Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

“Worries, concerns, both seem the same to me.” Hecocked an eye brow. “Philip is a strong lad. He is up to the task.”

  “No.” She shook her head so firmly, a few curls bounced free of her knot. “No, not Philip. Me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Horror washed over Christopher as the meaning of her words sunk in. Josceline would help him? A duke’s daughter, a member of the upper class had offered to climb through a warehouse window on his behalf?

  The impropriety was enormous. Their worry over the scandal of a governess with no children to tend to was nothing in comparison to someone discovering her creeping into a warehouse in the middle of the night to search for a missing deed.

  Anxiety stabbed him in the gut at the thought; he crossed and uncrossed his legs several times before setting both heels firmly on the floor only for the toes on one foot to pump up and down incessantly.

  How daft. How brave. How foolhardy. How loyal. How-.

  How like the woman he loved. An idea he still had difficulty accepting but there it was – the woman he loved. He could not permit her to expose herself to the risk.

  “No,” he growled. “I shall not allow it.”

  “Then I believe we are at a stalemate. For I shall not allow you to use Philip.” With her lips set in a mutinous line, her eyes lobbed daggers at him.

  Again her demeanor reminded him of a spitting kitten and he choked back the sudden urge to laugh.

  “Are you always so stubborn?” he asked mildly.

  The coach jostled over a rut in the road and threw her against him. Before he could catch her and pull her close again, she pushed herself away and glared at him.

  “I’m not stubborn.” She continued to glare at him. “I’m simply being reasonable. Besides, if not for Philip, who else shall help?”

  “Why would you put yourself in that danger?”

  The question appeared to leave her at a loss for words for she blinked her eyes and opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, she shrugged.

  “Because as your wife, I have as much to gain as do you. You would have me believe we are almost penniless. If that’s the case, then what are we to do? In all truth, should both of us happen to find work, it shall not nearly be enough if we wish to keep Midland House. I am familiar with the cost of keeping an estate home and truly, a governess’ wage will not suffice.”

  “Does Midland House mean that much to you?” His voice registered his amazement. “You have only recently become its chatelaine.”

  How he enjoyed the idea of her as chatelaine over his home, a home which they would lose in a matter of months. A home which she was prepared to fight for. Yet he could never forgive himself if something were to harm her. She spoke again and he left his thoughts behind to concentrate on her words.

  “Of course it means that much to me. If for no other reason than we need a roof over our heads.” And because, Josceline thought, Midland House is important to you. As is recovering the deed and getting the “Bessie”.

  Furthermore, the importance to him made it important for her for she wanted him to be happy. A silly notion for she had no idea if his feelings towards her were sincere or not. He had never claimed to love her and though she loved him, she had not yet found the courage to tell him.

  Later, she reminded herself, later she would tell him, when the “Bessie” had been recovered.

  “When we have the ship,” she continued, her words confident, “we can begin our shipping enterprise and keep Midland House.”

  She clasped her hands in her lap and sat there, calm as anything. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She would find the deed and together they would get the ship. Then Christopher would be avenged and truly happy.

  Confidence flowed from her like a cool river flowing through green fields. They would not fail. Then, perhaps, just perhaps, he would tell her he loved her.

  Her bold words won over Christopher. He draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close again, letting her scent fill his nostrils and nudge away his reservations.

  How could he not accept her offer of help? As long as they were careful and chose their time prudently, she should be in and out of the warehouse with none the wiser. Perhaps a midnight visit to the Candel warehouse wouldn’t be so dangerous after all.

  In the meantime, there were more mundane matters to consider. Like a visit to the modiste. It was time to upgrade her woefully inadequate wardrobe.

  * * *

  Josceline’s proposition to help Christopher retrieve the deed didn’t seem so wonderful now. Not now, when she actually stood in the narrow, refuse strewn laneway alongside the Candel warehouse.

  Facing the quay and the river beyond, she sagged against her mount, waiting for Christopher to finish tying up Vesuvius and come back for her mare. She felt safe enough for the gloom of a Bristol night hid them well from prying eyes that may happen to pass by on the quay. Although, she sincerely doubted anyone else was foolish enough to be about at this hour.

  Two days had passed since their unsuccessful visit with Lord Candel. Two days where they had plotted their foray into the warehouse, from the lads’ breeches - hidden beneath her cloak - stretching uncomfortably over Josceline’s hips to the moth eaten hat borrowed from the stable boy to cover her hair. Two days where they had decided to forego the carriage, opting, in the name of speed and simplicity, to ride individual mounts. Two days where Josceline had witnessed Christopher swing from optimism to despair then back to optimism as he contemplated the task before them.

  “You should not help me,” he had once growled at her. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “And neither should a child of six years,” she retorted pertly. “And danger is only to be feared if you let it.” Where she found the resolve to utter those words, she didn’t know.

  Actually, she did know.

  Simmering anger made her bold for Candel’s insult of Christopher now included her as well. That and a nagging concern for Christopher and his unfinished business with the wretched Candel.

  Frowning, she bit her lip to keep from screaming out her frustration. Where was Christopher? How long did it take to tie up a horse?

  A stealthy footstep whispered behind her; a hand dropped on her shoulder. Her heart somersaulted then settled back in its usual steady rhythm when Christopher spoke.

  “Keep your thoughts to the matter of hand,” he teased gently. “A face full of frowns and scowls doesn’t become you.”

  She slanted a wry glance at him then ignored him to tilt back her head to inspect the windows. Were they really that high? What had made her think she would be able to climb through them? Stifling a groan, she looked back towards him.

  He held a finger to his lips and took the reins from her hand, backing her horse away and further towards the far end of the tiny lane. Man and beast disappeared in the gloom.

  A few moments later, he materialized from the shadows and stood before her, teeth glinting in the wan light of a sickle moon as a reassuring smile limned his lips.

  “Ready?” he whispered, cocking an eyebrow, the motion barely discernable in the shadows covering his face.

  She nodded.

  “I’ve found a barrel to stand on,” he whispered and stepped away, melting once again into the shadows.

  She heard a grunt and a creaking thud, then a rumble and in a matter of seconds, a ghostly Christopher reappeared, rolling a large wooden barrel before him. Bracing himself against the warehouse wall, he righted it, rocking it back and forth until it lined up beneath the window closest to the rear of the warehouse.

  He stepped back, dusting off his hands and now she noticed the coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

  “That should do,” he muttered more to himself than to her, then moved to stand beside her. “Do you have the tinder box?” he whispered in her ear, brushing his lips lightly along her ear lobe before stepping back.

  That feathery touch sent shivers up and down her spine, matching the nerves churning in her stomach. Drat th
e man, he seemed not to realize the importance of keeping to the matter at hand.

  “The tinder box?” he repeated, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth as if he knew full well he had disconcerted her.

  Which he had.

  She scowled at him, at his poise, his bravado. The two of them stood in a stinking alley about to break into a warehouse yet he seemed so flippant and showed not the slightest concern over what they planned to do.

  “The tinder box?” He frowned this time. “Josceline, you must concentrate.”

  “Then don’t kiss my ear,” she retorted. She patted the bulge in her pocket. “The tinder box.”

  “And the knife?”

  “Yes, in my boot, where you told me to put it.” She leaned over to run her fingers down the shape of the knife.

  “And you remember what you’re supposed to do?”

  “Light a candle, pry open the desk, find the “Bessie’s” papers then you shall pull me out with the aid of the rope.”

  It sounded easy. Too easy. And she didn’t even want to think about trying to climb back out through the window. Even with Christopher’s help, it would be difficult.

  “Very well.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead then hopped on the barrel and stood up. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand.

  Realization dawned on Josceline – he meant to knock out the window with his fist. It would be awkward for him, though, for the window was above his head. Would he be able to or would they need to waste more precious time trying to find something with which to smash the glass?

  With lips compressed, Christopher braced himself against the wall with one hand then with the other began to pound on the window overhead until finally, it shattered with a sharp crack. A tinkling shower of glass fell inside the building.

  Josceline’s breath jammed in her throat. Surely someone had heard. Christopher cocked his head to listen.

  Other than the bark of a distant dog, peaceful silence reigned.

  Josceline began to breathe again. Christopher gave her a reassuring nod then broke away the rest of the glass until the frame was smooth.

  He knelt down and held out a hand. “Come,” he mouthed.

  She nodded and climbed up beside him. It was cramped beside him on top of the barrel and it took some maneuvering before she was able to climb onto his shoulders.

  Shaking like a leaf, she sat on his shoulders, legs dangling on either side of his head.

  He shifted and she lurched sideways. A frantic grab with both hands netted her his forehead and she clung tight.

  “Hold on while I stand.” He started to rise, balancing himself with one hand against the wall, pushing off the barrel with the other. She lurched the other way, this time saved by a firm arm wrapped over her knees.

  “Lean forward, over my head,” suggested Christopher. “Use one hand to balance against the wall.”

  It made sense to her, and she complied. Up, up, up, she went, quaking so hard she was certain she would tumble them both off the barrel. However, Christopher’s strength sustained them, his legs firm stanchions and he easily reached full height.

  Now the window was there, just above her head. Close enough for her to loosen her grasp on Christopher’s head and grab the frame. One at a time, she placed her feet on his solid shoulders before pulling herself up.

  The window was now at her midriff. She felt his hands around her ankles, steadying her.

  “Ready?” His whisper floated past her ears.

  No! She thought wildly, teetering on his shoulders, clenching the window frame so tightly her knuckles gleamed in the moonlight.

  “Yes,” she squeaked and squeaked again when he propelled her upwards. Twisting, she managed to swing one leg up and through so that now she straddled the window.

  “Wait for the rope.” And he nonchalantly tossed half the rope, still coiled, up to her. She caught it and unwound it enough so she could string it around her chest. He waited while she tied a firm knot before wrapping the other end about his torso, winding it several times beneath his arm pits.

  “Now go.” He poked up his thumb in an encouraging gesture.

  Grasping the upper frame, she managed to swing the other leg through then squirmed around to face downwards. The frame cut sharply into her stomach; a wave of nausea took away her breath.

  Josceline looked down at Christopher’s upturned face. He had jumped off the barrel and it seemed a fair distance although in reality, it couldn’t have been more than six or seven feet.

  “Well done,” he drawled, again poking up one thumb.

  This wasn’t really happening, she thought wildly. She really wasn’t dangling out a window, half inside and half outside.

  She wiggled backwards, the frame scraping her stomach, then her breasts. With shaking hands, she handled the rope, adjusting it beneath her arms before backing in further. She began to slide and scrabbled wildly for the window sill with her hands, dangling for a moment before she let go.

  Into the murk she dropped.

  Whoosh. The rope cut into her chest, hindering her breath. Or perhaps panic hindered her breath. She hung there, twisting slowly back and forth before finally, she could feel herself being lowered, bit by bit. With one foot, she kicked herself away from the wall, only to swing into it again, bumping her elbows and knees repeatedly.

  Her palms, slippery with sweat, burned with the effort of holding on; the rope beneath her armpits sliced into her flesh. Where was the floor?

  In the absolute blackness of the office, it was difficult to tell. Desperate, she searched beneath her with one extended foot. Please, she prayed, let me feel the floor. I cannot hold on much longer.

  Her toe nudged something solid.

  The ground. At last, she stood on the ground. She tugged the rope to let Christopher know she was safely down and felt an answering tug. Weak with relief, she turned to press her back against the wall. Glass crunched beneath her feet as she shifted her weight. Loosening the knot, she shrugged out of the rope and let it fall to the ground. Her heart pounded so fiercely, she was certain it would leap from her throat.

  Calm, she told herself. You must keep calm. She inhaled deeply, once, twice, three times while her eyes adjusted to the gloom as black as the ink spilled on her cloak that night in Christopher’s library. Something ran across her feet accompanied by a squeak and she shuddered. A rat scenting blood, no doubt.

  Then a grim smile creased her lips. How surprised Lord Candel would be to discover the night time visitors to his office.

  Seconds ticked by although if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes, she couldn’t have said. Continually sucking in deep, ragged breaths, she eventually regained her equilibrium. Her eyes adjusted enough to spot the twisted shape of the candelabra. She tiptoed to it and reached into her pocket for the tinder box.

  Her pocket was empty.

  She gritted her teeth. Balderdash. The box must have dropped from her pocket when she was crawling through the window. She tiptoed back to the wall beneath the window and dropped to her knees, gingerly patting the ground and the shards of glass. A sense of triumph seared through her when she encountered the sharp edges of the metal box.

  Returning to the candelabra, she lit one candle then carried the candelabra over to the roll top desk before lighting the rest. As the candles blazed into full flame, she noted fresh blood smears coating the base of the candelabra. How odd, she thought, from where? A frisson of apprehension whisked down her spine.

  Josceline lifted her hands to inspect them and with a jolt, realized her blood smeared the candelabra for several deep cuts crisscrossed her palms. There must have been shards of glass still wedged into the window or perhaps she had cut them while searching for the tinder box.

  Stoically, she wiped them on her breeches. She must focus on the matter at hand.

  Experimentally, she tried the desk. Locked, of course. She unsheathed the knife from her boot, sliding it carefully between the lock and the frame the
way Christopher had instructed her.

  It was a tight fight for the blade and it stuck. She shoved again, as hard as she could, grunting with the effort. No luck. She tugged it out.

  Defeated, she sank to the ground and propped her back against the desk. She wasn’t strong enough to open the desk. Now what to do?

  Twist, Christopher had said. Twist the blade.

  She tried again, sliding in the blade until it caught then giving it a sharp twist. The handle slipped in her sweaty, bloody hands and she pulled them away to wipe on her breeches again, leaving red brown smears.

  The knife hung suspended in mid air. She needed something to wrap around the handle, something to give her leverage.

  Holding her breath, Josceline tried all the drawers beneath the roll top portion of the desk. Luck was with her, for none were locked and she discovered a length of ornately patterned silk cloth in the bottom one. She pulled it out and wound it about the handle, ruing over the fine silk being put to such mundane use. Ruing, too, the blood stains left on the delicate fabric by her hands.

  With another firm twist, the lock sprang open with a clack. She pushed open the roll top, cringing with every creak and snap as the wooden slats disappeared one by one into their slot. To her ears, the noise was horrendous and sure to draw attention. Christopher had said there didn’t appear to be a night watchman but one never knew.

  Carefully, she began to paw through the papers stacked in vertical piles, briefly scanning each one. The first stack contained nothing but bills of lading. So she began on the second stack: A deed to a house in Bristol. A deed to a plantation in the West Indies. A deed to the three-mast schooner, “Morningside.” A deed to a sloop, “Molly May”. May what, she wondered wryly before pulling out the bottom bundle.

  And there she found it in a package of several pages tied together with a leather thong - the deed to the “Bessie”. She untied it and scanned the top page. A broad grin slipped across her mouth as she flipped through every paper in the package. Carefully rolling them up, she retied the leather thong and tucked it into her shirt.