belle, who was standing on a chair and sorting through a crate on a shelf. Ethan looked up at her. Today she wore a pale yellow that brightened the strands of gold in her hair.

“Oh.” She waved aside Tobias’s concern. “That’s hardly the worst he’s said in front of me.”

Belle nimbly climbed from the chair and straightened the vase of enormous blossoms on the desk. “To your question, these are tulips. I brought them from home. I thought they would improve this place a bit.”

“Who’s Mr. Turner?” Sam asked, lifting a creamy note card from the bouquet.

“Hmm?” Belle picked up a broken oil lamp and turned in a slow circle, as if unsure where to put it. After two rotations, she gave it to Ethan.

“The flowers are from Mr. Turner .” Sam spoke around a mouthful of pastry. “Says he had a nice time at the ball?—”

“Let me see.” Ethan snatched at the card, but before he could ascertain what Mr. Turner and his damn flowers had been doing with Belle Sinclair, she plucked it away and handed him a broom. He moved the lamp to his other arm.

“You can sweep over there,” she instructed. “Tobias kindly moved the bookcase.”

“These scones are delicious, Miss Sinclair,” Sam said appreciatively.

“I’m glad to hear it, Sam. I’ll be sure to tell Mrs. Bowers you enjoyed them.”

Ever since she’d arrived at the shop that morning, Belle had been single-minded in her pursuit of organizing the place. Ethan and the Porters had been directed into one chore or errand after another—moving furniture, cleaning the storeroom, and apparently, eating freshly baked scones.

“The place is looking cheerful,” Sam announced. “It’s nice to have a secretary around.”

“Miss Sinclair isn’t a secretary.” Ethan frowned. “She’s my writer.”

“You’re my publisher,” she corrected.

“It’s the same thing.” He turned to face her, anticipating a challenge in her hazel eyes.

“Not quite the same.”

“You’re parsing words.” Ethan folded his arms, digging in. When she turned contrary, she had a tendency to lift her chin, a stubborn little arc that exposed the alluring line of her neck.

“And you’re obfuscating them.”

“Such vocabulary.”

“I’ve been studying.” She tossed him an arch glance. “I’d hate for your pages to run short, after all the fuss you made about working in inches.”

His gaze drifted over a faint flush painting her throat. “Inches should no longer be a problem.”

“Fletcher?” Tobias said pointedly. “Might you help me move the bookcase?”

“Actually, let’s put it in the opposite corner, I think,” Belle said, snapping her attention from Ethan. She gestured to her handiwork. “I want you all to see this.”

For her part, Belle had spent the morning tacking a series of tabulations and calendars to the wall. Ethan supposed it made sense to move to a vertical workspace, seeing as the desk was half-covered by Mr. Turner’s blasted flowers.

“What have you here?” He set down the broom and the lamp and came to stand behind her. The light scent of fresh mint floated from her hair.

“Since we’re tidying our space, I thought we might tidy our plans. Specifically, that they might live somewhere outside of your head.”

Ethan glanced over her array of charts.

“This takes into account the distribution stratagem we devised Saturday,” she said, pointing to the first two weeks on her list.

“Coffeehouses,” Tobias confirmed, slinging a rag over one big shoulder. “Lending libraries. We need eyes more than we need sales right now. Get enough people talking…”

“And you’ll get them spending,” Ethan finished. “Eventually.”

Tobias marked a date halfway through May. “Somewhere around here, we’ll need to start buying paper. The tax will eat into our profits, considerably.”

Belle knit her brows. “This all depends on a fairly steep increase. Several thousand copies a week.”

“Which is impossible,” Sam said around another mouthful of scone. “Isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” Ethan said confidently. “Other penny bloods do it every week.”

“Other penny bloods are about bandits and vampires.” Belle bit her lip. “Not a courthouse maid. And they have illustrations.”

She brought up the damn illustrations approximately once every other hour.

“Belle, we’ve been over this. I can’t afford an artist,” Ethan said. “So for now, the courthouse maid, it is.”

All four of them silently looked at the tacked-up plans.

“There’s not much room for error,” Tobias admitted.

Ethan stared at the wall, the numbers telling a story as grim as Clementina Bloom. But he was used to circumstances bending away from his will and having to find a way to meet them head-on at the other side.

They’d set a plan in motion; his responsibility was to keep it moving.

“We only need to worry about one week at a time,” Ethan announced. He took a pencil from a little enameled tray Belle had unearthed and made a note on her tabulation sheet. “One issue down, nine to go.”

As if reading his mind, Belle slid past him and lifted her bonnet from the stand in the corner. “Come along, then.”

Ethan looked around the shop. “Come along who?”

“You.” She tossed her journal to Tobias, who caught it handily. “Tobias can start typesetting the pages I have ready. You and I are going on an exploratory mission.”

“For…what exactly?” He narrowed his eyes. “And where?”

“For more stories,” she said decisively. “We’re going to the Old Bailey.”

“And I need to be there?”

“You’re my publisher.”

She finally did him a favor and tilted her chin. So damn sweet.

“I expect you’ll want to keep me in line.”

“This street once demarcated the western border of the city,” Belle said brightly as they approached the impressive brick edifice of the courthouse. “It had a fortified wall, which is, of course, where we derive the word bailey .”

He sidestepped the swing of her basket. “Are you writing a serialized mystery or a tour pamphlet?”

“Come now, Ethan,” she chided. “Don’t you care to learn about your new environs?”

“No.” He followed her to the arched front entrance. “I’m still not convinced I will remain in this infernal city.”

“Hmm.” She frowned. “I don’t think London is so bad. Now over there, you see the Bail Dock. In medieval times, the layout was different. The wall had spikes on top to prevent prisoners from escaping.”

He regretted asking the question before it left his mouth. “Did it work?”

“That depends if you’re on the side of the prisoners or the spikes,” she said soberly.

Fortunately, before she could elaborate, they were swept up in the bustle of the Central Criminal Court.

Belle led the way through the harried crowd and approached a gray-haired official. “Good afternoon, Doyle. Is my father at the bench?”

“G’day, Miss Sinclair.” The man jerked his chin toward the doorway behind him. “He’s sitting in the Old Court. If you want in, you’d best hurry.” The man turned a critical eye to Ethan. “It’s a shilling for the gallery, sir.”

“It is not, Doyle, and you know it,” Belle admonished. “It’s a ha’penny.”

Ethan scowled. “That’s an outright racket?—”

“Enough. You don’t need to pay.” She placed a hand on Ethan’s arm and turned back to the guard. “He’s with me, Doyle.”

Both Ethan and Doyle stared at her gloved hand, which had no business looking so good resting on his forearm.

“He’s with you, is he?” Doyle asked suspiciously. “Says who?”

“Says me.” Her thumb moved fractionally along his broadcloth sleeve, etching a furrow of desire so shocking she might as well have dragged her finger down his stomach.

Christ .

If she meant to placate him, she was doing a terrible job.

Doyle’s glare dug deeper. “When we talked about you finally getting some friends, Miss Sinclair, this ain’t what I had in mind, precisely.”

Ethan pulled his gaze from her hand to her face, which was turning pink.

“Thank you, Doyle,” Belle said hastily. “Mr. Fletcher is here…as an associate. And,” she added, “shame on you. You know my father doesn’t want you collecting fees for the gallery.”

“He’s the only one.” Doyle shrugged. “Fine, fine, go in. It’s bedlam today.”

“Is it?” She dropped Ethan’s arm and peered past the guard. “Oh, drat. It’s nearly full-up.”

Through the open door of the courtroom, Ethan could see a steeply raked gallery filled with men.

“I’m sorry, Miss Sinclair,” Doyle said. “I can help you find a seat.”

“No, no. Don’t concern yourself, Doyle.” She sighed. “I’ll go round the side.”

She turned from the courtroom and moved toward a passage to the left. “This way,” she called to Ethan.

“Aren’t we going in?” He angled his body to allow two men to pass. “I can’t imagine someone won’t give you his spot. You’re a lady, after all.”

“Ah, no.” Her face shuttered. “Being a lady is no boon in the Old Court. And…” She faltered. “Well, I prefer not to draw attention. If I can, I come early, tuck myself into a back corner, and stay put.”

“And if you can’t?”

“I listen from here.”

She led him down another paneled corridor. The crowd siphoned off as they drew deeper into the courthouse. She stopped partway down a quiet passage.

“These are the judge’s private rooms. Hardly anyone comes this way when court is in session. See? My father’s parlor is through that door, and this door leads to the Old Court. If I crack it…” She eased open a heavy door, and noise from the courtroom spilled into the corridor. “I can sit and take notes, and nobody minds.”

She sank to a narrow wooden bench adjacent to the open door and withdrew a journal from her basket. Ethan stared at her, nestled in voluminous skirts, then looked up and down the passage.

“This is where you have Clementina observe from, when she’s sweeping and whatnot.”

“Through this very door.”

“It’s a lot of trouble to go to,” he said, “to avoid asking for a man’s seat.”

“Depends on the man.” She smiled humorlessly. “Really, some days it’s no trouble at all.”

“And some days it is?”

“Some days.” She lifted one slim shoulder. “Some men.”

She opened her journal. He glanced through the gap in the courtroom door and wondered which of the assembled spectators gave Belle Sinclair a hard time when her father was a sitting judge.

“Why do you keep returning?” He leaned against the wall next to her bench. “If it can be unpleasant?”

“Because I love the courtroom,” she replied simply.

“Ah, yes.” He gestured to the empty passage. “The courtroom.”

“The atmosphere then,” she allowed, the corners of her lips lifting. “I can’t help it. I love being here with my father. I love watching trials…or listening to them. Mostly I love writing about them.” Her smile grew wistful. “You don’t stop doing something you love just because it’s trouble some days.”

“I suppose.”

“Do you enjoy your work?” She peered up at him. “Not the penny blood, I mean. The work you want to do.”

He rubbed his thumb over his bristled jaw. “There were some things I liked about the newspaper,” he said slowly. “Going about the city, talking to people, reporting on issues that mattered. Given my editor’s pompous aspirations, I can’t say I was very keen at the end.” He shook his head. “Maybe one day.”

“Outside of the paper then?” Belle nodded encouragingly. “What do you enjoy when you aren’t working?”

He hesitated.

“Your interests,” she prompted. “Your pastimes? You know, how you spend an ordinary day.”

At the implication he had opportunity to cultivate pastimes, Ethan couldn’t help but laugh. “Earning a decent living doesn’t leave much time for leisure, Belle.” He nudged her bench with the toe of his boot. “On an ordinary day I work, I read the papers, I don’t turn down whisky. That’s about the sum of it.”

He aimed for nonchalance, wishing to skirt this glaring difference between them. But Belle was still looking at him with doe-eyed assessment.

“I don’t believe for a second that’s the sum of it. You are a competent and enterprising man. Surely, there’s something you find gratifying?”

He frowned pensively. It was becoming a damn nuisance the way she kept setting him to challenges he felt compelled to meet. In truth, she wasn’t entirely off the mark. All week, he’d been struck by a renewed appreciation for print work—composing, pressing, assembling. It was satisfying, to build something from nothing, to put into the world what hadn’t been there before.

“I suppose I enjoy making things,” he said finally. “I like working with my hands. Printing suits me, and I missed it. If I can’t yet establish my own newspaper, this, at least, is another kind of gratification.”

Her mouth ticked up, a pretty, endearing curve.

“I enjoy making things too—though my creations only exist in my imagination.” Faint color gathered in her cheeks. “Until you.”

His chest instantly, unexpectedly warmed. Belle was the most inventive person he’d ever met, but she’d spent God knows how long whittling her pencil down to nothing, with nothing to show for it.

Until him .

“When did you start writing?”

“Oh, I’ve always done it.” She looked down, rummaging through her basket. “I must have been about ten when I wrote my first story.”

“Did it involve severed fingers?”

“That came later.” She located a pencil and pointed it at him. “The first one was about Barnacle, a one-eared spaniel who stole aboard a haunted treasure ship.”

“Barnacle.” Ethan grinned, charmed by the idea of a tawny-haired little girl with ink on her hands. “Inspired. As the son of a wastrel-turned-sailor, I wasn’t much taken with ships as a boy.” He recalled his recent crossing. “Or as a man.”

“Haunted ships are different,” she assured him. “Though I moved on from Barnacle rather quickly. I found it more compelling to write about women than puppies.”

“For good reason.” His smile grew contemplative. “Though, it’s odd, isn’t it?”

“How so?”

He looked her over, once again perplexed that the woman who could produce tulips at a moment’s notice could also write two pages about a bludgeoning.

“Well. You do write about ladies—Clementina, her clients—but your stories…”

“What of them?”

“Crime and gore.” Ethan raised his eyebrow. “Not very ladylike.”

Belle straightened, her expression growing sharp. “Crime and gore are the byproducts of high passion and high stakes, human conditions not exclusive to men.”

Ethan opened his mouth, then realized he had no argument.

“Besides.” She crossed her arms over the slight swell of her breasts. “Women aren’t as innocent as men like to think. My upbringing was filled with ladies seeking legal counsel, and they always knew so much more than anyone gave them credit for. Why shouldn’t a woman be the one to unravel secrets?”

“It does seem as though most of the secrets in your stories involve the demise of a man,” he observed wryly.

“Well.” Her smile slanted, a mischievous little flash. “Only if he deserves it.”

There was a sudden clamor in the courtroom, the idle din turning expectant. Belle swiveled on her bench, peeking through the slivered door.

“That’s my father,” she murmured as a bespectacled man took his seat in the center of the bench.

Ethan studied the wedge of visible courtroom. In his dark robes, Justice Sinclair exuded a quiet command. From somewhere beyond Ethan’s sightline, a clerk read the charge. It appeared one Mr. George Prescott was accused of attempting to abduct Miss Louisa Wortham, the daughter of his landlady.

“Damn.” Ethan whistled softly. “We’re getting straight to it.”

Belle hummed her agreement, already writing with studious intent. A moment later, a gaoler brought in a wide-shouldered young man with gleaming red hair.

“ That’s the defendant?” Belle’s eyes rounded as she peered through the cracked door. “Well. This just got interesting.”

“How’s that?” Ethan frowned.

“He’s very handsome,” she said, flipping over her page. Her pencil was flying, and Ethan craned his neck, trying to read as she wrote. “Notice how Miss Louisa is looking at him. Makes you wonder…”

“Wonder what?” He studied the defendant. The man wasn’t that handsome.

“Wonder if the mother or the daughter is making the accusation,” Belle said significantly. “Look at her. She’s enamored with him.”

In spite of his aim to resist, Ethan found himself gradually pulled into the proceedings of the ginger-haired giant. All the while, Belle scribbled away, transcribing the trial with alarming efficiency.

“Christ, you could be a court reporter,” he observed, noting how many pages she’d filled.

“Absolutely not,” she protested, shaking her cramped hand. “It’s all too predictable. I guarantee when we read the full recounting in tomorrow’s paper, the mother will be described as ‘plain-of face’ and the daughter as ‘a pallid beauty.’”

“How would you have them describe the defendant?” Ethan squashed onto the bench beside her and swiped the journal. He glanced at her notes. “ A fire-haired Adonis ? Truly?”

She reddened. “It’s for the serial.”

“Hmm.” Ethan flipped through her pages. “I see you made no mention of his beard.”

“He doesn’t wear it well,” she said lightly.

Ethan didn’t even try to hide his grin.

She looked away, her lashes lowering, her blush deepening, but just as quickly, she lifted her gaze back to his, catching him in a flare of unwavering hazel. It was that swift return that did him in—the blistering notion she couldn’t look away, even when she tried. Heat shot through him as he silently coaxed her to keep that golden gaze on him.

The sound of the gavel rang from the courtroom, dissipating the thick air between them.

“Counselor.” It seemed Justice Sinclair was directing his censure to one of the lawyers. “What do you mean, you have a note from Miss Wortham?”

“Just that, Your Honor.”

Through the door opening, Ethan spied the defense counselor hurrying forward with a paper.

The judge read it once, closed his eyes, and drew a long-suffering breath. “Is this authentic?”

“My father is vexed,” Belle murmured, her face alight with curiosity. She hastily turned a new page. “I can only imagine what that letter states.”

The clerk cleared his throat.

“ To call you my dear mother is impossible. I shall not correspond with you again. My husband—for yes, we sealed our union on the very day of my twenty-first birthday, thus freeing me from you once and for all—has told me the truth. I know you begged him to marry you, and when you learned he had pledged his troth to me, you vowed you would seek vengeance on us both. Jealousy drives you, Mother, and I hope it drives you to hell. Signed, Mrs. Louisa Prescott. ”

The courtroom erupted.

Ethan turned to Belle, who had a hand clamped over her mouth.

“Was that what you imagined?”

She started laughing. “I could not have imagined that if you gave me ten years to do so.”

Inside the courtroom, the gavel banged again.

“Jealousy drives you, and I hope it drives you to hell.” Ethan chuckled. “My God. The new Mrs. Prescott could put you out of work.”

“Ethan, stop.” She laughed harder, swatting him on the arm.

He instinctively caught her fingers and curved them around his forearm. He held her palm there, smoothing it on his sleeve, letting his fingers rest between hers.

“ After the wedding ,” he murmured.

“Ah…what?” Her laughter faded as her eyes grew wide. Her hand tightened around his arm for the second time in an hour.

Ethan looked her over. They were sitting right against each other, Belle pink-cheeked from laughter, her pale skirts half covering his legs, and he realized they very much resembled a couple escaping a spring wedding breakfast.

“For the story title.” He cleared his throat, reluctantly releasing her hand. “If you add this case to the serial, you could call it ‘After the Wedding.’”

“Yes.” She slowly withdrew her hand and set it in her lap. “That’s quite good. I think I can change the?—”

A chorus of voices sounded from the top of the passage, and Belle abruptly broke off. She looked past Ethan, her brow furrowed.

“We are permitted to be back here, aren’t we?” he muttered, craning his neck.

“Generally,” she said vaguely. “Perhaps we should go. I have plenty of notes.”

He climbed to his feet, reaching first for her basket, then for her arm. They started back up the passage, and the voices grew louder. A small group of men came into view, caught in animated conversation at the foot of a staircase.

Two of the men wore the uniform of constables; the third—a tall, fair-haired man who had the others in his thrall—wore not a uniform but a dark coat. At the sound of Ethan and Belle’s approach, one of the constables turned. His eyes fell to Belle, and he elbowed the tall fellow.

Belle stiffened, shrinking against the wall.

“Belle?” Ethan looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

“No, you go on.” She shook her head, a peculiar, closed expression on her face. “I—I’ve decided to wait for my father.”

“Is everything?—”

Before he could finish his question, she’d slipped back down the corridor and disappeared through one of the doors opposite the courtroom.

What in the devil ?

He passed the trio of men, nodding with bland politeness as he wondered if he’d somehow offended her.

“Excuse me. Were you walking with Belinda Sinclair?” The fair-haired man stepped into his path.

“Ah.” Ethan halted, taken aback by the brusque question. He considered lying, but what was the point? She was clearly a well-established figure around here. “Yes, I was.”

“And you are?”

Ethan frowned. “That depends who’s inquiring.”

“Detective Inspector Lawrence Duncan,” the man said in a tone that indicated he never tired of saying it.

Ethan stared at him blankly.

“Of Scotland Yard,” Duncan prompted.

Ethan sensed he was meant to be impressed. “Ethan Fletcher,” he said, mirroring Duncan’s long pause. “Of Fleet Street.”

“Are you acquainted with Miss Sinclair, Mr. Fletcher?”

Ethan’s frown deepened. “Is there a problem, Inspector?”

“Not for me, certainly.” Duncan looked at the constables, who both sniggered. “Possibly for you.”

Ethan glanced back down the corridor where Belle had disappeared. “I’m due back at my shop, sir,” he said. “If you don’t mind?”

“You’re American,” Duncan observed, stepping fully into the passage and blocking Ethan’s progress. “Have you been in London long?”

“No longer than this conversation.” Ethan flashed an easy smile before he could be accused of impertinence. One of the constables chortled, but Duncan was still looking closely at him.

“Miss Sinclair is my associate,” he finally relented, recalling what she’d told the guard earlier. “I can assure you, she’s causing me no problems.”

She was, in fact, causing him a number of problems, but he wouldn’t share them with this peacock.

“Is that so? She’s your business associate?”

“Something like that.” Then, because he feared his ambiguity made this confusing conversation worse, he added, “She’s…consulting. On a publication I’m printing.”

“A publication.” Duncan nodded thoughtfully, and the constables exchanged a knowing look. “She’s nothing if not consistent. Until, of course, she isn’t. I’m sure you’ll learn.”

At the man’s tone, Ethan decided this conversation was concluded. “I don’t make it a habit to talk behind a lady’s back, Inspector.” He eyed the man up and down. “Then again, a lady doesn’t usually feel the need to turn hers on me.”

Duncan’s smile faded.

“If that’s all, I really do need to be off.”

After another long pause, Duncan finally stepped back and allowed Ethan to pass.

“Good day, Mr. Fletcher. Of Fleet Street.”

Ethan left the courthouse, perplexed by the entire confrontation. The man clearly had an issue with Belle, and by the way she’d taken off down the corridor, Ethan could only assume the issue was reciprocated.

Not that it was any of his business what men Belle did and did not have issues with. He thought of the tulips she’d brought to the shop and felt a prickle of unease.

He grimaced, rubbing his hand over his beard. He was growing it because she clearly liked it. He couldn’t decide if it made him a genius or a fool. When she looked at him, he could see a flicker of interest, but he didn’t know if it was idle…or an invitation.

She’s nothing if not consistent. Until, of course, she isn’t.

He looked behind him at the brick exterior of the Old Bailey, and his discomfort dug deeper.

Hell . None of this mattered anyway.

Because setting aside the inspector’s unsettling insight, the looming shadow of the Central Criminal Court reminded Ethan he did, in fact, know one thing for certain.

Belle Sinclair was a judge’s daughter.

Her dresses matched her bonnets, she had a housekeeper to bake scones, floral arrangements enough to spare. She had pastimes , for Christ’s sake. She was more than a world away from him, meant for a well-bred life in London. No amount of laughing together in the corridor would change that.

She’s not for you . The rebuke scraped, bringing him back to himself. Stay clear.

Tonight, he would send the tulips home with the Porters. Perhaps Tobias could give them to his wife.

Ethan sure as hell had no use for them.