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  MADDENING MINX

  A BRAMBRIDGE NOVEL

  Pearl Darling

  Magnus&Melinno

  Pearl Darling is the author of The Brambridge Novels, a series of romantic suspense books that each feature a potent combination of passion and mystery set within the dazzling Regency period.

  Each of the titles can be read as a standalone, but for those that follow the entire series, each book will provide new information about the mysterious thread that ties the central figures of the Brambridge Novels together.

  And which hero and heroine will be the last to fall to love’s seductive touch? Follow the series to its inevitable conclusion to find out.

  Also by Pearl Darling

  Brambridge Novels:

  Somewhat Scandalous

  Burning Bright

  Dangerous Diana

  Reckless Rules

  Maddening Minx

  Final Flirtation

  Brambridge Novellas:

  Wondrous Web

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Magnus & Melinno

  ISBN: 978 1 911536 05 5

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Pearl Darling

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pearldarling.com

  Cover design by Kim Killion at The Killion Group Inc.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Edward descended the stairs from the attic, pushing the spider cobwebs out of the way with wind-milling thrusts of his right arm. Going up there had been madness. And yet he did so every time he visited.

  A cackling followed his footsteps as he reached the bottom of the stairs and kicked the door shut with his boot. Wiping his hands on his coat, he strode down the hall, his feet clicking against the polished oak floorboards; mad mad mad with every step.

  “Ah there you are. You’ve been up to see her again, haven’t you?” The middle-aged lady that appeared in front of him folded her arms across the gold lace of her bodice and glared at him with equally golden eyes.

  Edward sighed. “Yes, I have, as I do every time I visit.”

  “Hmmph. Visit. You should be here all the time. There is plenty of work for you to do here.”

  “I must go. I’m late already.”

  “Back to London again I suppose?”

  Edward nodded. “I’ll see Franklin and then I will be gone.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t take him with you. It’s not natural to leave him behind. And to take his younger brother with you seems to me rather odd.”

  “We have an arrangement.”

  The lady’s golden eyes bored into his. “Your father and I had an arrangement.”

  Edward smiled. “It’s not quite the same as mine with Franklin’s brother, Alasdair.”

  The lady did not laugh. Turning on her heel, she clattered back down the corridor and, entering a room to the right, slammed the door with a huff. “I’ll not say goodbye,” she shouted through the wood of the door.

  Edward smiled. That was her way of saying goodbye.

  Ducking his head into the open door on his left, he glanced around the room. Franklin stood in the corner, meticulously hanging the coats of Bath superfine and solid buckskin breeches and riding outfits on long hangers, before packing them into paper. He looked up and nodded.

  “Look after her…them, won’t you, Franklin? Contact me in the usual way through Alasdair. The offices in Islington haven’t moved.” Edward scratched the side of his face. Two days’ growth and still his whiskers hadn’t lengthened.

  “I will, sir.”

  Edward banged the door jamb with a fist and turned to go. “I’m off.”

  “Err, sir!”

  “Yes?”

  “Your coat.” Franklin pointed at Edward’s torso, his gaze flicking to where Edward had smeared the dust from the attic.

  “Ah yes. Good memory, thank you, Franklin.” He shrugged off the coat in one fluid movement before crossing to the bed and laying the coat on the pile of clothes Franklin had already prepared. “At least someone’s thinking clearly in this house.”

  Franklin breathed a heavy sigh and, picking up the dirty coat, hung it over the edge of the wardrobe. “My regards to Alasdair, sir.” He paused. “Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer, sir? Your mother would be grateful I’m sure.”

  Edward shook his head. “Next time, Franklin. I’ll pass on your regards to Alasdair.” Whistling a jaunty sea shanty, Edward strode out of the bedroom and clattered down the stairs and into the great hall.

  The butler waited for him with a brown ill tailored coat hanging loosely in his gloved fingers.

  “Alasdair is outside, sir. It looks like it might be beginning to snow.”

  Edward nodded. “Thank you, Gabbers.”

  “And, sir?”

  “Yes, Gabbers?”

  “When might we see you again?”

  Edward shook his head. “I’m not sure. Something has come up.”

  “More important than this, sir?” The butler swept his arm around the hall, his hand ending to point up the hall stairs.

  “For the moment, yes.” Edward pulled on the brown coat. Immediately his body stiffened from the familiar loping gait that had propelled him down the stairs. Pulling out a small comb from the inside pocket of the jacket, he inspected his windswept hair in the hall mirror. With smooth precise movements, he parted his hair on the side and brushed the unruly locks into a neat bowl cut.

  The butler slid a golden object across the hall table. “Your watch, sir?”

  Edward picked up the watch and ran his hand over the cold smooth metal casing that warmed beneath his touch. “Thank you…sir.”

  Gabbers raised an eyebrow. “I do wish you wouldn’t do that, sir.”

  With familiar movements, Edward flicked open the watch. Good grief! He was three minutes late. “I must go.”

  He didn’t wait for Gabbers to open the front door, thrusting blindly through the great oak and iron studded door and into the mansion courtyard. Alasdair waited for him with a sturdy horse hitched to the dray. Gabbers waited silently behind him for a moment before slowly closing the door with a final click.

  “I thought you were never coming, Mr. Fiske!” Alasdair said jovially.

&
nbsp; “You know me, Alasdair, always on time.” Edward put a hand to where the pocket watch ticked against his heart. The gift from Cecile never slowed nor wavered. Unlike her attraction to me had. Unwillingly he glanced back at the solid stone of the enormous house that rose up behind him against a backdrop of gathering dull clouds. A white face gazed at him from a small window up in the battlements.

  With a sigh, he turned back to face forwards. “What are you waiting for, Alasdair? Business awaits!”

  “Certainly it does, sir.” Giving a click of his teeth to the old pony, Alasdair jerked at the reins and set the cart into motion.

  For two miles they rattled along in silence, passing under the great avenue of elms, Edward’s straight back rubbing against the cart seat. As they came to the end of the drive and onto the lane, Alasdair drew the cart to a halt.

  “I believe, Mr. Fiske, that we have a situation.” Alasdair put down the reins and reached under his cart seat.

  Edward blinked as four men appeared suddenly from either side of the lane, large curved swords gleaming against their long breeches.

  “I believe you do have a situation, Mr. Fiske.” The voice was menacing, with the hint of an exotic accent that in this case repelled rather than intrigued.

  Edward looked down to his left, his eyes catching first on the open shaft of a sword that was pointed at his brown suit, the hilt held by a large man of Eastern origin.

  “Ah! Mr. Khaffar!” Edward forced out in jovial tones. “I have your accounts right with me. If I may?” Ignoring the sword, Edward descended the cart slowly and pulled three large bound ledgers from the back of the cart. “Here we are.” He stared down at his neat cramped handwriting that covered the page. “All up to date. I was going to come and see you about the latest deposits you made. I wondered if you wanted them to go in the special account with Coutts or to another…establishment?”

  “I’m not here to talk about that!” Mr. Khaffar growled, the point of his sword shifting further up towards Edward’s neck. “I want to know about your involvement with Lord Anglethorpe and Lord Granwich.”

  “I’ve never done any business with them!” Hah. That was precisely true, after all. Edward jerked backwards as the smooth blade touched the skin underneath his chin.

  Mr. Khaffar narrowed his eyes and jabbed the sword further. “I don’t believe you.” With a beckoning motion, he urged his men forward. “And the Earl of Rochester? Is he part of this as well?”

  “Earl of Rochester? Part of what?” Edward parroted weakly. He fumbled at his coat, grabbing at his pocket watch.

  “Yes, the man you have just been to visit! I would remind you, you are my accountant, Fiske, you agreed not to work for anyone else!”

  “Ah, the lost Earl of Rochester?” Edward swallowed, running his tongue around his dry mouth. “Nobody knows where he is. No. I haven’t done any work for him either.” Much to Mother’s chagrin.

  “Then why have you been to his house?”

  Oh dear. Edward glanced helplessly at Alasdair who had retrieved a double-barreled shotgun from beneath his seat. This was precisely the sort of situation he had never wanted to get caught in. Although of course he had expected it to be someone else that brought the subject up. Freddie Lassiter for example, or Lord Anglethorpe; certainly not Mr. Khaffar, a man wanted for murder, and for keeping secrets that had been passed to him by an underworld villain who had a horrifying taste for trafficking young girls.

  Blinking, Edward looked up at the iron gray sky as a lone cold snowflake landed on his nose. How could he tell the violent man in front of him that he had been at the Rochester Castle to visit precisely no one but himself? After all, he, Edward Fiske, was the lost Earl of Rochester.

  CHAPTER 1

  No! She was too late! Celine hung grimly onto the window of her coach as it pounded down the frozen rutted tracks of the lonely road. Far across the fields she could just make out the small figures of a group of men spread around the stationary shape of a large cart.

  Don’t get off the cart.

  She screamed as the tall man, sat next to the cart driver, slowly edged off the cart’s front seat and disappeared from view behind the cart wheels, followed by a slightly shorter, but broader figure whose strangely curved sword glinted in the strong winter sunlight.

  “Will you be wanting Big Bess or Silent Sally, Celine?” a calm voice asked behind her.

  Celine ducked her head in from the coach window and blinked as the darkness of the carriage overwhelmed her. “I…I…”

  “For use in our current mission,” the calm voice prompted further.

  Gods. She couldn’t think straight. It had never been like this before. All the missions she had run for the Melinno Society and she had never had a brain freeze such as this. It was all Edward’s fault.

  As her eyes grew used to the gloom, the solid figure of Silver appeared against the velvet benches. A large blunderbuss stood propped against her trousered legs, whilst she peered inside the barrel of a small flintlock pistol. A pair of dueling pistols lay on the bench next to her.

  Celine jumped as Gunvald thumped on the carriage above. Another hundred yards and they would be upon the cart. As her cheeks smarted from the cold, suddenly her mind cleared.

  “I’ll take both.”

  Silver stared at her. “Both?”

  Celine nodded.

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  “I’ll carry Bess and push Sally into this bloody dress.”

  Silver’s eyes traveled down the curves of Celine’s red dress. “Bella did a fine job.”

  “Too fine a job,” Celine muttered. “Nobody would mistake me for a respectable woman.”

  “Celine, none of us are respectable women.”

  A thump rattled through the top of the carriage again. Bracing herself against the shuddering carriage wall, Celine plucked Silent Sally from Silver’s hands and pushed it into the bodice of her dress. Wordlessly, Silver offered her Big Bess. Weighing the large blunderbuss in her hand, Celine lurched to the open window again. Holding the long gun against the window frame she pushed her head out and craned her head towards Gunvald who was perched on top of the coach. The blond locks of his overlong hair ruffled in the passing wind as the coach lurched from one side of the road to the other.

  “Quit gabbing and get on with it, Celine,” he roared, the traces of his Swedish accent strongly audible as he half stood, twitching masterfully at the reins to guide the galloping horses across the deep chasms in the road.

  “We’re going for plan C,” she yelled.

  He turned an incredulous gaze towards her before snapping his head back again to face forward. “Plan C? Whatever you do you had better do it quickly. We are nearly there.”

  Plan C had been a joke. The plan that they would put into place if the unthinkable happened and they didn’t arrive in time. They’d tracked Mr. Khaffar across the county, shadowing his every move. At no time had he looked like he might make contact with Edward Fiske. He had laughed and joked with his band of men. And even if he had seen them, he hadn’t given Silver, Gunvald or Celine a second glance.

  But he must have known they were there, for that morning they had awoken to find their coach axle snapped, chopped clean through with an axe. And Mr. Khaffar had gone.

  Mr. Khaffar was not to know that Roland, dear, socially inept and mechanically minded Roland, the butt of continual jokes in the Melinno Society headquarters, had provided them with an ingenious piece of iron tubing before they left for the north. The contraption would join the broken axle pieces back together again and lock everything into place within the space of half an hour.

  But half an hour was what they had needed. And what they had lost.

  “I’m bringing the coach round,” Gunvald warned, leaning to the side as the coach lifted onto just three wheels.

  Hooking her elbow around a small pole that ran from ceiling to floor, Celine sank to her knees and pushed Big Bess out of the
open window.

  The coach lifted onto just two wheels as it sharply left the road and entered the grand drive. The men that had gathered around the cart scattered, diving away from the dangerously lurching vehicle.

  “I can’t believe you are going to do this,” Silver muttered audibly behind Celine. “Nobody takes risks like you do.”

  Celine didn’t bother to reply. The butt of the blunderbuss pressed sharply against where she had stowed Silent Sally in her bodice.

  She counted silently as they rounded the coach. “One…two…three…” She held her breath and pulled hard on the trigger.

  The roar of the blunderbuss pushed her back into the carriage. Silver caught her and pushed her upright and forwards again with one hand whilst pulling the smoking barrel of Big Bess out of the way.

  Celine didn’t stop to think. In one fluid movement she kicked open the carriage door and jumped to the ground as the moving carriage rolled away from her.

  The two men that had been standing at the back of the cart stared at her. The shorter man, Mr. Khaffar, held his hand to his side, an expression of pain on his face, whilst the other man gripped him tightly by the arm.

  “Let go of him!” Celine ordered, pulling Silent Sally out of her bodice. The men’s eyes widened as Celine’s dress swirled in the icy cold wind. She pulled back the flintlock. “Let go of him, Edward, or he’ll lose another finger.”

  “Celine?” The supporting man, Edward, looked at her in astonishment. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Celine drew her finger across the gun trigger. The men flinched visibly. “I’m rescuing you, you dolt. Come with me now.” The rolling wheels of the carriage coming round for a second pass thundered loudly in her ears. “Let go of him, Edward.”

  With a visible sigh, Edward Fiske, Celine’s most recent past paramour, let go of Mr. Khaffar’s arm and stepped away. “And what now?”

  “We run.”

  “What in the—?”

  Celine turned and started running as the horses of her carriage cantered past her, imperceptibly slowing. With three quick strides she caught her hand through a leather loop on the offside edge of the carriage and pulled herself up as the carriage sped up again. Hiding her face in her shoulder against the biting wind she braced her elbow against the carriage, her feet firmly on a specially prepared ledge, and hoped that Edward had caught on quickly.