Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  Something in the window there had caught his eye and he knew just the person who would like it.

  * * *

  Grateful for the rest, Josceline leaned back against the squabs and pulled the rug over her knees. She half-drowsed, listening to the sounds of the street outside the carriage – the jingle of harnesses, the shouts of the hawkers and the squeal of children playing, the drifting voices of people walking past. Her hands and feet grew cold. It was chilly close to the water and the wool spencer she wore today did nothing to keep her warm.

  Her cloak would have been welcome but after last night’s debacle, it lay crumpled in the bottom of the wardrobe in her room.

  Butterflies tumbled in her stomach. Yesterday, it had seemed plausible to find a boy in an orphanage to pass off as Christopher’s son. Today, the reality was so much more complex, starting with the reality they now had two boys. Boys who reeked of urine and coal smoke, boys who needed the attention of a doctor, boys so thin, they would never be mistaken for anything other than what they were – street urchins. The task seemed insurmountable. The only comforting thought was Christopher. He had as much at stake as she did. Surely between the two of them...

  “Lady Woodsby?”

  Her eye lids popped open to see Christopher holding a large box and several smaller packages wrapped in brown paper and string. He tossed the packages on the floor but held the large box out to her.

  “For you.” A self-deprecating grin lifted the corners of his mouth and her heart lurched. “I saw it in a shop window. I thought it would match your eyes.”

  Her gaze dropped to the box, cheerily wrapped in red and blue striped paper and tied up with gold ribbon. A gift? For her? Whatever for?

  “Open it.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I cannot accept this. It’s not proper.”

  “Proper?” He laughed, his eyes crinkled shut in the manner she was beginning to adore. “It’s a gift, how can that not be proper?” He stopped laughing and looked at her.

  “Gentlemen do not give gifts to unmarried young ladies.” Josceline made her voice severe. “So no, thank you.”

  She cast a longing glance towards the box. It had been ages since she’d received a present and her fingers itched to open it.

  “Let us say I’m no gentleman. Does that help?” He held the box out to her again, grinning. “Take it, Lady Woodsby. Consider it as part of your wage.”

  The impish grin was her downfall. That and the lock of hair that had escaped the leather thong at the nape of his neck and fallen across his forehead. He looked young and carefree and for an instant she could imagine the boy he had been.

  “Oh very well,” she grumped. “Do you always get your way?” She took the box. It was heavy and she almost dropped it.

  “Not always.” He reached out a hand to ease the box onto her lap. “But yes when it’s something important.”

  She caught her breath at that. He had bought something for her he considered important. Could that mean he cared for her a little?

  The box lay across her knees. He watched her and she felt her cheeks redden. Hesitantly, she pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  It was a cloak. The most beautiful cloak she had ever seen, of bronze felted wool and lined with what she was sure was sable.

  She lifted her head. “I cannot –.” The words died on her lips at the tender expression on his face.

  “You can, Josceline,” he whispered. “And you will.” He lifted it from the box and draped it about her shoulders. “Look in the packages.”

  Speechless, she unwrapped them all to discover a matching sable muff and bonnet, and a bolt of satin fabric the color of copper. For a matching dress, of course. Eyes brimming at his thoughtfulness, she raised her gaze to his.

  “Thank you. They’re all beautiful.”

  “Tom and Philip should be fitted by now.” His voice was brusque but he brushed her cheek with a gentle finger before turning to walk away.

  She watched his retreating back, not knowing what to think. Did he really care for her?

  Or did he mean to buy another kiss?

  * * *

  It had cost him a pretty penny but the moment Christopher had seen the cloak in the modiste’s window, he knew he had to buy it. True, the ink stain on her old cloak had not been his fault but he did feel responsible for what happened beneath his roof.

  Her reaction pleased him. She had been touched, he was certain of it. Whistling a jaunty tune, he returned to the haberdashery to find the lads looking with astonished faces at each other’s new clothing.

  “Tom, Philip, don’t you both look splendid.” They yet needed a bath but they looked a little less disreputable in the new clothing. His hopes rose. Perhaps the deception for Lady Oakland tomorrow would succeed.

  “Thank ye, sir. My brother thanks ye too,” Philip said. “Shoes. We ain’t never ‘ad shoes.” Beside him, Tom nodded energetically.

  “You are welcome,” replied Christopher. He cocked a finger. “Come.”

  Holding hands, they followed him without a word. The three left the shop and waited for a break in the traffic to cross the road to the waiting carriage.

  “‘Pon my word, Sharrington, my eyes did not deceive this morning. It was you leaving the Hospital with these motley two. Have you taken up as nursemaid, wot? And where’s the pretty piece of fluff?”

  The familiar, hated voice grated on Christopher’s ears and he turned to see Lord Oliver Candel, tapping a brass-handled walking stick and regarding them with an insolent sneer from beneath a fashionable beaver hat.

  An impotent rage rose within Christopher and he clenched his jaw. This arrogant dandy, decked out in a red and white striped vest, yellow culottes and turquoise tailed coat, was the real reason Christopher found himself in the awkward position he was in.

  If the man had paid his debt like an honorable individual, Christopher would never have stopped the wrong carriage, leading to him engaging the services of Josceline as governess.

  And if Josceline wasn’t his governess, he would not need a boy to fill the role of his own son. Meaning he wouldn’t now be shepherding two boys who weren’t his to pull off the mad scheme. A scheme which now, thanks to the untimely meeting, could be exposed.

  At this particular moment, not even the thought of green eyes and russet hair could soothe him.

  Christopher jammed his hands into his pockets to refrain from ripping off Candel’s starched shirt frills and ramming them down his throat.

  Damn it all to Hades. What rotten luck.

  Chapter Nine

  Just a few feet more and Christopher would have had the boys safely ensconced within his carriage. He had to nip this in the bud before Candel came to any conclusions regarding the boy’s parentage.

  “Not that it is any concern of yours but I am doing a favor for a friend,” he said haughtily. Traffic eased for a moment and he gave the boys a little nudge. “To the carriage,” he ordered. “I shan’t be a moment.”

  He gestured to the coachman to mind the two then turned back to the fop who stood and watched as Philip and Tom dodged across the street.

  This wasn’t the time or place he would have chosen to confront the man but he had to divert Candel’s attention from the boys.

  “May I remind you, you owe me a gambling debt?” Christopher kept his voice low and ignored the curious glances looking their way.

  “Gambling debt? I owe you nothing.”

  “Yes. Gambling debt,” he growled, irritated by the man’s drawl. His fingers twitched - he wanted nothing more than to grab Candel’s throat and throttle him.

  “Why, from our set to the other night? It was just a friendly game. Consequently,” he tapped Christopher’s shoe with his walking stick, “I do not have to pay you.”

  “We shall see.” Christopher ground out the words. He glanced over his shoulder to the waiting carriage. The boys had disappeared inside. “You and I have unfinished business, Cande
l.” He pulled out a calling card. “Saturday. Expect me on Saturday.”

  Rage washed over him anew as Candel took the card between pincered thumb and forefinger as if it carried the Black Death.

  “I dare say I may be receiving visitors that day.” Candel tossed the card to the ground and ground his heel on it. “Or not.” He stood there with an expectant look on his face, an insolent smile playing on his greased lips.

  The tactic was an obvious ploy for Christopher to call out the man but he would not give Candel the satisfaction of rising to the bait. Christopher’s military training had taught him that in some circumstances, this being one of them, discretion was the better part of valor.

  Ignoring the man, he turned on his heel and made his way to the carriage. Luckily the hubbub on the street drowned out Candel’s derisive laughter and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself before opening the door and leaning in.

  “I found this in my pocket just now.” He handed Josceline the letter that had been tucked away in his jacket. He had felt its sharp folds when fumbling for his card. “I do apologize, it came yesterday but what with Lady Oakland’s note, I forgot about it.”

  “Oh.” Her face was horror struck when he handed it to her - obviously she recognized the hand writing.

  “I’m going to sit with the coachman. Take some air.” A good stiff breeze would wash away his rage. Besides, he needed to think ahead to tomorrow’s impending visit from Lady Oakland.

  He gestured to Tom and Philip. “You two may sit on my seat.”

  Obediently, the two scrambled over. Promising. At any rate, they obeyed orders. He gave them a small salute before slamming shut the door but not before casting a concerned glance towards Josceline.

  Her face was drawn, white. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.

  “What is it?” he asked, uneasy at her reaction.

  “Not of your concern,” Josceline whispered, eyes glued to the envelope. She fluttered a hand in his vague direction. “Please, do not worry for me.”

  Mercifully, he didn’t question her further. From a distance Josceline noticed the slam of the coach door, then the creak and sway of the carriage as he swung himself up beside the coachman.

  Her head spun. The letter was from her father and she had no desire to read it. He had been none too pleased when she had announced her decision to take herself from London and earn her keep. His rage and disappointment was such she had thought she was lost to him forever, which suited her for it left her free to pursue a future as a governess.

  But now he had written her.

  He was not done with her, then.

  “What’s wrong, miss?”

  Philip’s hoarse little voice broke through her whirling thoughts and she raised her gaze to him. He looked back at her with a solemn gaze. Her heart ached for him at his expression. How could one so young hold such a serious demeanor?

  His expression prompted her as to where she was and why. Certainly tomorrow’s impending visit unsettled her. And certainly it all hinged on how well the boy played his part. For now she would turn her attention to the boys, and in particular Philip.

  She would wait until she reached the sanctuary of her room to read the letter.

  But it burned where she tucked it inside her spencer.

  * * *

  Disdain curled the lip of Lord Oliver Candel as he watched the Sharrington carriage disappear into the hubbub of Bristol’s streets. How crass of the man to remind him of the gaming debt and certainly not the action of one of the peerage to pick a public walkway in which to do so.

  How had a man of Sharrington’s ilk even gained entry into Bristol’s finest gaming establishment? Fumed Candel. Furthermore, how presumptuous of the man to hand over his card as if he, Oliver Candel, would gladly open his doors to the scum.

  He slammed his walking step into the ground. Watch your step, Sharrington, or you shall rue the day you sought to challenge me.

  * * *

  As Christopher rode home to Midland House beside the coachman, the fresh air cleared his jumbled thoughts and allowed him to consider Lady Oakland’s visit tomorrow in a more relaxed frame of mind.

  It really shouldn’t be too difficult to convince the woman Philip was his son. Tom, the younger boy could simply be kept elsewhere during the interview.

  With a light heart, he jumped off the coach and paused to admire the tranquil façade of Midland House. An odd thought swam through his mind. Midland House deserved a proper mistress. Like Josceline. And children. Like Philip and Tom.

  Nonsense.

  He shook his head. Marriage wasn’t yet in his plans for he must first set himself up in the shipping business. No, he corrected himself. First he must convince Lady Oakland he had a son. By her good graces, his acceptance into polite society would ensure the success of his business.

  The carriage door thudded open and two boyish shapes tumbled out.

  “Philip? Tom? Mind you wait for me.” Josceline’s voice drifted from within.

  “Yes, miss.” They chorused as one as if they had been practicing their manners but they jumped from one foot to the other while they waited, eyes wide as saucers as they inspected the surroundings. They began to wrestle, grunting and laughing and trying to topple each other over, a far cry from the sad sight of this morning.

  Lud, how resilient and full of energy young boys could be. His newly found confidence about tomorrow waned. They had less than twenty four hours before Lady Oakland arrived and at this particular moment the two reminded him of nothing less than unschooled rambunctious puppies.

  A few seconds later, a slender, ivory hand grasped the doorway and his eyes were drawn to a dainty foot reaching for the top step. Chagrin cascaded through him. In his apprehension about the impending visit, he had totally forgotten his manners.

  “Allow me.” Christopher reached for Josceline’s hand, careful to drop it once she had reached the ground. He needed all his reason and he mustn’t let his attraction to her bamboozle him.

  She turned limpid green eyes to him. “Mr. Sharrington, please have a footman take Philip and Tom to the stables,” she said calmly. “The boys and I have had a lovely visit and I promised them if they sat still during the ride home they could see the horses.”

  “Splendid suggestion,” agreed a dumbfounded Christopher. Apparently Josceline was prepared to take charge. Confidence welled up again. They were two adults, he reminded himself, surely they were the equal of two orphaned boys.

  They waited by the carriage until the footman came and took the youngsters.

  “Bring them to the kitchen when they’ve had their fill,” ordered Christopher before turning to take Josceline’s elbow. They strolled across the drive towards the house.

  “There is much to be done before tomorrow,” Josceline said. “Most important, however, is a good bath. Check them for lice, that sort of thing.” She slanted a glance at Christopher. “They’re both very eager to please. Although Tom is shy, I found Philip to be engaging and bright. I think he would do as your son.”

  He nodded. “I had thought the same. Plus he is of the right age.”

  They began to climb the steps to the front door. On cue, it swung open to reveal the tall, spare frame of Tedham, Christopher’s butler, who stepped back politely to let them pass.

  In the entrance hall, Josceline paused. “I, er, have something to attend to in my chamber. Perhaps you could engage Mrs. Belton to take charge of the boys’ bath?”

  Take charge of their bath? How absurd. That was nanny’s work. He opened his mouth to refuse but she raised a stern finger.

  “I shall direct the rest, Mr. Sharrington. All I ask is for you to ensure the boys wash.”

  Something in her voice stilled his protestations and he peered at her sharply. Trepidation lined her face and her hands trembled.

  “What is it, Josceline?”

  She shook her head, lips compressed. “I shan’t be long.”

  He watched her climb the stairs, dragging her feet
as if she was on her way to her execution.

  Something had upset her as soon as she had entered the house. Something requiring her attention.

  But what?

  * * *

  Josceline trudged up the stairs. Christopher was obviously curious over her sudden change in mood but he had accepted her request graciously. For that she was grateful.

  In truth, she could no longer postpone reading her father’s letter even if it meant feeling remorse for putting the bath in Christopher’s hands.

  Finally she reached her room. It was late afternoon and the curtains were drawn against the early spring chill, the fire already lit. She pulled up a chair beside the fireplace and pried open the seal on the envelope which she then tossed into the flames. She clutched the letter in her fingers, watching the envelope as it withered into black curls before being consumed by the fire.

  Enough procrastination, the letter would not go away by not reading it. She unfolded it and tilted the page toward the flickering light:

  “Daughter,

  Lady Oakland informs me you are now in the employ of a Mr. Christopher Sharrington. Surely being mistress of your own home is more to your liking. Mr. Burrows is predisposed to overlook your indiscretions and still wishes to take you to wife.

  I await your response.”

  Respectfully,

  Your father.

  The letter was succinct. Her father was not one to mince words. How serious was he? Had he written the letter in a lucid moment or a drunken moment? She pressed trembling fingers to her temples.

  As if the sham wasn’t enough, now she had the specter of her father to contend with.

  * * *

  By the time Christopher made his way to the kitchen, the boys had arrived. They sat on stools beside the massive fireplace watching the cook turn the spit on which hung a venison haunch. A corner of his mouth lifted - he could almost see the drool pooling in the corners of their mouths.