Page 2 of A Wicked Business (Wicked Sons #10)

Dearest Belinda,

I am most deeply vexed by you, my friend. Now I understand why you were so interested in Mr Knight. Fool that I was, I suspected you had a tendre for him, or at least that you meant to pretend one to incense your father. Now I see it was more diabolical even than that. Have a care, Belle. Felix is a dear friend, and I will not see him sacrificed at your altar simply to best your father. I hope your intentions are honourable, if they are, however, you may count on my support, only let me in on the secret!

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Lady Kilbane (daughter of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Montagu, the Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to The Lady Belinda Madox-Brown.

4 th July 1850, Grosvenor Square, Mayfair, London.

“Well then, you want the diamonds, do you? Or do you fancy the rubies for a change? It’s only for dinner with your pa and his cronies, not the Last Supper, you know.”

Belinda glanced up from the sparkling array of jewels laid out before her upon hearing the obvious impatience in her maid’s voice.

Doris rolled her eyes. “Don’t look at me all reproachful. I ain’t one of the soppy halfwits mooning over your blue eyes, and we both know you’re going to choose the diamonds when you’d rather have the pearls.”

“You never even mentioned the pearls,” Berlinda retorted, provoked despite knowing better, and a little annoyed that Doris knew her so very well, though they’d been together five years now.

“No need. They’re elegant and lovely and not in the least flashy. Stands to reason,” Doris replied with a shrug. “The earl will want the flashiest gewgaws in the box, though, so you’ll choose them.”

Belinda sighed. “You’re quite correct.”

“Always am,” Doris said.

“Not always,” Belinda countered, meeting Doris’ implacable gaze in the looking glass as the heavy necklace settled around her throat. She shivered as the cold jewels touched her skin, feeling as she always did like a pet dog being fitted with a pretty collar.

“Always,” Doris insisted, making an adjustment to Belinda’s hair.

Belinda regarded Doris with amusement. The woman was around thirty years of age with a stubborn square jaw, a mass of black wiry curls that spoke of her father’s Mediterranean heritage, beautiful pale gold skin, and a robust form built upon Amazonian proportions. She towered over Belinda by a good foot, was more rottweiler than maid, and though she had a fair hand for hair, she had few of the qualifications most young ladies would deem essential for the job. For one, she had an opinion about everything and never hesitated to share it—usually with language that would have sent many of Belinda’s ilk into a swoon. Also, her needlework was execrable, and she didn’t give a tinker’s cuss for fashion.

Doris had qualities that Belinda valued far higher than these trifling decencies, however. In the first place, she was loyal and discreet and would have cut out her tongue—or anyone else’s—before she heard a word against Belinda. In the second, she knew London like the back of her hand, including the kind of people Belinda would have no access to without her, and lastly, she had a right hook that would put most of the would-be pugilists of the ton to shame. For all these qualities Belinda loved and trusted her and so had come to appreciate the rudeness with which Doris treated her—after all, no one else would dare.

Through Doris, Belinda had been introduced to a world she had known nothing of, having grown up in a gilded cage with few glimpses afforded her of what lay beyond the bars. Doris had shown her the world she had grown up in, a world of dangers and privation that had shocked and frightened Belinda in equal measure and had given her the desire to do something useful with her life, rather than just looking pretty on some man’s arm and producing babies. Not that it had ever held much appeal.

Of course, her father had not the slightest inkling about any of this, or Doris would have been shown the door on the spot. Happily, whilst the earl was dreadfully overbearing, he never thought to challenge her choice of maid, and Doris was sensible enough to keep her mouth shut and make herself scarce if ever the earl was around.

It was a complete accident they had met at all, for Belinda had been interviewing maids on a day when Doris had turned up with a delivery from a local baker. Because of an oversight by the housekeeper, the baker’s bill had not been paid in several months, and Doris had been sent to collect. The housekeeper, a proud woman who could not bear to be wrong about anything, had denied the bill. Happily, the earl had been away from home and Belinda sent for to intervene.

Doris had been entertaining during the debacle, standing up to the housekeeper in her usual blunt manner. Mrs Pilkington had been incensed, but when she had been forced to admit she had overlooked the payment, she had unbent and deigned to be amused by the argument when Doris had been quick to agree had been a simple mistake to make. Belinda had always retained a soft spot for Mrs Pilkington despite her tyrannical ways and the two women understood each other, existing as they did in a man’s world. When Belinda had asked Doris to interview for the position of lady’s maid the housekeeper had protested vociferously but diplomatically held her tongue. After all, she knew who the mistress of the house was, and who it was sanctioned the extra spending on things Mrs Pilkington deemed necessary.

And so, Doris, entirely unqualified but in Belinda’s opinion, a diamond in the rough, had been employed.

“You think I’m mad, don’t you,” Belinda said, swivelling on the stool before the dressing table as Doris attached the heavy diamond bracelets—or were they manacles? —upon her wrists before reaching for the matching hair combs.

“Ain’t my business to go about thinking, my lady,” Doris said with a sniff. “Got no education. You’re the one with the brains and all that book learnin’. Much good it’s done you,” she added sourly.

“So, do you think I should find a man to marry, some chinless wonder with excellent bloodlines, and produce the requisite heir and a spare?” Belinda demanded.

“No, I reckon you ought to pack up those baubles, sell the lot and go to Paris and have some bleedin’ fun for a change,” Doris said impatiently. “What’s the use of looking like you do and having all that blunt when you don’t get to have no fun?”

“But that’s the point, Doris,” Belinda said, grinning. “Fun is exactly what I am after, and I intend to get it too, and if I do a little bit of good for womankind along the way, so much the better.”

Doris put her hands on her hips and regarded Belinda with a shake of her head. “You and me have very different notions of fun, my girl. Give me a bottle of something warming and a visit to a penny gaff to see the clowns and sing along with the bawdy songs… now, that’s a good night out.”

“I am a sad disappointment to you, I know,” Belinda said with a laugh, pushing to her feet and twirling before Doris. “Well, will I do, do you think?”

Doris snorted. “You look lovelier than bleedin’ Aphrodite or one of them goddesses your pa has so many paintings of, though why they’re always half dressed, I never understood, save for the fact the painters were all men. Now they were havin’ fun gawping at the models in the altogether, I reckon,” she said dryly.

“I don’t doubt you are correct,” Belinda replied, laughing as she gathered up her shawl and fan.

“Always am,” Doris reminded her.

Belinda smiled and unfurled the fan, fluttered her eyelashes at Doris from behind it. “Then I shall away and find some fun of my own,” she said, attempting to sound mysterious.

“If only I believed you,” Doris said, pulling a face.

“Don’t wait up, I can see to myself,” Belinda told her as she left, though she knew she was wasting her breath. Doris would not retire until Belinda was safely tucked up in her own bed, despite the fact she was not even leaving the house tonight.

Belinda made her way down the stairs, wishing she did not have to attend one of her father’s interminable dinners. If she had her way, they would have retired to the countryside by now, or she might have gone to stay with Grandmother in Bath. Anything but play hostess while her father talked interminably about investments or horse breeding as his disgusting friends leered at her. Of course, the main reason the men were there at all, apart from simply currying favour with her father, the Earl of Keston, was in the hopes of inducing her to marry them. If only she could tell the poor fools to stop making such cakes of themselves, for she would die an old maid before she tied herself to a man of whom her father approved. Her papa did not know this any better than they did, however. He thought she was just playing hard to get and, for the moment, he did not entirely disapprove, believing any connection to his superior bloodline was worth jumping through many proverbial hoops to attain. She suspected he would not have frowned upon her setting her would-be beaus challenges to prove their heroism as in the fairy stories she’d read as a girl, except then she’d have to grant the winner her hand in marriage. No, thank you.

Belinda knew her father’s patience was wearing thin, though. She was three and twenty, and in his opinion getting too long in the tooth to leave it any longer. He had already given some less than subtle hints that her next season would be her last.

Her father had always been a remote figure in her life where her nanny and later her governess were her only source of companionship and affection. She had been lucky in this respect but had always wondered why her father kept her at such a distance. According to her old nanny, who liked a bit of a gossip, he had not always been so cold. Belinda’s mama had been a great beauty and had softened her father’s rather cold, ruthless nature. Her death when Belinda was very young had changed everything, according to Nanny. The Earl of Keston had hardened his heart to everyone and everything, and his pretty little daughter had not merited his attention until she was old enough to be useful to him by marrying someone he deemed worthy of their family tree.

Though Belinda told herself there were good men out there, and that marriage would not necessarily be the end of her life, she had the unsettling sensation that time was running out, that her chances were slipping through her fingers like the sand in an hourglass. She did not even know what chances she thought were escaping her, only that they were , and so she had determined to do something bold and outrageous, something that she could look back upon when she was long past the bloom of youth and beauty and think, well, at least I did that! Her boldness and outspoken nature, exceeding the bounds of ladylike behaviour, demanded something truly daring.

For now, however, she put her chin up, squared her shoulders, and prepared to spend the night acting like Lady Belinda Madox-Brown, the biggest prize on the marriage mart.

Walking into the dining room, Belinda smiled as the gentlemen all stood.

“Have I kept you waiting? I do beg your pardon,” she said, ignoring their covetous gazes as she walked the length of the table to greet her father.

“Piffle, you enjoy keeping us all waiting,” her father replied with a touch of petulance, though she did not miss the pride shining in his eyes. She felt a swift and familiar rush of sorrow as she knew his pride in her was a cold thing, more akin to ownership, like the dozens of marble statues in the grand foyer downstairs, or the walls of priceless artworks. He cared little for the subject matter, only that the thing was considered beautiful and belonged to him. The artwork, at least, he intended to keep. She was for sale to the highest bidder, providing that bidder had the lineage necessary for such a transaction. Belinda pushed the old hurt away, knowing it served no purpose. She had tried for too long to make him love her, to pretend to herself that he cared for her, and her eyes had been open for a long time. The only person who could secure her happiness, was herself.

“Yes, Papa,” she agreed serenely, aware of the amused chuckle from his guests before curtseying to him like a dutiful daughter. “Good evening, my lord,” she said formally, before taking her place at the other end of the table.

To her dismay, Belinda found she was seated with Lord Astier on one side, a young man with excellent bloodlines, a fine property in the Cotswolds, and a brain the size of a pea. Still, he was amiable enough, unlike Mr Flint on the other. Cold grey eyes settled upon Belinda, moving across her face to settle on her décolletage. Annoyed, Belinda turned to face him.

“Good evening, Mr Flint. How do you do? I hear Mr Gabriel Knight has bought that land in Islington you were interested in. Did you decide against the project, after all?” she asked sweetly, knowing full well that he had done no such thing and was mad as fire that he’d lost out to a higher bidder.

To her satisfaction, his jaw tightened but, before he could reply, her father spoke, his harsh voice reaching her down the length of the vast table with no difficulty.

“What have I told you about speaking that blackguard’s name in this house, Belinda?” he demanded angrily. “Bribery and corruption, that’s what it was, you mark my words. He’ll stop at nothing to buy and build and get his grimy fingers in on every blasted project in town. Someone ought to stop him. It’s bad enough Bedwin was weak enough to allow the guttersnipe to breed with his sister, but now his offspring are reproducing too, infesting society as his money infects the minds of greedy fools who only see the bottom line and not that our way of life is being destroyed by such infiltration, weakening our once proud noble families.”

Belinda looked up, having heard this rant too often to blink at the appalling snobbery.

“Bribery, Papa?” she asked in all innocence. “I heard the land belonged to Lord Wrexham. Isn’t he married to Mr Knight’s youngest daughter? She is the Marchioness of Wrexham, I think? I believe Wrexham was investing in the scheme too. A new square, was it?”

“Nepotism!” her father thundered, banging his fist on the table so hard the china and crystal chinked. “That is corruption!”

“But Papa, didn’t you help my brother invest in that banking scheme when I’m certain you weren’t allow—”

“Enough!” the earl said furiously, almost purple with rage. “You have no idea of what you speak, child. I will thank you to leave such affairs to men who understand things as you do not.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Belinda said, quite unruffled. “I must have misunderstood. Such financial affairs are quite beyond my scope, I’m afraid, gentlemen,” she said, smiling inanely at the men around her who regarded her with uneasy expressions.

Belinda smirked inwardly, quite satisfied that none of them would propose to her this evening and settled down to enjoy her soup.