Maddening Minx

by Pearl Darling

  “No, thank you, Henry.” The older man rested his head on his chair.

  It was a look of pity she realized. A look that that spoke volumes of the way he viewed his subject. Henry had always seen her as an object of pity.

  But he had nothing to pity her for.

  She drew a breath. “I wanted to ask you about a note that was sent to you at the height of the Peninsular War.”

  “I’m not sure I would remember it well. We received many messages around that time.” Lord Guthrie drew a crabbed hand out of his blanket and plucked at the material.

  “It was about a man.” She glanced at Henry. She hadn’t told him yet about the rest of their visit to Newgate prison. “Major Coxon-Williams.”

  Lord Guthrie shook his head. “Dear, dear. Could have been one of the many about Coxon-Williams. We never did manage to find him.”

  Celine frowned. “Find him?”

  Lord Guthrie sighed. “He was an exceptional soldier, if a little paranoid. Wanted to be on the front line. Disappeared in Bisbal.”

  Celine drew in a breath. Fumbling in her skirts she drew out a piece of paper and stood. Henry stood with her, and walked in front of Lord Guthrie, holding out his hand.

  Celine handed Henry the note. “I have…recently found this.”

  Henry took the note and passed it to Lord Guthrie.

  Lord Guthrie stared down at the note. His hands shook as he smoothed the crackling paper across his blanket. After ten silent minutes he looked up and handed the note to Henry. “Where did you find this?” His voice was strong and angry.

  “One of my—” Celine smiled, “—entourage gave it to me.”

  “Fiske? Bloody fool. What’s he got himself mixed up in?”

  “More than you know,” Henry muttered audibly. “It doesn’t matter where you got it, Celine, more what relevance it has to you.” He stared down at the note in his hand. “Fairleigh.” He turned the paper upside down. “Fairleigh…Bloody hell.” He rubbed a hand up and down the back of his neck. “Whilst I hared off home thinking Lady Guthrie had set her assassins on Agatha you got something out of her didn’t you?”

  Lord Guthrie coughed, a racking cough that made his chair jerk. Henry half rose and laid a hand on his back. “Why does Fairleigh matter to you, Anglethorpe? He was only Coxon-William’s batman.”

  Henry sat again and stared at Celine. “Fairleigh was a customs officer killed long ago in Brambridge. Before Edgar Stanton, Fairleigh’s murderer, died, he revealed that Lady Guthrie had told him not to harm Fairleigh.”

  “Hmm. Fairleigh disappeared at the same time as Coxon-Williams. We found plenty of mass graves up in the hills around Bisbal. Half expected to hear that they’d found the bodies of the two of them then.”

  “If Fairleigh was in Brambridge then it meant he survived.”

  Celine pointed at the note in her lap. “If you read the note further you’ll see that Coxon-Williams sent Fairleigh off with the note.”

  “So it is feasible that Fairleigh survived and Coxon-Williams did not.”

  “Does it really matter?” Henry turned to Celine and frowned. “We went to see Lady Guthrie about Granwich, but instead you found out about Fairleigh.” He stopped as Celine waited. “By god. You did find out about Granwich.”

  Celine nodded. “Lady Guthrie named Major Coxon-Williams as Lord Granwich’s son.”

  Lord Guthrie’s voice was strong and anguished. “Oh god, the irony!” Celine stared at Lord Guthrie. His hands plucked strongly at the blanket on his lap. “Granwich was the one to give the orders for Coxon-Williams to advance into the hills. He sent his own son to his death!”

  CHAPTER 14

  The bag of coins banged heavily against Edward’s leg as he stepped down from the carriage that dropped him outside Somerset House. It was frustrating to have to continue his journey on foot, but further up the road a pair of horses had broken loose from their traces, leaving a heavy beer cart stranded in the center of the road.

  Swinging the bag over his shoulder Edward stepped back as an omnibus jerked to a halt in front of him in the confusion of carriages and horses. Nimbly dancing round its wheels, he looked left and right before darting towards the pavement.

  He loved this area of the Strand, strung with its curio shops and collections of strange and wonderful people and objects. Normally he would have lingered before passing on, but today, with the overlarge bag of coins, he cut a path straight through the crowds towards the imposing Coutts building.

  The bank stood on a corner of the street. Downstairs the entrance was narrow, with only one clerk on duty. He wore a distinctive black coat with tails, and a waistcoat underneath. He smiled as Edward entered the reception.

  “Mr. Fiske, sir. Good to see you again.”

  “Err, thank you—” What was the man’s name? They all looked the same in their identical clothes.

  “Not at all. I’ll just call Mr. Hollande to come and help you.” The man slammed a hand down on a bell on the counter. After a few moments, the door at the back of the hall opened.

  “Ah! Mr. Fiske, welcome again. Thank you, Mr. Wilby. I’ll take it from here.” Mr. Holland’s white head of hair gleamed from the light behind him.

  Edward nodded at the man behind the counter and then walked to the back of the hall as he had done many times before.

  “So who are you here on behalf of today?” Mr. Hollande asked jovially as he ushered Edward into a room lined with yellow Chinese wallpaper, and filled with a long mahogany table. “Lord Rochester? Count Ondaren? Others…”

  “I’m afraid it’s others today.”

  Mr. Hollande gave a huff. “And I suppose that you will want me to take whatever is in the bag, count it, and deposit it in the 777 account with a portion of the monies being paid out immediately to the usual account.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very strange business this is, Mr. Fiske.”

  “I agree, Mr. Hollande.”

  “That account has numbers of people coming in just like you do and paying a portion over to it. I don’t like to be indiscreet, sir, but I do find it strange when the quality become involved in all this cloak and dagger.”

  Edward looked down at his trusty brown suit and laughed nervously. “I’m not the quality, Mr. Hollande just a mere—”

  “—I know you aren’t quality, Mr. Fiske. The person that owns that account is, see. So bloody high and mighty every time they come and visit us.” He sniffed. “Always got a fancy woman on their arm too.”

  “The owner of the account came here?”

  Mr. Hollande quirked an eyebrow. “Come, come, Mr. Fiske. You know Coutts Bank. We are extremely discrete about our customers.”

  What? After all the information he had just disclosed?

  “Now then, have you any other business?”

  Edward nodded. “I have been given an instruction by the Rochester Estate.”

  Mr. Hollande smiled. “Wonderful, it is always a pleasure looking after their accounts.”

  Because they had so much money in them of course.

  “I would…they have instructed me to give the proceeds from last year’s sale of the Great Sylvester to the anti-slavery charity that has been set up.”

  Mr. Hollande frowned. “I thought they were going to use the proceeds to pay off last year’s loan on the building costs of the Great Randolph.”

  Edward shook his head. “That will be paid off with the sale of its cargo. It arrives soon. It has been delayed due to oriental winds. When it docks it will make a fine penny from the silks that are being imported.”

  Mr. Hollande gave a huff. “I’m afraid I will need a written instruction for the charity from Lord Rochester himself. The donation is outside the remit of the usual banking activities that we undertake with you.” He wrinkled his nose. “Although we are, of course, very glad that the Rochester family no longer deals with such undesirable cargoes.”

  Edward nodded and pulled out the env
elope that had been sat in his coat pocket. “The estate gave me this letter.”

  Mr. Hollande opened the note and read the letter. His eyebrows waved as his eyes traveled slowly across the words. He looked up incredulously at Edward.

  “This…this has been signed by Lord Rochester himself.”

  Edward nodded.

  “But he…he hasn’t been seen for seven years! Not since he was a boy!”

  “I was lucky enough that he granted me an audience.”

  Mr. Hollande uncharacteristically dropped the note to the table. “You have to tell him to come here, to come to the bank.”

  Edward stared at Mr. Hollande who grabbed at his arm. “I don’t understand, I do all business on his behalf.”

  Mr. Hollande shook his head, his hand falling away. “We have something for him, something he could only receive at the age of twenty-five but we thought he might perhaps be dead…”

  Edward frowned. “I can give it to him.”

  “No!” Mr. Hollande stood and stared pointedly at the door. “I think it is time for you to go. Please tell Lord Rochester to come here. It is of the utmost importance.”

  “But I—”

  “Coutts thanks you for your time, Mr. Fiske, and looks forward to seeing you again in the future.”

  Edward sighed. Coutts had something for him, in their vaults most probably. And almost certainly a fancy of his father’s that had taken him in his lunacy. “Yes, see you again.”

  Mr. Hollande darted to the door and called in a younger member of staff. “Jake, take this bag to Mr. Smith in the vaults please.”

  The young man nodded his head and with a wince took the heavy bag from the floor and pulled it from the room.

  “My! That bag must have been heavier than it looked.” Mr. Hollande laughed, but there was queasiness to his tones. He gave Edward a pull of his face and held the door open. “This way please.”

  Edward was barely back in the hall when Mr. Hollande banged the door shut behind him, the quiet sound of a lock turning followed.

  Mr. Wilby gave him a smile. “Thank you for doing business with Coutts Bank, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Edward strode through the hallway and back out through the front door into the light of the Strand.

  He stood blinking for a few moments, before Alasdair joined him, his hands wrapped around a twist of chestnuts. Suddenly the smell wafted towards him.

  “I hadn’t realized it was that time of year.”

  “What’s that, Mr. Fiske?”

  “The chestnuts, Alasdair.”

  “Yes, always good in the cold.” Alasdair held out the bag of roasted chestnuts. “Want some?”

  Edward shook his head and then changed his mind. Putting out a careful forefinger and thumb he picked up one of the hot chestnuts and broke it open in his palm. The heat steamed in the cold air briefly before he popped the nut in his mouth.

  “Are we going back to Rochester Castle as normal, sir?”

  Edward choked as the small nut lodged itself at the back of his throat. He gargled slightly and spat as Alasdair hit him on the back. “Oh—I—thank you, Alasdair.”

  “I’d very much like to see my brother you see, sir. He’s got a new lady friend.”

  Edward frowned. “He has?”

  Alasdair threw his arms up in the sky, as a shower of chestnuts fell around them. “I don’t know, ledgerfuls of information inside your head and you didn’t notice Franklin wasn’t himself when you were home?”

  To his mind Franklin had seemed very much himself. Picking him up on dirty clothes and—no that wasn’t right. Franklin had asked him to stay a little longer this time round. That Dowager Lady Rochester, his mother, needed him.

  “I’m not sure how suspicious behavior points to Franklin having a lady friend.”

  Alasdair shook his head and closed his bag of chestnuts, looking ruefully at the fallen nuts that had escaped the bag. “He’s my brother, sir. He might be a stickler for detail, but even he can’t hide everything.”

  “Perhaps we should go back.”

  Alasdair let out a whoop.

  “But only after I’ve extricated myself from Mr. Khaffar’s clutches, Alasdair. I seem to have made too good a job of improving his business and in return I have received no information.”

  “Is that all closed now, what with Celine’s involvement?”

  Edward nodded.

  Alasdair punched him on the shoulder. “Shame.”

  Edward blinked and looked down at his shoulder. “Shame?” He looked up at Alasdair.

  “I—I’m sorry about that, my lord. Not sure what came over me.” Alasdair stumbled over his words. “It’s just that Celine was quite good for you. It was like having Lord Roch—” At Edward’s glare Alasdair stopped and looked around furtively. “Like having the old you back again if you know what I mean,” he finished in a rush.

  “Make sure it doesn’t happen again. I am Mr. Fiske, Alasdair, and I don’t tolerate those types of slip-ups.” Edward looked down at the pavement and shuffled his feet into the center of the paving slab.

  Alasdair grimaced. “No. Mr. Fiske. Where would you like to go now?”

  Edward straightened his shoulders and pulled out his pocket watch. Thirty minutes past ten o’ clock. Opening time at the Pink Canary Club. “We will make our way through Covent Garden towards Mr. Khaffar’s establishment in Portillo Street.” He snapped his watch shut. “Before I extricate myself from Mr. Khaffar’s business I need to make sure everything is in order.”

  Alasdair threw a chestnut into his mouth. “I’ve not visited the Pink Canary Club before,” he mumbled through the nut.

  Edward shook his head. “No, well neither have I.”

  Alasdair’s mouth dropped open. “But all those recommendations you gave to Mr. Khaffar!”

  Edward pointed his head into the cold wind as a blush started somewhere under his chin. “I used my imagination, Alasdair.”

  Edward’s imagination had not been a patch on the real thing. The entrance to the Pink Canary Club looked like any normal gentlemen’s club, sandwiched behind the flower market, in between two broken down buildings. In contrast, the Pink Canary Club was well maintained, and a red headed woman in a sumptuous dress greeted them at the door.

  “Good afternoon…men,” she said, her eyes obviously taking in Edward’s brown suit and Alasdair’s working man’s clothes. “We were not expecting any deliveries at this hour.”

  Edward spoke through his nose. “I have come on behalf of Mr. Khaffar. I am Mr.—”

  “Mr. Fiske!” the woman said delightedly. “Now I would know you anywhere! Mr. Khaffar has spoken so often of his tame straitjacketed accountant.” She came closer and took Edward’s arm. “Never in my life would I have believed that such a narrow profession would give rise to such a creative genius.”

  “Creative genius?” Alasdair stuttered. Edward shot him a glare.

  “Why yes! Not only did Mr. Khaffar pass on the ‘invest, improve, extract’ recommendation, but also that we should fill the rooms with fresh flowers from the market, let in the sunlight, keep a few caged birds for the birdsong. Oh the romance!”

  “Romance?” Alasdair’s voice still held incredulity. “In a bord—”

  “What we have here,” Edward said hurriedly, “is a once in a lifetime’s experience for customers to forget themselves.”

  “I’m surprised you know how,” Alasdair muttered.

  The woman smiled. “It’s all very important. Let me give you a tour. And then you might like to try some of our offerings?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” Edward said at the same time as Alasdair’s yes.

  Alasdair grinned at him. “I wonder what Celine is doing now?”

  Edward stiffened. “It is none of my business.”

  Alasdair’s grin widened. “That’s a shame. Because she’s standing at the door.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Celine stare
d into the doorway of the Pink Canary Club, beloved nightspot of Lord Freddie Lassiter. Alasdair, Edward’s assistant, looked back at her and smiled.

  Edward had taken refuge in a bordello already? But earlier he had professed that they were back together again. No. That had been just for show.

  Celine swallowed. She had been on her way to Lord Granwich’s home, and then…she shuddered. Pithadora had given her new orders about the man she had to cozy up to. She wished she hadn’t been passing on the Strand at the precise moment when Edward had exited Coutts. She’d left Gunvald happily ensconced in the Cheshire Cheese pub and followed Edward and Alasdair on foot into Convent Garden. Neither of them had noticed her, seemingly preoccupied in conversation.

  She shivered. Should she go in and confront him? A scene in a bordello. That’s what passers-by really liked. Or she could let it lie. Retreat back to the Cheshire Cheese and down some medicinal port before going onwards to Lord Granwich. Or she could go onwards to Lord Granwich’s home on foot, it wasn’t far.

  “Celine.” Edward’s vowels were short and flat. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw you and I—”

  “Well I never! Celine!” A red headed lady flowed down the steps around Edward. She pulled Celine in and planted a kiss on both of her cheeks. “Did you know that the girls here ape your style? Half of them won’t stop wearing red, and even the blond ones try and dye their hair black. Never works of course.”

  “I’m sorry but—”

  “Come with me. Sorry, gentlemen. You will have to come back later. I have much to discuss with Celine.” The woman plucked at her pink ruffled dress. It should have clashed with her hair but somehow it didn’t.

  “I think we will wait.” Edward sat in one of the low sofas inside the front door and pushed a large plant frond away from his face. “And I think you said something about a tour. I do work for Mr. Khaffar after all.”

  The woman’s face blanched. “Yes of course.” She pulled Celine by the arm, up the steps of the building and into an office off the front hall. Stepping in, she turned and shut the door with a resounding thud, and turned a key in the lock.