Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  “Good night, Josceline. I vow, next time you shan’t escape so easily.”

  Josceline plucked the handkerchief from its hiding spot behind the frame and stumbled to the bed. Plopping down, she held it close to her nose to inhale the scent of citrus and leather.

  She couldn’t remember ever having enjoyed a meal so much. And it hadn’t been only the repast.

  No, how she enjoyed his appreciative gaze on her, his questions as if he really wanted to know the answer, his way of making her feel as if she was an intelligent human being.

  That night she slept with the handkerchief tucked under her pillow.

  * * *

  Christopher’s erection throbbed mercilessly as he stood outside Josceline’s room. How he wanted to follow her to her bed. But she was the daughter of a duke and merited his respect. She would make a fine wife for someone.

  Why not him?

  The idea took root. Josceline as his wife. Would she accept him as her husband? She would if he could make her love him. For that was what she had said earlier – she wished to marry for love.

  A sobering reality hit him. If he took her to wife, he would have to disclose his terrible secret. Then there was the awkward notion of her birth. He wasn’t of her class.

  But if he married her, he would be. Perhaps not actually, but technically he would move in her social circles. Lady Oakland and her ilk would no longer prove a barrier to him.

  The more he thought on it, the more he liked the idea of Josceline as his wife. And the more he liked the idea, the more outlandish it seemed.

  And the more outlandish it seemed, the more impossible it became to attain. Prudence would dictate he not follow the path of an unattainable fantasy.

  Perhaps it would be best to keep his distance from her. If he could.

  Chapter Twelve

  Josceline spent Saturday in her room mending. Two days had passed since the wonderful dinner with Christopher.

  Two days where she’d dreamed of him constantly.

  Two days where he’d been distant and preoccupied.

  Two days where she’d gone out of her way to catch a glimpse of him.

  Two days where he’d blatantly avoided her, so much so, he’d cancelled his dance lessons.

  What troubled him? Had she been too forward that evening? She hadn’t thought so but to be sure, her memories of it were misty and overlaid with a golden haze of pleasure.

  The needle slipped, pricking her finger. A drop of blood welled and she popped the finger in her mouth. Balderdash. That was the fourth time today and if she were to have any fingers left, she had better keep her mind on her task.

  With a rueful moue, she held up a pair of already much mended stockings to inspect them – the thin silk of the heels made it difficult to sew. She bent her head and carefully began to stitch, grateful to the obliging Mrs. Belton who had provided her with needle, thread and scissors.

  From where she sat she could see the sweep of the front drive. The dull pewter sky spewed a fine rain that silvered the cobblestones and washed away winter’s dust. A week or two more and cheery jonquils would poke their heads through to signal the start of spring, Josceline’s favorite season. A little smile played on her lips at the thought. Spring lasted about three months and then she and her foolish heart could be on her way.

  At the sound of reckless hoof beats, she lifted her head to see Christopher on horseback pelting up the driveway. He leapt off his mount, throwing the reins to the footman before storming up the front steps.

  Even from this distance, she noticed the murderous set of his face and the deep scowl on his jaw. A few seconds later, she heard him bellow for Tedham then the ferocious slam of a door shook the floor.

  What could have happened to provoke this display of temper? It did not correspond with what she had learned of him during their dance lessons together. Even during those moments of frustration, his self-control – due, no doubt, to his naval background - was in evidence as he never raised his voice or grumbled.

  She put aside her sewing. Mindlessly she stared at the spatters of rain pricking the window panes and tried to make sense of his behavior. It was none of her concern yet she couldn’t stop puzzling over it and what had happened to provoke it.

  The little mantel clock chimed four times, a rapid ding ding ding ding disturbing her reverie as surely as if someone had rapped her on the head four times with a sharp knuckle. Time for tea. Pausing only to smooth her hair, she made her way to the sitting room, expecting to find it empty.

  To her surprise, a brooding Christopher had already arrived. He sat in the leather chair, elbows propped on the arms, chin resting on his fist. One booted foot dangled over his knee, the other tapped the floor. His eyes were bleak as he watched her approach.

  “What happened? You look troubled.” Uncertain, Josceline lowered herself into her chair. It wasn’t her place to question his mood but she had to know what had beset him so. She regarded him with steady eyes and composed face although inside her heart beat a happy cadence at the sight of him.

  He looked for a moment as if he wouldn’t answer then he ground out the words, forcing them out as if they were as distasteful as sour berries.

  “I paid a call to that idiot Lord Candel today.” He avoided her gaze.

  “And what of Lord Candel?” She made her voice light. “He comes from a fine family.”

  “The man is a scurrilous rogue,” he growled, “with the manners of an oaf. The butler denied me entrance. As I stood on the front porch, Candel gave me the cut direct. He walked past me as if I did not exist.” He glanced at her. “Do you know of him?”

  “Everyone knows of the Candel family. They forged an illustrious military career on the Continent, garnering the undying gratitude of King George. Lord and Lady Thaddeus Candel are favorites at court and at all the assemblies for they are a gracious couple. The son, however, is a different matter. Oliver is a feckless rake and has been dunned out of London.”

  “Oliver.” Christopher slammed his fist on the arm of his chair. “I followed him as he walked to his carriage to call him on his manners. It gets worse.” He stopped and looked her fully in the face. “He promised he would spread the tale of the two lads unless I stop harassing him.”

  “A tale which tattling tongues will spread far and wide,” Josceline concluded. “Odd how two little boys can cause such hullabaloo.”

  She meant it as a jest and was rewarded with a wry snort and a momentary lightening of his expression.

  “The tale may have no bearing if Lady Oakland does not support it,” she added hopefully.

  “We do not know what Lady Oakland believes.” The scowl returned.

  Josceline sat for a moment, head spinning. “What is he to you?” she asked at length. “You spoke of him the night you stopped my carriage.”

  Christopher hesitated. “The man owes me a gambling debt. And I mean to have it.”

  “What is this debt you are so determined to recover that you are willing to face social ruin?”

  With hooded eyes, he scoured her face long and hard. His reluctance to confide in her was palpable; she leaned towards him as if to tease the words out of him.

  “A ship,” he answered finally. “A cargo ship, to be precise. The fool lost heavily at the gaming tables throughout that evening and at the end had only the ship’s deed to wager with. Wiser heads counseled him to withdraw but he refused, bragging that a single ship meant nothing to him.”

  “There you may be mistaken,” she said thoughtfully. “The Candel family dabbles in shipping and owns ships that ply out of Bristol. Hence Oliver being here. How odd he would risk losing it. He is well aware of its value.”

  He sank his jaw onto his fists and closed his eyes for a second. “When I bested him he accused me of cheating and refused to surrender the deed.”

  Her ire rose at the unfairness of it all. “Certainly there were other gentlemen who saw the entire episode,” she exclaimed.

  “Aye.” Christopher nod
ded morosely. “But none stood up for me for I am unknown here. I need that ship, Josceline.” He got to his feet and began to pace. “I simply don’t have the means to buy a vessel of my own. Needless to say, a captain without a ship is nothing.”

  “You mean to become a merchant captain yet you don’t own a ship?” Josceline tried, and failed, to keep astonishment from her voice.

  He nodded again, his lips twisted. “My original idea involved striking an arrangement with one of the local merchants here to earn a share in a ship in exchange for my services. I couldn’t believe my good luck when Candel wagered the “Bessie”. I know of her for since arriving in Bristol, I’ve investigated the local ship yards. She’s a sturdy vessel and well suited for the transatlantic trade. It seemed my prayers were answered.”

  “Until Candel reneged. Well, knowing his reputation, I cannot say I’m surprised to hear of his duplicity.”

  “If it were only the ship, I would hound Candel and be done with it. However, I need social standing if I mean to join the Society of Merchant Venturers. That will give me assured success for members are given the choicest berths and docks.” He rubbed his temples. “What rotten luck for him to have seen us leaving St. Peter’s.”

  “Would it be too difficult for you to proceed with your original plan?” As soon as she said it, she wished she could take back the words for his face became a stone mask.

  “No man dupes me of what is mine,” he spat. Without a second glance, he stalked from the room.

  A silent Josceline watched him go, heart aching at his defeated demeanor.

  There was more between Lord Oliver Candel and Mr. Christopher Sharrington than a mere gambling debt. It was written in the anguish in Christopher’s voice, in the taut creases of his face, the haunted look in his eyes.

  Josceline determined to find out. She much preferred his eyes filled with laughter, not the bitterness sullying them now.

  * * *

  Christopher didn’t know why he had gone to the sitting room first. By rights, he should have gone directly to the library, where he was now.

  He tossed back a glass of the fine cognac he had acquired on his final crossing to the Continent and poured himself another. The searing liquid helped clarify his thoughts.

  The past two days avoiding Josceline had been sheer torture. Day and night his mind had been filled with thoughts of her.

  Simply put, he had gone to the sitting room because he wanted to see her, to share what had happened, to have her tease him and make it right again.

  Instead, he had only succeeded in making himself look like a useless fool, duped and tossed aside like so much rubbish.

  There was the rub. He didn’t want to look the fool to Josceline, he wanted her esteem.

  Again he drained his glass.

  Not only have I been snubbed and threatened by Oliver Candel, I am haunted at night by snapping green eyes and peach hued lips.

  Snapping green eyes and peach hued lips that could send him to prison with the flash of a handkerchief.

  He hurled the empty glass into the fireplace taking grim satisfaction at the jagged pieces glittering amongst the ashes. He dropped into the chair behind his desk, leaning forward on his elbows to cradle his head in his palms.

  His life had become a complicated mess.

  How much simpler the sea faring life, with a sturdy deck heaving beneath his feet and the clean wind across his cheeks, the salt spray in his hair and his hands firm on the wheel. That night when he had won the “Bessie”, his sea faring dream began to crystallize.

  The dream had been in his grasp for an ephemeral instant before it had been snatched away by a liar and a cheat. Somehow Christopher had to take it back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Christopher lifted his head to gaze outside. It rained harder now, a perfect complement to his mood. He barely heard the hesitant tap over the spattering of the rain drops against the library windows.

  “Christopher? I heard a crash.” Josceline’s neat head poked around the door. “May I come in?”

  “As you please.” Arms crossed, he watched her step smoothly across the waxed hardwood floor towards him.

  “I have an idea. Such a simple idea, I do not know how we didn’t come upon it before.” A russet curl had worked itself loose to curve around her jaw and she shoved it back behind her ear impatiently.

  “Yes?” He knew his voice sounded harsh but he couldn’t help it.

  “Let us talk to Mrs. Wilkinson, the mistress at St. Peter’s Hospital. Perhaps she will take our part.” Her green eyes were darkened to jade in the dim light filtering through the windows yet he could see the earnestness shining in them.

  Our part. He liked the sound of that. He leaned back in his chair, hope rising as Josceline continued to talk.

  “We could ask her, could we not? Or rather, you could ask her. I don’t think we should risk being seen together there a second time.”

  Still he said nothing but thoughts began to churn through his head. Mrs. Wilkinson was the only person who could corroborate Candel’s story. If she didn’t back his story, then it wouldn’t carry any credibility. With Candel lacking credibility, Lady Oakland would have no reason to suspect anything.

  However, Candel spoke the truth, meaning Mrs. Wilkinson would have to bend the truth. Would she do so?

  She would if he paid her.

  As much as he hated stooping to such tactics, it appeared a plausible solution.

  Of course, there was also the haberdasher but a threat from Christopher to take his business elsewhere should be sufficient for that man’s discretion.

  With renewed optimism, he surveyed Josceline. Clever and sharp witted, she had a head on her shoulders. He liked that. Simpering women bored him to tears.

  She colored under his frank perusal. “Perhaps it isn’t such a good idea after all. I must beg pardon for interrupting you. I thought-.” Her voice trailed away and she clasped and unclasped her hands.

  “Josceline, it is a splendid idea.” He sprang to his feet and came around to take her cold hands in his very warm ones. “First thing on Monday I shall ride into Bristol and speak with Mrs. Wilkinson.” He grinned at her, willing her to smile back. “We have a plan. We can begin to fight.”

  He dropped her hands to move away. Keep your distance. The daughter of a duke can never be anything to you.

  The scent of violets and sandalwood lingered in his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, sure that by doing so he could capture some essence of her.

  Josceline welcomed his new found buoyant air. She returned his grin, knowing hers stretched ear to ear just like his.

  “You shall soon have Mrs. Wilkinson in agreement,” she declared with utmost confidence. “Oliver Candel will have no proof.”

  “Aye,” he agreed with a vigorous nod.

  Relief washed over Josceline as his features lost that pinched look to be replaced with open confidence. They had a plan. She exhaled slowly, unaware she had been holding her breath. Dragging her gaze away from his face, she contemplated the rain while marshaling her thoughts.

  With Candel’s threat rendered impotent, Lady Oakland must be convinced once and for all that Philip was truly Christopher’s son.

  The discussion with Lady Oakland required a deft touch and who better than Josceline herself. If successful, her position as governess would be solidified and she could safely finish her three month term. Here, at Midland House. With Christopher.

  And if unsuccessful?

  She wouldn’t allow herself to think upon that possibility.

  She, Josceline, would deal with Lady Oakland. How, she wasn’t sure, but she would find a way.

  * * *

  As soon as Christopher stepped inside St. Peter’s Hospital early Monday afternoon, he remembered the smell: The odor of unwashed bodies mingling with the stench of the river and the pungent stab of despair.

  Before scooting off, the unkempt boy who had let him in pointed wordlessly towards the bell pull. Christopher gave it
a firm tug. He couldn’t hear anything but presumably it rang somewhere within the recesses of the house.

  While he waited, he inspected the carved wall paneling depicting biblical scenes. Incongruous and depressing, it clearly signified the building had been intended for another use.

  Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned around to see the matron, garbed in the same grubby dress, shuffling towards him.

  “I ‘ad a feeling you’d come looking for me.” She leered at him knowingly.

  “Oh?”

  “Aye.” She nodded her head, setting the dirty mobcap to flapping. “I ‘ad a visitor. A dandy. Looking for the boys. I told ‘im nothing but he may come back. Determined sort, he was.”

  “I believe I know of whom you speak.” He drew himself up to full height and looked down his nose at the woman. “The man seeks to do me harm. Could we come to an agreement, Mrs., ah -.”

  Damnation, he could not for the life of him remember the woman’s name. The knowledge Candel had already been by to check the veracity of the boys’ heritage rattled him. He sucked in a lungful of air to steady himself, ignoring as best he could the foul smell.

  “Wilkinson,” she interjected helpfully. “And to what would we be agreeing to?”

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Wilkinson.” He pulled back his coat and patted his bulging vest pocket. “If you could forget we were here.”

  Her greedy eyes devoured the bulge in his vest. “For the right price, I’ll even forget the boys were ‘ere.”

  As he had expected, she sought money for her silence. Excellent.

  He pulled out his sack of coins. “Say, five guineas?” He counted out five coins and held them out.

  She swiped them off his palm so quickly her hand was a blur.

  “Thank ye.” She tucked the coins into her pocket. “I ain’t seen nothing. Not you, not Philip, not Tom.”