Her Proper Scoundrel (29 page)

“And the knife?”

“Yes, in my boot, where you told me to put it.” She leaned over to run her fingers down the shape of the knife.

“And you remember what you’re supposed to do?”

“Light a candle, pry open the desk, find the “Bessie’s” papers then you shall pull me out with the aid of the rope.”

It sounded easy. Too easy. And she didn’t even want to think about trying to climb back out through the window. Even with Christopher’s help, it would be difficult.

“Very well.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead then hopped on the barrel and stood up. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his hand.

Realization dawned on Josceline – he meant to knock out the window with his fist. It would be awkward for him, though, for the window was above his head. Would he be able to or would they need to waste more precious time trying to find something with which to smash the glass?

With lips compressed, Christopher braced himself against the wall with one hand then with the other began to pound on the window overhead until finally, it shattered with a sharp crack. A tinkling shower of glass fell inside the building.

Josceline’s breath jammed in her throat. Surely someone had heard. Christopher cocked his head to listen.

Other than the bark of a distant dog, peaceful silence reigned.

Josceline began to breathe again. Christopher gave her a reassuring nod then broke away the rest of the glass until the frame was smooth.

He knelt down and held out a hand. “Come,” he mouthed.

She nodded and climbed up beside him. It was cramped beside him on top of the barrel and it took some maneuvering before she was able to climb onto his shoulders.

Shaking like a leaf, she sat on his shoulders, legs dangling on either side of his head.

He shifted and she lurched sideways. A frantic grab with both hands netted her his forehead and she clung tight.

“Hold on while I stand.” He started to rise, balancing himself with one hand against the wall, pushing off the barrel with the other. She lurched the other way, this time saved by a firm arm wrapped over her knees.

“Lean forward, over my head,” suggested Christopher. “Use one hand to balance against the wall.”

It made sense to her, and she complied. Up, up, up, she went, quaking so hard she was certain she would tumble them both off the barrel. However, Christopher’s strength sustained them, his legs firm stanchions and he easily reached full height.

Now the window was there, just above her head. Close enough for her to loosen her grasp on Christopher’s head and grab the frame. One at a time, she placed her feet on his solid shoulders before pulling herself up.

The window was now at her midriff. She felt his hands around her ankles, steadying her.

“Ready?” His whisper floated past her ears.

No! She thought wildly, teetering on his shoulders, clenching the window frame so tightly her knuckles gleamed in the moonlight.

“Yes,” she squeaked and squeaked again when he propelled her upwards. Twisting, she managed to swing one leg up and through so that now she straddled the window.

“Wait for the rope.” And he nonchalantly tossed half the rope, still coiled, up to her. She caught it and unwound it enough so she could string it around her chest. He waited while she tied a firm knot before wrapping the other end about his torso, winding it several times beneath his arm pits.

“Now go.” He poked up his thumb in an encouraging gesture.

Grasping the upper frame, she managed to swing the other leg through then squirmed around to face downwards. The frame cut sharply into her stomach; a wave of nausea took away her breath.

Josceline looked down at Christopher’s upturned face. He had jumped off the barrel and it seemed a fair distance although in reality, it couldn’t have been more than six or seven feet.

“Well done,” he drawled, again poking up one thumb.

This wasn’t really happening, she thought wildly. She really wasn’t dangling out a window, half inside and half outside.

She wiggled backwards, the frame scraping her stomach, then her breasts. With shaking hands, she handled the rope, adjusting it beneath her arms before backing in further. She began to slide and scrabbled wildly for the window sill with her hands, dangling for a moment before she let go.

Into the murk she dropped.

Whoosh. The rope cut into her chest, hindering her breath. Or perhaps panic hindered her breath. She hung there, twisting slowly back and forth before finally, she could feel herself being lowered, bit by bit. With one foot, she kicked herself away from the wall, only to swing into it again, bumping her elbows and knees repeatedly.

Her palms, slippery with sweat, burned with the effort of holding on; the rope beneath her armpits sliced into her flesh. Where was the floor?

In the absolute blackness of the office, it was difficult to tell. Desperate, she searched beneath her with one extended foot. Please, she prayed, let me feel the floor. I cannot hold on much longer.

Her toe nudged something solid.

The ground. At last, she stood on the ground. She tugged the rope to let Christopher know she was safely down and felt an answering tug. Weak with relief, she turned to press her back against the wall. Glass crunched beneath her feet as she shifted her weight. Loosening the knot, she shrugged out of the rope and let it fall to the ground. Her heart pounded so fiercely, she was certain it would leap from her throat.

Calm, she told herself. You must keep calm. She inhaled deeply, once, twice, three times while her eyes adjusted to the gloom as black as the ink spilled on her cloak that night in Christopher’s library. Something ran across her feet accompanied by a squeak and she shuddered. A rat scenting blood, no doubt.

Then a grim smile creased her lips. How surprised Lord Candel would be to discover the night time visitors to his office.

Seconds ticked by although if it had been ten seconds or ten minutes, she couldn’t have said. Continually sucking in deep, ragged breaths, she eventually regained her equilibrium. Her eyes adjusted enough to spot the twisted shape of the candelabra. She tiptoed to it and reached into her pocket for the tinder box.

Her pocket was empty.

She gritted her teeth. Balderdash. The box must have dropped from her pocket when she was crawling through the window. She tiptoed back to the wall beneath the window and dropped to her knees, gingerly patting the ground and the shards of glass. A sense of triumph seared through her when she encountered the sharp edges of the metal box.

Returning to the candelabra, she lit one candle then carried the candelabra over to the roll top desk before lighting the rest. As the candles blazed into full flame, she noted fresh blood smears coating the base of the candelabra. How odd, she thought, from where? A frisson of apprehension whisked down her spine.

Josceline lifted her hands to inspect them and with a jolt, realized her blood smeared the candelabra for several deep cuts crisscrossed her palms. There must have been shards of glass still wedged into the window or perhaps she had cut them while searching for the tinder box.

Stoically, she wiped them on her breeches. She must focus on the matter at hand.

Experimentally, she tried the desk. Locked, of course. She unsheathed the knife from her boot, sliding it carefully between the lock and the frame the way Christopher had instructed her.

It was a tight fight for the blade and it stuck. She shoved again, as hard as she could, grunting with the effort. No luck. She tugged it out.

Defeated, she sank to the ground and propped her back against the desk. She wasn’t strong enough to open the desk. Now what to do?

Twist, Christopher had said. Twist the blade.

She tried again, sliding in the blade until it caught then giving it a sharp twist. The handle slipped in her sweaty, bloody hands and she pulled them away to wipe on her breeches again, leaving red brown smears.

The knife hung suspended in mid air. She needed something to wrap around the handle, something to give her leverage.

Holding her breath, Josceline tried all the drawers beneath the roll top portion of the desk. Luck was with her, for none were locked and she discovered a length of ornately patterned silk cloth in the bottom one. She pulled it out and wound it about the handle, ruing over the fine silk being put to such mundane use. Ruing, too, the blood stains left on the delicate fabric by her hands.

With another firm twist, the lock sprang open with a clack. She pushed open the roll top, cringing with every creak and snap as the wooden slats disappeared one by one into their slot. To her ears, the noise was horrendous and sure to draw attention. Christopher had said there didn’t appear to be a night watchman but one never knew.

Carefully, she began to paw through the papers stacked in vertical piles, briefly scanning each one. The first stack contained nothing but bills of lading. So she began on the second stack: A deed to a house in Bristol. A deed to a plantation in the West Indies. A deed to the three-mast schooner, “Morningside.” A deed to a sloop, “Molly May”. May what, she wondered wryly before pulling out the bottom bundle.
 

And there she found it in a package of several pages tied together with a leather thong - the deed to the “Bessie”. She untied it and scanned the top page. A broad grin slipped across her mouth as she flipped through every paper in the package. Carefully rolling them up, she retied the leather thong and tucked it into her shirt.

She slipped the knife back into her boot and closed the desk. It was scarred where her blade had spun out of her hands. Between the broken window and the damaged desk, Oliver would soon discover his papers had been stolen. However, that wouldn’t matter for by then she and Christopher would be long gone.

Carefully, she replaced the candelabra before blowing out the candles then she crept to the dangling end of the rope, giving it a tug as Christopher had requested.

There was no answering tug.

Shouts sounded through the door, followed by pounding footsteps. The latch on the office door rattled ferociously, accompanied by severe pounding and a series of muffled curses.

Fear spiked through her and her stomach turned into a tight little knot. Someone knew there was an intruder in Lord Candel’s office.

Frantic, Josceline tried tugging on the rope again. The more she tugged, the more it slithered through her hands until finally, the rope snaked down beside her to land in a muddled pile on the floor. She stared at it with disbelieving eyes.

Christopher had disappeared.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Terror struck, Josceline gazed at the pile of rope now lying useless at her feet. Beads of perspiration pricked her scalp; sweat trickled from her arm pits.

She was trapped and sure to be caught.

The thought had no sooner crossed her mind when the door crashed open behind her. Whirling about, she caught sight of a white faced Christopher.

“Josceline!” Christopher shouted, his voice filled with alarm. “Run!”

Panic rooted her to the spot, held her captive. They had been so quiet, so careful, how had they been discovered?

He hurtled across the room towards her, dodging the desk and gripping her shoulders with fierce hands.

“Do you have it?” He demanded, expression fierce.

“Yes.” She patted the bulge beneath her shirt.

“That’s my girl.” He smiled and dropped a resolute kiss on her lips before pulling back. “You must run,” he ordered, his eyes firm on hers. “We’ve been caught out. I’ll divert them but promise me you shall ride as if the very hounds of hell follow you.”

“But what of you?”

“This is no time for feeble arguments. Do as I say.” And he dropped another kiss on her lips before shoving her, hard, towards the door. “I’ll see you at Midland House. Wait for me there, you’ll be safe until I return.”

Stunned at his obvious panic, she took a few stumbling steps, glanced back to see him pull out a pistol from his waistband. The grim look in his eyes convinced her more than anything of the need for escape and she pelted through Candel’s office, down the darkened hallway and into the clerk’s room.

There she stopped for a moment to collect herself before peeping out the door at the quay beyond, first one way, then another.

In the distance to her left, several dark shapes carrying torches converged then galloped towards the warehouse. A clatter of hooves sounded, angry shouts rent the air, a hound bayed. One of the shouting voices she recognized as Lord Oliver Candel’s and revulsion surged through her.

Enough. She had seen enough.

Doubled over, Josceline slipped out the door and turned right to creep across the front of the warehouse before disappearing into the laneway. It stank as much as before and did nothing to lessen the nervous queasiness threatening to engulf her.

Groping along the wall to help her find her way, she shuffled along. Her foot squished into something soft and she pulled it free. The odor of horse manure wafted to her nostrils and inwardly she groaned at the thought of riding home with the noxious mess stuck to her boot.