Reckless Rules (Brambridge Novel 4) (38 page)

“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 sighed a heavy sigh and, picking up the dirty coat, hung it over the edge of the wardrobe. “My regards to Alasdair, sir.”

“I’ll pass them on Franklin.” 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 hung 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 suit. 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, 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.

“Your watch, sir?”

“Thank you… sir.”

Gabbers sighed. “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 Jessie hitched to the dray. Gabbers sighed audibly behind him before slowly closing the door.

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

“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. “Well, 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 from either side of the lane, large curved swords gleaming against their trousers.

“I believe you
do
have a situation, Mr. Fiske.”

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!” he said jovially. “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?”

“You know 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.

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?” Edward parroted weakly. He fumbled at his coat, grabbing at his pocket watch.

“Yes, the man you have just been to visit!”

“Ah the lost Earl of Rochester? 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 shot gun 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 a man wanted for murder and for holding some unidentified secrets that had been passed to him by a certain underworld villain who had a taste for trafficking young girls.

Blinking, Edward looked up at the iron grey 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 house to visit precisely no-one but
himself
? After all, he, Edward Fiske,
was
the lost Earl of Rochester.