Her Proper Scoundrel (14 page)

“No man dupes me of what is mine,” he spat. Without a second glance, he stalked from the room.

A silent Josceline watched him go, heart aching at his defeated demeanor.

There was more between Lord Oliver Candel and Mr. Christopher Sharrington than a mere gambling debt. It was written in the anguish in Christopher’s voice, in the taut creases of his face, the haunted look in his eyes.

Josceline determined to find out. She much preferred his eyes filled with laughter, not the bitterness sullying them now.

* * *

Christopher didn’t know why he had gone to the sitting room first. By rights, he should have gone directly to the library, where he was now.

He tossed back a glass of the fine cognac he had acquired on his final crossing to the Continent and poured himself another. The searing liquid helped clarify his thoughts.

The past two days avoiding Josceline had been sheer torture. Day and night his mind had been filled with thoughts of her.

Simply put, he had gone to the sitting room because he wanted to see her, to share what had happened, to have her tease him and make it right again.

Instead, he had only succeeded in making himself look like a useless fool, duped and tossed aside like so much rubbish.

There was the rub. He didn’t want to look the fool to Josceline, he wanted her esteem.

Again he drained his glass.

Not only have I been snubbed and threatened by Oliver Candel, I am haunted at night by snapping green eyes and peach hued lips.

Snapping green eyes and peach hued lips that could send him to prison with the flash of a handkerchief.

He hurled the empty glass into the fireplace taking grim satisfaction at the jagged pieces glittering amongst the ashes. He dropped into the chair behind his desk, leaning forward on his elbows to cradle his head in his palms.

His life had become a complicated mess.

How much simpler the sea faring life, with a sturdy deck heaving beneath his feet and the clean wind across his cheeks, the salt spray in his hair and his hands firm on the wheel. That night when he had won the “Bessie”, his sea faring dream began to crystallize.

The dream had been in his grasp for an ephemeral instant before it had been snatched away by a liar and a cheat. Somehow Christopher had to take it back.

Chapter Thirteen

 
Christopher lifted his head to gaze outside. It rained harder now, a perfect complement to his mood. He barely heard the hesitant tap over the spattering of the rain drops against the library windows.

“Christopher? I heard a crash.” Josceline’s neat head poked around the door. “May I come in?”

“As you please.” Arms crossed, he watched her step smoothly across the waxed hardwood floor towards him.

“I have an idea. Such a simple idea, I do not know how we didn’t come upon it before.” A russet curl had worked itself loose to curve around her jaw and she shoved it back behind her ear impatiently.

“Yes?” He knew his voice sounded harsh but he couldn’t help it.

“Let us talk to Mrs. Wilkinson, the mistress at St. Peter’s Hospital. Perhaps she will take our part.” Her green eyes were darkened to jade in the dim light filtering through the windows yet he could see the earnestness shining in them.

Our part. He liked the sound of that. He leaned back in his chair, hope rising as Josceline continued to talk.

“We could ask her, could we not? Or rather, you could ask her. I don’t think we should risk being seen together there a second time.”

Still he said nothing but thoughts began to churn through his head. Mrs. Wilkinson was the only person who could corroborate Candel’s story. If she didn’t back his story, then it wouldn’t carry any credibility. With Candel lacking credibility, Lady Oakland would have no reason to suspect anything.

However, Candel spoke the truth, meaning Mrs. Wilkinson would have to bend the truth. Would she do so?

She would if he paid her.

As much as he hated stooping to such tactics, it appeared a plausible solution.

Of course, there was also the haberdasher but a threat from Christopher to take his business elsewhere should be sufficient for that man’s discretion.

With renewed optimism, he surveyed Josceline. Clever and sharp witted, she had a head on her shoulders. He liked that. Simpering women bored him to tears.

She colored under his frank perusal. “Perhaps it isn’t such a good idea after all. I must beg pardon for interrupting you. I thought-.” Her voice trailed away and she clasped and unclasped her hands.

“Josceline, it is a splendid idea.” He sprang to his feet and came around to take her cold hands in his very warm ones. “First thing on Monday I shall ride into Bristol and speak with Mrs. Wilkinson.” He grinned at her, willing her to smile back. “We have a plan. We can begin to fight.”

He dropped her hands to move away
. Keep your distance
.
The daughter of a duke can never be anything to you.

The scent of violets and sandalwood lingered in his nostrils and he inhaled deeply, sure that by doing so he could capture some essence of her.

Josceline welcomed his new found buoyant air. She returned his grin, knowing hers stretched ear to ear just like his.

“You shall soon have Mrs. Wilkinson in agreement,” she declared with utmost confidence. “Oliver Candel will have no proof.”

“Aye,” he agreed with a vigorous nod.

Relief washed over Josceline as his features lost that pinched look to be replaced with open confidence. They had a plan. She exhaled slowly, unaware she had been holding her breath. Dragging her gaze away from his face, she contemplated the rain while marshaling her thoughts.

With Candel’s threat rendered impotent, Lady Oakland must be convinced once and for all that Philip was truly Christopher’s son.

The discussion with Lady Oakland required a deft touch and who better than Josceline herself. If successful, her position as governess would be solidified and she could safely finish her three month term. Here, at Midland House. With Christopher.

And if unsuccessful?

She wouldn’t allow herself to think upon that possibility.

She, Josceline, would deal with Lady Oakland. How, she wasn’t sure, but she would find a way.

* * *

As soon as Christopher stepped inside St. Peter’s Hospital early Monday afternoon, he remembered the smell: The odor of unwashed bodies mingling with the stench of the river and the pungent stab of despair.

Before scooting off, the unkempt boy who had let him in pointed wordlessly towards the bell pull. Christopher gave it a firm tug. He couldn’t hear anything but presumably it rang somewhere within the recesses of the house.

While he waited, he inspected the carved wall paneling depicting biblical scenes. Incongruous and depressing, it clearly signified the building had been intended for another use.

Footsteps sounded behind him and he turned around to see the matron, garbed in the same grubby dress, shuffling towards him.

“I ‘ad a feeling you’d come looking for me.” She leered at him knowingly.

“Oh?”

“Aye.” She nodded her head, setting the dirty mobcap to flapping. “I ‘ad a visitor. A dandy. Looking for the boys. I told ‘im nothing but he may come back. Determined sort, he was.”

“I believe I know of whom you speak.” He drew himself up to full height and looked down his nose at the woman. “The man seeks to do me harm. Could we come to an agreement, Mrs., ah -.”

Damnation, he could not for the life of him remember the woman’s name. The knowledge Candel had already been by to check the veracity of the boys’ heritage rattled him. He sucked in a lungful of air to steady himself, ignoring as best he could the foul smell.

“Wilkinson,” she interjected helpfully. “And to what would we be agreeing to?”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Wilkinson.” He pulled back his coat and patted his bulging vest pocket. “If you could forget we were here.”

Her greedy eyes devoured the bulge in his vest. “For the right price, I’ll even forget the boys were ‘ere.”

As he had expected, she sought money for her silence. Excellent.

He pulled out his sack of coins. “Say, five guineas?” He counted out five coins and held them out.

She swiped them off his palm so quickly her hand was a blur.

“Thank ye.” She tucked the coins into her pocket. “I ain’t seen nothing. Not you, not Philip, not Tom.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Wilkinson, how do I know you’ll not double cross me?” He placed his fists on his hips and leaned towards her.

His threatening stance left her unfazed.

“I knew their ma,” she answered glibly. “She were a good girl who made a bad choice. Some lord took ‘er to mistress but cast ‘er off when he tired of ‘er. She took ‘er solace in a bottle which didn’t leave nothin’ for the boys.” She swiped her hand across her dripping nose. “I’m fond of those two. The way I see it, they deserve a chance for a better life.”

“Agreed.” Christopher inclined his head.

“Ye can count on me, Mr. Sharrington. I won’t say a word about ye and yer missus being here.” She held out her hand. It glistened where she had wiped her nose.

Grimacing inwardly, he shook it. They needed her and to insult her now only had the potential to cause harm.

“She is not my wife.” And yearning would not make it so, came the peculiar thought.

“As ye wish.” She shrugged but her eyes held a shrewd glint. “I’m a busy woman, if ye can show yerself out.”

* * *

Josceline paced restlessly.

Christopher had left early this morning to visit the mistress of St. Peter’s. She’d tried to while away the time by sewing, even going so far as to lay out the precious copper satin on her bed before bundling it up and draping it once again over her wardrobe door.

Then she had gone to the library and tried to find a book but the titled spines turned to jelly beneath her eyes and became so much gibberish.

She had even looked for Philip and Tom only to be told by Mrs. Belton they were visiting Jefferson in the stable.

Thus she had resorted to walking the floors of Midland House, nerves churning, thoughts jumbled. Could the woman be persuaded to keep their secret? If so, could she be trusted?

Tedham caught up to her on her third pass of the hallway outside the dining room.

“Lady Woodsby, you have visitors.”

“For me? Are you certain?” A puzzled Josceline stopped dead in her tracks.

“Yes, my lady, they await you in the drawing room.”

“You’ve already shown them in? Could you not have asked me first?” She wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter. Other matters preoccupied her mind.

Tedham flushed. “Of course, my lady, how wrong of me. However, the gentleman insists he is your father.”

“What?” she exclaimed. Faintness overtook her. Swaying, she put her hand on the wall to steady herself. “You said visitors. Who else is with him?”

“The other man claims to be betrothed to you.”

The butler’s answer sounded as if it came from a great distance and she could scarce make sense of the words.

Her father and Mr. Burrows.

Here.

Now.

And she was alone in the house.

“I must beg pardon, my lady. I thought I was doing the right thing.” Voice apologetic, he bowed.

Josceline shook her head and drew in several shuddering breaths before responding. “It is not of your doing. The last thing I expected was a visit from my father or I would have given you proper instructions.”

“Shall I send them away, my lady?”

She stared at him for a full moment, trying to comprehend what he had just said. The thunder pounding in her ears made his words unintelligible.

He shuffled uncomfortably and coughed behind his hand. His faded blue eyes were anxious as he looked at her. “Er, my lady, shall I send them away?”

“No.” She shook her head. “No, I shall speak to them.” The opportunity to deal with her father and his expectations of her had arisen. All she had to do was walk to the drawing room and state her case.

However, her feet refused to cooperate. It was as if they were mired in the mud of her jumbled thoughts. She had enough worries over the boys that she couldn’t even begin to muster her arguments to her father.

She didn’t know what to do.

Christopher. She would tell Christopher. He would make it right.

 
“Yes.” The shake became a nod. “Yes. Yes, send them away.”

* * *

Christopher returned in a much better frame of mind. Whistling a jaunty tune, he bounded up the front steps, swinging open the door to catch Tedham shambling past with a tray of silver flatware.

At the sight of Christopher, the butler’s brows shot skyward. He pulled his face into its customary bland expression before turning to face Christopher fully.