by Cecilia Gray
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Meet Charlotte Belle—the Bovine Belle—who has made a career of being utterly unremarkable. The middle and forgotten child, she is completely unseen, until Savage sees her. Not that it matters, because the only thing worse than falling in love is doing so with someone who can never love you back.
Meet Damon Cade, Viscount Savage—consummate rake—which makes him the perfect agent for the Crown. Weary of his past violent escapades, he accepts an assignment making matches for the Belles to ensure their father’s ties to London will be permanent. After a successful campaign, only Charlotte is left unattached. He doesn’t want to marry her off to anyone but himself… if only she would believe him.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons living or dead, or places, events, or locales, is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2017 by Cecilia Gray
Cover Design and Copyright by Okay Creations
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without express written consent from the author/publisher.
Published by Gray Life, LLC
READ. LEARN. LIVE. REPEAT.
Praise for Cecilia Gray’s Novels
“Absorbing… refreshing… commendable.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A compelling mix of action, drama and love.” —Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Four Stars!” —San Francisco Book Review
“Gray’s characters are so full of life, hope and dreams, it’s a pleasure to read about them.” —Schenni’s Book Nook
“This series is definitely worth reading.” —A Whisper of Thoughts Reviews
“Cecilia has a talent for instilling warmth and weight into her characters.” —Romancing the Book
“Will have you captivated from beginning to end.” —Can’t Put It Down Reviews
The Couldn’t-Have-Done-It-Without-You Page
Lisa, for tying it all together.
A Disclaimer of Some Urgency
We regret to inform you that the following tale involves not one, not two, but multiple kisses between parties unmarried. There is no excuse for the behavior of Miss Charlotte Belle. One might grant forgiveness because a rake is involved; however, there are limits even to our tolerance.
Besides… she knows what’s what.
Prologue
March, five years ago
London, England
Three men occupied the room. A room that was not supposed to exist, in a building that did not have an address, next to a warehouse that housed no wares, in a district with no name. They were not often called to this room, as evidenced by the thick coat of dust lining the baseboards. Only in times of great need. The Crown preferred its clandestine service to be slightly more savory, and this room, headquarters for the Trio, was meant for endeavors of an unsavory nature.
Two of the three men were standing. They shouted, sometimes in unison, sometimes alternating.
“This is a crisis.”
“A national crisis!”
“We must take every precaution.”
“Expend every pound!”
The two men were as mismatched as Jack Sprat and his wife—one lean and one wide. Both prone to arguing even when they were agreeing with each other.
The third man squinted at them from a wingback chair in the corner, his face shrouded in darkness. One of the difficulties of being called to confidential locations was that there were rarely men of affairs to see to pesky details like dusting or lighting the candles and fire. The only illumination came from the moon, which sifted through the fog to cast a pale glow through the lone six-paned window.
“You’re overreacting.” Damon Cade, Viscount Savage, spoke in a normal tone, yet his voice cut through the loud and foul blustering of his counterparts. The infamous viscount was by far the youngest of the set. At only twenty-four, he was nearly half the age of the others, but his successes already outnumbered theirs, a statistic never discussed publicly. His superior performance was attributed to several factors: He moved in more elevated social circles; he had greater access to personal resources; he possessed a certain moral flexibility that allowed him to do what they would not; and, perhaps most important, he had the kind of dark, romantic features that rivaled the effect of addictive narcotics.
“Liverpool does not believe this is an overreaction,” the shorter, more experienced of them said. He puffed out his wide chest, the buttons of his shirt straining with the effort to seem important. “We wouldn’t have received notification to meet here tonight if it were an overreaction.”
With an insouciant ease characteristic of the young lord, Damon reached for a crystal tumbler of whiskey—an amenity he’d had the forethought to bring—and enjoyed a sip. The other men attempted to mimic the action, as he had been kind enough to share, but their gulps and swallows only made them appear nervous.
“I merely meant that the mission is easy to carry out. Come, men, we’ve accomplished assassinations and interrogations. This, of all matters, barely requires thought. I should be happy to see it settled.”
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” The tall one, with bony hands that reminded Damon of skeletons, gripped his tumbler to his chest. “Don’t think you can disband us so easily. There’s a reason there are always three of us.”
“Yes, yes, the great balance of power. I don’t care to usurp it. I have other ways to amuse myself at night, I assure you. I was alluding to my connection to the family, one that is shared by none of you. As such, I am in the best position to achieve success.”
“Do you think you can persuade the boy to reestablish his engagement to Seraphina Belle?”
Damon had considered the possibility of chasing down Gray, the girl’s skittish fiancé. He wasn’t sure what had possessed the youngest Abernathy to break from his father, his family, and his engagement to the most beautiful girl in all of London and heiress to one of its greatest fortunes—the Belle industrial empire. Damon assumed it had something to do with the bride’s age. She had been fifteen, to be sixteen the next year at the wedding, a trifle young, although not unheard-of in a bride.
Besides, what was age when it came to national security?
Dominic Belle had always been of utmost importance to the Crown. He was a man of vision and speed—both critical in times of war, when supplies were needed for the troops on the Continent. It was a matter of national pride that Dominic Belle was British, but he had been spending more and more time in Boston since being widowed. It was whispered that he was considering moving his operations. Perhaps that he had sympathies across the sea. But surely the marriage of his five daughters into the British aristocracy would halt such rumors.
Which was why the engagement of his youngest daughter, Sera, to one of the Duke of Rivington’s sons had been so welcome. And why its being called off was a matter that had necessitated the use of this room. Liverpool wouldn’t want it whispered about that his cabinet, his intelligence resources, were being utilized for the purposes of matchmaking.
“Are you friendly with the intended groom?” the tall one asked.
“We are acquainted; however, my friendship is with his two elder brothers, Benjamin and Graham.” The three men had served together at the Battle of Salamanca, and Damon considered them brothers above all.
“Would they consider marrying in his—”
“No. Likely not.” He interrupted the suggestion that Benjamin or Graham step in to the engagement. He knew that while they’d agreed the bride was a
great beauty, they also found her young age distasteful, and while they might agree to marry her, they would insist on a long engagement until she reached a more appropriate age. The Crown, however, was eager for a more expedient resolution.
No, they needed someone who would marry her within the year, and while Benjamin and Graham would not do, their eldest brother might. “I am considering Tom.”
“The eldest?” the portly one asked. “You mean to see the heir married into the Belles?”
The bawdy barroom song “The Tale of the Belles” hummed through his head. He’d sung it himself on two occasions, when too drunk to realize how unkind it was, particularly since it was true. The song was a tribute to Dominic Belle, whose wife had died, leaving the man with five daughters and a solemn mission to see them well wed, preferably to dukes. Damon figured he had to do very little other than encourage the tale into fruition.
“Yes, I do.” He stood and collected his hat and gloves. “Send back word to Liverpool. I mean to see all the Belles married to Englishmen of my acquaintance.”
The crystal tumbler slipped from his tall colleague’s bony fingers to crash to the ground. “Your acquaintance?”
“Your hunger for power is unseemly, Savage,” said the wide one.
He ignored their gasps and dramatics, and left the building to collect his stallion, who brayed at the indignity of being tied to a lamp post in such uncouth surroundings. He mounted and galloped toward his lodgings in Piccadilly. But before reaching it, Damon changed his mind as to his destination.
Contrary to the others’ beliefs, he did not seek power. In fact, his success was contingent upon the public opinion that he sought nothing more than wine, women, and song. He served his country best when he seemed as harmless as a country mouse. And all he had ever wanted was to be of service to his country. To be more than just a pretty face and impeccable manners, even if that was all the public knew of him.
So if Liverpool wanted him to play matchmaker, he would do so. It would be a welcome change from the violence that had plagued him before this mission.
He detoured to the three-story house on a corner lot in Bayswater. Ivy crawled up the walls and twined around the waist-high iron gate that separated the property from the street. Crocus, abundant under the small hedges by the entrance, perfumed the air.
He held his stallion at a standstill, careful not to allow the streetlamp to cast light upon him or his horse. For now, he needed to see, not be seen.
While Dominic Belle owned a home nearby, it was well known that the Bayswater Belles lived with Lady Newton, their aunt, particularly because their father traveled often. Traveled to Boston, in fact, the unfortunate destination that had caused the dramatic meeting a half hour earlier. Once the father received news of his daughter’s broken engagement, he was sure to return.
Damon intended to see that Tom, the heir to the dukedom, made the right offer in the chaos of the moment. Desperate people rarely turned down a solution when it was presented, however bizarre. Tom was a friendly man, suiting well his nickname of the Jolly Giant, and would be easily manipulated. The Belles would be more difficult. They were legendary in London. Five formidably rich women, and, while young, each had a talent of her own.
From his secret spot across the street, he could see them in their parlor. Although it was late, they were still awake, with lamps lit. Likely comforting Sera, as she was the youngest and suffering an embarrassment. He could see from their laughter and turns about the room that they were engaged in a game of Keep the Crown, something he had not enjoyed in his childhood but had been forced to play.
He watched each girl in turn, focusing on Sera. Yes, he could see her married easily enough, even despite the broken betrothal. Her beauty was like no other. The rest of the sisters would be more of a challenge.
Alice, the eldest, was nicknamed the Bossy Belle precisely because she was inclined to tell people what to do and how to behave. Even now he could see her directing the game, whispering instructions in young, blindfolded Sera’s ear.
Bridget, the Bookish Belle, was known for her constant reading. He had it on good authority that she possessed sticky fingers, famous for filching novels from other libraries to add to her own. Bridget but needed a romantic hero from one of her books, and she would march down the aisle dragging the poor sod kicking and screaming. The thought made Savage grin.
He noticed a clear victor emerging in Dinah. She was a year older than Sera, thus only sixteen, and nicknamed the Blasé Belle for how little she seemed to care for the opinion and good favor of others. The Crown had considered recruiting her when she came of age, for her intelligence and skill in mathematics had already begun to attract the attention of many scientific and mathematical societies. As a test, one of the other members of the Trio had even made her acquaintance at age twelve and given her a puzzle that she had solved without fuss, not realizing it had been a Napoleonic code that had stumped their best intelligence officers for the better part of a year.
After several moments, he realized the remaining sister had not yet passed by the window.
Charlotte. The middle child. The redhead. The Bovine Belle. So named for… Well, she was large and buxom, quite frankly. At seventeen years of age, almost eighteen, she was due to enter society this Season. He imagined her dance cards would never be filled by anyone but fortune hunters.
At last he saw her. Not in the parlor, but in a room above. A bedroom, perhaps. The windows were thrown open, and she stared out into the night. Her infamous hair, as red as the sky on fire, tumbled down around her shoulders. His horse nickered, and he steadied his steed with a quick clench of his thighs.
A prickly sense of discomfort dug down his spine. She couldn’t see him. It wasn’t possible. Yet he could have sworn she looked him right in the eyes.
Women looked at him often, with naked hunger or appreciation, much as they would a masterpiece of art. He saw it often enough. Their gaze penetrated only to the skin, never beneath. Which was a convenient thing for a man who made his trade in secrets and deception.
The moment passed, though, and Charlotte tilted her head, staring up at the sky. Likely making a wish on a star, as any young girl might. Then she stepped out onto the window ledge.
His heart hammered. With a nervous whinny, his stallion, perhaps sensing Damon’s discomfort, reared up on its hind legs. Only his expert hand brought the bay under control with little fuss and noise.
Charlotte Belle stood there, her hands gripping the sides of the window. She had straightened to her full height—granted, she was not very tall—so her head was fully outside the building.
Was she daft? Did she intend herself harm?
He imagined he could jump the fence and catch her in time to break her fall. He would have to explain his presence… A night ride was easy enough. He was a man known for his love of horses, and no one would question his time on them.
With growing unease, he watched as she turned in slow degrees until her back was to him. Her red hair blew in the wind. It was magnificent, really, as glorious as the British flag when unbound.
She reached overhead and gripped the edge of the roof, then, using both ivy and a wrought-iron trellis, hoisted herself up on it. As she scurried backward up the pitch, he swore under his breath.
She was going to be the death of him, this Charlotte Belle. He hadn’t thought she would be so agile. Her figure gave little away as to an athletic tendency. Yet, this could not be the first time she had climbed onto the roof. What else had the girl been up to?
She lay down. Crossing her hands behind her head, she stared at the sky. So Charlotte Belle had an adventurous side. Of all the Belles, he would have expected it least of her.
A plan slowly wended its way through his mind. In intelligence work, an officer always needed an asset. An informant, so to speak, someone on the inside with access to information he could never have. And an asset was never so important as when it came to understanding the inner workings of the female mind.
Yes, Charlotte would do nicely.
Recruiting her would be simple, too. He had not been blessed with an inordinately pretty face for no reason. If Charlotte had a hidden taste for adventure, then he could be the one to satisfy it. And once he finished marrying off her four sisters, he would see her wed, too. He had no end of sycophants, and he would find her someone agreeable, someone who would be grateful for her. It would be his repayment for her assistance so she would not be destined to a life with a philandering fortune hunter.
It was as perfect as any of his other plans, and he saw no reason to suspect it might be executed differently.
Chapter One
Belle birthday crush
July 2, 1822
Woodbury, England
For the past five summers, the invitation of the Season belonged to the Belle birthday crush at Woodbury Hall, the Duke of Rivington’s primary estate near Bristol. The event, which celebrated the birthdays of all five Belle sisters—coincidentally, they had come into this world on the same date of July 2—boasted acrobatics, archery, sack races, a hunt, fire breathers, dancing despite the early hour of afternoon, food from far-flung countries—pastries from Paris, chocolate from Switzerland, wine from Italy—and any number of highly sought-after guests. Even in the year when Woodbury was in mourning for the death of the duke, August Abernathy, and his heir, Tom, the ton had clamored to join the subdued festivities.
This year, the event promised to reach absurdly decadent heights thanks to Dominic Belle’s skyrocketing profits following a merger with Drummond Shipping and his insatiable desire to celebrate what he considered his greatest success as a father: the weddings of his daughters. Or rather, four of them.
Charlotte, the last remaining Belle spinster, the only Belle with a birthday now that her sisters bore the names of their husbands, lifted a glass in toast along with her father as he bade the ballroom celebrate the marriages—and child, in Alice’s case—of his daughters.
