Wanted: One Scoundrel

by Jenny Schwartz

  “I know, but she’s always so cheerful.”

  “She’s a survivor, same like you. Now go on, get downstairs. Your Uncle Henry’s waiting and that’s not something he likes.”

  Uncle Henry didn’t like waiting, but he’d found some congenial company. Jed stood with him, resplendent in black and white evening dress.

  Jane clapped her hands in silent glee at the look on their faces as they caught sight of Esme descending the stairs.

  “Hellfire, we’ll be beating them off with sticks.” Uncle Henry tossed off the last of his whiskey.

  “Miss Esme, you are a vision.” Jed met her at the bottom of the steps and swept a formal bow. The custom was going out of fashion, but it conveyed all the gallant admiration of a thousand words.

  “Thank you, sir.” She accepted his arm, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve. The slight touch was sufficient to register the tension in his muscles. She glanced at him inquiringly.

  The corner of his mouth quirked, but his gaze remained serious and intent. “I am dazzled.”

  “I thought you would meet us at the dance.” Her words were meaningless, her attention for the electricity humming between them.

  “I hoped I might escort you. If you would allow me the honor?”

  “She’ll need her wrap.” Maud trod heavily down the stairs and draped a soft charcoal grey cape around her. “It’s cold out.”

  “Reeve looks heated enough,” Uncle Henry observed.

  “Hush,” Maud scolded.

  Esme flushed.

  “He’s right, though,” Jed murmured. “I think I have a fever.” The usual laughter returned to his eyes, displacing the disturbing intensity of a few moments before.

  “Perhaps then, sir, you shouldn’t attend the dance. Too much excitement.”

  He covered her hand on his arm. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

  “Well, they could me. Easily,” Uncle Henry said. “But if we’re going, let’s go.” He walked past the hotel’s famous doorman—a clockwork kangaroo. As it was designed to do, the pressure of Uncle Henry’s weight on the plate beneath the hotel’s welcome mat triggered the automaton into action. One paw raised its top hat, while its heavy brass tail pushed open the door.

  Esme had time to smile a quick good-bye at Jane and Maud before Jed escorted her out.

  The orchestra—three violins and a piano—had more enthusiasm than skill, but they emphasised the beat of the music and that suited the energetic rather than graceful dancers of Swan River. They stampeded through polkas and circle dances as well as waltzes and quadrilles. Jed partnered a giggling debutante and watched Esme whirl around in the arms of a sleek and handsome devil his own age, one whose golden fairness matched hers. The gas lighting gave them a shimmering angelic radiance.

  But he’d heard the gossip.

  The society matrons disapproved. They didn’t think Esme’s outspoken ways deserved the reward of a gentleman such as Nicholas Bambury the Third. Apparently, he was everything a doting mother desired and a dutiful daughter dreamed of. He was rich, handsome and socially connected. He was one of the Bamburys. Jed gathered they were one of the founding families of Sydney, the cream of the East Coast elite, gentlemen farmers who dabbled in politics.

  So why was he in the West? Jed knew from his American experience that established Eastern families tended to dismiss Westerners as upstarts and irrelevant. His father fought that attitude regularly. Could it be that Nicholas Bambury took the threat of secession seriously and was over here, attempting to keep the Swan River Colony engaged in plans for the new nation? Even snobbish Easterners wouldn’t want to lose the Western wealth.

  And speaking of wealth…there were any number of rich men who wouldn’t mind adding to their pile by marrying an heiress. Looking at Bambury’s smooth smile and gliding step, the hand firmly guiding at Esme’s waist, he thought he spied a fortune hunter. The man was a fool. Esme’s value wasn’t her father’s gold. It was her. She sparkled with light, eyes as bright as the sapphires that flashed in the gaslight.

  He ought to punch Bambury in his smirking face.

  Tarnation. He’d known Esme Smith a mere two days and already he was feeling possessive.

  The music stopped and he found a smile for his partner, thanked her for the dance and handed her back to her mama, who studied him thoughtfully. He backed away. Match-making mamas were dangerous. Besides, he had other fish to fry.

  “Where’s your stick?” he muttered to Captain Fellowes, who was propping up a wall near the punchbowl. A strong scent of cloves and nutmeg, lemon and cinnamon indicated someone had been lavish in the preparation of the Christmas treat, mulled wine.

  The older man chuckled. “Bambury bothering you?”

  Jed settled for glaring.

  “Relax. Esme told me herself she can’t stand the man.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.” Tight muscles in Jed’s stomach relaxed a fraction. “He looks like every woman’s dream. The rest of the women certainly think so. They’ve been singing his praises all night. I’d forgotten he has one deadly fault.” He grinned with savage satisfaction.

  “Yup.” Captain Fellowes swallowed a last bite of mince pie. “The man’s against women winning the right to vote. Esme thinks he’s poison.”

  Jed watched Esme smile as Bambury led her into a group of older couples, including the governor. “So you think she’s using him for political purposes?”

  “Ha. I gave up second guessing that girl when she turned seven. She’s smart and tricky and damn stubborn. Bambury doesn’t know what he’s tangling with. Question is, do you?”

  “Yes.” Jed straightened from the wall. “And I’m not running scared.”

  “I didn’t think you would.”

  “Which is why you told your niece I was the scoundrel she wanted?”

  Captain Fellowes grinned. “Women have a soft spot for a scoundrel. You should be thanking me.”

  “Maybe later.”

  Jed worked his way through the crowd. He felt like a cad, but he avoided the hopeful eyes of the wallflowers. He’d asked a number to dance already tonight, but now he needed to detach Esme from the smirking Bambury.

  “Miss Smith, my dance I think?” He escorted her onto the floor in one smooth relentless charm offensive.

  Her eyes snapped with annoyance. “I was talking with the governor—and you should have taken the opportunity to do the same.”

  “It would have been suspicious.” With his arm around her waist and the music flowing them gently together, his tension receded. It couldn’t be jealousy. He was never jealous.

  He lifted his gaze and looked around the crowded ballroom. Whoever had decorated it had made lavish use of pine boughs, cones and tinsel paper. They had even included gaily painted tin baubles. What they hadn’t managed to include was mistletoe—not even the artificial kind.

  Ah well. Doubtless mistletoe would have encouraged rowdiness. But he would have liked to steal a semi-sanctioned kiss from Esme. He studied her lips’ ripe berry fullness wistfully.

  “Mr. Reeve?”

  Her tart tone shook him out of pleasant fantasies.

  “Why would talking to the governor have been suspicious?” She followed him easily through the swirls of the Spanish waltz, the satin skirts of her gown wrapping around their legs, a gentle trap and release.

  He spun them in additional circles, enjoying the sensation of being trapped with her. “What sort of man prefers to talk politics when he could be dancing with a beautiful woman? Trust me, asking you to dance made the best of impressions.”

  Behind them, Nicholas Bambury glared.

  Jed eased Esme a fraction closer. “And I think a Sunday stroll together would confirm that impression.”

  “What impression?”

  “That I’m a gentleman of impeccable taste.”

  Chapter Five

  “Have you had a chance to travel north of the river, yet, Mr. Reeve?”

  “Jed,” he reminded Esme. “And no, I have
n’t.” His mouth twitched in amusement and he turned away to hide it. If he laughed at her annoyance, she wouldn’t ever forgive his high-handed behavior at last night’s dance.

  By delivering her back to Captain Fellowes and swiftly taking his own leave, he’d left her with no choice but to accept the appointment for a Sunday stroll.

  A lesser woman might have indulged her pique by claiming a previous engagement and being out when he arrived, leaving him to be turned away by a servant.

  Esme simply descended the stairs dressed in a walking suit of English tweed, her white frilled collar fixed with a gold pin in the form of a stylized lion, roaring. Her chestnut brown boots and leather gloves matched the narrow-brimmed hat she’d perched on her coiled hair. She was aloof, practical and distantly gracious.

  “How sharp are your hat pins?” he asked, following his own line of thought about possible revenges.

  She blinked, then smiled. “I would never be so unsubtle. Although…” She reached up and slid a pin from the pert hat. “I ordered these from an American suffragist catalogue called ‘Modern Tools for Modern Women.’ It’s rather like a Swiss Army knife.”

  An array of clever gadgets unfolded from the unsharpened end, including tweezers, scalpel blade and a needle.

  “Ingenious.” He handed it back to her. “What else did the catalogue advertise?”

  She refitted the pin. “Laughter capsules which I believe contain nitrous oxide. Guaranteed to enliven the dullest evening,” she quoted the catalogue with droll amusement.

  “I could have used those a few times.” He offered his arm and they exited the house.

  The sun shone clear and brilliant over the dancing ocean waves and the wide river mouth. Sea gulls glided on the updrafts. There had been rain in the morning, making the trip to church a wet one, but with the noon hour, the sun had broken through the steel grey clouds and now a brisk ocean breeze harried them eastward.

  Esme led the way around the house to the carriage entrance. A gig with a glossy black horse in the shafts stood waiting, a groom at its head.

  “I thought we might as well visit Bombaytown, the Indian center of town.” She accepted his assistance and stepped up into the passenger’s side of the gig. From the groom’s shocked stare, she usually drove. “I did think of cycling, but with the weather uncertain and…well, it is Sunday.”

  “Is there a Sabbath prohibition against cycling in Swan River?”

  “No.” She smoothed her skirts into place, catching his admiring glance at her ankles. “I was thinking of wearing my new Turkish trousers, but I thought displaying them for the first time on a Sunday might be a touch scandalous. And I really don’t like pedaling in a skirt. All those grease smudges and getting caught up. Men have life a lot easier.”

  “Uh.” Was Jed’s smooth response. The vision of Esme in Turkish trousers occupied all his attention. The outline of her hips and sweetly rounded—

  “Jed?”

  “I think you made the right decision.” He didn’t want other men seeing or thinking of Esme in such a revealing manner. “Not on a Sunday.” Not ever. He climbed into the gig and took up the reins, nodding to the groom to release the horse’s head. “And it’s a nice day for a drive.”

  The black horse snorted and its ears twitched, waiting for the command to walk on.

  “Gee up.”

  It was well trained, as he’d have expected from any animal Esme owned. The gig traveled smoothly down the driveway and Jed turned the horse for town.

  “You’ll want to take the second street on your left. Bombaytown is over the bridge, just north of the rail line to Perth.”

  “I know the direction.” He urged the horse to a trot. “We have Chinatown in San Francisco. Would Bombaytown be something similar?”

  “I expect so, if Chinatown is an enclave of Chinese attempting to replicate a slice of home in alien environs.”

  “That captures it perfectly.”

  “Bombaytown is actually quite welcoming—regardless of whether you’re Indian. A number of British settlers spent time in India and enjoy reliving elements of that experience. I like the spices and the hint of the exotic. Many women buy the silks and muslin for their dresses at Indian merchants’ warehouses.”

  Every man and his dog were out taking the air. Maids and mistresses, dressed in their Sunday finery, strolled along the high street down to the harbor to observe the boats at anchor. On one crowded corner, the gig paused long enough for Esme to exchange greetings with a friend before Jed took advantage of a gap in the traffic.

  The slight lurch pushed Esme back against the gig’s seat and the jolt triggered the automated parasol behind her to unfold. It wobbled upward, stuttered and folded back as she turned and hit the retract button.

  “I’d rather have the sun.” She turned her face to its warmth. “I love the fact winters here aren’t too cold. I can’t imagine living somewhere grey like England or where it snowed.” She peeked at him. “Here it’s warm enough to paddle in the river—not swim—even in winter.”

  “Miss Esme,” he pretended horror. “Never say you paddle.”

  The vision enticed him, of Esme stripping off her stockings, holding her skirts to her knees, frilly petticoats bunching as she waded into the shallows.

  She laughed. “Not where anyone can see me. Although in summer I do visit Bather’s Beach for a morning swim. I admit, it’s one time when I appreciate the segregation of the sexes. Modern swimming costumes are awfully form-fitting.”

  I’d like to see that.

  An idiot on a rusty penny-farthing wobbled toward them and saved him from making that admission out loud. Esme wasn’t being saucy. He heard the note of nostalgia for childhood freedoms in her voice.

  “Idiot cyclists.” He twitched the reins and the black horse responded instantly, veering to the right and putting on a burst of speed. They clattered onto the bridge in fine form.

  “The best part of paddling in the river are the minnows. They nibble your toes.”

  Lucky minnows. He swallowed and nudged the conversation into safer channels. “It’s a wide river.”

  “Wide, lazy and surprisingly deep just here. Before the bridge, people lost their lives being ferried across, particularly with animals. Cows are stupid creatures. They panic.” She smiled. “Not that I’d say that in Bombaytown. Most of the people are Hindu. If you see a cow, don’t smack it or shove it aside. They’re all quite tame and must be treated with respect. Straight ahead and turn left. We’ll stable the gig at the Chai House.”

  The Chai House turned out to be a large timber and tin building with deep verandas and a blue roof. A boy ran out at the sight of Esme. He took charge of the horse and a coin.

  Bombaytown was nowhere as large as the Chinatown he knew back home, but it was a unique and surprising experience in this remote Australian settlement.

  A small spice market held exotic scents, intensified by the smell of food cooking in surrounding homes. Voices rose and fell in the sounds of family life, but the language was strange to him. No mistaking though, the laughter of children and a mother’s scolding voice.

  There were tea merchants and textile warehouses, as well as smaller shopfronts with little cards offering professional services: doctors, lawyers, moneylenders, ayurvedic practitioners. He questioned the latter.

  “An ancient form of healing,” Esme said. “It cures colds and helps consumption. I think most households in Swan River have something from here in their medicine chests. Bombaytown actually started before the goldrush. Swan River is quite close to India—not so much in distance as in the absence of nations in between. We are linked by the Indian Ocean and we’ve supplied India with horses for a number of decades, and then, there’s the sandalwood.” She paused and inhaled appreciatively. “The scent of sandalwood is always on the air here. It’s one of the things I love about Bombaytown.”

  She indicated a large pile of branches that he’d taken to be rubbish piled against the side of a warehouse. “That’s cu
t sandalwood. It grows naturally to the east of Perth and some farmers are also trying to establish plantations of it. There’s a voracious market for sandalwood in India. They burn it as incense and use it in soaps and herbal compounds.”

  Beyond the pile of sandalwood branches a shallow tin dome, perhaps an arm span across, sat alone in a bare batch of ground. As they walked closer, Jed saw that a lively scene of tigers, monkeys and coiled serpents had been beaten into the tin.

  “A fire pit?” he hazarded.

  “Almost. Mrs. Dam calls it her radiant monster. She’s an inventor. You met her at our tea party.”

  “The taller of the two Indian ladies?”

  “Yes. Ayesha is clever. She thinks about things. Since it’s a rainy day, she’s pulled the cover over the mechanism. If it were open, you’d see the mirrors she’s arranged to intensify sunlight. She uses the heat to boil a thin layer of water. She thinks steam power ought to be cleaner than what we achieve by burning coal. It would be lovely if she could make it work. You’ve arrived in the worst of the winter weather, but mostly we have days of clear blue skies and sunshine. Using the sun to create steam makes sense.”

  “It’s certainly an interesting idea. Does Mrs. Dam use any magnification?”

  “I believe she’s exploring the concept. Be sure to ask her, you’ll make her day.”

  “I will.”

  In the open fields beyond the town, children ran laughing, launching paper kites into the air. The scraps of bright color soared high, tugging at the strings that held them to the earth.

  “The kites are left over from Bombaytown’s midwinter celebrations.” Esme shaded her eyes with a gloved hand. “The children made them from paper donated by Fremantle merchants.”

  Not all the children were Indian, either. Blond and red heads gave away the ethnic mix of the kite flyers. Jed commented on it.

  “That’s the best part of our midwinter celebrations. Everyone joined in, sharing the best bits of their beliefs. Even Father left the children a gift before he went prospecting. He built an automated sweets-dispenser and set it up by the water fountain near the Post Office. The children emptied it in a day. It’s in the shape of the Three Kings and one of their camels.” She laughed. “A very odd-looking camel. Francis is keeping it filled with peanuts for the children to enjoy.”