Page 8 of A Wicked Business

Chapter 3

Felix,

Come over tonight. I’m giving a party to celebrate the sale of my last painting. It’s rather a triumph if I do say so. There will be some jolly company and a fine spread. Don’t let me down. 8 pm sharp.

―Excerpt of a letter from the Hon’ble Larkin Weston (son of The Right Hon’ble Solomon ‘Solo’ and Jemima Weston, Baron and Baroness Rothborn) to Mr Felix Knight (son of Mr Gabriel and Lady Helena Knight)

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

“Well? Did he scream and run away?” Doris asked hopefully when Belinda returned to her rooms.

“No, he did not. We’re to meet Miss Ludlow at the print shop on Friday, and don’t look so disappointed, drat you,” Belinda replied, closing the door and walking over to where Doris was sitting by the window, making a poor job of mending a tear in a seam. “Oh, give me that. You’re making a pig’s ear of it.”

“Oooh, don’t let your pa hear you talking like that. He’ll turn me off, he will,” Doris said, and then gave a cackle of delighted laughter as she bundled the gown up and thrust it at Belinda. “I’m a bad influence, I am,” she said with a grin.

Belinda snorted, sitting down with the voluminous skirts billowing out on her lap. “Well, you’ll be pleased to hear Mr Knight thinks I’m as dim-witted as you do. He counselled me to think very carefully before printing anything more scandalous than a recipe for scones.”

“Told you he was a clever bloke,” Doris said with a knowing smile. “Though to be fair, I’ve known women come to blows over the right way of making scones.”

Belinda looked up in surprise. “Not really?”

“Oh, yes. I worked in the kitchens at an inn in Shoreditch for a few weeks and the cook there was a right Tartar. Mrs Barry, she was called. Face like a slapped arse, she had. The sort who looks like they’ve swallowed an eel no matter how things are going, if you know what I mean?”

Belinda smothered a laugh and nodded at this delightful illustration. “I do.”

“Well, she was that sort, and when another woman was taken on to help her and produced the lightest fluffiest scones you ever tasted. Well, there was hell to pay, let me tell you. Mrs Barry nearly knocked her out cold with a skillet.” Doris gave a reminiscent sigh. “Oh, them scones were dreamy, though.”

Belinda gave her maid a reproachful glare. “Devil take you! Now I’m famished. Go at once and ask the kitchen to make us some scones for tea.”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Doris said with delight, hurrying for the door.

Belinda gave an exasperated sigh, calling after her. “Was that story even true?”

“Not a word,” Doris said cheerfully. “I just fancied scones.”

“Oh, you wretch!” Belinda exclaimed, laughing as Doris closed the door behind her.

Sighing, she sat back in the chair and looked out of her window. It was a glorious summer’s day, a soft breeze cooling the back of her neck. Belinda smothered a desperate longing to run away to the countryside where she might escape her father’s plans for her future for a few weeks… or at least pretend to.

Fortunately, her room faced the square, and the little island of green in the centre of the city. Suddenly she remembered Mr Knight’s piercing green eyes, and the way his energy had seemed to fill up the room and her too, galvanising her and making her feel strangely alive. The sensation still lingered, a thrum in the back of her mind that turned to a shiver as she thought of him. Lord, but her father would explode with fury if he ever discovered she had invited him to the house. She prayed Kimble was right and no one but he had been aware of Mr Knight’s presence, nor would be. If her papa ever discovered she was going to meet Mr Knight in a grimy print shop in a most undesirable neighbourhood, she would never be allowed out of the house again.

6th July 1850, Hosier Lane, City of London.

“I still say it’s the daftest thing you’ve ever done, and there’s a good deal of competition,” Doris said, her expression sulky as the carriage rumbled over the cobbled street and they arrived at the print shop in good time. She had decided to come earlier than her appointment with Mr Knight, to give her time to speak to Miss Ludlow, whom she had not yet met in person.

“Yes, yes, so you say, though I do not know why. Who was it who came to me with Miss Ludlow’s plight and begged me to help her?” Belinda asked with a quirk of one eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s right, throw it back in my face. No good deed goes unpunished, eh? Well, how was I to know you’d get a bee in your bonnet about do-gooding and educating women, so they don’t get one in the basket, I ask you?” Doris complained. “I mean, if you stick to recipe books and stories, like those Mr Dickens ones I like, I’m all for it. But writing about bed stuff… it ain’t proper and that’s all there is to it.”

Belinda stared at Doris and shook her head. “You’re a dreadful hypocrite. You’re the one who told me women ought to be educated. I’m doing this for you!”

“I didn’t mean for you to do it yourself, though, you bleedin’ little goose!” Doris exclaimed and, to Belinda’s surprise, her eyes filled with tears. “If you go ruining yourself, it will be all my fault.”

“Stop that at once!” Belinda said, touched by her maid’s concern but also rather incensed. “I’m so tired of everyone treating me like I don’t have a brain. I know what I’m risking. I’ll be ruined, sent to rot in some forgotten corner of the country with an ancient relative where everyone can forget about me. I’ll be the subject of ridicule and scorn, and people will point and whisper, but at least I’ll have done something! And don’t you think I won’t take you to the countryside so you can rot alongside me too, for I shall!” she added tartly.

“Oh, my lady, bless you!” Doris snatched up her hand and held on tight.

Despite herself, Belinda laughed, squeezing Doris’ fingers. Doris returned a wan smile but looked troubled still. “I shall never blame you, Doris, so do not think on it any longer, and if all goes well, no one will ever know.”