He lowered himself into his seat, slouching against the high back. If he turned his head, he could see Lady Josceline Woodsby sitting beneath that dreadfully pompous portrait of his host. Her eyes were closed, her fingers pressed to her temples. Even from here, he could see her shoulders heave from time to time.
It was obvious she was distraught. That he might have something to do with it bothered him a little. She had looked to throttle him when he had denied their chance encounter but now she just looked miserable. However, what bothered him more was that he had waylaid her carriage. If anyone believed her story, his reputation would be in tatters before he even had a chance to construct a new life apart from the Navy.
No matter the cost, he could not, would not let that happen.
Chapter Four
From the relative quiet of the hall and the sanctuary of the horsehair chair, Josceline regarded Mr. Christopher Sharrington. He seemed at ease in his surroundings, seemed to enjoy his companions, chuckling heartily at the jests and even offering a few of his own. He clapped appreciatively when the musical performance ended and lavishly praised Lady Oakland on the pleasant evening. In short, a likeable guest. Almost too likeable, as if he was trying to be something he wasn’t.
Her eyes narrowed. Quite simply, his likeable manner irked her. The way he lolled in the leather wingback chair irked her. The way he held his glass, the tilt of his head, the way he laughed, all of it irked her. How she longed to wipe the complacent expression from his face.
And now, after having had time to collect herself, she knew just how to do it. And, if she managed him properly, she would have a solution to her dilemma.
She rose and moved to the door of the crowded salon, waiting for a break in the conversation to catch his attention. While she waited, she glanced around the salon. It was a comfortable room, well meant for musical evenings for it was dominated by a pianoforte surrounded by a scattering of upholstered armchairs and benches. A fire flickered cheerily in the grate to her left; against one wall, a side board groaned with trays of sweets, mismatched crystal decanters filled with assorted cordials, and a large silver tea pot ringed by matching tea cups.
Josceline felt a sudden pang - it reminded her of convivial evenings at her parent’s home, before Mama died. Regret fluttered through her breast – Oakland Grange would have been a lovely home in which to live and work. Apart from the icy Lord Oakland, that is.
At last Lady Oakland noticed Josceline and gestured to her; voices fell away one by one as the others saw her until only the crackle and snap of the fire filled the air. Josceline seized her opportunity.
“Mr. Sharrington? May I have a word with you?” Josceline ignored the surprised look on Lady Oakland’s face, ignored the disapproving looks on the faces of the female guests, ignored the shocked silence.
Her actions were highly improper but she had no choice if she hoped to salvage something of the situation. Surely London was distant enough that word of her behavior would not find its way there. “You will all forgive me but I shan’t take but a moment with him.”
She folded her arms, squarely meeting his surprised gaze. One side of his mouth lifted slightly; a charcoal eyebrow quirked. As he hauled himself out of his seat, she turned and stepped away into the hall. In the surprised silence holding the salon, she heard his footsteps, unhurried yet firm. That annoyed her too – he clearly had no interest in what she had to say. Well, he would, she would see to that.
She waited for him beneath Lord Oakland’s portrait, clutching the back of the horsehair chair. This time she welcomed the prickly fabric against her palms – it reminded her to keep her wits about her for certainly Mr. Christopher Sharrington would be no easy opponent.
“It was you,” she hissed when he reached her. “And I have your handkerchief to prove it.” She pulled it from her sleeve and waved it in front of his face. It was crumpled and splotched with dried blood. Her blood. “Now, Mr. Sharrington, you are going to help me or I shall show this to any and all of tonight’s guests.”
“And?” His face remained passive although a vein throbbed in one temple.
“And I will tell them you assaulted me and gave it to me to staunch the blood.” She pointed to the scrape on her temple where she had hit her head. “This is fresh, anyone can see that.”
“The roads are rough. You simply bumped your head when your carriage hit a rut.” He pointed to her temple. “It’s nothing a little plaster won’t fix. I regret to inform you, Lady Woodsby, your misfortune is no concern of mine.”
“I would suggest, Mr. Sharrington, it is indeed your concern.” Again she held up the handkerchief. “I do believe your name is embroidered upon this.”
“I am not the only man with the name of Sharrington.” He crossed his arms. “You are sadly mistaken if you think I can do anything for you.”
“And you are sadly mistaken if you think you can walk away and do nothing.”
“It is your word against mine.” A smile hovered over his lips.
The scoundrel enjoyed this. He had no right to find amusement at her peril. She scowled at him.
“Who will they believe? The Duke of Cranston’s daughter who is also companion to the daughter of Lady Oakland’s dear cousin? Or a commoner, a stranger newly arrived in the area?” She could see the words wounded him, for he flinched. She pressed her advantage and held up the handkerchief once more. “Are you going to help me? Or shall I announce to all and sundry that you are nothing but a highwayman masquerading as a gentleman? I am certain the local authorities would find that of the utmost interest.”
A burst of laughter rolled through the salon door. The festivities had commenced again. The others apparently had so little regard for her, a genteel woman, that they had forgotten her and her predicament. The thought stung and she resolved more than ever to make Mr. Sharrington understand her situation. She would not return to London, even if it meant stooping to blackmail the man who had unwittingly stopped her carriage.
Deliberately she tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve. It was the only proof she had of their meeting and she must take care with it.
She clasped her hands and waited for his answer.
* * *
Christopher gazed hard at Josceline. Damnation, she had a point. Her position in society gave her much more clout than he had at this moment. Furthermore, the slightest whiff of scandal would destroy any chance he had to become accepted into the local gentry.
“And supposing I agree? How do you propose I should help you?” He emphasized “help” – he really had no idea what she thought he could do for her.
“I wish to find employment as a governess.” Her cool voice matched her steely eyes and he found himself admiring her boldness. A boldness which, unfortunately, involved him.
He shook his head and held up his hands. “I am newly quit from the Royal Navy. I have no knowledge of anyone in need of a governess.”
She tilted her head. “No siblings? No cousins? Surely, Mr. Sharrington, you-.”
“No,” he interrupted her. Really, this was all too annoying. “I don’t know anyone who needs a governess.”
“Then, Mr. Sharrington, I suggest you concoct children of your own. Or a child. One will do. Or perhaps you would rather face the penalty? I do believe the punishment for highwaymen is to hang by the neck until dead.” She flashed him a triumphant look. Top that, she seemed to say.
His mouth dropped open. Was she mad? A child. Did she have any idea what she had proposed? Not only did he despise children, being the noisy, smelly things they were, but having children implied having a wife. And a wife was something he did not want at this particular moment. Yet Lady Woodsby wanted him to invent a child. How did she think he would pull it off?
It was obvious she watched him, for she pointed to her sleeve.
Desperate, he searched his mind. What had he told his hosts? Would he be able to invent the existence of a child? He had to, he had no choice. The hangman’s noose was not an appealing thoug
ht at all. Plus, it would be impossible to exact his revenge from the grave.
He nodded slowly, once, twice. “Very well.”
“Your word.” She demanded. “Give me your word you shall employ me as governess.”
“You have my word.” If he swallowed hard, he could feel the knot of the hangman’s noose against his neck. Or perhaps it was the noose the very clever Lady Woodsby had placed that he could feel.
Either way, it unnerved him.
* * *
A very relieved Josceline followed Christopher into the salon. Her bluff had succeeded. He had no idea the Duke of Cranston was a laughing stock and consequently the accusations of his daughter would carry no weight. Truth be told, she had not been at all certain he would agree to her gambit but he had.
As much as she hated to admit it, she marveled at his aplomb. No doubt facing the specter of jail and most likely death had spurred him on.
It would be interesting to see the man make his explanations.
* * *
Christopher gritted his teeth and strolled over to Lady Oakland. “Perhaps I have a solution to Lady Woodsby’s predicament. If it meets with your approval, of course.” He turned back to look at Josceline. “I have engaged her services.”
There. It was done, he couldn’t back out now. Whether he wanted her or not, she was now in his employ.
“What? Er, that is, why, Mr. Sharrington, I had no idea you were in need of a governess.” If Lady Oakland was surprised, she was too well bred to show it.
“Indeed I am,” Christopher declared. “It would seem the misfortune of Lady Woodsby is my gain.” He looked over to Josceline. “Lady Woodsby has agreed to fill the position. Immediately. If you would be so kind as to put her up for the night, I shall send my carriage for her first thing in the morning.”
“Really, Mr. Sharrington? I had no idea you had children. And your wife? Will she approve?” The way Lady Oakland asked, Christopher knew she was skeptical.
Of course, gossip had accompanied his arrival in the area. His hostess knew he had no wife. And no children.
“Er, passed away some years ago. She died of consumption while I was at sea.” The ease with which the fib passed his lips bolstered his confidence. “I have a young son. He lives in Bristol with my mother. I’ve been meaning to send for him once I got settled here.”
At least this was partly true. When his mother had been alive, she had indeed lived in Bristol. He could feel sweat lining his brow and he wiped it away with his fingers. He didn’t know why the untruths should bother him – they certainly weren’t the first ones he had told, nor, most likely, would they be the last.
“How very serendipitous.” Lady Oakland clasped her hands; the feathers in her hair quivered. “A happy solution all around. If you like I shall inform dear Lady Watson of the change.” She smiled warmly at Josceline who responded with a weak nod and strained smile.
The young woman’s tepid response surprised Christopher. Perhaps she was already having second thoughts on demanding a position with him. The thought reassured him for if so, it would mean she would want free of this tangle as much as he did. He wondered at her distaste of returning to London, a distaste so strong that she had forced a situation on them both.
For now, he would go along with the preposterous suggestion but only until he managed to regain his handkerchief, the only proof she had of their encounter. Then he would send the autocratic Lady Josceline Woodsby on her way.
Leaving him to happily continue with his neatly ordered, neatly planned life.
Chapter Five
Late the next morning, Josceline waited on the front steps while Christopher paid his respects to Lady Oakland. A winter sun shone through a break in the clouds. It teased Josceline, giving the illusion of warmth when, in reality, frost glittered on the shriveled branches of the trees lining the drive. She pulled up the hood on her cloak then tucked her hands into her sleeves.
Although chill, coal smoke did not foul the air as in London. Rather, the air was crisp, clean, and tinged with the faintest salt tang. She took an appreciative breath, enjoying the pinch of the cold air in her nostrils, feeling it roll all the way into her lungs. It was as if she could be cleansed from the inside out, making a new Josceline out of the old, drab Josceline.
Behind her, her new employer bid his adieu to Lady Oakland. In seconds he stood beside her, grasping her elbow.
“Come,” he said and amid a flurry of goodbyes, he propelled her down the steps towards the waiting carriage. It was new, so new, in fact, that the metal spokes of the wheels gleamed and the glossy, black exterior caught the sun’s weak rays. The vehicle bespoke of recent wealth and her threadbare bag, strapped to the back, was incongruously out of place.
As they walked, her arm tingled with the firmness of his grip and she glanced up at the stern profile. Her bravado disappeared in a poof.
What had possessed her to demand employment from him? The man had stopped her coach in the middle of the night. She knew naught of him, or of his background. She should run from him as fast as she could yet now she accompanied him to his home.
Because, she reminded herself, it meant she need not return to London. And surely Lady Oakland would have stepped in if she had any doubts as to the suitability of the man.
A cloud drifted over the sun and the landscape turned dull brown, matching her suddenly sinking spirits. This was no idle adventure she embarked upon. She had found herself a station in a stranger’s household and now she must work to earn her living.
She pulled free her arm, massaging her elbow for she could still feel his fingers imprinted upon her skin.
Sharrington paused to pull open the door and offered her his hand. She looked at it as if it was a toad’s head.
Suddenly the position in his home lacked appeal. He could do away with her and claim she’d returned to London and no one would be the wiser. Perhaps her plan lacked proper forethought. Perhaps she should throw herself upon Lady Oakland’s mercy.
She glanced back but the woman had already disappeared behind the well-polished doors of Oakland Grange. Her sudden panic must have shown on her face for Christopher dropped his hand.
“I don’t bite.” Humor tinged his voice.
“Of – of course not.” She ignored the mocking smile and sardonic glint in his eyes and clambered unaided into the carriage, sliding onto the rear squabs, settling herself precisely in the middle. She spread her skirts out as much as she could to make it very clear to the impertinent Mr. Sharrington she did not desire his advances in any way.
She pointedly ignored him when he climbed in, averting her gaze by looking out the window. He slammed the carriage door behind him and rapped on the roof to signal the coachman before seating himself across from her.
They rolled down the driveway and turned onto the road. The way the carriage glided over the frozen ruts as if on runners confirmed her suspicions the carriage was new. Where had the man, a former naval captain, come up with the funds to buy a new carriage? Had he been involved in nefarious activities?
She peered at him out of the corner of her eye. Even his clothing was new. As she watched, he ran his finger beneath his crisp lawn cravat, the action suggesting he was not quite comfortable with the starched edges. It gave her the same feeling she had had last night when observing him in the salon at Oakland Grange - the feeling he played an unfamiliar part.
“You look as if I am going to do away with you.” The humorous tone of his voice annoyed her and she deigned to turn her head and glare at him. The rogue. He had guessed her apprehensions.
“Not to worry.” He laughed, a short bark. “I’m not anxious to add murder to my list of indiscretions.”
“I should hope not, Mr. Sharrington.”
She turned away again to gaze out the window at the passing landscape. The ground lay draped in winter, as forlorn and colorless as her life had been in the few years since her Mama’s death. Just as self-pity threatened to overwhelm her, her companion spoke.<
br />
“It would seem I have engaged a governess yet have no idea of her qualifications. Do you care to enlighten me, Lady Woodsby?”
Josceline turned her head and regarded him closely. There was no hint of mockery in his eyes - the question appeared to be rooted in genuine curiosity.
Manners dictated she must answer. She had forced herself upon the man to find herself a new life therefore it would do well to focus on the future and not dwell on the past. As if in concert with her thoughts, the sun broke through again and now she could see hints of green poking here and there through the stalks of dead grass prattling in the breeze.
“The usual, I suppose.” She spoke briskly. “I am proficient in French and Italian, and have rudimentary knowledge of Greek and Latin. History, of course, and mathematics and geography.”
“What of the finer arts, say music, or dance? I assume you are proficient at those as well?”
She nodded. “And watercolors. I enjoy painting and sketching.” She reddened, realizing she had exposed a personal side of herself he realistically would have no interest in knowing.
“I see.”
He leaned forward to gaze out the window, resting one kid-gloved hand on the sill, effectively ending the conversation.
Aside from the clip clop of shod hooves and the squeak of new leather as he shifted position, silence enveloped the carriage.
She studied him through lowered lashes.
Mr. Christopher Sharrington was older than she had first thought, perhaps in his early-thirties. His earlier good humor had disappeared, replaced by obvious displeasure for his jaw was taut, the dark eye brows lowered to bridge his eyes. She hoped it was not with her for it would make her time with him uncomfortable, to say the least.
Her Proper Scoundrel Page 3
