Mad for Love

From acclaimed author Elizabeth Essex comes an irresistible prequel novella introducing the 
Highland Brides
, a quartet of bold, brilliant lasses determined to make their own happily ever afters.

Set a thief…

Rory Cathcart’s appreciation of the exquisite makes him the perfect man to expose forgeries and root out fraud in London’s tempestuous art world. But when his latest investigation into forged paintings puts him squarely in Mignon du Blois’ shaky sights, he finds himself deep in trouble, and captured by something more powerful than mere beauty.

To catch a thief…

The moment Mignon stops a rakish thief from making off with one of her father’s brilliant forgeries, she knows she’s found the perfect man to help her steal back a priceless statue, and save her family from unspeakable scandal. She has no intention of falling for Rory’s Caledonian charms, nor his seductive Scottish persuasions. From the drawing rooms of the 
ton
 to the auction rooms of the art world, the pair embark on a madcap adventure to save them both from ruin. But will the love they uncover be most priceless treasure of all? 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
 

MAD FOR LOVE

Copyright © 2015 by Elizabeth Essex

Excerpt from
Mad About the Marquess
by Elizabeth Essex, 2015

Excerpt from
Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to Marry
by Elizabeth Essex, 2015

Cover design by Patricia Schmitt/PickyMe Artist

Cover photo by Jenn LeBlanc/Studio Smexy

Vector images used under Creative Commons Attribution License: BSGStudio on All-Free-Download; Webdesignhot on All-Free-Download

Formatting by
Quillfire Author Services

ERB Publishing

All rights reserved. The author has provided this book for personal use only. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN:
978-0-9969881-6-2

For information, address Elizabeth Essex at
elizabethessex.com

Dear Reader,
 

I am pleased to finally be able to bring you this chipper, cheeky little novella, which is one of the first things I ever wrote, many years ago, as a fledgling romance writer. It was born as an homage to one of my favorite ‘caper movies,’ “How to Steal a Million,” written by Harry Kurnitz, based on a story by George Bradshaw, directed by William Wyler, and starring the incomparable Audrey Hepburn and a dashing Peter O’Toole. I hope my version of the story retains all the madcap charm of the original, while giving you a different, but no less satisfying and amusing experience. Enjoy!
 

Wishing you all happy reading!

Cheers, Elizabeth

Dedication

To Chris Keniston and Kathy Ivan,
 

authors and friends, for shepherding me through.

Chapter One

London, Early Spring 1790

Marie Chantal Amélie du Blois never felt more French than when she was in London. Something about her seemed to mark her as different, as if the nightmare of their flight from Paris were painted across her face instead of the polite English smile she tried to give the world. As if her full French mouth were incapable of a sufficiently stiff upper lip.

But despite this deformity of character, she would continue to try to stiffen her lip, continue to wear English clothes and buy English bread while she shopped in English markets—she would become English through sheer dint of will.
 

Because she loved London.
 

She loved everything about the damp, down-at-her-heels city. Papa often said that London was dull in comparison to Paris, with all its fashion and art, but Mignon, as Papa called her, liked dull. She liked safe. And London’s shabby pavements, leafy squares, and tidy shops felt entirely safe.

“Good morning, Miss Blois.” Mrs. Parkhurst, from the house next door, nodded cordially as Mignon came along the uneven pavement.
 

Soho Square wasn’t the most fashionable district of London, or the richest. But it would do very nicely. Because it was pretty, and green, and nothing bad could ever happen here, so far away, across the water from Paris, where bad things seemed to be happening daily.

“
Madame
.” Mignon curtsied and shifted her market basket to the other hip. “How do you fare this fine morning?”

“Tolerably well,” Mrs. Parkhurst nodded her billowing English bonnet. “You are to be congratulated. I saw your father, earlier. He seemed very well pleased by the auction of his art at Mr. Christie’s.”

“Auction?” Mignon felt her stiffened upper lip fall slack. This was the first she had heard of an auction.

“Very pleased, he was.” Mrs. Parkhurst was nodding in her genial way. “So nice to see him so pleased and well, after all your troubles.”

Their ‘troubles’ had been broadcast about the square like poppy seeds by Papa. In his version of the truth, they had left France under the most horrific of circumstances. True, there was great turmoil and unrest in that country, especially for aristocrats, even disgraced youngest sons of disinherited younger sons—in Paris the slightest whiff of aristocratic forbearers had been enough to incite a mob. But the plain truth was, she and Papa had managed to escape before the worst of the violence had found them. Because her papa, bless him, was a scoundrel, and scoundrels had a nose for such things.

“Thank you kindly,
Madame
.” Mignon made the lady a graceful curtsy. “I am glad the weather continues fine for your walk. Good day.”

The old woman nodded regally, pleased that she had been the one to bring Mignon the news, and made her way onward while Mignon bounded up the shallow step of Number 30, through the unlocked door—Papa may have said London was boring, but he gloried in the fact that in Soho Square, he could leave his door unlocked—and into the neat, neoclassical foyer. “Good afternoon, Henri. Is my father at home?”

Their major domo took her wide-brimmed straw hat and York tan gloves. “In his chambers,
Mademoiselle,
” he said in his heavily accented English. “Do you care for tea?”

“No, thank you, Henri. I will go straight up.” Mignon picked up the skirts of her walking dress, and mounted the stair to the top floor where her father kept his rooms, including a secret studio reached only by a hidden passage through Papa’s enormous
armoire
.
 

“Papa?” She stepped into his glass-roofed
atelier
, hidden from view of the street, at the back of the roof.

“Mignon!” he called with his usual Gallic enthusiasm. “Hello, my darling.”

“Papa.” She tried to make her greeting stern. Still, he was her papa, and force of habit made her kiss him on both cheeks in the French manner. “Papa, it becomes necessary for us to have to have a long, serious talk.”

“Aha!” His smile was sly and gleeful. “You heard of my triumph.”

“It is all over the street, Papa. You should not talk of money to such people as Mrs. Parkhurst—it’s not done. She will put it about that we are vulgar.”

“Pah! We are French,” he countered, dismissing all notions of English propriety. “We can never be vulgar. Oh, my angel, I wish I had thought to take you. It was a triumph, the sale. I could have sold a score of Vermeers on the very spot, had I put them up for auction.”

“Papa,” she made her voice chiding. “One Vermeer is more than enough. Papa, you must stop.”

He winced, closing his eyes the way he always did when he didn’t want to listen. “Move out of my light.” He waved her over to a chair. “I must finish this work while the heat of success lends me genius.”

A peek at his canvas revealed him putting the finishing details on another oil, a portrait of a lace be-decked cavalier, painted in the Dutch style—another forgery, no matter the style.
 

“Papa, it is too soon!”

“Never fear, my child. This long lost masterpiece from the Blois collection will not be for sale for many, many years. I will hang it in the salon, and then perhaps, in good time, some rich-as-Croesus English lord may persuade me to part with it.”

“Papa.” Mignon heaved out a resigned sigh. “You are such a scoundrel.”

Her papa was entirely unrepentant. “Thank you, my child.”

He went back to his work, while she tried to think of a new argument to sway him from his crooked path. Which was highly unlikely, because none of her arguments had ever made the slightest impression upon her Papa.

“There.” He put down the brushes. “It is done.” He turned the easel to present her the canvas.

Mignon turned her own critical eye to the piece. “Hals?”

“Aha! Yes, very good, my dear. Yes, I doubt even Frans Hals himself would be able to tell the different between his
Cavalier
and mine.”

“One can only assume the reason he does not do so is because he is dead,” Mignon muttered before she tried a different approach. “You know, Papa, this boastfulness is entirely unbecoming.” She busied herself tidying up the perpetual mess of the
atelier
—Papa never let Henri in to clean. “Someday, you are not going to be able to contain your terrible pride.” She picked up a particularly dirty plate.