By the King's Design by Christine Trent Page A

prince rubbed rouge on his cheeks while the valet worked on his clothes. Peering closely into the mirror to examine his own facial artistry, George Hanover said into his reflection, “So you say this little chit actually interrupted the proceedings over some foolish grievance against the government?”
    Liverpool swirled the claret in his glass with one hand, while holding the London Gazette report in the other. “Yes, apparently it was quite remarkable. I spoke to Abbot after reading the report. He says he’s never seen anything like it. She practically accused the assembly of being at fault for those idiotic Luddites.”
    â€œShe sounds like an utter harridan.”
    â€œThat’s just it, Your Highness. He says she wasn’t that at all. She was more ... impassioned than anything else. The members were quite taken with her.”
    George’s valet fitted the prince’s waistcoat over his torso. George grunted in irritation as the valet stepped between his master and the mirror to button it.
    But he returned his attention to Liverpool. “Taken with her, you say? Was she comely? Was she dressed fashionably?”
    Liverpool considered. “According to Abbot, yes. Very black hair, almost ebony, done up against her head with curls like women do. Comes from a line of drapers, so I imagine she knows more than most about the cut of cloth. Well proportioned. Although I suspect her tart tongue is not for a fainthearted man.”
    â€œIndeed?” With the valet now off unfolding a cravat from a nearby chest, George examined his eyebrows in the mirror before applying some cream to smooth them down. “She sounds most intriguing. I should like to meet her.”
    â€œActually, Your Highness, she threatened Parliament to seek an audience with you herself if the Commons wouldn’t do something for her.”
    â€œDid she? She sounds more and more captivating. What’s her name again?”
    â€œAnnabelle Stirling. She’s from Yorkshire.”
    â€œWell, I insist that you find Mistress Annabelle Stirling and have her brought to me here at Carlton House. It is my express wish to grant the young lady’s desire for an audience with me.”
    And with that, George stepped his stockinged feet into a pair of satin-heeled shoes topped with extravagant red bows, while his valet tied his cravat. The prince was ready for whatever social engagement he had planned, therefore Liverpool’s meeting with him was over.
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    After spending a couple of days nursing her fury inside her temporary lodgings, Belle borrowed writing implements from her landlord so she could pen a letter to Wesley, instructing him to send her all of the inventory from the shop, as well as a bank draft for what she felt was her fair share of the shop’s value. As for the rest, Wesley and Clive could rot together for all she cared.
    She would start over in London, far from the madmen of Yorkshire.
    But before she could follow through on her threat to the House Speaker, she was startled by a courier carrying a summons for her to attend to the Prince Regent at Carlton House, two days hence.
    Bewildered, she wondered who was responsible for this. And how had the prince discovered where she was staying? The Crown certainly had resources beyond her understanding.
    She spent the interim time scouring London for a shop location, finally deciding on a reasonably priced lease on an abandoned draper’s shop, fortuitously located in between a wallpaper printer owned by two brothers, and the C. Laurent Fashion Dolls shop, run by a woman of French descent, at the lower end of Oxford Street, which she quickly learned was a more fashionable shopping district than Cheapside. She could do no more with it until Wesley sent her goods to London, which could take weeks, so she decided to focus on finding a proper gown to wear to meet the Prince Regent.
    And just what did a tradeswoman wear to be presented to a