Page 28 of A Wicked Business

Chapter 9

Mr Knight,

I believe you might find the enclosed of interest.

―Excerpt of a letter from an anonymous source to Mr Felix Knight.

4th August 1850, the offices of Knight Enterprises, Piccadilly, London.

“Mr Knight, sir!”

“Hmm?” Felix murmured, not looking up from the figures he was tallying.

He’d come across a new design for a kind of iron, one that was filled with hot coals rather than having to be set upon a fire to heat. It had never occurred to him to take an interest in something so domestic—after all, it was hardly something he was interested in—but upon speaking to his valet, it seemed an iron that stayed hot for longer would be a godsend. Before he went any further, he would need to do a survey among valets and lady’s maids, perhaps laundries too, to see if they would happily welcome something of the sort of if they would have misgivings or advice. Yet had that odd ticklish sensation in his belly that told him there was something here and he did not wish to be disturbed while he was totting up the costs involved in producing and marketing such an implement. It had been hard enough to concentrate these past weeks as thoughts of Belinda blasted Madox-Brown tormented at all hours of the day and night. He’d tried going out and about with the intention of finding himself a new mistress, but despite many invitations that inferred his attentions would be welcomed, he’d found he wasn’t the least bit interested in taking them up. The wretched woman was ruining his life.

“Sir, I beg your pardon, but this came in the post and—”

“See to it, Charles, whatever it is,” Felix said impatiently. “I’m really rather busy and—”

“But, sir!”

Felix sighed and looked up, alerted by the sudden note of urgency in Charles’ normally placid voice.

“Whatever is it? You look like you’ve swallowed a spider.”

Charles shoved a piece of paper at him and Felix took it, realising it was not a piece of paper but a small booklet. “His Grace and Disfavour, a novel of twelve parts,” he read aloud, and then groaned. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles said, his voice climbing higher. “It’s Lady Belinda, sir. I’d lay my pension on it.”

“Where did you get this?” Felix demanded, scanning the first page in dismay.

“It came in the post addressed to you. I assumed it was another sales catalogue but there was no name attached to it.”

“Get me some coffee, Charles,” Felix said, sitting back in his chair with the chapter in hand. “Let me see just how much trouble the dreadful girl has got herself into.”

It didn’t take long. Before the end of the second page, Felix was laughing despite himself. The writer, whoever she was, had a fine turn of phrase and sense of the ridiculous and yet had drawn an accurate caricature of the Duke of Sefton that anyone who had read about him in the scandal sheets and seen in print-shop windows would recognise. The duke in this tale was carefully named the Duke of Graftonly, but like Sefton he was in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair, a short, fat neck attached to a corpulent figure bedecked with the extravagant fashion popular in his youth. His fingers glittered with jewels and his cut glass accent was usually employed in complaining or berating those he considered beneath him—which covered most of the population.

Charles came back in with the coffee and Felix wiped his eyes, setting the chapter down for a moment to look at his white-faced secretary. “It’s dreadfully good, isn’t it?” Charles said, his expression one of concern. “And rather terrible.”

“It is, drat her,” Felix agreed, accepting the coffee. He drank it while he finished the chapter and then laid the pamphlet down on his desk. “Well, she’s got the success she hoped for. This is going to fly off the shelves.”

“But could it cause her trouble?”

Felix reflected upon the work and shook his head. “Not because of what’s been written. It’s been well done. Anyone objecting to the work would have to admit they recognise the portrayal of themselves, and I think even Sefton isn’t stupid enough for that. But if anyone tells him who is responsible for printing it….” Felix shrugged.

Charles still looked unhappy.

“Why so Friday faced?” Felix asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Charles admitted. “It’s only… well, Miss Bodrott and Lady Belinda seemed very close. I reckon if one were in trouble the other would feel it.”

“Yes, they certainly seemed as thick as inkle weavers,” Felix agreed, watching Charles with interest. “But why does that trouble you so? Charles, have you developed a tendre for Miss Bodrott?”

Charles’ previously blanched face segued to pink, and Felix had his answer.

“Have you seen her since our little shopping expedition?” Felix asked with interest.

Charles nodded. “Yes, accidentally,” he said in a rush. “I just happened to be passing when she was running an errand for Lady Belinda,” he added, looking a trifle defensive. “We spoke for a little while and I mentioned I might take a walk in the park later this afternoon, if… if she happened to be there.”