To Josceline, it almost looked like a whip. Not one with which to whip horses but one with which to whip her guests. The notion reminded her to beware of the woman.
A ripple of applause circled the room, accompanied by nods and smiles. Josceline started to relax at the heartening sound. Nonetheless, she must keep her fanciful thoughts under control or she would be outmaneuvered.
“Lady Josceline Woodsby? Here? The last I heard, she was in London, sequestered in that mausoleum that passes for Cranston Hall and refusing to see visitors.” A woman’s shrill voice oozed through the applause.
The voice was familiar to Josceline but she couldn’t quite place who it was. She poked her head around Christopher and peered through the crowd to find the speaker. Her heart sank clear to the toes of her slippers when she noticed the heavy-set, blonde, full lipped woman with two spots of rouge high on her cheeks, push through the guests to stand in front of the three.
It was that wicked gossip, Lady Annabelle Swinton, known not only for her sharp tongue but her propensity to ferret out the most hidden secrets.
Balderdash, why was the woman here and not in London attending the newly begun Season? The woman must be forestalled or more secrets would spill about Josceline’s family.
Secrets which would disappoint Christopher if he were to find out.
Secrets which, of necessity, Josceline would have to share eventually but only when the time was right.
She could hang back no longer. She must take the first stab.
“Why Lady Oakland,” Josceline said sweetly, turning to her hostess with an innocent gaze. “However did you coax Lady Swinton from her lair?”
A few sniggers circled the room. Lady Oakland scowled and Lady Swinton gasped in anger. Unruffled, Josceline continued – she had ammunition of her own.
“I vow, dear Lady Swinton, was it not you who claimed she would never set foot outside of the city? What was that term you used? Country hicks? Do tell us, what brings you to a country house party on the outskirts of Bristol? Has Lord Swinton finally thrown you over for that actress he has been dallying with?”
“Josceline,” hissed Christopher, chagrin imprinted on his face.
She glanced at him. Lady Oakland, he mouthed in a blatant attempt to remind Josceline of their purpose. She nodded slightly to indicate her awareness of what she was doing. He gave her an appraising look before forcing a smile and turning back to face the room.
“How dare you sully my husband’s name,” Lady Swinton snapped, eyes narrowing in contempt. “That is none of your concern.”
“Nor should it be,” interrupted their hostess, quite rightly sensing impending disaster. “I fear hunger is impinging on our manners,” she soothed, casting a frantic glance to her husband. “Darling,” she waved to Lord Oakland on the far side of the salon, “would you lead the way into the dining room, if you please?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t swallow a morsel knowing Lady Woodsby is at the table,” Lady Swinton said maliciously.
“What a fine observation. It would surely be to your benefit if you swallowed a few morsels less.” A tight smile formed across Josceline’s mouth.
Lady Oakland opened her mouth to intervene but Lady Swinton held up a chubby hand.
“I simply cannot stay here in this company,” she announced haughtily. “I must beg pardon but I really do feel faint and wish to retire.” The woman picked up her skirts and stepped towards the doorway.
Another round of sniggers circled the room. Several guests moved closer to have a better view of the proceedings.
“You should beware,” Josceline taunted. “You may come across my father in the hallway.”
“The Duke of Cranston? Here, at Oakland Grange?” Lady Swinton stopped and turned to Lady Oakland. “Penelope, is this true? Do you have any idea of that man’s reputation?”
“Why, er-.” Lady Oakland’s face blanched and she licked her lips. “He is a duke. I thought him of the highest quality,” she added lamely.
“My dear Penelope, I do wish you had mentioned this to me beforehand. I’ve no desire to visit more disaster on this evening but I’m appalled you would have the unsavory Duke of Cranston in your house.”
Shocked silence greeted her words. A horrified Lady Oakland stared at her, lips twisting as if she searched for words.
“Lady Oakland was unaware we had wed.” Christopher jumped in, taking advantage of the hush. “She invited the duke here to collect his daughter. The duke brought with him his choice for son-in-law, a choice not shared by my wife.”
“I only had Lady Woodsby’s best interests at heart,” responded Lady Oakland, voice strident. She looked around the room desperately, searching for support. “When I contacted him with knowledge of her whereabouts, her father was most worried about her, as any father would be about his only daughter. You must agree, Mr. Sharrington, her position with you was arranged in an unusual manner.”
“Be that as it may, it was of no concern to you. Tell me, Lady Oakland, do you picture yourself as the doyen for the local gentry?” Christopher’s tones were icy and his face hardened.
“Jolly good!”
“Well said!”
Exclamations filled the air. Someone, a man, laughed out loud but was quickly shushed. Josceline tore her gaze from the two women standing before them and scanned the room. All faces were turned their way, some amused, some wondering. Her palms grew clammy, her stomach balled.
London. It was just like being in London. People didn’t even know her here and still they regarded her with amusement and surprise. No, she corrected herself, they were being regarded with amusement and surprise. A wave of disdain rolled through her at the assembled guests. So quick to judge.
“Why, why-,” gasped Lady Oakland, lost for words. A tide of red surged across her décolletage and upwards to the very roots of her hair.
Whispers began to fly and more guests pressed in to witness the tableau unfolding in the salon.
“Lady Oakland invited us here under false pretences,” Christopher said, giving their hostess a withering stare. “We were led to believe it was our opportunity to become acquainted with our neighbors and fellow countrymen. Imagine our surprise to find it was not the case. She conspired with the duke without our knowledge. Lady Oakland, I should think that is akin to kidnapping.”
He took Josceline’s hand and placed it on his arm. “Lady Woodsby has done me the honor of becoming my wife. I look forward to our life together and my inclusion in her circle of family and friends.”
“You think she is going to give you access to the peerage?” Lady Swinton shrieked with laughter. “She is the Duke of Cranston’s daughter. That shall never happen. Oh my, your blunder is too delicious for words.”
Here it comes, thought Josceline grimly, she is going to tell all. Mentally she girded herself.
Lord Oakland pushed his way to the front. “This scene has gone on long enough. Cease the attacks on my wife and our good name. I would thank you two to leave.” He hauled out his lorgnette to look down at them, hawk nose tilted high.
One or two couples drifted to the door and slipped away. Lady Oakland hurried after them in an obvious bid to keep the party together.
“With pleasure,” retorted Christopher. “Come, we shan’t waste any more of our time here.”
He laid his hand over Josceline’s where it still rested on his elbow and they turned.
“I say, Sharrington, do not say you mean to leave so early. We have yet to make our hellos.”
A man’s sneering tones grated on Josceline’s ears.
Beneath her fingers, Josceline felt Christopher tense. She peeped up at him. His face was flushed, eyes narrowed, a vein throbbed in his temple. He froze then slowly pulled her around so they again faced the crowded salon.
Josceline immediately recognized the man who spoke. A dandy, dressed in scarlet breeches and a peacock blue cutaway jacket, regarding them both with an insolent grin.
A man she knew to be of ill rep
utation.
Lord Oliver Candel.
Christopher sucked in his breath as if to speak but he remained silent. Waves of animosity radiated from him; Josceline could feel them as surely as if a feather brushed her arm.
“Where are your henchmen? The two urchins?” Candel’s voice was droll.
“My son,” grated Christopher, “is home in his bed where he belongs.”
“As you say, Sharrington.” Candel sketched an insolent salute. “Have you played at the gaming tables recently? Mind you, if I had such a pretty piece waiting for me at home, I would be of a mind to forego that pleasure.” His mouth made a moue as he raked Josceline head to toe with an insulting gaze.
“Do not speak to me of gaming. You bilked me of my winnings in a match won cleanly by me. I want the ship.” Christopher’s menacing tones rolled through the suddenly silent salon. He dropped Josceline’s hand and took a step forward.
“My, are you still on about that?” Candel tilted his head and foppishly laid his hand against his jaw. “I don’t recall such a thing happening.”
“You kept what rightfully belongs to me, Candel, and I shan’t rest until I have it.”
Christopher turned on his heel and held out his hand to Josceline. She put her hand in his and together they walked away.
A sudden uproar followed them out the door. Interspersed between Lady Oakland’s cajoles to her guests to go in for dinner, were snickers and cruel words.
“This is too comical,” said an unknown woman, “Lord Cranston trying to abduct his daughter to marry her off to a man not of her choosing.”
“And she already married to a commoner,” said another.
“And the commoner accusing Lord Candel of theft,” laughed a third.
“It shall be the on dits of the Season,” tittered a fourth.
The comments filled Josceline’s ears. Word of this would spread to London. They were a laughingstock.
Worse, she would have to immediately tell Christopher the truth about her father. Her heart sank at the thought of the bewildered look she was sure to see in her husband’s eyes when he found out.
* * *
Silence reigned over their carriage ride home.
“Would you join me in the library?” asked Christopher when they rolled to a stop at Midland House. “I daresay we need to review this evening’s events.”
Josceline nodded. He gestured to her to precede him and they made their way indoors.
Hesitantly, she entered the library, face flushing with the memories of the night he had made love to her: His hands hot on her breasts; cool air wafting over her bare skin; the pressure of him inside her. Her woman’s nub started to throb and her nipples tingled with longing.
She hadn’t been here since that night, in fact, had gone out of her way to avoid it. For an instant, she had the bizarre sensation the books regarded her with reproach. She shook her head to clear away the idea and ignored the wetness gathering between her legs. There were other matters to be dealt with.
Christopher pointed to the lone arm chair. He set a match to the neatly laid fire then pulled out his desk chair to sit backwards on it to face her. He leaned his elbows on the back of it, propping his chin on his fists.
“I am sorry,” Josceline whispered. The fire had yet to banish the chill from the air and she threw her cloak over her as a blanket.
“For?”
“This evening did not pass as fruitfully as hoped.”
“Didn’t it? Didn’t we spoil the Oakland’s fete? I should wager tongues will wag for months.” He smiled. “Did you see Lady Oakland’s face when Lady Swinton attacked her over inviting your father? And Lady Oakland’s screeches when she realized the evening had fallen into disaster?”
Josceline smiled too, a weak attempt barely lifting the corners of her mouth. “But we didn’t have the opportunity to meet anyone. All I remember is a room full of shadowed faces. You didn’t have the occasion to discuss shipping and Bristol harbor. Then there was the business with that horrid Lord Candel.” She shuddered.
“No matter,” he continued heartily, “we shall host our own house party. And we shall not invite him.” He winked in an obvious attempt to lighten her mood.
This was it. She had to admit no one would come. She looked away as she spoke, not wanting to see the censure sure to appear when she told him the absolute truth about the disgraced Duke of Cranston.
“I am afraid that would just be wasting our time.” She forced out the words. “I have no one to invite and if I did, no one would come.”
“Because of your father being a drunkard and a gambler?”
“Yes.” She nodded. She clung briefly to the faint hope she could leave it at that. Then she shook her head. “No, there is more.” She paused for an instant to draw in a steadying breath before continuing. “My father was accused of treason.”
“Treason.” He barked with laughter. “Since when is being a drunkard and a gambler akin to treason?”
“No, it’s true. He discovered military documents while visiting a good friend who is particularly close to mad King George. The documents disappeared. Although there was never proof of it, he was accused of stealing them and selling them to the French thereby betraying not only our country but his friend. It is not good to cross a man who counts the king as his ally.”
“Agreed.” He nodded and cocked his head, waiting for her to continue.
“This man made it his duty to ensure all knew of my father’s duplicity. I suppose I shouldn’t make excuses for him, particularly since he tried to force me into a marriage I didn’t want, but he just hasn’t been the same since the death of my mother. Without her, he lost his compass in life. Anyway, it was the tipping point for him, for us as a family. We are well and truly social pariahs.”
“I see.” His face wore compassion, his eyes were gentle.
There was not a drop of censure to be seen; calm trickled through her. She had told him and he didn’t hate her for it.
“Do we really need investors?” She twisted her fingers in the fabric of her dress. Her beautiful copper satin dress which now would probably always remind her of the disastrous evening they had just dealt with.
His face fell. “Yes,” he sighed, nodding morosely. “To acquire the cargo to fill the hold. To hire the crew, to buy supplies. I would go it alone but I’m close to facing financial ruin. This?” He swept his arm around. “This is the biggest gamble of my life. When one games, you up the stakes for greater reward. The higher the risk, the higher the reward. I was sure if I played the part of wealthy landowner wishing to diversify into shipping, partners would flock to me.” He looked at her. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
Suddenly she remembered all the times she had passed the library to see him working on his ledgers, running ink stained fingers down the columns, tallying numbers for endless hours. Even Mrs. Belton had remarked on it the day they had talked in her room. He must be telling the truth. His funds must be limited.
By rights, upon discovering they were close to ruin, she should collapse with her smelling salts at hand. Instead, the idea only strengthened her resolve.
Poverty did not scare her. Her life in recent years had been full of financial hardship. What did scare her was the thought of losing Christopher and the chance to build a life with him.
She had agreed to marry him on his promise to use her abilities in his shipping venture. Their shipping venture. A shipping venture from which she stood to gain as much as he.
“Are we close to ruin?” she faltered. “How much time do we have here at Midland House?”
He shrugged. “I have enough for us to live here for the better part of a year. I just don’t have the wherewithal to equip a cargo ship. The sad truth, Josceline, we are soon to be paupers.”
She regarded his bleak face. There must be a solution and together they would find it. How to make him believe she supported the endeavor?
“Wait here.” She threw off the cloak and scampered off onl
y to return with her reticule, turning it over to give it a shake. Three coins dropped from it – a shilling and two ha’pennies.
“Keep your coins,” he said brusquely.
“Oh, I shall.” She waved the empty reticule at him. “I brought this to show you I have as much at stake as do you.”
“More so after tonight’s debacle,” he snorted.
“As you said,” she continued briskly, “we set out to embarrass Lady Oakland and we succeeded. Of course, we weren’t expecting we would get swept up in the situation. However, what has passed has passed.” She gave him a rueful grin.
He responded with one of his own.
“Let us retrace our steps,” she suggested.
“Retrace our steps?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Forget finding other investors for now. Let us target Lord Oliver Candel. You need your ship for as I pointed out to you, what is a shipping enterprise without a ship?”
“You’re right,” he nodded. A smile of grudging admiration crossed his face. “Once we have the “Bessie”, we can decide how to fill her. Let us focus our attention on Lord Candel and how to retrieve her.”
Chapter Twenty One
The next morning dawned clear, the sun’s rays shining bright as if to banish the foul events of the disastrous evening at Oakland Grange. Josceline sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair. It should be the task of her maid but after Christopher’s revelation of impending poverty, she didn’t want to ask him for one.
Stroke by stroke, she tamed the curls until they shone.
And stroke by stroke she replayed the events of the previous evening: Christopher being called away to meet with Lord Oakland; Howard leading her to the library to discover her father there with Burrows; Lady Swinton and her accusations; Lord Candel stepping forward to needle Christopher resulting in Christopher’s verbal attack on Candel.
The stories were sure to fly for weeks.
Shaking her head, she put down the brush and picked up a ribbon to tie back her hair, scowling at herself in the mirror. Questions churned in her mind. How could the evening have resulted in such disaster? How was Christopher this morning? What had happened between Christopher and Lord Oakland? In all the tumult of last evening, she had forgotten to ask him.
Her Proper Scoundrel Page 17
