Her Proper Scoundrel (28 page)

In the ensuing silence, the quill scratched, the papers rustled, his chair creaked as he shifted.

He ignored them totally, fumed Christopher. Shamelessly. With the air of entitlement that comes only from the high born.

Josceline tugged at his sleeve and when he turned to look at her, she inclined her head in the direction of the door. She wanted them to leave. Like cowards.

A spurt of rage lent strength to Christopher and he lunged forward, grabbing Candel by the collar to pull him up. The quill went flying, spattering ink across the desk top and the sheaf of papers fluttered to the ground.

“This isn’t over,” warned Christopher, jerking Candel’s collar. The man’s head bobbed back and forth with the force of Christopher’s grip.

The man’s hate filled gaze flicked over his face. “You do not frighten me, Sharrington,” he jeered. “For what is there to fear from a man who hides behind a woman’s skirts?”

At this very instant, Christopher felt keenly the knife blade hidden in his boot. It weighed heavily against his ankle.

Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to whip it out and hold it against Candel’s neck.

Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see the thin red line of blood welling over the blade as he began to apply pressure.

Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to hear the man’s dying gasps, to see his bulging eyes as the knife cut further into his throat.

But he would not.

Josceline was here with him. A proper lady should not be witness to such vulgar doings. Reluctantly, he dropped his hands and stepped back. Sweat dripped down his forehead; he swiped it away.

“Come,” he said curtly, gesturing to Josceline. “There is nothing for us here.”
  

The glance she gave him was searching, penetrating, as if she knew very well what he had been thinking.

He gave her a wry look then took her hand and tucked it into its familiar place on his elbow.

Arm in arm they strolled from the office, to all appearances content and carefree as if the disappointing interview with Oliver Candel had never happened.

As they strolled down the dim hall, one thing niggled at Christopher.

My love. He had distinctly heard her call him my love. Did she mean it? Or had it merely been part of the charade?

* * *

Christopher handed Josceline into the carriage and swung himself in behind her. Before she had a chance to settle herself fully, he wriggled himself in beside her. She was about to chastise him until he laid his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.

“We failed,” she whispered, leaning her head into his welcoming chest. His warmth penetrated her cheek, she smelled his scent of leather and citrus, heard the breath hissing in his lungs. Safe. Safe here, with him. The carriage jostled then they clip clopped away. Away, thankfully, from that wretched man.

“Did we?” Humor tinged his voice and she lifted her head to look at him. His face was bland, indeed, almost content. The horrid interview didn’t appear to have disturbed him in the least.

“Did we not? We do not have the deed. You were right when you said Lord Candel would not give it to us.”

“True, but now I know where it is. His eyes gave it away. It’s in the roll top desk beside the door. Where, I would wager, the rest of the important documents are kept. Besides, we saw the warehouse and the layout of his office. So did we fail? No, I think not. You, kitten, were correct.” He tilted her face and kissed the tip of her nose. “It was best to meet him again.”

“How do you propose to get it?” she asked, puzzled at his insouciant manner. “He refuses to give it to you.”

“Ah, now that is a very good question. To which I have a very good answer.” He tapped her lightly on her chin. “With Philip’s help.”

“Philip’s help,” she echoed stupidly. Whatever did he mean? She pulled away to sit upright.

“Yes. I shall bring him back here with me at night, when there is no one in the warehouse. He’s small enough to fit through one of the office windows. Once he is inside, I shall get him to open the door for me.”

“What if the door is locked? What if there is a night watchman? What if he falls from the window and hurts himself? What if he is frightened of the dark?” Questions tumbled pell-mell off her tongue.

He chuckled. “Do you always worry so?”

“That is not worry,” she replied loftily. “I am merely airing my concerns.”

“Worries, concerns, both seem the same to me.” Hecocked an eye brow. “Philip is a strong lad. He is up to the task.”

“No.” She shook her head so firmly, a few curls bounced free of her knot. “No, not Philip. Me.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Horror washed over Christopher as the meaning of her words sunk in. Josceline would help him? A duke’s daughter, a member of the upper class had offered to climb through a warehouse window on his behalf?

The impropriety was enormous. Their worry over the scandal of a governess with no children to tend to was nothing in comparison to someone discovering her creeping into a warehouse in the middle of the night to search for a missing deed.

Anxiety stabbed him in the gut at the thought; he crossed and uncrossed his legs several times before setting both heels firmly on the floor only for the toes on one foot to pump up and down incessantly.

How daft. How brave. How foolhardy. How loyal. How-.

How like the woman he loved. An idea he still had difficulty accepting but there it was – the woman he loved. He could not permit her to expose herself to the risk.

“No,” he growled. “I shall not allow it.”

“Then I believe we are at a stalemate. For I shall not allow you to use Philip.” With her lips set in a mutinous line, her eyes lobbed daggers at him.

Again her demeanor reminded him of a spitting kitten and he choked back the sudden urge to laugh.

“Are you always so stubborn?” he asked mildly.

The coach jostled over a rut in the road and threw her against him. Before he could catch her and pull her close again, she pushed herself away and glared at him.

“I’m not stubborn.” She continued to glare at him. “I’m simply being reasonable. Besides, if not for Philip, who else shall help?”

“Why would you put yourself in that danger?”

The question appeared to leave her at a loss for words for she blinked her eyes and opened and closed her mouth several times. Finally, she shrugged.

“Because as your wife, I have as much to gain as do you. You would have me believe we are almost penniless. If that’s the case, then what are we to do? In all truth, should both of us happen to find work, it shall not nearly be enough if we wish to keep Midland House. I am familiar with the cost of keeping an estate home and truly, a governess’ wage will not suffice.”

“Does Midland House mean that much to you?” His voice registered his amazement. “You have only recently become its chatelaine.”

How he enjoyed the idea of her as chatelaine over his home, a home which they would lose in a matter of months. A home which she was prepared to fight for. Yet he could never forgive himself if something were to harm her. She spoke again and he left his thoughts behind to concentrate on her words.

“Of course it means that much to me. If for no other reason than we need a roof over our heads.” And because, Josceline thought, Midland House is important to you. As is recovering the deed and getting the “Bessie”.

Furthermore, the importance to him made it important for her for she wanted him to be happy. A silly notion for she had no idea if his feelings towards her were sincere or not. He had never claimed to love her and though she loved him, she had not yet found the courage to tell him.

Later, she reminded herself, later she would tell him, when the “Bessie” had been recovered.

“When we have the ship,” she continued, her words confident, “we can begin our shipping enterprise and keep Midland House.”

She clasped her hands in her lap and sat there, calm as anything. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She would find the deed and together they would get the ship. Then Christopher would be avenged and truly happy.

Confidence flowed from her like a cool river flowing through green fields. They would not fail. Then, perhaps, just perhaps, he would tell her he loved her.

Her bold words won over Christopher. He draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close again, letting her scent fill his nostrils and nudge away his reservations.

How could he not accept her offer of help? As long as they were careful and chose their time prudently, she should be in and out of the warehouse with none the wiser. Perhaps a midnight visit to the Candel warehouse wouldn’t be so dangerous after all.

In the meantime, there were more mundane matters to consider. Like a visit to the
modiste
. It was time to upgrade her woefully inadequate wardrobe.

* * *

Josceline’s proposition to help Christopher retrieve the deed didn’t seem so wonderful now. Not now, when she actually stood in the narrow, refuse strewn laneway alongside the Candel warehouse.

Facing the quay and the river beyond, she sagged against her mount, waiting for Christopher to finish tying up Vesuvius and come back for her mare. She felt safe enough for the gloom of a Bristol night hid them well from prying eyes that may happen to pass by on the quay. Although, she sincerely doubted anyone else was foolish enough to be about at this hour.

Two days had passed since their unsuccessful visit with Lord Candel. Two days where they had plotted their foray into the warehouse, from the lads’ breeches - hidden beneath her cloak - stretching uncomfortably over Josceline’s hips to the moth eaten hat borrowed from the stable boy to cover her hair. Two days where they had decided to forego the carriage, opting, in the name of speed and simplicity, to ride individual mounts. Two days where Josceline had witnessed Christopher swing from optimism to despair then back to optimism as he contemplated the task before them.

“You should not help me,” he had once growled at her. “It’s too dangerous.”

“And neither should a child of six years,” she retorted pertly. “And danger is only to be feared if you let it.” Where she found the resolve to utter those words, she didn’t know.

Actually, she did know.

Simmering anger made her bold for Candel’s insult of Christopher now included her as well. That and a nagging concern for Christopher and his unfinished business with the wretched Candel.

Frowning, she bit her lip to keep from screaming out her frustration. Where was Christopher? How long did it take to tie up a horse?

A stealthy footstep whispered behind her; a hand dropped on her shoulder. Her heart somersaulted then settled back in its usual steady rhythm when Christopher spoke.

“Keep your thoughts to the matter of hand,” he teased gently. “A face full of frowns and scowls doesn’t become you.”

She slanted a wry glance at him then ignored him to tilt back her head to inspect the windows. Were they really that high? What had made her think she would be able to climb through them? Stifling a groan, she looked back towards him.

He held a finger to his lips and took the reins from her hand, backing her horse away and further towards the far end of the tiny lane. Man and beast disappeared in the gloom.

A few moments later, he materialized from the shadows and stood before her, teeth glinting in the wan light of a sickle moon as a reassuring smile limned his lips.

“Ready?” he whispered, cocking an eyebrow, the motion barely discernable in the shadows covering his face.

She nodded.

“I’ve found a barrel to stand on,” he whispered and stepped away, melting once again into the shadows.

She heard a grunt and a creaking thud, then a rumble and in a matter of seconds, a ghostly Christopher reappeared, rolling a large wooden barrel before him. Bracing himself against the warehouse wall, he righted it, rocking it back and forth until it lined up beneath the window closest to the rear of the warehouse.

He stepped back, dusting off his hands and now she noticed the coil of rope slung over his shoulder.

“That should do,” he muttered more to himself than to her, then moved to stand beside her. “Do you have the tinder box?” he whispered in her ear, brushing his lips lightly along her ear lobe before stepping back.

That feathery touch sent shivers up and down her spine, matching the nerves churning in her stomach. Drat the man, he seemed not to realize the importance of keeping to the matter at hand.

“The tinder box?” he repeated, a half smile lifting one corner of his mouth as if he knew full well he had disconcerted her.

Which he had.

She scowled at him, at his poise, his bravado. The two of them stood in a stinking alley about to break into a warehouse yet he seemed so flippant and showed not the slightest concern over what they planned to do.

“The tinder box?” He frowned this time. “Josceline, you must concentrate.”

“Then don’t kiss my ear,” she retorted. She patted the bulge in her pocket. “The tinder box.”