Somewhat Scandalous (Brambridge Novel 1)

by Pearl Darling

  Agatha licked her lips, and, raising a finger on her hand where it lay wrapped around the back of Henry’s neck, stroked against his firm skin. Henry took in a deep breath and shuddered.

  “What do I want from you, Agatha?” Henry lowered his head as his arms tightened around her. “I want you promise to love me, no matter what happens.”

  “I… I can’t love a dead man.”

  Henry stopped, his head only inches from hers. “I’m no dead man, Agatha. Does a dead man feel like this?” Slowly, tenderly, he captured her lips in his. Agatha moaned softly as his tongue flicked gently passed her parted lips and then withdrew.

  “I saw her shoot you. I saw you fall.”

  Henry’s laugh rumbled louder and louder. “I worried the effect my death might have upon any wife I took. Little did I realize that by finally allowing myself to pursue you would I prevent my own life from being taken.” Tightening his arm around her waist, he brought his hand up to her eye line. In his hand lay a large lump of metal, deformed and gleaming, yet still in the unmistakable shape of a ring. “The Anglethorpe wedding ring. I’ve had it in my pocket ever since the house party. Ever since I was pushed into realizing that life is nothing without you. It stopped the bullet.”

  A door shut behind them as footsteps shuffled closer. “Ahem.”

  Henry sighed. “What is it, Ames?”

  Turning her head, Agatha stared into the clear gaze of John Smith.

  “You…” She turned back to Henry. “Nothing without me?”

  Ames shuffled his feet behind her. “Excusing me, your lordship. Mrs. Noggin and err Lady Colchester wish to know if you’ve asked her yet?”

  Agatha looked upwards. “Asked me what, Henry?”

  She felt his chest heave, as he clutched her tighter. Bending over, he whispered in her ear. “Will you marry me, my love?”

  Stunned, Agatha let her hands fall away from his neck, but still she did not tumble from his arms, as his embrace held her protected and steady.

  “Bloody hell. Yes. Of course.”

  After all. It was the only logical conclusion.

  EPILOGUE

  Lord James Stanton lurked at the edge of the dance floor and watched as the wedding guests swirled, avoiding his thunderous stare and formidable form with scurried steps as they swung to his end of the room. He paid no attention to them, his eyes tracking one couple in the midst of them who danced unheedingly on with broad smiles on their faces.

  Damn Freddie Lassiter. Once again he was partnered with the one woman that James wanted and now would never have. How he wished he could go back to Brambridge Manor and hide.

  When he had arrived back in London, he had never thought the future could be more bleak than when he had left. Yet here he was, pushing on in his third decade of life, engaged to a beautiful woman, the owner of two magnificent estates. And he had never felt so depressed.

  James tossed back the remainder of the champagne in his glass and took another from the waiting footman. As he glanced across the ballroom, his gaze caught on a man who smirked and raised his glass to him. James nodded and turned away. He took another sip of his champagne and continued observing the room.

  The happy couple were nowhere in sight. This was their wedding after all. The highly anticipated Anglethorpe reception. After so much drama, one would have thought that they would at least put in an appearance. James snorted as the champagne bubbles filled his mouth. At least for one couple things had turned out alright. He shook his head. He couldn’t expect the same for himself. After all, trouble followed him everywhere, and had done so for as long as he could remember. No, he balled a fist and, turning, threw a look back across the ballroom. There had been a fairly carefree time when he was young, but there had always been his father and then… that last run on the Rocket. James shook his head and strode to the door. Placing his empty glass carefully on a waiting footman’s tray, he left the ballroom and slipped out into the night.

  Upstairs in their Brambridge home the bride and groom danced slowly in the moonlight as the party continued. Berale House was lit and alive again for the first time since the fateful house party.

  Cradling Agatha in his arms, Henry gently spun her round the room. “I didn’t think I could better the science laboratory my dear, but I have bought you an even more important present. An interest which I believe we’ll share.”

  Agatha sighed in contentment “Oh Henry, you shouldn’t have… a jar of fig jam? Really—”

  “I know how much it meant to you and it is my favorite preserve.”

  “—you shouldn’t have.” She leant back against the strong arms that encircled her and smiled.

  Henry looked down at her, his blue eyes deeper than the sea. “My father would have liked you. My mother too. I wish you could have met them.”

  Slowly Agatha dropped her smile and traced a hand around Henry’s open collar. “I wish I could have too, Henry.” She picked at his shirt button. “I heard what Monique said about writing back to France about Lord Anglethorpe.”

  Henry drew in a breath as her hand rested against his hot chest.

  She looked up at him, concern brimming in her eyes. “It was about him, wasn’t it? Your father, what you have been looking for.”

  Henry shook his head. “It might have been.” He looked her deep in the eyes. “Granwich told me in time a strand might surface.” Stilling her hand with his own, he pressed it against his heart. “But I don’t need him to tell me what is more important anymore, a ten year old mystery or my lady in the here and now.” He shivered as her free hand stroked the long blond hair at the nape of his neck. “There are others that can pursue it on… England’s… behalf—”

  He groaned as with one last tantalizing stroke, the newlywed Agatha Anglethorpe reached up and pulled her handsome husband down into a deep kiss. His hands stole around her back and slowly unlaced her wedding dress.

  As Agatha lay back on the bed, her new husband Lord Henry Anglethorpe stole kisses down her body. Goodness, if only she could work out how he—she gasped with desire and forgot her train of thought. Even though she had been the one to tame the enigmatic spymaster, he was the one able to pierce her heart with every move he made. She flew higher than the clouds and as a starburst of sensation fell he told her again how he felt.

  “I love you, Agatha.”

  Their tale is over, but for others, the story has only just begun…

  Before turning the page to read the Prologue to Burning Bright the second book in the Brambridge Novels series:

  Firstly thank you for reading Somewhat Scandalous. I hope you enjoyed it! Please do let me know what you thought by leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads.

  If you would also like to know when the latest book in the Brambridge Novels series is available, or when I have other books out, please sign up for my New Release E-mail list. I’ll email only on the day the books are released and at no other time.

  Somewhat Scandalous is the first book in the Brambridge Novels series. The other books currently available in the series are (Somewhat Scandalous), Burning Bright, Dangerous Diana, Reckless Rules and Maddening Minx. Click on the titles to discover more about them, or visit www.pearldarling.com for my blog, books, and more.

  Finally and most importantly, if you'd like to dive straight in to read the prologue of the next book in the series, Burning Bright, please turn the page now!

  BURNING BRIGHT

  BOOK TWO OF THE BRAMBRIDGE NOVELS

  PROLOGUE

  Brambridge, 1811

  A small cloud crossed the full moon that shed light on the sheltered beach. James stood from his crouched position in the sand and stretched his arms above his back. Gazing upwards, he searched the night sky for the Plough constellation. Quickly, he traced along its handle and found Polaris, the North Star, burning brighter than the other stars around it. He stared back down at the sand and quickly calculated in his head, just as he had done every week since he had gained his age of majority the year before.
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  When they had landed on the beach in Brambridge, the stars that made up the Plough had been in line with his shoulder, and now it was almost above his head. Forty minutes had passed and they still hadn’t moved the barrels up from the beach and into the stone mine.

  Soft sand crunched behind him. James whirled and crouched, his knife out of its sheath and into his hand in a breath, a move he had practiced many times in secret. A massive figure emerged from the shadows of the beach, hands outstretched. James grinned and with relief, pushed his knife away as Bill Standish, village blacksmith and captain of the smuggling boat Rocket, grimaced in return and clouted his shoulder.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.” James rubbed at his arm.

  “Grow some more muscle then, Jamie lad.”

  “Mmmm. Not everyone can be as large as you.”

  Bill stared at him. “When I was your age I was already apprenticed to the Brambridge forge. A year later when I was twenty I was the master smith. Of course you could become as strong as I.” Bill laughed and clouted James on the shoulder again. “Although now I’ll take you as you are.” He jerked his head towards the pile of contraband. “I’ve just been up on the cliff top. Tommy has the fire under control. As soon as we’ve moved the cargo he’ll douse the flames, and the Rocket will leave.”

  “Good. Get the men to move the brandy barrels now. Make sure they fasten the straps tight. I’ll rub out the marks in the sand.”

  Bill nodded and quickly gave the orders to the waiting men. James glanced upwards again. Another ten minutes gone. They would only have another ten before there was a greater risk of being caught. As the last man disappeared into the undergrowth at the bottom of the cliffs, James took off his coat and ran, dragging it across the sand where the barrels were stacked.

  Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hands together and blew through them, making three low owl hoots. He waited, and sighed with relief as the call was answered by one low hoot from the headland. The Rocket was barely visible in Longman’s Cove, but a sharp-eyed observer might see the tall shape of her mast against the moon, or the occasional light as the crewmen moved across her decks. It was vital that she wasn’t discovered. The contraband that she brought in from France was the only thing keeping Brambridge village alive. James might have been young, but he cared.

  He trod silently to where Bill and the men had disappeared with the barrels at the back of the beach. Parting the undergrowth, he stepped onto a cleverly concealed path. Glancing quickly about him, he stilled, the dark shadows deeper than they should have been. Before he could move, hands descended and covered his eyes with a firm pressure. In a flurry of movement, he whirled, forcing them from his face and pushed the attacker back into the bushes. The small figure giggled and tapped lightly on his chest. James let out a groan. Not her again.

  “Harriet, this is not the time or the place.” He stood and hauled her to her feet. “We are not thirteen-years-old any more. This is dangerous.”

  “I know, it’s terribly exciting. The moon is so large and the sea is getting up. It’s like a scene from Hamlet.” Harriet stared at him, wide eyed. She pushed her curly red hair away from her face and blinked. “I thought I might help,” she said in a low voice.

  James sighed. “I’d rather you didn’t. You need to stay here or go home to the cottage to your aunt. Does Miss Aggie know you are here?

  Harriet shook her head. “No, she’s alone at the cottage, I slipped out when she fell asleep over her correspondence.”

  James clenched his fists. “Don’t follow me.” He turned away and stepped back onto the upwards path.

  “James, I—”

  He cursed and turned back. Behind Harriet’s hunched shoulders the tide was beginning to turn, cutting off her route home. He touched her arm lightly.

  “Look. I’ll come back for you, Harry. I always do, don’t I?” James took in a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes as Harriet’s shoulders slumped further. “I pulled you out of that pond when you were pretending to be a witch, I rescued you from the apple tree when you wondered what it was like to be a bird, and I rowed you back from the sandbank in the middle of the cove when you were calling to the gods of the sea. I always come back for you.”

  He waited until she nodded slightly.

  “Good.” He patted her hand lightly and turned resolutely away. Striding with hurried steps, he followed the concealed path up the steep cliff side and into a hidden archway partway up the limestone face. A narrow tunnel led upwards into the cliff, branching out at different points. Trailing his hand along the wall, he took first the left tunnel, a sharp right and then a succession of left forks.

  All was quiet in the mine. With a slight shiver, James took a last right turn. He struck a match and then blew it out again as quickly as he had struck it. In the flash of light, he had seen the men lined up against the wall, each with a tot of brandy in their hand. The barrels were stowed into a stone alcove, and covered with a piece of white sailcloth that blended well with the white of the stone around it.

  “Go home,” he whispered. “We’ll move the barrels tomorrow night. Wait for Bill’s instructions.” He did not see them nod but felt the brush of the men’s coats as they filed past him. The last man squeezed his shoulder strongly and a low laugh rumbled slightly as Bill left with the men.

  James hurried in the opposite direction, out of the small chamber, into a larger one and then into another tunnel that moved upwards again. After fifty paces he came to an abrupt stop. He felt lightly at the wall to his right. Hooking his hands into the wall, he pulled out a small brass hook that was embedded in the stone. The hook moved seamlessly towards him, and a chink of light appeared through the wall.

  He held his breath but there was no sound. The light remained low as he pushed the door open and slid his chest and then his legs through, quickly closing the door again behind him. The door blended into the oak casement that lined the room and was impossible to distinguish from the other panels around it.

  A woman gazed out at him from a painting hung over the wooden panel, a half-smile on her lips, her hands still upraised pointing to five stars that encircled her head. She had greeted his coming and going for the last year in the same fashion, the only woman surrounded by sneering male family portraits.

  Lowering his head, James moved quickly from the room, and turned a sharp right into the sumptuous hall. Unwillingly his eyes flickered to the door to his father’s study opposite the gallery. The door was slightly ajar but no glow lit the room. Hunching his shoulders, James ran lightly up the grand staircase and stepped into his bedroom.

  Damn. He’d forgotten about Harriet.

  He took a step back towards the door, but faltered when a loud crash reverberated through the house. Loud shouts came from the hallway. Running back to the bed, he jumped under the coverlet, and pulled a pillow over his head. He breathed quiet shallow breaths into the soft cotton covering his face.

  The bedroom door opened in a burst of sound. Light footsteps pattered across the carpet and the pillow was ripped away from his hands.

  His sister shook his shoulders violently, jerking his head from side to side. Opening his eyes, he focused blearily.

  “James,” she cried. “Oh, you fool. Get up. They’re coming for you.”

  “Wha…who?”

  “Lord Anglethorpe and Father.” Cecilia stopped shaking him and pushed her hands through the long mahogany waves of her hair. “It’s the new riding officer—Fairleigh, he’s been murdered.”

  “I don’t understand, why are they coming for me?” James blinked. Bill had told him that Fairleigh was visiting his sweetheart in Ottery.

  His sister's face darkened as she gripped the bed linen. “You and that blasted Rocket,” she said tautly. “He was pushed off the top of Longman’s Point. They say his head hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.”

  James took a sharp intake of breath as an ice like tentacle of fear encircled his throat. Shaking, he sat and lifted up the coverlet and sw
ung his legs out of the bed.

  “Stop where you are.”

  He froze, one booted foot on the floor.

  His father barreled through the bedroom doorway. “I told your mother that you were bad luck and look what you've done. Killed an innocent man. You can’t deny it.” He shook his head and fury filled his face. “That will teach her for letting you lead your own way and—”

  “Enough, Lord Stanton!” A broad-shouldered gentleman appeared in the doorway. “Don't be a fool. The lad looks quiet enough and we are not sure yet that he even did it.”

  “Of course he did, Anglethorpe. You’ve only been in the district a year hiding yourself away in that house. You won’t know his reputation. Can't you see the scratches on his hands and knees? Got them climbing to the top of the cliff to push Farleigh off, I’ll wager. He’s no son of mine.”

  “But Father…” James tried to twitch the coverlet back into place. “I was in bed.”

  “Nonsense, James. You were seen creeping down the hallway by Edgar here at two o'clock of the morning, fully clothed.”

  James gulped and looked at his lone booted foot resting on the floor supporting his weight. Edgar. He might have guessed it was Edgar; he stood behind his father and Lord Anglethorpe, craning his head over their shoulders. Occasionally he would move, bobbing up and down, as if gleefully taking in the whole scene, committing it to memory.

  The bastard.

  “I was stargazing,” James said quietly. He pointed to the leather bound tube that lay on the table next to the bed. “I was told a comet might pass over tonight.”

  Lord Stanton snorted. Even Lord Anglethorpe looked disconcerted.

  “A likely tale. No son of mine stargazes. It’s something we tell the ladies to get them into bed.” Lord Stanton walked further into the room, stopping suddenly as Lord Anglethorpe clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Alright, I'll come with you quietly.” James swung his other foot from the bed. “I'm innocent though, I haven't done anything wrong. I was stargazing. Just let me change my clothes. Please?” The last word stuck in his throat. To his father that word would have been better than a scream.