Chapter 15

"That'll be twenty shillings, sir," the tailor said, as he handed William the wrapped waistcoat.

William swallowed hard, unable to believe the cost of what was essentially a piece of fabric stitched and buttoned. Nevertheless, he paid for it, thanking the tailor, and stepping out into the arcade, glancing from left to right in the hope of catching sight of Anne once again. But she was gone, and only a group of women, gossiping behind their fans by the window of a millinery shop, remained.

What would my mother say? William thought to himself, imagining what such a sum of money would mean to so many people like her.

But William had been caught up in the fantasy of possibility represented by the purple waistcoat. Anne had told him she liked it, and he had been flattered by the thought of her having selected her own dress on the basis of the colour of his handkerchief, even as he wondered if that was really the reason. Nevertheless, she had been kind to say it, and he was only too glad to think they would make a matching pair at the ball.

"I suppose I'll wear it again," he told himself, trying to justify the expense, even as he felt guilty for those things he had succumbed to in order to make the impression he intended.

Gambling, expensive clothes, false impressions – none of it was the reason his godfather had sent William to London. That day, he had been supposed to call at a firm of solicitors in Westminster, but the lure of the shops had prevented him, and with the money he had won at Boodles', William had been eager to make preparations for the ball.

"Buy something noticeable. You need to stand out amongst the others," Digby had said, and the purple waistcoat would certainly do that.

William bought some shoes, along with a cravat – also in purple – before wandering through the arcade, looking in the windows, and marvelling at the sights around him. London was a far cry from Lancashire, with its provincial ways, and it seemed anything was possible in the capital of dreams…

* * *

William's thoughts were preoccupied by Anne. He could only imagine how beautiful she would look at the Charlton Lodge ball, but something she had said had unsettled him. She had spoken of receiving an invitation, and as far as William knew, he and Digby had received no such invitation themselves.

It would be a fine thing to find ourselves thrown out of the ball before the first dance, William thought to himself, for there were certain to be chancers who attempted to enter without invitation and who were summarily ejected.

This thought continued to trouble him for the rest of the day. He had learned to dance, bought the finest clothes, and set himself up – at least in the eyes of others – as a gentleman. But if no invitation was forthcoming, the situation was surely hopeless. How embarrassing it would be to find themselves ejected – William would never be able to look Anne in the eye again. He found doing so difficult enough as it was and was fearful of being discovered for who he truly was.

"I'm just a pauper with aristocratic connections. I've lied to her, or at least, not been truthful. The money I've made…it's all a falsity," William told himself, for he was beginning to doubt the certainty of what Digby had promised.

He found his friend and mentor in the taproom of The Spaniards Inn. Digby had been away on business that day – to where and with whom, William was not privy – and now he greeted him warmly, as William came to sit down next to him.

"I've ordered you a drink. Did you get everything you wanted? The arcade's quite impressive, isn't it?" Digby said, as the landlord brought over a tankard of ale.

William nodded. He had been impressed by the places Digby had recommended, and had found everything he needed amidst the marbled grandeur of the arcade.

"I did, though the cost of a waistcoat…" William began, but Digby dismissed him with a laugh and wave of his hand.

"Fine tailoring costs money, William. You can't go to the Charlton Lodge ball in just anything, can you?" Digby replied, looking at William pointedly.

William shook his head. He knew his new mentor was right, even as he still felt a fraud for his intentions.

"No, but… I met Lady Miller today. She mentioned an invitation. Do we have an invitation?" William asked.

Digby's eyes narrowed.

"Ah, yes, I wondered when you'd ask me that. I wasn't going to bother you with it otherwise. You're right. We do need an invitation. But it's all in hand. I've managed to acquire one. At least…I will do tonight," he replied, and William looked at him curiously.

"I don't understand. How can you acquire one?" William asked.

Digby was, by all accounts, a respectable man, well connected in the capital, and with a good reputation. But there were things about him William found curious – his knowledge of gambling and fencing, his unexplained business dealings, and the fact of his connection to the aristocracy. William was certain there was more to Digby than he knew, though as to what that meant, William was uncertain. It was all very curious, and the mention of the invitation only served to arouse that curiosity further.

"Through as printing press, that's how," Digby replied, and William's eyes grew wide with fearful astonishment.

"A forgery?" he exclaimed, and Digby gave him an angry look.

"Don't say it so loudly, William. Yes, a forgery, but it wouldn't be the first time. It's very simple. I know a man with a printing press. He can print anything he turns his mind to. It won't be difficult, I assure you," Digby replied.

William was sceptical. The clothes, the money, the gentlemanly ways – all of it was a forgery in one way or another. But this would be the ultimate act of deception. William would not even be at the Charlton Lodge ball on merit. He would be there as a result of forgery, and the thought of it turned his stomach.

"It's wrong, Digby. What would my Godfather say?" William demanded, shaking his head.

Digby looked at him for a moment, before shaking his head and sighing.

"I doubt he'd be too worried about…deception," he replied.

William did not understand his words, though he could only imagine the disappointment on his godfather's face if the truth was revealed. William had been sent to London to make an honest man of himself, not to become something he was not.

"He wouldn't like it, Digby – neither would my mother," William replied, adamant he would have no part in it.

"Very well. If you don't want to see Lady Miller again, that's up to you, isn't it?" Digby replied.

William's heart sank. Anne was the reason for it all. It was because of her he had gone along with the deception, with the gambling, with the expense. He had already waded deep into the waters of trickery, and emerged as something he was not. His sole purpose had been to impress her, even as he was now having second thoughts as to how far into the deception he had sunk.

"But I…I do," William replied, for he could think of nothing else but seeing Anne again and was desperate to do so.

"Then swallow your pride, my friend. Doesn't everyone help themselves along a little? A leg up – that sort of thing? There'll be plenty of people there unworthy of an invitation. All we're doing is ensuring…well, certainty," he said, smiling at William in that persuasive manner he so often adopted.

"I suppose so…it's just…well, isn't it all rather…underhand," William replied.

"And do you think those gentlemen in Boodles club wouldn't have behaved in an underhand manner if they could've done? They'd have taken every penny they had if you weren't so clever as to beat them at their own game. No, William – we can't let ourselves be trampled on. Take advantage of the situation, it's the only way," Digby said, finishing his drink and rising to his feet.

"But where are we going?" William asked, as his friend beckoned him to follow.

"To see a man with a printing press, of course," Digby replied, as an unpleasant smile came over his face.

* * *

It was dark by the river, rows of warehouses stretching out along the waterside, amidst a maze of narrow streets and alleyways. William glanced nervously around him, following Digby, who turned this way and that, past the grubby windows of an inn, where the sounds of a fight could be heard coming from within, and up a flight of steps to a large door with a small lamp burning above it. They had walked for about a mile, into a part of the city William had never been to before. It felt dangerous, and William could not imagine how Digby had come to find connections in such a salubrious place.

"Is this it?" William asked, as Digby knocked three times in sharp succession at the door.

"This is it?" Digby replied, as a cover was pulled back, and a pair of eyes glowered out.

"Yes?" a man's voice came from inside.

"The larks come out in May," Digby said, much to William's surprise.

The cover was pulled back, and bolts creaked, the door opening to allow them entry.

"Digby, I…" William began, but his friend raised his hand.

"Let me do the talking, William," he said, as the two of them stepped over the threshold.

William found himself in a narrow hallway, with a flight of steps leading up in front, and doors to right and left. It was lit by candlelight, and now he caught a glimpse of the man who had opened the door – he was short, wizened, with hardly any hair, and narrow, sunken eyes, illuminated in the light of the lamp he was holding in his hand.

"Monsieur Bataille will see you, though why he's concerning himself with you, I don't know," the man said.

"We go back some years," Digby replied, and the man shook his head.

"This way, then," he said, and he led them up the stairs to a landing and through a large door at the far end.

William was confused. The house – if it was a house – was unfurnished – and seemed entirely secretive. There was no one else around, and the man – who had not introduced himself – knocked loudly at door.

"Come in," a voice, thick with a French accent, replied.

The door was opened, and William and Digby were ushered into a large room, comfortably furnished with chairs and a table, and where a printing press stood in the far corner, and a fire burned in the hearth. Sitting in one of the chairs was a man who sprang to his feet and greeted Digby warmly.

"Denzel, my old friend, it's been years," Digby said, as the two men embraced.

"Too many years, my friend, too many. And now we find ourselves brought together again. I was surprised when I heard your name, but glad, too. We…old friends must stick together," he said, patting Digby on the back.

"In my letter, I told you of my friend, William Baker," Digby said, and William stepped forward to introduce himself.

Denzel smiled. He was a tall, thin, man, with black hair, and an unpleasant smile. He looked William up and down and nodded.

"Ah, yes, of course – young Mr. Baker, or should I say, your Lordship?" he replied, grinning at William, who looked at him in confusion.

"I… I don't understand," William replied, and Digby laughed.

"Denzel owns a printing press, William. He's going to print the invitations, one or two other things, too. We'll give you all the credentials you need. I thought we'd make you the son of a marquess – we can invent the history easily enough – and tell Lady Miller you were only being modest in your previous introductions," Digby said.

William shook his head. It was one thing to pretend as to wealth and influence, but quite another to descend into the depths of a lie, the ramifications of which could be immense.

"No, I don't want a title. I can't pretend to be something I'm not," William replied.

"Why not? Plenty of others do – you'd be surprised how many people come to me wanting to be something they're not," Denzel replied, beckoning William and Digby towards the printing press.

"Make the honourable William Baker – that'll do. I believe you've seen a sample of the invitation already?" Digby said, and Denzel nodded.

"I've printed half a dozen – you're not the only wants who wanted them. But it comes at a price, Digby – even for you," the Frenchman replied.

Digby glanced at William. This was the moment of truth. There could be no going back. But William had already made himself into something he was not – the invitation was just window dressing – and with a sigh, he nodded. Had it not been for Anne, William would have never agreed, but the thought of her, of seeing her again, of knowing her affections for him, spurned him on.

"Very well, I'll pay whatever it costs," he said, and Denzel smiled.

"Let's set to work then," he replied, taking a set of ink blocks, and placing them into the press.

He worked quickly and efficiently, so it was not long before the first attempt at production was made, and the Frenchman held up a sample for them to see, the machine having clattered down the stamp onto a piece of stiff parchment.

"Marvellous," Digby exclaimed, as William peered over his shoulder.

"The Lord and Lady Peel request the pleasure of the company of the honourable William Baker at a summer ball to be held at Charlton Lodge etc…" William read, marveling at the sight of his own name, printed with such poise and precision.

He imagined Anne's name in its place – an official invitation, rather than a lie. His hands trembled as he reached out to take the piece of parchment, holding it up to examine it. There were slight smudges, and minor imperfections, but these could surely be corrected.

"It's…remarkable," he said, and Denzel smiled.

"Why yes – I pride myself on my forgeries. When one can fool the Bank of England, a steward at a ball shouldn't be too much of a problem," he replied, laughing, even as William knew the deed was done and there could be no going back.

"This is all for Anne," he told himself, hoping it would be worth the risk he was taking, and the possibility of scandal.