Her Proper Scoundrel (30 page)

Silly goose, she chided herself, you have more serious things to fear than that. She scraped off the mess as best she could before creeping on.

A large shadow loomed; a friendly whicker welcomed her. Her mount, Poppy. Josceline buried her face in the horse’s neck for an instant then loosened the reins from where they were draped over an abandoned cart. Tugging gently, she led the animal back to the barrel they had used earlier and clambered up onto it then onto the broad back.

With a squeeze of her knees, she urged Poppy on, stopping only long enough where the lane met the quay to determine she could safely ride away from the fast approaching group of riders.

She adjusted the reins gingerly in her cut hands and set her heels to Poppy’s sides. The horse sprang forward as if propelled by her rider’s fear. Concentrating on her seat, for riding astride was unfamiliar to her, kept her mind occupied for a few moments and kept fear at bay.

The two clattered over the cobblestones, then thumped over the bridge across the Avon River before heading up the hill towards Clifton. Her hat fell off, her thick braid fell down her back, wisps of hair blew across her cheeks. Her eyes watered with the wind and she tried as best she could to ignore the fact she needed to relieve herself.

It wasn’t until she had put a fair distance between her and the harbor that Josceline allowed herself to dwell on what she had seen, or rather, not seen in the laneway.

Vesuvius.

Vesuvius, Christopher’s stallion had vanished. How was Christopher going to escape?

* * *

He should have listened to his instincts, Christopher thought angrily. He should never have brought Josceline with him to try and find the papers to the “Bessie.” He should just have stolen the damn ship and forgotten about the deed.

At least, he consoled himself, Josceline was safe and far from here.

Here being jail, and a more miserable, putrid, disgusting place he could not imagine himself ever being in. No, he corrected himself. The brigs on board a ship were far worse for there a man had to deal with water and waste sloshing about his feet, and weevils in his food.

Christopher grasped the thick iron bars and shook the cell’s heavy planked door as hard as he could. How idiotic of him. Meant to keep in thieves, murderers and footpads, the door would most certainly not budge beneath his hands.

Which, of course, it didn’t.

He kicked at the solid bottom half, beneath the small window cut out and set with bars. “Guard!” he bellowed.

It elicited no response, only a shower of catcalls and jeers from his fellow inmates.

“Sure and likely the guard will come ta you,” teased a youngish man from the cell beside him.

“Oh, ‘e’ll come, all right. When yer ready to face the magistrate.” This from the man in the crowded cell across from him.

“When might that be?” He raked his hands through his hair. He’d already been here three days and had had more than enough.

“I dinna know. Could be days, could be weeks. I think it depends on the number of inmates,” chimed one of his cellmates, a wizened, elderly man by the name of McEllis.

“Damnation.” Christopher leaned his head against the door.

Josceline must be worried sick about him. How could he get word to her? Never mind Josceline, how was he to get out of here?

For it had been his nemesis, Lord Oliver Candel, who had discovered him.

Curse the luck that the cur had chosen that night to make a midnight foray to the warehouse. Curse the stray cat that spooked Vesuvius and sent the stallion charging out of the lane. Curse the luck that put Candel in that spot just at the precise moment the horse bolted clear of it.

Thankfully, Candel had galloped off to find the night watch which had given Christopher time to warn Josceline.

His hands dropped into clenched fists.

He, Christopher Sharrington, had never felt so impotent and useless in his entire life. His plan to retrieve the deed had come to failure.
 

What would Josceline think of him now?

* * *

“There is a letter for you, Mrs. Sharrington.” Tedham paused at the entrance of the drawing room and at her nod, stepped in. He carried a small pewter tray on which lay an envelope rimmed in pale blue.

“Is it from Christopher? Have you heard aught of him?” Josceline almost tripped over the hem of her skirt in her eagerness to rise from the chair. She stretched out trembling hands to receive the missive.

Tedham shook his head. “I do not believe so. The seal is unfamiliar to me.”

“Oh,” Josceline ripped it open then sighed with disappointment. She sat down again. “It is merely the
modiste
telling me my gowns are ready.” She tossed the paper aside. “How frivolous, how silly, when I have more worries over Christopher.”

The butler inclined his head. “The master is more than able to look after himself,” he reassured her. He folded his hands over his stomach; his eyes were sympathetic. “More than able.”

“But I’ve had no word from him for three days. He just rode away one morning with nary an explanation.” Not true, of course, but she couldn’t risk letting the butler know of their escapade at Candel’s warehouse. Nerves tickled her stomach at the remembrance; her palms still stung from the cuts and scrapes.

She clung to Christopher’s final words that he would meet her at Midland House. Wait for him, he had instructed. However, the more the hours sped by, the more she became convinced that Christopher hadn’t escaped.

What had happened to him? What to do? Josceline jumped to her feet and began to roam the room, coming to a stop in front of his empty chair.

She couldn’t wait any longer, she decided, staring at the imprint of his body outlined in the leather. Christopher may be in real danger. Even if it meant drawing his ire, she must find him.

But how?

The idea struck her as if a blow from a prize fighter. Why, look in the last place she had seen him. The Candel Company warehouse.

Resolve coursed through Josceline and she straightened her shoulders. She had a plan. Plus she had the perfect cover - her errand to pick up her new dresses from the
modiste’s
shop.

“Have the carriage brought round, if you please, Tedham,” she ordered briskly. “I am off to Bristol.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The only indication anything had gone amiss at the Candel Company warehouse was the newly repaired door. Josceline didn’t recall it being damaged but Christopher must have smashed it when he broke in to rescue her.

The memory of his white face and grim eyes rose in her mind and she had to blink back the tears.

Christopher, my love, my dearest, where are you?

Blinking back more tears, Josceline straightened her back. That was why she was here. To find out what had happened to him. Firmly she pushed open the door to step inside.

The rotund clerk looked up at her from his seat behind the piles of paper on his table.
 

“You again.” He frowned.

“Good afternoon.” She nodded pleasantly, deliberately ignoring the man’s rude tone.
 

“Lord Candel is not here,” sputtered the clerk. “And I’m afraid I’m not able to help you.” He gestured to the papers on his table. “As you can see, I have paperwork to attend to.”

Ignoring her, he pointedly dipped his quill into his inkwell and put nib to paper to write.

Nonplussed, Josceline stood and watched him for a minute or so. The office remained quiet, the only sounds were the quill scratching on paper, the occasional clink of the nib in the glass inkwell, and the man’s labored breathing. Quite honestly, indecision beset her. She hadn’t expected him to welcome her with open arms; yet neither had she expected him to ignore her.

Her blood began to boil at the rude display. Well, if he expected her to leave, he was sadly mistaken. She wasn’t going anywhere until she had the answer she sought.

Meanwhile, as long as he ignored her, she would try and see if any evidence remained of their visit here. She peered over his shoulder to look down the hallway but it was difficult to make out anything for the wall sconces were unlit. The door at the end leading to Candel’s office was closed.

She glanced back at the clerk’s bent head and his bald spot. It gleamed with perspiration – the man was obviously in a funk about something. Her presence, perhaps. Or perhaps it was something else?

“Ahem.” Finally she cleared her throat. “Are you able to tell me when the next shipment of tobacco arrives?” An inane question but it was the only thing she could think of to gain the clerk’s attention.

“Can’t say it is any of your business.” With the air of one who has long suffered fools, the clerk put down his quill. “Look, miss, I’m a busy man. The warehouse was broken into. Lord Oliver has ordered me to work night and day until I find what, if anything, is missing. A hellish job, if I may say so,” he added, his voice full of self pity. “Years and years of accounts, ship’s logs, and oh, all kinds of paperwork to be reviewed and listed.”

“Oh, how horrid.” She plied him with sympathy. “And how horrid for you.” She wrinkled her brow in what she hoped was a convincingly sympathetic manner.

 
“Oh yes.” The clerk shook his head; his spectacles slid down his nose and he pushed them back up with one pudgy hand. “I’m afraid all the bills of lading are mixed up. I’m trying to right this mess before the master arrives.”

“Lord Candel will be here shortly?” How fortuitous if it were so. Then she could ask him straight out about Christopher. Hopeful, Josceline fixed her gaze on the clerk.

“Depends on which Lord Candel you mean. Oliver, no. Thaddeus, yes.” He placed his hands on his desk and leaned forward, chest puffed out with self-importance. “The lord hardly ever leaves London but he checked in last night at the Greyhound Inn, he did. Lord Oliver and the night watch caught the rogue who did it and the old man wants to talk to him first hand.”

“You cannot mean -.” She left her voice hanging in an effort to encourage his confidence.

“Yes.” The clerk leaned even closer. “The man is in Newgate gaol and refuses to talk. He claims he’s done nothing wrong.”

Josceline rocked back as if struck. Christopher was in jail. She swallowed hard against the sudden lump in her throat. That explained his disappearance. It also explained why he hadn’t contacted her.

Summoning all her resolve, she flashed the rotund clerk a brilliant smile which had the desired effect. He turned beet red.

“Thank you, you have helped me immensely,” she simpered, clasping her hands to her bosom. Surreptitiously she pulled down the neckline of her frock just a fraction. “And if you please, my family would be most unhappy with me if they were to learn I was here. Perhaps my visit could be our little secret?”

“It was nothing,” stammered the beguiled clerk, eyes glued to her hands and what they concealed. “Nothing at all, my lady.”

“And?” She smiled at him again, batting her eyelashes.

“You were never here, my lady. I didn’t see a thing.”

It wasn’t until she was safely ensconced in the carriage that Josceline succumbed to the luxury of tears. Covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shook with the force of her sobs.

Christopher sat in jail, assuredly at the behest of Lord Oliver Candel. Who knew what Christopher faced now? Would he be exonerated when he came to trial? Or would he be sentenced under what were doubtless trumped up charges?

Tears finally spent, she sat up and dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

Waves of hate for Candel roiled within her breast. It was entirely the man’s fault that Christopher was in that situation. If he had just paid his gambling debt, none of this would have happened. The man would be a formidable foe but she vowed he would be made to pay for what he had done.

* * *

Josceline stood in front of Newgate jail, eyeing the intimidating building nervously. Garnished with rows of windows set into solidly built
 
stone, it stretched up high above her. The windows were too tiny, obviously, for any prisoner to squeeze through.

The stench of unwashed bodies and human waste rolled into the street and briefly she lifted a gloved hand to her nose in a futile effort to staunch it.

Swallowing her trepidation, she stalked through the main door and buttonholed the first guard she came across. “I demand you free my husband. It’s all been a terrible mistake.”

“Mistake? They all say that, dearie.” The rumpled guard leered at her, exposing a row of rotted teeth and bathing her with his fetid breath. “But,” he leaned closer, holding out a hand and rubbing his thumb over his fingers, “Freddie may be able to help you.”

She drew herself back and put on her best aristocratic bearing. She didn’t have a penny in her reticule therefore the only way she would get entrance to Christopher was by sheer bluster.

“I am afraid I do not participate in bribery,” she snapped, lifting her chin to glare at him down her nose. For good measure, she crossed her arms. “I seek Mr. Christopher Sharrington. Please bring me to him.”