Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  “Thank you, magistrate.” She curtsied and moved aside to wait.

  Her heart squeezed when she saw Christopher walk in. His skin was pallid, his shoulders hunched and he limped slightly. Squinting against the sudden brightness, he searched the room until he spied her.

  His beautiful mahogany brown eyes widened; a broad smile creased his stubbled face. His shirt was grimy, his breeches soiled, his boots scuffed, but sheer happiness lined his features at the sight of her. Ignoring the guard, he shuffled over as fast as the iron manacles about his ankles would let him.

  “Josceline!” He gathered her close and rested his chin against her forehead. “They told me you were here but I didn’t believe them. How did you find me?”

  She luxuriated in his closeness for an instant and inhaled the faintest trace of citrus and leather that mingled with the acrid scent of despair. Yanking herself away, she reached up and gently traced his jaw with one finger.

  “I paid another visit to the Candel warehouse.”

  “After you picked that up, I would wager. No one could deny you in that frock.” His eyes swept her up and down appreciatively, taking in the yellow and white striped muslin with its matching slip of yellow taffeta and fringed yellow shawl. “I vow, that frock is just as lovely on you as I thought it would be.”

  How like him to pretend as if all was well when in fact, everything was crashing about their ears. But she loved him all the more for it, loved that he remembered picking out the fabric with her, loved his air of normality.

  She smiled in response. “I will tell you it pleased Mademoiselle Francois that I insisted on wearing it right away. Apparently she thought it would do well for her business for a duke’s daughter to be seen wearing something new straight from the shop. But enough. We have other, more important things to discuss.” She tugged on his hands. “Come.”

  “Kitten, I would love to but I don’t think I’m going anywhere.” He glanced down at the shackles about his ankles; his face flushed.

  “There, silly.” She pointed to the bench beside the far wall. “It’s about as private a spot as we can find in here.”

  They pushed their way through the crowded room to the alcove holding the bench. Josceline sat at one end and faced him. She wanted to throw herself in his arms again but she refused to touch him. If she touched him, she would be lost in a sea of despair and she couldn’t bear that right now.

  “Sit,” she ordered, gesturing to the other end.

  Silent, he complied, dropping onto the bench and leaning against the wall behind him. He pulled his feet beneath him, the scrape of his manacles almost lost in the hubbub of the room.

  She waited until he had settled himself and turned to look at her before she spoke.

  “Christopher,” she pleaded. “You must tell me the truth. You must tell me all of it.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.” He thrust out his jaw and refused to meet her eyes.

  “This is no time to be stubborn, Christopher.” She faced him squarely. “What of Candel’s accusations? That you are not who you claim to be.”

  “You would believe him over me?” Her last question wounded him - she could see it in the way he flinched.

  “I don’t know what or whom to believe anymore. But I shall believe the truth. Your quest for revenge has landed you in jail. So please, I beg of you, what is behind this matter you have with Oliver Candel?”

  “No. There’s nothing to tell,” he repeated, meeting her eyes at last. He clamped his lips until all that was left was a thin line where his mouth should be.

  He looked away but Josceline knew his eyes were vacant - he was merely avoiding her gaze. She felt her face grow hot with frustration and she wanted to smack him. Instead, she sat forward and placed her fists on her hips.

  “I can’t understand your obsession with Lord Candel. The man is a cheat and a liar. Do you think to make yourself better by besting him? In my estimation, that proves nothing for besting a man of little character is besting nothing at all.”

  He opened his mouth to answer but she held up her hand.

  “Does having a title make one a better man? The circumstance of Candel’s birth doesn’t make his behavior acceptable. Noble blood may run in his veins, I warrant you that, but he’s not worthy of it.”

  Christopher sat forward and leaned his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands before turning again to look at her. “What if we forget the whole thing? The “Bessie”, Midland House, our shipping enterprise, everything?”

  Josceline’s mouth dropped open. Christopher’s question made no sense.

  Had he lost his reason during his sojourn here?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “To do what?” screeched Josceline.

  Christopher shrugged and the manacles on his ankles clanked as he shifted position. “That evening of the Oakland’s fete, Lord Oakland called me into his library. He offered to purchase Midland House from us. We could leave, Josceline.”

  His steady words carried no hint of madness. Reassured, she lowered her voice.

  “Are you daft? After all this? After we get you out of jail we are simply going to walk away? No. We will not be bested by Oliver Candel.”

  Christopher’s shoulders slumped. It appeared a thousand thoughts churned through his mind for he rubbed his jaw and raked his hands through his hair repeatedly. At length, he dropped his hands to rest on the bench beside him and twisted his head to place a firm gaze on her.

  She held her breath. Was he finally going to tell her the truth? What could be so horrible he had taken inordinate risks to rectify it?

  Again he looked away. “I am also the son of Lord Thaddeus Candel.” His voice was steady, resolute as if now that he had decided to divulge his secret, he would do it properly. “I am Oliver’s half brother. The eldest. I am the rightful heir to the Candel Company. Or would be, if not for a cruel trick of birth. He has everything. I have nothing. I am a bastard, Josceline. You are married to a bastard.”

  Christopher closed his eyes. He had done it. He had told Josceline the secret of his birth. A secret only he and his mother knew. A secret he had never entrusted to anyone.

  A secret that could destroy him and he had let it loose.

  The thought of Josceline’s hatred now that she knew the truth about him curdled his blood. He couldn’t bear to lose her for it would be the loss of the very thing he held most dear - more than Midland House, more than the “Bessie”, more than becoming a sea captain of means.

  Josceline.

  Josceline was the prize. And perhaps by divulging the secret of his birth, he had lost her forever.

  Taking a shuddering breath, he forced himself to look at her, to face her squarely and see the disgust he was sure to see in her eyes.

  Only it wasn’t there. He scoured her features, searching for a clue, any clue, to her feelings. Her face was still then comprehension flared across it, lighting up her gaze.

  “Now I understand the animosity you hold for him,” she declared triumphantly. “I knew there was more to it than a wager gone awry.” She cocked her head as she continued to regard him, the comprehension in her gaze slowly replaced by something else.

  Love. Could that be the warmth of love he saw in her eyes?

  Hope bubbled through his chest. The noise of the room penetrated through the haze in his mind and the aroma of warm pastries drifted through the air as a maid in a starched white apron walked by carrying a covered basket. His heart began to beat again. For the first time in days, he felt buoyant.

  A corner of his mouth lifted, soon joined by the other until a broad smile stretched from ear to ear as he realized no dismay filled Josceline’s eyes, no revulsion crossed her face.

  Instead, she inched forward across the bench and laid both her hands on his knee. Her face was earnest as she spoke again.

  “You have me,” she said fiercely. “All is not lost. We shall free you from here and we shall reclaim your ship.”

  “Why would you
help me?” He lifted one of her hands to his lips. “I am an accused man. You could walk away this very instant and no one would cast blame on you for it.” Gently, whisper soft, he replaced her hand on his knee. Still she watched him solemnly and he loved her all the more for it, for the sincerity shining in her eyes.

  Here was her moment, thought Josceline. He had divulged his greatest secret, could she divulge hers? Would he scorn her for the soiled blood running through her veins? Or would he accept her love unconditionally?

  She inhaled deeply, trying to still the nerves jumbling in her stomach.

  “Because I love you”, she whispered, smoothing back the hair that had fallen over his forehead. “And with love comes loyalty. For without loyalty from our loved ones, who can we rely on?”

  “You love me?” His mouth dropped open; happiness cascaded across his features.

  “And you’ve been wrongfully charged. You did nothing wrong, as you said, you only tried to recover what was yours. Christopher, I read the deed. The “Bessie” belongs to Thaddeus, not Oliver. Oliver had no right to gamble with it in the first place.”

  “No, no.” He waggled a finger at her. “Let us talk of what you said just before. That you love me.”

  Josceline hastened to retract her words at his inscrutable expression. Perhaps she had made a grave mistake in admitting her love.

  “Forgive me for the fanciful notion,” she said, her voice light. “I know my father is a despicable coward.”

  “Do you think I care about your father?”

  “But he is a drunk and a gambler and a treasonous thief,” she cried.

  “Who also cares for you in his own manner. So he gambles and drinks – it’s no reflection on you. I see merely a sad man.” He quirked an eyebrow. “So is it true?”

  “It is true. I do love you,” she replied staunchly.

  “You can’t love me,” Christopher protested, unable as yet to believe her. “You never wanted to marry the merchant Thomas Burrows because he’s a merchant. As I plan to be.”

  “Why ever would you think that? Mr. Burrows is old and mean and spiteful, that’s why I did not wish to marry him. There’s no shame in earning one’s living.” Sincerity shone from her eyes.

  Burgeoning love for her loosened his lips at last.

  “I love you, Josceline.” The words freed him as much as if the manacles had been removed from his ankles. He felt as if a load had been pushed from his shoulders. All would work out now.

  “And I you, Christopher.”

  He pulled her close and tilted up her face.

  “This isn’t the most romantic place,” he said ruefully.

  “What comprises the perfect spot to profess one’s love? I declare, I don’t really know for it seems to me the importance of the words far outweighs the importance of the place.”

  He kissed her thoroughly, enjoying the flavor of impending freedom.

  “So what do we do next?” she asked when he finally, reluctantly, pulled away his lips from hers.

  “I want you to go to London, Josceline. I want you to approach Thaddeus and inform him I am here under false charges.”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  Christopher’s heart sank. She refused to do that for him. So much for her talk of loyalty and love. He looked away, disappointment squeezing his chest.

  She tugged on his arm and it was all he could do to force himself to look at her serious face.

  “No, I shan’t go to London. For Thaddeus is here. In Bristol, the Greyhound Inn. I believe he suspects something is not quite right. Don’t forget, Oliver is a wastrel and his father – your father,” she corrected herself, “knows that. I shall do as you say. I shall pay a visit on Lord Thaddeus Candel and plead your case.”

  “ ‘ere now, that’s more than enough time.” The guard returned and clamped a fist around Christopher’s shoulder.

  They clasped hands, holding on until the guard pulled Christopher away. The last glimpse she had was of him craning to look over his shoulder as the guard led him away.

  For a moment, she savored the idea of his love and a happy grin lifted her mouth. Tears of joy threatened to spill but she blinked them back. There was still a hurdle to be crossed before Christopher could be free.

  She clasped her reticule as if it could save her from drowning in a sea of hesitation and stood up with shaking knees.

  Reality hit as she walked out of the dismal jail and into the fresh afternoon air. Her words had been bold, boastful but the awful truth was that Lord Thaddeus Candel was the man who had accused her father of theft, the man who had pushed her father over the precipice into debauchery and drunkenness. For certain, he would have nothing to do with her.

  But for Christopher’s sake, for the sake of the man she loved wholeheartedly, she had to try.

  * * *

  The Greyhound Inn was much as Josceline remembered. Only today, a carriage emblazoned with the Candel coat of arms was put up in the courtyard.

  An encouraging sign for it meant Thaddeus was within.

  “Wait for me,” she ordered the coachman and stepped inside the inn. While her eyes adjusted to the dim interior, she pulled off her lace gloves - another item purchased from Mademoiselle Francois - and folded them inside her reticule. Tucked under her arm was the bound package containing the deed to the “Bessie.”

  “Lord Thaddeus Candel, if you please,” she said to the tired looking innkeeper. Without looking up from the coins he was counting, the innkeeper gestured with his head to the common room. “Through there. Back corner, behind the screen.”

  “Thank you.” Josceline hesitated. Entering a public room unaccompanied dripped of impropriety. She shrugged, immediately discounting the thought. How silly to worry about being proper or not when Christopher was the only thing that mattered.

  Ignoring the leers and lewd suggestions of the other, mostly male, occupants of the room and holding her skirts to one side, Josceline threaded her way across the room to the woven screen. Peeking around it, she spied the finely dressed form of Lord Thaddeus Candel. She pulled back to ready herself.

  If Thaddeus Candel denied her, if he spread word in London of her escapade here, her already tattered reputation would be reduced to gossamer fragments. She wouldn’t be welcome anywhere in London.

  And so? She asked herself. What worth was her reputation if she couldn’t come to the aid of the man she loved? Christopher desperately needed her help and she would give it, regardless of the consequences.

  Josceline peeped around the screen again. Thaddeus’ back was to her and as showed by his motions, he ate. Thankfully, he sat alone so he would have no choice but to favor her with his attention.

  She peeked at him again, unsure as to how to approach him. How much rancor did the man hold for the actions of her father? Would he listen to her? Would he acknowledge Christopher?

  Standing here worrying about it wouldn’t help.

  Gathering her courage like stalks of wheat into a sheaf, she marched around the screen and into his line of vision.

  The elder Lord Candel at first didn’t see her for he concentrated on the newspaper spread out on the table beside his plate of meat, bread and potatoes.

  She cleared her throat.

  Still he didn’t lift his head.

  “I must beg pardon, Lord Candel, but may I have a word with you?” Her voice squeaked and inwardly she chided herself for it. “May I have a word with you?” she asked again more resolutely.

  He continued reading the paper. “May a man finish his meal in peace?” he growled.

  “I assure you, my lord, this shan’t take but a moment.”

  He heaved a sigh and pushed away his plate. Carefully, he folded the paper before finally raising his gaze. Puzzlement creased his brow and he pursed his lips. “Do I know you?”

  “Yes, Lord Candel.” She curtsied. “I am Lady Josceline Woodsby. You knew my father once. Lord Peter Cranston. The Duke of Cranston,” she added.

  He flushed with r
emembrance, a red tide that turned his scalp beneath the thinning, graying hair to pink.

  “How is your father?” His eyes were wary.

  Christopher’s eyes, Josceline realized with a start and she sucked in several huge breaths of air before she could answer.

  “As well as can be expected, I suppose.”

  Thaddeus Candel leaned back and pulled the napkin off his lap to pat his mouth. “Let us forget about the niceties. This is hardly the place for a young aristocratic woman. Why are you here, Lady Woodsby?”

  He used her full title and it rattled her a bit. She sucked in another huge breath.

  “To plead for my husband.”

  “Why should I care about the welfare of the husband of the daughter of the man who betrayed my trust?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

  “Because he is your bastard son,” she whispered.

  He blanched. “Anyone can claim to be a bastard son and none would be the wiser. What proof have you of that?”

  “Would you deny your own flesh and blood through a mishap of birth which is not his fault?” she countered firmly.

  “What proof do you have?” he repeated. With studied movements, he folded his napkin and placed it on the table between them.

  It formed an obvious barrier.Josceline winced at the implied insult but forged ahead. This man and his airs would not deter her. “Your eldest son faces punishment for a crime he did not commit,” she exclaimed. “Have you so little feeling you would see him come to harm?”

  “Whether or not the man is innocent is of no consequence to me. I say he is not my son. You say he is yet you have no proof.”

  She stared at him, frantically trying to find the words to sway the man seated before her but it was no use. Her mind remained blank.

  “You’re right, I can’t prove he is your son.” Defeated, her shoulders slumped. Had it all been a lie? Was Christopher really Candel’s son or had he played her for a fool, gambling that she, as the daughter of a duke, had some clout and could fight for him?