“Thank you.” She took it and scrunched it into her fist.
Christopher’s scalp prickled at the sound of approaching hoof beats. He must be off. The young woman was right. Mistaken or not, he had unlawfully stopped her carriage during a time of night normally reserved for thieves and footpads.
“I must beg pardon.” He bowed slightly and placed the lantern on the floor at her feet. “It appears I stopped the wrong carriage.” He didn’t really believe she could influence the authorities but he would heed her threat and tread carefully for now. Besides, it was Lord Candel he wanted, not this threadbare young woman, no matter how alluring.
She snorted. “Indeed.”
He tipped his hat then slammed shut the door with such force the tipsy coachman leaned over on one arm to peer down at him with astonished eyes from his driver’s perch.
“The lantern’s inside,” Christopher ordered. “And the lady is late for her appointment so it best behooves you to be on your way.”
And with that, a disgusted Christopher Sharrington leapt on Vesuvius and galloped away. A wasted endeavor this had turned out to be – he was no closer to retrieving his winnings.
Then he remembered she had said she knew Lord Candel. If so, it was conceivable she could find him, Christopher, through Candel. Another reason to hate the man although who knew whether or not she would follow through on her threat.
He could only hope not.
* * *
Heart pounding at her audacity, a bemused Josceline sagged against the seat, clutching the handkerchief. It was still warm from where it had lain against the man’s chest, and soft, made of the finest lawn and embroidered with presumably his name. It almost seemed a shame to use it but she could scarce arrive at her destination with a bloodied face. Besides, a handkerchief could be washed.
She dabbed at her temple, wincing slightly then tucked the bloodied handkerchief into her sleeve.
“Oh my. I just ordered a highwayman from my carriage,” she breathed, gaze pinned to the door where he had stood scant seconds before.
The enormity of her actions dawned on her and she began to shiver, great, wrenching shivers that crawled up her back and rattled her teeth. She must be cold, that was it. She grabbed the mantle and pulled it higher, over her nose, not even caring that the edge of it was greasy and frayed and it smelled of horse.
Luck was with her that the man had heeded her words and left. No, came the rueful realization, more likely he had taken one look at her and realized she had nothing. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady?” The driver rapped on the door and swung it open. “I needs me lantern. It be black as Satan’s heart tonight.” Without waiting for her answer, he reached in and grabbed it.
“Now you have your lantern, carry on to Oakland Grange, if you please.” To her ears, her voice sounded boorish and she opened her mouth to apologize. Before she could, the coachman slammed shut the door with nary a comment, apparently well used to the vagaries of his passengers.
In a few seconds, the coach tilted and creaked as he climbed aboard and then came the slap of the reins and a croaky “geeup”. The clip clop of hooves resumed, the rhythmic clatter renewing her anger of moments before.
Anger warmed her, spread its welcome heat into her chest and face. The entire journey had been a disaster. The mail coach had become stuck and the better part of yesterday had been lost freeing it. Then, after an uncomfortable night at the posting inn, the coachman she had engaged this morning to take her to Oakland Grange laughed in her face at her repeated orders to depart and had instead drank away most of the day with the money she had given him for the fare.
When they were finally underway, she realized the horses were old and swaybacked and could not go faster than a walk. The coach itself was ancient and did not even boast a foot warmer so she had caught a chill.
And just when the coachman had assured her “Milady, it be just a mile or two at most”, they had been stopped by the highwayman.
Who did that rogue think he was, she fumed silently, to stop her coach, scaring her witless and then offering a clearly insincere apology.
In her mind’s eye, she could see him: Tall, so tall he need not stand on the step to peer inside. Dark, so dark, his hair, worn long, blended into the night sky. His eyes, although she had not been able to make out the color - brown, she thought - had inspected her with an intensity that fair scoured her skin and she felt her cheeks warm at the remembrance. Couple all that with a firm, clean shaven chin and generous mouth and under different circumstances she would certainly describe him as handsome.
He didn’t fit her idea of a highwayman at all. Highwaymen were a scruffy, disreputable lot - this man had been dressed in evening clothes beneath the unbuttoned great coat. Too, his handkerchief was of the finest fabric and richly embroidered – scarcely the accoutrement of a dissolute man.
Her heart beat faster at the memory of him; that angered her too, that the man, whoever he was, had caught her attention as if she was fresh from the school room.
At the thought of the school room, she remembered why she was in the coach in the first place. Therein lay the real root of her anger. She, who prided herself on her punctuality and through no fault of her own, would be late arriving for her new posting as governess to the children of Lord and Lady Oakland.
Certainly not the most auspicious start.
Chapter Three
Josceline stepped gingerly from the coach. Much to her surprise, every window in Oakland Grange glowed with candlelight. Had they been awaiting her arrival all this time? With frozen fingers, she managed to pull out the slim, gold pocket watch from where it hung around her neck and in the muted glow of the single oil lantern standing sentinel at the top of the crushed stone drive, checked the time.
Almost midnight. She slipped the watch back into her neckline and curled her fingers into her palms to warm them. Drawing a deep breath, she willed her shoulders to relax. Finally she was here. Her stomach grumbled reminding her it had been a long time since her last meal.
Then she spied the waiting carriages. Lord and Lady Oakland were entertaining this evening. Apparently her late arrival would not go unnoticed. Her heart sank.
“Yer bag.” The coachman dropped it at her feet.
“Thank you.” She nodded coolly. The man was a disgrace to his trade but to reproach him now would serve no purpose. She turned to face the front porch, picking up her carpet bag and gripping the handle tightly. It was heavy and bumped against her legs as she ascended the steps.
Behind her, the hack’s wheels crunched down the drive, fading into nothing until all she heard was the rattle of bare branches in the wind.
She raised the polished brass knocker and let it fall. It hit with a frosty “clank”, the sound echoing off the stone driveway.
Nothing. The door remained closed.
She tried again, lifting it and banging it a number of times. From inside, she heard the thump of footsteps and then a sharp “clack” as the bolt was drawn.
The massive door swung open. Framed in the light stood a rotund man - the butler, she supposed.
She hastened to introduce herself. “Lady Josceline Woodsby. Late of London. I’ve come for the position of governess to the children of Lord and Lady Oakland. My carriage was delayed -.” She stopped at the disinterested look on the man’s face. Best to save her explanation for her new employers.
“Come in. I am Howard, butler of Oakland Grange.” He stood back and gestured. “I shall tell my lord you are here.” He waddled off, swaying side to side like a carriage with broken springs.
Josceline moved into the foyer and dropped her bag on the Persian carpet that stretched from the doorway to the base of a mahogany staircase winding gracefully to the second floor.
Clasping her hands at her waist in a vain attempt to stem the butterflies, she looked about to get her bearings. In the shadows beyond the staircase stood a grandfather clock, its
stately tick tock tick tock soothing her. She had nothing to fear, she chided herself. Elizabeth’s mama had assured Josceline the position belonged to her.
She moved forward a step or two. To her left hung a large portrait of a man dressed in forest green on a beautiful bay hunter; to her right, an arched doorway opened into a salon – she could hear laughter and the tinkle of glass. A few notes sounded from a pianoforte and someone began to sing an aria from Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro”. It was one of her favorites and she began to hum along.
Not wishing to peer in and risk appearing rude, she chose to study the portrait. A throat cleared behind her, a masculine grunt. She whirled about, nerves churning anew.
A tall, thin, blonde-haired man in black evening clothes inspected her through a tortoise shell lorgnette. “Lady Woodsby? I am Lord Oakland.”
“Yes.” She curtsied. “I am sorry I am late.”
“The position is no longer available. It has already been filled.” A disdainful Lord Oakland folded the handle of his lorgnette and tucked it into his pocket before looking down his nose at her.
“What?” Josceline’s jaw dropped; gape mouthed she stared at the thin man before her.
“We expected you much earlier, yesterday, in fact.”
Stunned, she finally remembered to close her mouth. This couldn’t be. She opened her mouth again to question the man but he continued talking. She closed her mouth, waiting to hear the man’s explanation.
“Yes, another candidate arrived this morning and Lady Oakland and I have engaged her services.”
“There must be a mistake,” Josceline replied crisply. This was not the time to be timid. She had not come this far to be cast off so easily. “Lady Watson informed me her good friend Lady Oakland had agreed to my posting.”
“Be that as it may, the position is filled.”
She pulled out her letters of reference and waved them in the air. “I have excellent references, Lord Oakland. I assure you I am tardy through no fault of my own.”
The man shrugged. “I can hardly entrust the care of my precious children to someone who cannot even find her way in a timely manner.”
“But how shall I return to London? My hack has left. I cannot leave.”
“That, Lady Woodsby, is none of my concern. If you will excuse me, I have guests to attend to.” His voice was cold; his eyes shards of ice. Clearly the man was through with her.
Josceline’s head began to whirl. The long hours in the carriage, her hunger, and now the realization her position had disappeared, made her light headed.
The hawk-nosed face of Lord Oakland disappeared into a black mist.
* * *
Josceline awoke to the acrid odor of smelling salts. Struggling to remember where she was, she lay with her eyes closed while a babble of voices wafted over her. None of them were familiar. Where was she?
Memories returned in a waterfall surge. Oakland Grange. She was at Oakland Grange and Lord Oakland had just informed her she was no longer wanted as governess. Despair nibbled at her – failure had set in before she even had the chance to show her capabilities. She kept her eyes shut, certain if she opened them, tears would trickle down her cheeks.
“I say, Lord Oakland, the chit looks as if she has seen better days.” A masculine voice floated from a distance.
“Indeed. Poor thing is in a dreadful state.” A woman’s voice. “Look at that hideous dress.”
“All of you move aside if you please and let me see.”
Josceline opened her eyes in time to see a well dressed mature woman kneel beside her. White feathers spilled from the woman’s black hair, matching the feathers on the lace stole draped about her shoulders, which in turn matched her high waisted lace dress. In short, the very epitome of current London fashion. They may be in the country but by no means was it the backwater Josceline had supposed.
“My dear, I am Lady Oakland. And you must be Lady Josceline Woodsby.” The woman picked up one of Josceline’s hands and patted it. “I must apologize. When you didn’t arrive as expected, we thought you had changed your mind so we employed a local woman. Pay no mind to my husband. You must stay here tonight. In the morning we shall set things to right.” Lady Oakland’s face showed concern; her grey eyes were sympathetic. She was not nearly the unfeeling monster her husband was.
Josceline blinked back tears at the woman’s kindness. Surely it was all a misunderstanding. Surely the governess position would belong to her after all.
She nodded slowly and looked up past Lady Oakland to the circle of eight or so shadowed faces hanging over them like a strand of mismatched beads. Her gaze roamed slowly from face to face. An odd mix they were: two young women in identical dress, twins, obviously; an elderly woman dressed in mourning; several unattached men of varying ages; a middle-aged couple. She had thought perhaps she might recognize one or two from London seasons past but no, they were all strangers to her.
Only one man hung back, leaning against the doorjamb of the salon, arms crossed. It wasn’t until he turned his head that she could clearly see his face.
She gasped in disbelief.
It was the highwayman.
At her gaze, he narrowed his eyes and lowered his chin, an almost imperceptible movement. Obviously, he recognized her.
“You!” She struggled to sit up, pulling at her skirts in a vain attempt to cover her ankles. “It was you!”
Her bonnet had been knocked askew when she had fallen and a ribbon dangled in her eye. One of the men offered her a helping hand and she clambered to her feet, nodding her thanks before adjusting her bonnet and pulling aside the offending ribbon.
It gave her time to think. It seemed unlikely a highwayman would travel in the Oakland’s social circle. What was he doing here? Perhaps she was mistaken.
Again she looked at him. His eyes were pinned on her as if by his gaze alone he could stop her allegations. Without a doubt, it was the man who had stopped her carriage earlier tonight.
“Do you know Captain Sharrington?” Lady Oakland too had risen and now, clearly astonished, she stood beside Josceline. “He recently bought a nearby estate and this evening we are introducing him to our neighbors.”
“I do not,” declared Josceline. “We have met, however.” She scowled, pinning her venom on him. His obstruction had caused her tardiness.
“No longer captain, I’m afraid. I’ve just resigned my position in the Royal Navy.” Sharrington pulled away from the wall and straightened up. “And as much as I would like to claim acquaintance with the young woman, I am afraid we have not met before. I would not forget someone as enchanting as Lady Woodsby.” A mocking smile hovered over his lips. Prove me wrong, he seemed to say.
Of course. He denied any knowledge of their earlier encounter. Reason fled at his sardonic manner; anger fueled her tongue.
“He is lying,” she blurted. “Why, it is thanks to him I am late. He-.” She stopped when she noticed the skeptical faces surrounding her. It was a case of her word against his. If anything, she had only succeeded in making herself appear deranged with her outburst. “I must beg pardon. It appears I am mistaken,” she whispered, feeling the fool. Her knees shook with fatigue. “Is there somewhere I might sit?”
Lady Oakland took one look at her and waved the others back to the salon.
“Let us sit here a moment, shall we?” She took Josceline’s arm and showed her to a horsehair armchair beneath the painting Josceline had examined earlier.
A grateful Josceline took the seat proffered her. “Please do not concern yourself for me. I shall be fine in a few moments. I swear, I was certain I had met Mr. Sharrington before.” She clutched the arms of the chair, the stiff fabric pricking her fingers.
“An honest mistake.” Lady Oakland patted Josceline’s hand. “Join us in the salon when you feel ready.”
At Josceline’s nod, Lady Oakland turned and swept off, disappearing into the salon. Her voice drifted back to Josceline. “Agatha, oh Agatha, do sing more for us.” Not
es rippled again from the pianoforte, joined by a strong soprano voice. The tune was not familiar to Josceline and she listened for several moments, welcoming the distraction. The song ended, applause sounded, reminding her of her precarious situation.
The last thing she felt like was facing the party. Really, the only thing she felt like was finding a bed to fling herself upon and pulling the sheets up over her head. She had no position, she had no means to return to London and she had only succeeded in making herself look a fool with Lord and Lady Oakland with her accusation against one of their guests. They must be appalled.
Never mind that. The problem was what could she do now? The apparition of her father staggering into the Eversleigh’s ballroom shimmered in her mind. To return home to London to face his ire and an unwanted marriage with Mr. Burrows did not sit well with her.
But if not that, then what?
* * *
Christopher could not believe the rotten luck.
Snagging a glass of port from the sideboard, he stalked past the twin sisters, ignoring their high pitched giggles when he inadvertently brushed against their skirts. Damnation, seeing Josceline had rattled him so much he had forgotten their names which meant he couldn’t even mount a proper apology.
Instead he swept them an exaggerated bow which elicited another round of hysterical giggles. If the two were an example of the women of the upper crust, then he doubted very much the nobility would last beyond another generation or two. Which then raised the interesting question: Why was he trying so hard to ingratiate himself into that very echelon of society? He swirled the maroon liquid around in his glass, looking into it as if he could find the answer there.
Her Proper Scoundrel Page 2
