Her Proper Scoundrel (11 page)

Josceline nodded.

She had seen Christopher’s panicked face when the two boys were rough housing outside the carriage. He had almost looked to call the whole thing off. To be sure, Josceline herself felt ill at ease with Philip and Tom but the success of the whole venture depended on self-assurance.

“They are just little children,” she reassured him.
 
“What could possibly go wrong?”

Chapter Ten

The following afternoon Josceline sat in the drawing room in what she now regarded as her chair, the carved oak one, when Tedham announced the arrival of Lady Oakland.

She scarce got to her feet before the woman swept into the room. Wearing an oversize ruffled bonnet of burgundy satin, she reminded Josceline of a barouche at full gallop, an impression made even stronger when she abruptly halted in front of Josceline as if an inattentive driver pulled up on the reins at the last second.

Lady Oakland pulled off black kid gloves and stuffed them in her beaded reticule, then adjusted her fringed shawl of matching burgundy satin before impaling Josceline with her gaze.

Her attire looked as if it came straight from the latest fashion plate, leaving Josceline feeling woefully inadequate in her serviceable brown walking dress. She had worn it so often the arm pits were stained.

To conceal this, Josceline wore her finest shawl, a finely spun wool the color of fresh churned butter. She’d pulled it tight about her and pinned it with her mama’s cameo brooch. The brooch usually gave her confidence but today, in light of her guest’s elegance, it just made her feel like someone’s pauper cousin. Especially seeing that, if one looked closely, there was a tiny chip missing – the reason why it hadn’t been sold with the rest of her mama’s jewelry.
 

“Welcome, Lady Oakland. How pleased we are to have you visit,” Josceline said with as much poise as she could muster.

“I had a most interesting conversation with Lord Candel last night at Major Pennington’s dinner party.” Lady Oakland regarded Josceline closely. “It would seem he saw Mr. Sharrington leaving St. Peter’s Hospital yesterday with two young boys. Was he mistaken?”

Balderdash, not only was Lady Oakland the picture of elegance, she was also direct.

Deny it. Deny all of it.

“I, ah, I do believe he is mistaken.” Josceline groped for the back of the chair beside her to steady herself. Lord Candel had seen them? How was that possible? Her heart thudded against her chest so firmly, Josceline was certain the fabric of her dress jerked in rhythm. She had to wet her lips before she was able to say anything else.

“No,” she finally managed to choke out, “Mr. Sharrington did not leave Midland House yesterday.”

Where was Christopher? Had Tedham not announced Lady Oakland’s arrival?

Desperate, she looked over the woman’s shoulder to the drawing room door but the doorway and the hallway beyond were empty. She strained her ears but heard no footsteps. It would seem she was on her own to deal with Lady Oakland. She turned her gaze back to their guest and squared her shoulders.

“That is what I told Candel,” replied Lady Oakland. “That one is a scoundrel who likes nothing better than meddle into matters not of his affair.” She looked around. “Is Mr. Sharrington not joining us with his son?”

“I’ll ring for tea,” Josceline blurted. “And send one of the footmen to find Chris –er, Mr. Sharrington.” Her face grew hot. Her nerves were so rattled, she’d almost called him by his given name. However, Lady Oakland didn’t appear to have noticed. Josceline fumbled for the bell pull.

“There is no need,” Christopher stepped into the drawing room. “My apologies, Lady Oakland.” He swept a bow. “I was caught up with ledgers in the library. I lose track of all time when I’m there.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sharrington. I just recounted to Lady Woodsby, Lord Candel has the most dreadful story. He claims to have seen you and two young boys in Bristol yesterday.”

“Why, how could that be, Lady Oakland? Lord Candel is surely mistaken.” He answered calmly and his face held a quizzical expression.

His response appeared to satisfy Lady Oakland and Josceline began to relax.

“I told him so,” replied the woman smugly. “I told him you had a son living with your mother in Bristol.”

She had a busybody’s air and Josceline knew full well Lady Oakland’s gossip would make or break the deception.

“Most assuredly so.” Christopher nodded, apparently unperturbed by the woman’s story. “I only have one son. Lady Woodsby, would you please bring him down?” He turned to Josceline and winked. He looked as if he enjoyed himself immensely.

“Of course, Mr. Sharrington. I’ll fetch him immediately.”

A relieved Josceline almost galloped from the drawing room. As she left, she could hear Christopher offer to seat their guest.

Scant minutes later, Josceline returned with Philip firmly clasped in one hand. Outside the drawing room, she paused.

“Remember, you’re not to say a word,” she admonished, gently tapping his nose with her index finger. “Children should be seen and not heard.”

“Yes, miss.”

She looked him up and down one last time. His hair, so dark yesterday, had turned blonde after his bath and it curled about his cheeks disarmingly. In his new clothing, he looked as fine as any young lad she had ever seen. Only his hands betrayed him – they were tanned and rough.

“Philip, you must also remember to put your hands behind you. Like this.” Josceline clasped her hands behind her and turned to show him. “Pretend it’s a game.”

Philip nodded and did as she instructed.

“Good boy.” She smiled at him then dropped her hand on his shoulder to steer him into the drawing room.

An attentive Lady Oakland watched them approach and curiosity hovered over her like a bird of prey drifting on the wind. As she stirred her tea, to Josceline’s fanciful mind her fingers resembled claws.

Josceline’s stomach churned as she halted and pulled Philip beside her. “May I present my charge, Tom.”
 
Balderdash, she’d used the wrong name. Would anyone notice?

“Philip.” The boy looked up at Josceline. “Me name is Philip Stanford.”

Not surprisingly, the boy had noticed. And now he had done the one thing she had instructed him not to – he spoke.

His rough dialect grated on Josceline’s ears and she clapped her hand over his mouth. Glancing down, she could see the mutinous set of his lips beneath her fingers.

Her stomach stopped churning and leapt into her throat; she swallowed hard several times before she was able to speak. “Yes, Philip, how silly of me to call you Tom.” she squeaked, wracking her brains for a plausible excuse. “Er, you remind me of my younger brother when he was young. His name is Tom. You are Philip Stanford, er – Sharrington. Yes, Philip Stanford Sharrington,” she repeated.

Even to her ears, it sounded a cock and bull story and she peeked up at Lady Oakland to gauge the woman’s reaction. Her dark head was tipped to one side, the perfect picture of skepticism.

Josceline’s heart sank through the floor. How could this get any worse?

“Is the tea to your liking, Lady Oakland?” Christopher’s voice was hearty, too hearty.

Josceline risked a quick glance to spot him motioning wildly to her to remove Philip. She turned to do so when came a clatter of running feet and Tom, blonde curls flying, burst into the room carrying a fluffy bundle of kitten. Behind him huffing as fast as her legs could carry her, came Mrs. Belton.

“Look, Philip,” Tom cried. “Look, they ‘ave kittens!”

“I must beg pardon, Mr. Sharrington,” puffed Mrs. Belton, “the lad got away from me.”

If the situation hadn’t been so grave, Josceline would have laughed out loud at the housekeeper’s beet red face and mortified expression. Instead, Josceline looked away to hide the smile quivering on her lips at the sight.

Philip unclasped his hands and reached for the kitten. “Cor,” he breathed. “It’s as white as a swan.”

His hands were almost black against the fur. Beads of perspiration popped out on Josceline’s forehead. First his voice, now the hands, what was Lady Oakland to think?

Lady Oakland’s eyes darted from one blonde headed boy to the other than back again. Bewilderment wrinkled her brow. “Oh my,” she murmured. “They could be brothers.”

 
“Tom is the housekeeper’s grandson,” explained Christopher smoothly. A muscle ticked in his cheek but he carried himself with considerable composure.

Josceline took comfort in that and willed her pounding heart to slow down.

Mrs. Belton’s mouth dropped open but before she had a chance to protest, both boys darted from the room. She threw a murderous glance at Christopher before stomping after them.

“I have seen quite enough,” said Lady Oakland. She put down her tea cup.

Her tone was pleasant yet Josceline saw suspicion lurking in her eyes. Suspicion that again set off Josceline’s rattled nerves and she had a difficult time catching her breath.

“Mr. Sharrington,” Lady Oakland continued, “I do not claim to understand what is going on here at Midland House but your son appears to be very comfortable with your housekeeper’s grandson. Beware the boys do not spend too much time together. Indeed, I do not see gently reared children but rather, two boys who are ill-behaved monsters.” She got to her feet and pointed to Josceline. “I fear, Lady Woodsby, you have quite the challenge in front of you.” She flung her shawl around her neck. “I bid you both good day.”

Without a glance back, she marched out of the room, calling for her carriage.

The whole episode had lasted less than ten minutes, not even enough time for her to finish her tea, for her cup sat half full.

The room was silent as a tomb. Josceline and Christopher just stared at each other. Far in the distance, they could hear the shrieks of Philip and Tom.

“Do you think she is convinced?” Josceline tried, and failed miserably, to keep the gloom from her voice.

“Of course,” Christopher replied energetically. Too energetically, for his slumped form belied the brisk tone in his voice. He slouched back against the chair, eyes dark, mouth grim, the very picture of dejection.

A dejection, Josceline was sure, mirrored on her own face.

For one insane instant, she wanted to bury her head on Christopher’s shoulder, and feel his strong arms wrapped around her. Wanted him to hold her close and tell her everything would be splendid. She closed her eyes and willed the sensation to go away – he employed her, she reminded herself. Nothing more.

She opened her eyes to catch his somber gaze on her.

“This is a fine to do, is it not?” she said finally, her voice wavering.

“Time will tell.”

“Yes.” She nodded and gathered up the cups to place them on the tray. “Time will tell.”

But it wasn’t what time would tell she was worried about.

It was what Lady Oakland would tell.

Chapter Eleven

   
Christopher didn’t speak again until a grim lipped Josceline finished tidying the cups and had carried the tray to the sideboard. Her hand shook when she reached for the bell pull. She barely had the strength to tug at it and she had to try several times before a distant bell echoed through the house.

A protective impulse surged through him at her obvious distress. It wasn’t her fault Tom had run into the room. In fact, up until then, Josceline had handled the situation with pluck, even covering up her mistake with Philip’s name.

Her misery pierced him through and through. At this particular moment, he didn’t give a fig for what Lady Oakland thought of him - he just wanted to lighten Josceline’s spirits.

He wanted to continue as if yesterday and today had never happened.

He wanted her to smile at him and tease him.

He wanted to learn more about her for she intrigued him.

“Join me for dinner this evening?” The question burst out of his mouth to hang clumsily in the air between them.

She turned startled eyes to him then shook her head. “I thank you for the invitation, Mr. Sharrington, but I prefer to take a tray in my room.”

“You’ve done that every evening since you’ve come here. Please reconsider, I would enjoy your company.”

“It’s what’s proper. Governesses do not mingle with their employers.”

He snorted. “Who made that absurd rule? Join me this evening,” he pleaded. “We should discuss our next step.”

“I wager our next step will depend on what Lady Oakland thinks. No thank you.” She dipped her chin. “I would prefer my own company this evening.”

“Please, Josceline, I’ll have Cook make your favorite meal,” he wheedled. “Tell me what it is and you shall have it.”

She fiddled with the ends of her shawl before lifting her gaze to his. “You are insufferably obstinate, Mr. Sharrington.” A smile tickled the corners of her mouth. “But it is roast squab, if you must know.”