Page 36 of A Wicked Business

Chapter 11

Georgette stared at her grandfather, hardly able to comprehend what it was he was telling her. Even after living with him for six years, his indifferent cruelty never ceased to surprise her.

“Lord Hanover?” she repeated, her heart thundering, certain she must have misheard, misunderstood. Perhaps his lordship had a son of her own age, for the only Lord Hanover she knew of was a disgusting satyr, older even than her grandfather and known to be a hard and unfeeling brute. Surely, even this man, who had never shown her a mite of kindness, would not be so very cruel as to marry his sixteen-year-old granddaughter to such a man?

―Excerpt from Chapter Three of ‘His Grace and Disfavour’, by an anonymous author.

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

“Whatever do you mean, you’re going to marry him?” Doris stared at Belinda as if she thought she’d run mad.

Belinda didn’t blame her in the least. Perhaps she had. It was entirely possible the excesses of emotion she had experienced today had addled her brain and unhinged her. Nevertheless, she had made her decision, and she meant to abide by it.

“Just what I say,” Belinda said with a sigh, suddenly exhausted by everything she had felt and said and done this day. She just wanted it all over with. It had been hard to burst Doris’ little bubble of happiness, for her maid had come home all aglow and clutching a small posy of violets. Belinda was genuinely delighted that Mr Kirby seemed to be intent on courting her, but for Doris’ sake too, she knew she must move swiftly.

“But you can’t!” Doris said, looking stricken.

“I can, and I shall, but it will be on my own terms,” Belinda said, taking Doris’ hands and drawing her down to sit beside her on the bed. She had not yet left her room since her storm of tears, and it was taking all her force of will to appear calm and certain of herself when she felt nothing of the sort. “Listen to me. You know I must refuse to do as Papa wishes and deny him whatever scheme he has in mind. It is bound to profit him and not me, and I cannot have that. But, if I refuse, the first thing he will do is send you away.”

Doris blanched, having clearly not considered this as a possibility. She considered it now and Belinda watched the truth of her words sink in.

“He would,” Doris said, clutching at Belinda’s hands. “He’d want you alone, weakened. Easier to manage you that way.”

Belinda nodded. “You see now why I must marry Lord Ashburton?”

“I suppose so,” Doris said, frowning. “But you must not sacrifice yourself on my account, my lady. I would never forgive myself if you was unhappy. You were always so dead set against him.”

“I know,” Belinda said with a wan smile. “But only because it could never be a love match between us. I had hoped, you see, but… well, never mind what I had hoped. The match has the advantage of pleasing Papa, so he’ll not kick up about it, and Ashburton is a decent fellow so I shall be content enough, and no more of this sacrificing myself. I’m not some Gothic heroine, but neither am I willing to part with you, not unless you marry your darling, Charles, at least. Don’t fear, Doris, I’m sure we’ll rub along well enough, but I must make Ashburton see the wisdom of it, too. He’s never liked the idea any more than I have, but I hope that if he sees we can go forward as friends, that I shall never interfere in his life, that the idea might be more appealing to him. After all, everyone knows Montagu is pressuring him to marry. Ashburton needs his heir and spare and he’s shown how damned choosy he is. All those poor debutantes throwing themselves at his feet and he’s turned his nose up at every one of them.”

Doris frowned at her and Belinda got to her feet, hoping to deflect the question she knew was coming. “So, I must get out of the house and see him. Now. This evening, Doris. There is no time to be lost. I suppose it is possible that he’s the man Papa has arranged for me to marry, but I doubt his ability to persuade Ashburton. He’s Montagu’s son through and through. A stubborn devil, so cold and unemotional. Even Papa could not pierce that icy armour, I’m certain. But either way, I must speak to him first, must make him see I will only agree to the match if we have our own contract drawn up between us, settling things in writing.”

Belinda went to her dressing room, speaking over her shoulder. “Should I wear that new bottle-green gown, do you think?” Except when she saw the colour, she was reminded forcibly of the colour of Mr Knight’s eyes and her heart clenched. “No. Perhaps that dark violet. I’ve had it a sennight and not had the chance to wear it. Yes, that will do nicely, don’t you think?”

She turned to look at Doris, who was standing in the doorway of the dressing room. Suddenly, the woman hurried up to her and pulled her into a hug. Doris was far bigger than Belinda, who was smothered against her motherly bosom, whilst a gentle hand stroked her hair.

“What happened, my lamb?” Doris asked, her tone far softer and sweeter than any Belinda had ever heard. “What did that wicked man do to set you off on this course? And don’t tell me he ain’t done nothing, for I won’t believe it.”

“He hasn’t done anything, not ‘ain’t done nothing.’ That’s a double negative,” Belinda said absently, her voice breaking as the wretched tears began again. “And d-don’t be nice to me, you wretched creature. I’m b-being sensible and taking c-control,” she blubbed, dissolving against her friend in a way she would never have thought possible just days earlier, for she never cried like this anymore, not since she was a child, and now she’d done it twice in one day.

Doris huffed with impatience. “Never mind me bleedin’ grammar! Lord, you’d try the patience of a saint, Belle, my love. What did that dreadful man do? You tell Doris and I’ll have a few not so polite words for him, I promise you.”

Belinda tried her best to calm herself, pushing away from Doris’ engulfing chest before she suffocated. Still, her bottom lip wobbled dramatically. “I asked him to m-marry me, and he looked so horrified and refused at once and with such vehemence, and th-then he kissed me like I was his lost love, and th-then he said it was a dreadful mistake, and th-then I said some hateful things to him that I never meant and now he will think me as vile as Papa and be glad he is r-rid of me!” Belinda wailed, throwing herself back into Doris’s arms.

As Belinda sobbed miserably, Doris guided her back to the bedroom. Her usually stoic maid was all sympathy, making soothing noises as she undressed her and put her into her nightclothes. Once tucked up in bed, Belinda was coddled with hot chocolate and sugar biscuits while Doris quieted her by explaining in detail the many and increasingly inventive ways in which she was going to murder Mr Knight and dispose of what little remained of him in the most humiliating way possible.

5th August 1850, Montagu House, St James’s, London.

Philip ‘Pip’ Barrington, Earl of Ashburton, watched his daughter and her governess surreptitiously from his position at the library desk as they played chess. Mrs Harris was looking amused as Tilly, the wretch, proclaimed, “Check!”

At eight years old, Tilly was as beautiful as a porcelain doll. Her skin was perfection, her fine bone structure exquisite, and her eyes the same glinting silver as her grandfather’s, the intimidating Marquess of Montagu.

“That’s not check,” Mrs Harris told her placidly.

“Yes, it is!” Tilly objected. “It is, look.”

Mrs Harris listened patiently to all the reasons why Tilly was correct and then shook her head. “No, child. You are wrong. Figure out why.”

“I am not wrong!” Tilly said furiously, springing to her feet.