Page 9 of A Wicked Business (Wicked Sons #10)

The little girl, no more than ten years of age, stared up at the Duke of Graftonly. So, this fat old man with the red face was her grandfather. He belched, brandy fumes gusting from his mouth as he stared down at her with eyes that reminded her of a goldfish she’d once won at a country fair. Her heart contracted as the truth revealed itself to her foolish child’s heart. This man was not the loving grandparent she had dreamt of. The wistful dream of finding a place where she belonged, where she was welcomed and loved, when her own parents cared not a button for her, vanished like smoke disappearing up a chimney and out into the cold night never to be seen again.

―Excerpt taken from ‘His Grace and Disfavour’, by an anonymous author.

15 th July 1850, Keston House, Grosvenor Square, London.

“Lawks!” Doris spluttered, setting down the last page of the manuscript Miss Ludlow had sent over to them earlier that week. “That’s going to set the cat among the pigeons. You’ll be clapped up if you publish that, my lady.”

Belinda laughed, her eyes dancing. “No, I won’t. I’ve spoken with Mr Sampson, and he assures me that as the names have all been changed and the stories altered somewhat, that there is no basis for libel. Indeed, anyone suing would have to admit that they recognised the story, and that is almost an admission of guilt. Do you think he would want people to know how ill he treated his poor granddaughter? It’s common knowledge that his own children loathe him as it is. Besides, if the man at the centre of this story was even halfway decent, I would never dream of publishing such a thing, but he’s not. The Duke of Sefton is a wicked old goat, and everyone knows it. He loves to cause misery by spreading malicious gossip. Why not give him a taste of his own medicine?”

“Seems risky though, my lady. What if they discover who printed it? Will Miss Ludlow suffer?”

“Miss Ludlow assures me she can handle anything, and she has the support of some good friends of her late father’s, men who will protect the print shop should anything untoward happen. Indeed, she is the one all eagerness to publish. She wants a bestseller so she can rub it in the faces of all those men who turned her down, telling her she didn’t know what she was talking about. They’ll be green with envy soon enough, for any fool can see this will fly off the shelves. Everyone loves a scurrilous tale, whether it’s true or no, and it’s written with such a deft combination of pathos and comedic flair that it’s vastly entertaining too.”

Doris nodded, gathering the sheets back together. “So, it’s ready, then?”

“Not quite. There are a few corrections and minor changes I need to get the author’s approval on.”

“Who is the author?” Doris asked.

“I do not know. She wishes to remain anonymous. The correspondence takes a circuitous route to get to her, so none of us have a clue.”

“So, you’re still thinking of publishing weekly?” Doris asked, handing the precious copy back to Belinda.

“Yes, Mr Dickens has proven the efficacy of selling in smaller, more affordable sections,” Belinda said, having spent a good amount of time studying the options open to her and reflecting on the success of Charles Dickens, whom she greatly admired. “Many people wish to read his work but have not the money to buy a lovely, leather-bound edition. Even the three decker novels are pricey for most people. But Mr Dickens published one instalment a month for a shilling, the final instalment costing two shillings. I believe the nature of this publication, however, will cause such excitement we ought to strike whilst the iron is hot and get them out quickly.”

Doris nodded her understanding, looking up at her mistress with blatant admiration. “I only hope all this cleverness don’t land you in the basket, my girl. Sefton and your pa are thick as thieves, you might remember. The old devil will be around here complaining and carrying on the moment he gets wind of what’s afoot.”

“I know,” Belinda said, delighted by the idea.

Sefton was a ghastly man, older even than her own father, yet he was not above squeezing her waist and leering at her cleavage if he got the chance. She always gave the female servants leave to stay below stairs when he was in the house. For all her father’s unpleasant ways, at least he had never importuned the staff. He was far too top lofty to lower himself in such a way.

“Lord love you, but you won’t be satisfied until you’ve got your fingers burned,” Doris said sadly.

Belinda frowned, staring at Doris in consternation. “That’s not true, Doris! I… I’m just so bored. Papa will have me marrying one of those dreadful men if I can’t find a way to put him off a bit longer. Do you think I could put it about that I’m consumptive?” she asked, having considered this as an option.

Doris snorted. “No, I don’t, you daft creature. You could set your cap for Mr Knight, though. He’s obviously smitten with you, little does he realise it.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Belinda asked, bewildered. “How can he be smitten with me and not realise it?”

“Oh, you’re such an innocent,” Doris lamented. “Because a fellow often can’t tell the difference between the longing in his heart and the one in his britches.”

“Doris!” Belinda exclaimed, covering her mouth to smother a bark of laughter. “Oh, you are dreadful. Whatever shall I do with you?”

“Heed me, if you’ve an ounce of sense,” her redoubtable maid said frankly. “That there is a fine man, handsome as they come, swimming in lard, and the kind what could manage you without clipping your wings, I reckon. He’s running scared because of your pa loathing him, I expect, and no doubt because he thinks you’ll bring him no end of trouble—which you will, undoubtedly,” she said with a placid smile.

“You’re all about in your head, Doris. We can’t be in each other’s company for above five minutes without snapping each other’s heads off.”

Doris gave an exasperated sigh. “I know! Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? That’s because of the fire burning in his—”

“Doris!”

“—heart,” Doris finished smugly.

Belinda let out a breath. She wanted to believe Doris’ words, more than she liked to admit. It did seem to her sometimes that Mr Knight admired her, but the next it seemed he despised her. Could Doris be right, however?

She supposed only time would tell—assuming that she managed to see him again.

4 th August 1850, Keston House, Grosvenor Square, London.

The bellowing downstairs was the first real indication of just how well Belinda’s first foray into publishing had gone. The first instalment had come out two days previously and, with more than a little help from Cat, had quickly begun circulating the ton . Numbers in town might be depleted, but that only made the story spread faster as everyone remaining in the city was starved of gossip and entertainment.

Lady Catherine had casually mentioned a most diverting little story her maid had given her whilst at dinner with friends. She had just happened to have the copy with her and had shared it around as the ladies took tea. Soon, everyone was talking about it.

Belinda was still in bed, sipping her chocolate, when Doris flew into the room, obviously bursting with news.

“He’s here!” she hissed, coming in and closing the door, leaning back against it as if she expected the devil to come and break it down at any moment.

Belinda sat up, eyeing her in alarm. Her foolish heart had immediately conjured the image of Mr Knight, as he had been in her thoughts far too much of late, more so since she had learned he had left London to visit his family in Sussex. Try as she might, she could not stop thinking about him, and wicked dreams that left her restless and irritable had disturbed her nights.

“Who?” she demanded.

“Sefton! His bleedin’ grace is ‘ere, shouting the odds and waving your story about, threatening to sue you and have you sent to flamin’ Timbuktu. He’s lost his bleedin’ marbles, you ask me!”

Belinda sat back against her pillows and smiled, taking a sip of her chocolate before regarding Doris with a stern expression. “Start again, Doris, without all the swearing, if you please.”

Doris rolled her eyes and looked long-suffering but bobbed a curtsey. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the Duke of Sefton is here, calling on your papa. It seems something crawled up his behind and expired.”

Belinda choked on her chocolate and glared at Doris as she gasped for breath. “You wretch,” she said, mopping the drink off her nightgown. “Now you’ll have to get the stains out of this, and it serves you right,” she scolded the dreadful creature.

“Worth it,” Doris crowed, quite unrepentant.

Still, Belinda could not have hoped for a better reaction. She had expected it to take at least a week before the story really caught anyone’s attention and this was better than she had dared dream of.

“Well then, Doris,” Belinda said, jumping from the bed. “Hurry and get me dressed. I want to hear exactly what it is his grace has in mind. Forewarned is forearmed.”

Half an hour later, Lady Belinda swept down the stairs and hurried across the entrance hall to where Kimble was speaking with a footman. Upon seeing her, he sent the footman off, regarding her with a warm smile.

Kimble was an old dear and her friend and ally in a household where those had often been in short supply. He had always had a ready supply of barley sugars for a small girl starved of attention and horribly lonely in this great mausoleum of a house. He had never admitted to leaving books filled with fairy stories and beautiful illustrations outside of her door at times when she had been especially low, or even pretty ribbons and bits of lace when she was old enough to sew outfits for her dolls, but Belinda had known. She was endlessly grateful to him for his kindness and, whilst she would never embarrass him by referring to the ways in which he had saved her from sinking into melancholy, she believed he knew in what affection she held him.

“What’s going on?” she whispered. “Is his grace going to have an apoplexy on Papa’s Axminster?”

She had not told Kimble of her plans to publish a story that would damn Sefton before his peers, but he knew of the publishing enterprise she had embarked on and had been as worried as Doris.

“I knew it,” he said, shaking his head. “My lady, I beg you, whatever it is you’re up to, don’t go any further. Sefton is fit to be tied.”

Belinda just flashed him a delighted grin, reaching out to give his arm a quick squeeze.

“Don’t worry so, Kimmy,” she said, using the pet name she’d given him when she was no higher than his knee. “The devil looks after his own.”

Kimble groaned softly as she scurried past him, heading in the direction she could still hear angry male voices. She would have lingered outside the door to listen, but it opened just as she got there, startling her. Her father filled the opening, and he glowered as he saw her.

“Ah, Belinda, have Kimble send for Mr Sallow. Sefton here has need of his advice, as he won’t listen to mine.”

“Oh dear, what appears to be the trouble, my lord?” Belinda asked, all innocence.

“Devil take you, child!” he said impatiently. “That’s none of your affair. This is men’s business.”

“Whoever had the temerity to write this piece of vulgar tittle-tattle will rue the day they put pen to paper!” Sefton bellowed and Belinda glimpsed him over her father’s shoulder, red-faced and pacing up and down in agitation.

“I keep telling you, Sefton, there’s nothing you can do. If you sue, you’re as good as admitting it’s you in the story and you’ll make matters worse. But if you need Mr Sallow to spell it out for you, so be it. This piece of nonsense will be forgotten in a matter of weeks if you just lie low.”

Her father waved his hand at Sefton and Belinda’s heart skipped as she saw he was clutching a much-battered copy of the first instalment of His Grace and Disfavour .

“What is that, Papa?” Belinda asked, reaching for it, but her father snatched it away. “Do as I tell you, child, and stop interfering, and then practise your pianoforte. I shall expect you to perform for my guests this evening and I’ll not have you begging off with some excuse or other.”

“Yes, Papa,” Belinda said, smiling sweetly, every inch the dutiful daughter. Her father grunted, closing the door on her and she heard Sefton’s voice again.

“Children today!” he bellowed. “They’re ungrateful little brats, every last one of ’em. I’ve washed my hands of all my lot.”

“Really?” her father drawled. “I heard it was the other way about. Is Wrexham still paying your allowance?”

Belinda clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She had to give her father his due, he knew how to strike where it hurt the most, and it mattered not whether one was his friend or his foe. She wasn’t certain her father actually had friends, only people who were of use to him or who said things he wished to hear when he wished to hear them.

“Well, you needn’t look so smug. That chit of yours has frightened off every suitor whose looked her way. You’ll have her on your hands for the rest of your days, mark my words. She might have the looks of a fair Cyprian, but she’s rumoured to be frigid and a bluestocking to boot.”

“You’ll keep your filthy opinions to yourself, Sefton. I don’t need telling that every word printed here is true, so don’t go trying to shift the conversation and make me look a fool in your stead. I’ve Belinda well in hand. She’ll be married before the summer is over, you mark my words.”

“Who to?” Sefton demanded, which was just as well as Belinda was tempted to burst in and demand the same thing.

There was a soft chuckle and Belinda leaned in closer, desperate to hear her father’s next words. “Never you mind, that. I’m not so foolish as to play my hand too soon. But I’ll have things tied up nice and neat with an announcement in the papers of her engagement by the time the glorious twelfth is upon us, you mark my words.”

The twelfth of August!

Belinda sucked in a sharp breath. That was little over a week away. Whatever did her father plan to do with her? Who exactly was she supposed to marry, and was she really to have no say in the matter?

Well, she would just see about that. If the Earl of Keston thought his daughter was a mere simpleton who could be manipulated as he desired, he was in for a very rude shock.