Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  At least it was easy enough to find answers to the last two questions. She got up and went in search of her husband.

  * * *

  Christopher spurred Vesuvius mercilessly. He leaned low over the beast’s neck. Its wind whipped mane stung his face, its tail streamed behind as the animal’s powerful muscles carried them forward. Pounding hooves sprayed up clods of turf.

  The sun shone yet the crisp breeze stung his cheeks and he scarce felt his fingers grasping the reins, so cold were they.

  Together, man and horse raced towards the distant hazy horizon.

  Only he couldn’t outrace his thoughts.

  Damnation. Lord Candel would ever be the scourge of his life. In her innocence, Josceline had made a simple suggestion yet she had no idea of whom they truly faced.

  Retrieve your ship, she had said.

  And he had agreed. How simple. Retrieve the ship.

  The sad fact was, he had no idea how to go about it.

  When Christopher had won, Candel snatched the deed from the table to ram it into his pocket and who knew where the deed would be now. True, others had witnessed the incident between them but none had come forward for him then and certainly none would come forward weeks after the fact.

  To confront the man would serve no purpose. He had tried that and had been refused audience.

  What to do now?

  Retrieve the ship. How?

  * * *

  Upon being informed by Tedham that Christopher had taken his horse for a ride, Josceline opted to spend some time with Philip and Tom in an attempt to forget about the events of the previous evening.

  They sat outside on the sheltered garden bench she favored, the boys on the ground at her feet. In one hand, she carried the chalk and slate, in the other, the primer.

  “Look! Daffodils.” She pointed to the yellow buds set to unfurl. Primula and grape hyacinth also poked through the jumble of dead leaves and grasses. “Spring is here.”

  “I like spring,” Philip said importantly. “It means it’s going to get warm again.” Beside him, Tom nodded energetically.

  “Shall we count how many daffodils we can find? The yellow ones,” she added at the confusion on the boys’ faces. Their expressions brightened and they jumped to their feet.

  “One! Two! Three!” They ran off, fingers pointing, blonde hair flying, cheeks pink with exertion. “Four! Five!”

  “Philip, Tom, stay close, we have yet to begin.” She waved and was rewarded with an answering wave from Tom. Philip had disappeared behind the gnarled plum tree although she could still hear his voice. “Six! Seven!”

  Best to let them run off some energy before they sat down to tackle today’s lessons. She tilted her face to the warmth of the sun, waiting for the fresh air and cheery light to cast out the remembrance of last night.

  It very nearly worked except for one thing.

  She couldn’t rid her mind of the memory of the look on her father’s face and the misery in his eyes when Christopher had rescued her.

  Bah, it made no sense to concern herself over the well being of her father. He had never concerned himself over her well being, indeed, had let his greed for Mr. Burrows financial resources overrule his sensibilities for his daughter.

  Through the budding branches, Josceline caught sight of Philip and Tom. A rush of tenderness filled her breast. Even though she wasn’t their mother, Josceline had developed love for the two and it would require something of horrendous proportions for her to ever hurt them.

  Therefore for her father to wound her only revealed the desperation to which he had sunk. She finally saw him for what he was – a broken hulk of a man burying his pain. For that she could feel sympathy.

  A thrush alighted on a branch beside her, chirruping its pleasure at the sun. The joyous notes pushed the load from her shoulders and she felt as if she had pulled her feet out of dank, smelly muck to run free through a meadow of buttercups and daisies.

  She had Christopher. Her father could hurt her no more.

  * * *

  Christopher leapt off Vesuvius, throwing the reins to the stable boy. “He’s had quite a gallop, make sure he has a good rub down and a fresh bag of oats.”

  Not waiting for the stable boy’s response, he charged into the house in search of Josceline. He couldn’t wait to tell her he’d found a solution to the “Bessie”.

  He’d only taken half a dozen strides when Tedham stopped him in the hall.

  “There is a package for you, Mr. Sharrington. Jefferson retrieved it from the post this morning.” Tedham pointed to the wood slatted box on the floor of the entrance hall.

  “A package?” Christopher furrowed his brow.

  “Yes, from London.” The butler coughed behind his hand. “Er, water colors, I believe.”

  What the devil? Water colors? Of course, the supplies he ordered for lessons with Josceline when first he engaged her services.

  Christopher grimaced, raking his hands through his hair. How long ago that seemed, when his main concern had been to better his dance skills and ply a brush with water colors in an attempt to mimic a genteel lifestyle. He prodded the box with his toe. How silly it all seemed now, how frivolous.

  “Have the box delivered to the nursery, if you please. I do believe my wife shall make good use of it. Is she there?”

  “Of course, I shall have the box taken up immediately.” Tedham bowed. “Lady Woodsby is in the garden with Philip and Tom. She took them outside for their lessons.”

  “Then I suppose I shall have to find her there, thank you, Tedham.”

  * * *

  Christopher’s eyes widened appreciatively when he spied Josceline’s hair glinting with gold and copper highlights in the spring sun. It was a perfect match to the bronze cloak pooling about her on the bench, apparently too heavy for the mild day.

  Mentally he chastised himself. Of course she should have new clothes. Perhaps a dressmaker in town would allow her to order several new frocks on the promise of the success of his first voyage.

  If there was a first voyage, he reminded himself grimly.

  Emerald eyes sparkled at him as he drew nearer.

  “Christopher!” she exclaimed. “You have been out, your cheeks are wind burned. Do they sting? If so, I have just the potion.” A warm smile crossed her lips.

  She was glad to see him. A tide of wellbeing at the realization flooded through him. How nice to have someone fuss on his behalf.

  “I took Vesuvius for a gallop. He’s been too much in the stable lately, he was getting fat and lazy.” He smiled back. “Are you alone? Tedham thought Philip and Tom were here with you.”

  “They are long gone.” She giggled. “Jefferson spotted them running about the garden and hauled them off to look at the new foal. I fear my slate and primer were no match for that.”

  “May I?” He pointed to the bench. At her nod, he dropped down beside her, taking her hand in his and giving it a squeeze. “Josceline, I have the solution to the “Bessie”.

  “Why, that is wonderful news.” Delight filled her face. “What do you propose?”

  “I shall steal her.”

  “What!” The delight on her face transformed to disbelief then, when she understood he was serious, to horror.

  “Are you mad?” she gasped. “That’s thievery. You shall be clapped in irons or transported or worse. Tell me you are not in earnest.”

  “How can it be stealing? She belongs to me,” he said reasonably. It made perfect sense to him. If no one could help him, then he would do it himself.

  “A proper gentleman would never consider such a course of action.” She set her lips firmly. “It is an outrageous suggestion.”

  She had hinted he was no proper gentleman. The idea stung, for he did consider himself thus.

  “Spoken like the proper lady,” he sneered in retaliation. She thought him improper then by his words he would live up to her expectations of him.

  His comment hit its mark. She rocked back, face flushed.


  “A proper, law abiding lady,” she said icily and she pulled free her hand. “If you choose to go through with it, you shall be a proper scoundrel.”

  Proper scoundrel. The insult brought to mind a footpad garbed in velvets and satins and the ludicrous vision drummed some sense into his head. It was no less than he deserved after he had mocked her station. Contrition filled him and he hastened to make amends.

  “Perhaps that is fitting,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “However if becoming a proper scoundrel is what is required then that is what I shall become.”

  “No,” she sniffed. “I shan’t hear of such nonsense. You must confront Candel again.”

  “It is of no use. I tried that already. If you recall, he denied me entrance to his home.”

  “You must try once more.” She looked him square in the face as if to say, you must not defy me.

  He almost laughed at her expression. She reminded him of a spitting kitten – all bluster and no substance. However, as appealing as she appeared, he found her reasoning lacking.

  “Lord Candel?” he scoffed. “He won’t listen. The man is a law unto himself.”

  “Return to the gaming house and confront him there,” she pleaded, obviously changing her tack. “Play another match. You bested him once, you can do it again.”

  “And if I don’t?” He crossed his arms. Lud, to approach Candel again would be a waste of time. Christopher’s preference was to take matters in his own hands and face the consequences then.

  She gave him a disdainful stare, patently unimpressed with his recalcitrance.

  “I still have your handkerchief. I can accuse you of highway robbery.”

  A cloud passed in front of the sun, a sudden slice of gloom. A chill gust of wind lifted her skirts; she avoided his gaze as she pulled the cloak over her.

  Accuse him of highway robbery? She wouldn’t dare. Or perhaps she would. He regarded her with new found respect – her wits were keen and she was willing to use whatever tactics she had on hand to win her battle.

  “You’re my wife, you shan’t be allowed to testify against me,” he retorted.

  “Can’t I? I’ll say you forced me to marry you.” She looked down her nose at him, eyes smoldering.

  Christopher felt as if he had been punched in the gut at her haughty demeanor. The implication was clear. She was a duke’s daughter and he a lowly commoner. Uncertainty nibbled at him and for an instant he remembered the merciless teasing he had endured as a child. How would she regard him when she discovered his dark secret, that he was bastard born to a nobleman who had scorned his mother?

  Defeated, he sucked in a long, ragged breath.

  “Please, Christopher, I beg of you, find another way.” She fell to her knees in front of him and forced a smile. “It’s too dangerous,” she whispered so softly he could scarce hear her words over the sough of the breeze.

  She worried for him. An appealing notion. He looked at her long and hard, losing himself in her tear-lined, emerald gaze before lifting his head to inspect the clouds scudding overhead.

  Josceline asked him to pursue a path he knew was doomed to failure. But if it would restore the affection he had glimpsed in her eyes when he had first found her on the bench, then he would do it. If it would build her confidence in him so that if, when, she discovered the truth of his birth, she would disregard it, then he would do it.

  “Very well, Josceline. I shall approach the wretch one last time.” He pulled her up to sit beside him and dropped a kiss on her nose. “However,” he warned, “if he does not accede, then I shall follow my instincts to steal the “Bessie” and deal with the consequences later.”

  For a long moment, Josceline stared at Christopher, stomach in knots. His mind was made up; her argument had not changed it. True, he had agreed to approach Candel one more time, but if Candel didn’t acquiesce, then Christopher would proceed with the audacious idea of taking the “Bessie.”

  That venture was sure to come to failure and he would end up in jail, sentenced for transportation to the colonies or worse, sentenced to hang. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t bear to lose him now.

  She loved him.

  An idea almost as audacious as Christopher’s plan but there it was. She loved him.

  Now how to stop him from certain failure.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Christopher threw down his pen in disgust. Again he’d splotched ink on the paper. He turned the page in the ledger and began again. However, he had only copied over a couple of numbers before they swam before his eyes to be replaced with the vision of a pink cheeked Josceline in the garden earlier this afternoon. Once more he threw down his pen to stare blankly outside at the falling dusk.

  He drummed his fingers. The discussion with Josceline had left him in an unsettled state. In his mind, he could see the instant when she had looked down her nose at him and he remembered the welling insecurity. Yet, mere minutes later she, pleading for him to reconsider his plan, had knelt on the ground at his feet as if she were a serving maid and he a mighty lord.

  Tears had threatened to spill from her eyes. Perhaps feelings for him stirred within her after all. However, feelings for him weren’t enough. He needed her unreserved love. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt Oliver Candel wouldn’t give in and therefore he, Christopher, had no choice but to take the “Bessie” from beneath the man’s very nose. An action that, despite his brave words to the contrary, would have him flirting with the law.

  It was sure to draw Josceline’s ire and would strain even the strongest bonds.

  For a second time he remembered her tear filled eyes. Tears signified emotion.

  A hopeful surge propelled him to his feet and he leaned forward to splay his hands on the desk. Tanned and calloused from years at sea, they stood out stark against the white pages. The hands of an honest man, a working man. The hands of a man who would protect and honor his wife for the rest of her days.

  He began to pace, prowling the library as if in that room he could find the secret to earning her esteem.

  Absent minded, he pulled on his watch fob to glance at the time on the ivory inlaid watch he’d bought in Morocco. Half past six. He’d ordered supper for eight o’clock and had requested Josceline to join him. An invitation she hadn’t wanted to accept. At first she had frowned, however when pressed she had agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  That gave him an hour and a half to devise a plan, a first step, to secure her love and confidence.

  * * *

  Their conversation in the garden this afternoon still disturbed Josceline – Christopher could see it in the heightened color of her cheeks, hear it in the swish of her skirts when she walked into the dining room, smell it in the intensified scent of violets and sandalwood.

  She wore her green frock, the one that turned her hair into deep russet and her eyes into an even deeper shade of emerald. For a second, he let himself simply enjoy the charming vision she made.

  Paying him no heed, she sat down and made a show of smiling prettily at the footman who, blushing at her attention, dropped her linen napkin on the floor. In reaching down to fetch it, the unfortunate fellow bumped his head on the table which elicited murmurs of sympathy and a concerned gaze which lead to another round of blushes on the part of the young man.

  Christopher gritted his teeth. When the footman, still blushing furiously and shaking like a leaf at Josceline’s attentions, knocked over Josceline’s empty wine glass, he ordered him away.

  “You need not be so harsh with the poor fellow.” Josceline said, honey dripping from her words.

  “Me, harsh? You were the one putting the poor lad through his paces.”

  “And are you jealous?”

  Yes. Yes, he was. Damnation, how weak that made him.

  “No. No, of course not,” he blustered. “Merely intrigued by your ploy. Is there something you wish to discuss?”

  “I am going with you.” She lifted her chin and gave him a defiant gaze.
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br />   “I must beg pardon?” Christopher gaped. “With me? Where?”

  “When you pay another call on Oliver Candel. I know you have no stomach for it and will not give it your best effort. Therefore,” she turned a saccharine gaze on him, “I am going with you.”

  Was she serious? The idea was shocking, her paying a visit on an unmarried man, even if Christopher did accompany her. What could she hope to gain? Desperately he wracked his brains for a response but she spoke before he could answer.

  “Yes, I am serious.”

  She read his mind; the idea of her doing so staggered him and he continued to stare at her, mouth agape.

  “I can help you, you know. I do travel in the same social circles as Candel. I know his father. Lord Thaddeus Candel has had more than enough of Oliver’s escapades and, I’m quite certain, will do anything to avoid further scandal. Bristol is quite the end of England and Oliver really has nowhere else to go. So, unless he wishes to find a new life for himself on the continent or in the colonies, I believe he’ll be quite happy to avoid any news of this reaching his father.”

  Christopher cocked his head. “I don’t believe you. Was it not only last night you told me you were a social pariah?”

  “True. However, I am banking on the fact Oliver doesn’t remember that. Let us just say, he could be a fine member of the Hellfire Club.

  “The Hellfire Club. Now there is a pack of rogues if ever there was one,” he muttered.

  A second footman appeared, carrying a soup tureen.

  “Why, that smells delicious.” Josceline gave the man her brightest smile; the footman almost dropped the tureen. A few drops of soup spilled onto the carpet.