Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  A wispy curl somehow worked itself free to fall across her eyes and she lifted her left hand to brush it away impatiently.

  “Where did you get that?” Thaddeus barked suddenly, his eyes glued to her left hand.

  “I must beg pardon?” Was the man mad? She had nothing of value on her.

  “Your ring.” He pointed a trembling finger at her wedding ring. “I have only ever seen one like it.”

  “From Christopher. From your son.”

  He sat down suddenly and scrutinized her more closely. “Where did he get it from,” he demanded.

  “His mother”.

  “Could it be,” he muttered, staring intently at the ring. “May I?” And he held out a pale, slender hand framed in a froth of lace.

  She pulled it off her finger and handed it to him. Her finger felt bare and she missed the weight of it, missed the courage it gave her.

  He turned it over and over in his fingers then sagged against the back of his chair. “It’s her ring,” he whispered, stunned. “It is the ring I gave Madeline.”

  “Madeline?”

  “Christopher’s mother.”

  “How could you abandon them?” The words burst from her mouth and she felt herself grow hot. How rude he must find her. “I am sorry, something that happened so long ago is not of my concern.”

  He accepted her apology with a nod and began to speak, voice barely above a whisper.

  “It was not my wish. I couldn’t marry her for it was understood I would marry another for the sake of the Candel name.” He stopped and drew in a shuddering breath. “I couldn’t offer her marriage and so Madeline refused to be my mistress. I had no idea at the time she carried my child. Years later, when she became ill, she contacted me. She knew she was going to die and she wanted me to provide for Christopher. You can imagine the shock for by then I had a wife and another son. I did the only thing I could – I found him a position with the Navy. And, to my discredit, I forgot about him.”

  “Now you can put things right. Drop the charges against him so he can be freed from jail,” she pleaded.

  Without knowing it, she had laced her hands in supplication. She pulled them apart again and balled them into fists. She must convince the man by merit of her argument, not by melodramatic gestures. Thaddeus must take her seriously or Christopher would be lost.

  “Christopher is in jail?”

  “Oliver claimed he stole the deed to the Bessie and had him jailed. But the Bessie belongs to Christopher,” she pleaded. “He won it fairly in a game of chance with Oliver. Oliver refused to honour his debt.”

  “Oliver.” He shook his head. “I don’t know whose blood runs in his veins. Rather I do.” A spasm of agony stiffened his features. Just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. “Not only will I help you for Christopher’s sake, but I will help you for the sake of your father.”

  “My father? How is my father involved?” Stupefied, she grasped the edge of the table to steady herself; the bound sheaf of papers beneath her arm fell to the ground.

  “The claims I made against him were untrue. I misplaced the documents. They were of extreme importance and I didn’t have the courage to admit I’d lost them. I fabricated the story against your father to save my own skin. Shortly afterwards your mother died and that, coupled with the blow of my unjust accusations, did him in. I am so sorry.”

  “Make it right now. Go to him when you return to London. He is a sad man in need of friendship.” She picked up the papers at her feet and handed them to Thaddeus. “But please, not until you visit the magistrate and drop the charges against Christopher. Please,” she begged, “make things right for him.”

  He shifted his gaze away from her, eyes empty as if he looked into the past, a past only he could see.

  “Never mind what has gone before,” she urged. “It cannot be changed. But you can change what is happening right now. You’re a lord of the realm. Your word carries weight. Magistrate Grenville is a just man and he will listen.”

  “I cannot promise success. But I shall try.” His eyes watered and he dabbed at them with his handkerchief.

  “That is all I can ask, Lord Candel. That you try.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Christopher lifted his head from where it rested on his knees. Judging by the pale light crowding through the slit of a window, another uncomfortable night had passed and another uncomfortable day was about to begin.

  His right leg cramped and he straightened it, giving an inadvertent kick to McEllis sprawled out dead to the world mere inches away. If only he could sleep so soundly in such miserable conditions, Christopher thought grimly.

  All he had been able to manage in the time he had been locked up was to nap occasionally sitting up, with his back tucked up against the stone wall. Albeit cold and damp, the wall was the only thing he trusted in here.

  “I must beg pardon,” he said as McEllis rolled over and tossed a few choice epithets his way.

  In the wan light of dawn, Christopher surveyed the cell, crammed full with assorted, snoring shapes and figures, now serving as home. Stinking riff raff the lot of them although he undoubtedly stank with the best of them.

  Not for the first time, a peaceful image of Midland House saturated his mind and he embraced it. Embraced too the memories of Josceline: In the garden, sunlight glinting off her glorious russet curls. In the library, her face animated as she taught him how to dance. In his arms, the flush of love staining her cheeks.

  He focused on the latter image the longest. For a few moments at least, he would be far from Bristol Newgate.

  Too soon, however, the chill of the floor gnawed through his breeches to interrupt his dreams. He shifted from one buttock to the other.

  The cell was so crowded, not even an inch of unoccupied floor space remained and this time, he knocked the man beside him in the head. Christopher uttered a hasty apology which only earned him a murderous glare. Christopher responded with a glare of his own, blatantly flexing and un-flexing his fists. The ploy worked for the other man shook his head and went back to sleep.

  Sleep. The only thing he could do to forget about the surroundings.

  Closing his eyes, Christopher leaned his head back against the wall. This time the mocking face of Oliver Candel danced across his eye lids. Rage, impotent yet pure, surged through Christopher’s torso, pushing against his lungs with such force he could scarce breathe. His fingers curved with the need for revenge.

  Revenge. That would be the first order of things when he was released. When, he told himself. Not if.

  He would surely go mad if he continued to think about the injustice forged upon him by Oliver Candel. Christopher tried to think again of Josceline but questions swarmed through his mind.

  Damn it all to Hades, how much longer would he be here? How had Josceline fared? Had she been able to persuade his father to drop the charges?

  His father. He snorted. The man had been no father to him.

  If nothing else, the thought of his father stopped him from thinking about his half-brother.

  Christopher must have dozed off for a rough hand shook his shoulder.

  “It’s yer lucky day.” The burly form of the guard swam into view. “Ye can leave.”

  A chorus of jeers and shouts met the guard’s announcement. Christopher felt a flare of sympathy. The hapless residents had naught else to do but make noise.

  “Lucky sod,” muttered McEllis, swiping a grimy hand across his jaw.

  “Ye must have friends in ‘igh places,” whined another. “It ain’t fair.”

  “Don’t forget us, captain,” mocked an unseen voice from the far corner.

  “Shut yer yaps, the lot of ye.” The guard laid his hand on the club at his waist then gestured to Christopher to stand. “Don’t be wasting any more time.”

  Christopher lurched to his feet and addressed his former cellmates: “The second I leave this room, gentlemen, you can rest assured, I shall think of you every day.” And he gave them a mocking
bow.

  Ignoring the curses showering him, he limped behind the guard. He reached out and tapped the man’s shoulders.

  “I presume you will remove my shackles?”

  “Aye. But not until we reach the magistrate’s chamber.”

  “Then let us make haste, shall we?” Christopher increased his pace, almost shoving the guard aside in his hurry to leave the stench and noise of Newgate behind him.

  The magistrate’s room was quiet save for the magistrate himself who read, lips moving silently, from a large, leather bound volume. The man glanced up to look at Christopher. A slight smile flowed across his lips then he went back to his book.

  As the guard unlocked his shackles, Christopher surveyed the room. The hour was early and save for a distinguished gentleman in a beaver hat sitting on the same bench he and Josceline had sat on yesterday, the chamber was empty.

  His heart sank. There was no sign of Josceline. Then how had he been released?

  “She’s waiting for you in the carriage.” The distinguished gentleman got to his feet and strolled over to Christopher.

  “I must beg pardon, are we acquainted?” he asked warily. The gentleman was unknown to him although he did wear a faint cloak of familiarity.

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Then who in blazes are you?”

  The man nodded. “I would be angry too if I were in your boots.” He stretched out a hand. “I am Lord Thaddeus Candel. Your father.”

  Incredulous, Christopher stared at the proffered hand. He lifted his gaze slowly to look into brown eyes. His own eyes. He looked down again at the hand still extended towards him. He swallowed hard against the lump expanding in his throat.

  How did one greet one’s father for the first time? A father he had never met until this very moment, a father who had not recognized him, indeed had banished him to the Royal Navy?

  Anger waged a battle with expectation within him. Now what? Would he become part of his father’s life? Or would he be shoved away again, an embarrassment to the Candel name by reason of his birth?

  He started to quake with the force of it which brought forth a wave of shame at his weakness. He, who had faced enemy cannon and musket fire, had bested the sea during her stormy moods, had fought hand to hand battles on deck with fierce enemies, was at this very moment unsure of himself.

  “I’m not going to let it drop until you shake it so unless you wish to sorely tire an old man, I suggest you return the favor.”

  Christopher extended his hand. It wobbled like a wheel about to fall off a cart and didn’t stop wobbling until securely clasped in Thaddeus’.

  “You look like your mother,” he said mildly. “I loved her, you know. I don’t expect you to forgive me but perhaps one day you will understand the choice I made.”

  Tight-lipped, Christopher looked at the man before him and nodded once, a slight motion that barely lifted his chin.

  “This is a small gesture on my part,” continued his father, gaze steady on Christopher, “a small attempt to rectify matters between us.” He handed over a package bound with a leather thong.

  Christopher recognized it; his mouth fell open.

  “The deed to the ship your brother cheated you of. She belongs to you well and truly.” A wry smile ghosted across his lips. “Both of them, I suppose. The “Bessie” and Josceline. She’s a lovely girl and you are indeed a lucky man. She fought for you. Her love for you made her as strong as any soldier.”

  He lifted his walking stick and tapped it against the brim of his hat. Without a further word, he turned on his heel and strode away, his steps firm and steady against the stone floor. The gait of an important man, a man who knew he wielded power.

  Christopher fought the urge to vomit. Hunger, he decided. It wasn’t the emotion of the moments boiling in his belly, it was hunger. Choking back the bile, he watched the receding back of his father and felt-.

  Nothing. He felt nothing.

  Bemused, he shook his head. His father. A strange notion. The man had given him life and a means to earn a living but nothing else. He was a stranger to Christopher.

  Still, Thaddeus had come through for him.

  Sudden warmth flushed through Christopher and his forehead and groin dampened. He tossed his thoughts to Oliver and waited for the hatred and disdain to surge, waited for the envy to bubble to the surface, waited for the familiar feelings of inadequacy to squash him.

  And none of it happened.

  Peace descended on him like a shower of gentle spring rain. For once, his father had sided with him. His father had recognized the injustice dealt to Christopher and had done what he could.

  With amazement, Christopher realized his half brother didn’t matter anymore. The odd sensation made him feel naked and lost without the familiar emotions to cling to.

  But now he could find new emotions to fill the void, emotions to build on. He could find stability in the love he felt for Josceline and the love she claimed she felt for him.

  They had their ship.

  They had Midland House.

  They had a future.

  He let out a whoop of joy and sprinted for the carriage and Josceline, clutching the deed in his hand.

  Chapter Thirty

  “I still say you should have rested another day,” scolded Josceline. She glowered at Christopher sitting across the table from her in the morning room.

  Sunlight filtered through the freshly laundered lace curtains, dappling his face and leaving a pattern on the crisp table linens. It promised to be a fine day and pleasure welled within her – spring had well and truly arrived.

  He cocked a familiar eyebrow at her; a small smile hopped around the edges of his mouth. “There’s nothing wrong with me, kitten. I’ve been flat on my back for two days and am bored silly. Besides, it was only four days in jail.” He patted his midriff. “I vow, it doesn’t hurt a man to lose a pound or two.”

  “I know just the thing.” She leaned over the table to grab Christopher’s plate then made her way to the sideboard. Lifting first one silver lid, then another, she finally decided on the thick slices of ham. She piled high his plate with them and threw in a spoonful of scrambled eggs for good measure.

  With her back to him, she didn’t see the indulgent look on Christopher’s face as he watched her, or the growing heat in his eyes as he regarded her pert bottom when she leant over the sideboard.

  His face was bland as she turned back to him.

  She gave him a suspicious look as if to say: I know very well what you’re thinking.

  “Here.” She plopped the plate down in front of him. “See that you gain them back. I should like my husband to have a little meat on his bones.”

  She didn’t move away, just stood there with her fists on her hips. Christopher glanced up at her and flashed his most winning smile. A lock of hair, mahogany in the morning sun, curved across his forehead and his eyes twinkled with good humor.

  He looked precisely like a naughty little boy caught with his hand in the sugared plums. She swallowed her laughter – it would do no good to let the man think he could wheedle her into having his way.

  “That will not work, Mr. Sharrington,” she said with mock severity although an answering smile tickled the corners of her mouth. She pointed to his plate. “Eat.”

  He rolled his eyes skyward. “I vow, Josceline, if I had known you were such a termagant, I would have thought twice about engaging you as my governess,” he teased.

  He pushed away the plate.

  She pushed it back.

  “Mr. Sharrington,” she began again then squealed when he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down onto his lap.

  “Do you suppose if I kiss you thoroughly you will stop nagging me?”

  “Really, Mr. Sharrington, where do you get these outlandish notions from?” She lifted her lips. “But if it will make you happy, please do so.”

  He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “Count yourself lucky to get off so easily, Mrs. Sharrington,”
he whispered. “We have an audience.”

  Josceline giggled. “I suppose Philip and Tom are here?” She slid off his lap and adjusted her yellow and white striped frock.

  She had worn it today at Christopher’s request – he had told her she reminded him of sunshine that day she had visited him in Bristol Newgate. She turned to the door to find two pairs of blue eyes fastened on her. “You may come in, boys.”

  The two vaulted into the room at full speed and skidded to a halt in front of the sideboard.

  “When are we leaving?” Philip asked, stepping from one foot to the other like a little mechanical soldier. “To see the sailing ship?” He turned to Christopher. “You promised you would take us, you promised.”

  Christopher laughed and the joyous sound sent thrills down Josceline’s back. How he had changed. The haunted, angry look no longer lurked in his eyes and his mouth no longer pinched as if he was always wearing boots two sizes too small.

  He hadn’t told her yet about his encounter with Lord Thaddeus Candel but she knew he would tell her when he was ready to.

  The most important thing, however, was his father giving him the papers to the “Bessie.” How Christopher had cradled that package in one bent elbow all the way home; with the other arm, he had pulled her close, holding her so tightly to him he was worse than any corset she had ever worn. And she had loved every second of it.

  Tom tugged on her sleeve. “Are you coming with us, Lady Josceline?” His little face beneath the tousled blonde curls was solemn. “I should really like you to come.”

  “Of course, Tom. I shan’t let you fellows have all the fun.”

  Tedham poked his head in the door. “The carriage is ready, Mr. Sharrington.” He held aloft a basket covered with a linen cloth. “Mrs. Belton sent this. She said two growing boys shall be hungry in no time.”

  “Splendid,” Christopher nodded. “Shall we?” He got to his feet and pointed to the door.

  “So thoughtful, please give her our thanks,” Josceline murmured as she trailed behind them.

  They piled into the carriage, with Philip and Tom insisting on sitting beside Josceline on the rear squabs.