Her Proper Scoundrel (7 page)

But that wasn’t the problem, not really. Something else nagged at her.

She was afraid she was falling in love with the handsome Mr. Sharrington.

An absurd notion. The man would never love her because she existed in a grey vacuum of neither family nor servant.

Another tear rolled down her cheek.

She and only she herself was responsible for the spot she found herself in. She had made a bargain and she would keep it.

Her stomach rumbled.

It was time to leave her maudlin musings in the shadow of the weathered bench and make her way inside for tea. However, first she must go and wash the tears from her face.

At the door to her room, Josceline stopped. Something was not right. Wrinkling her brow, her gaze swept her room. It had been disturbed. The bedspread hung a trifle uneven and the drawer in her night stand sat open a crack. A faint wisp of leather and citrus hung in the air.

In a flash, she knew.

“The handkerchief,” she whispered.

In a panic, she flew to the mirror and pulled it away from the wall. The handkerchief was still there, neatly folded and tucked in behind the frame. She pulled it out and held it close to her nose. It carried the same scent of leather and citrus.

A sudden chill rippled down her spine. Christopher had been in her room.

Carefully, she slipped the square of cloth back in behind the frame.

 
She would have to take care. If he found it, he would send her on her penniless way.

Chapter Seven

From the library windows, Christopher spotted a visibly drooping Josceline walk towards the house. Sympathy flooded through him at the sight, along with the sudden urge to clasp her close and pull her head onto his shoulder. He shook his head at the unexpected reaction. Lud, but genteel life was making him soft.

So soft, in fact, that a quick search of Josceline’s room for his handkerchief earlier this afternoon had yielded nothing. He, who had run a naval ship with an iron fist, was being befuddled by a mere slip of a woman. He would have to search her room again, when he could do a more thorough job of it.

The light cadence of Josceline’s footsteps echoed through the hall and he had to stifle the impulse to dash to the door and see her. An odd notion struck him: Perhaps genteel life was not making him soft. Perhaps it was the allure of the lovely Lady Woodsby.

Nonsense. He shook his head. It was simply disappointment in not finding the handkerchief bewildering him.

He headed to the sitting room for tea, but not before tidying the papers on his desk. If only thoughts were that easy to arrange.

On his way, he picked up a heavy cream envelope from where it lay on the brass tray in the entry hall. The strokes were firm, splashed across the page with the panache only Lady Oakland could master. Beneath it rested a second envelope, the paper smudged and grimy, addressed to Josceline in spidery and irregular handwriting. He tucked it into the pocket of his jacket to hand to her later.

He returned his regard to Lady Oakland’s note and turned it over to break the seal. He scanned the missive, then, in disbelief, scanned it again.

“Damnation.” He slammed the wall with one hand. “Lady Oakland is coming to visit to give her regards to Lady Josceline and to meet my son.”

All thoughts of the handkerchief fled from his mind.

This was an unforeseen bit of nasty business. When the woman realized he had no son, he and Josceline would be left in a compromising position. He needed Lady Oakland’s continued approval to be included in the local social functions and Josceline needed her good name if she intended to find herself a respectable position after she left Midland House.

Frowning, he checked the date on the note. Yesterday. Lady Oakland meant to visit the day after tomorrow giving him a scant forty eight hours to devise a plan to forestall catastrophe. How, he had no idea but to begin he would seek Josceline’s counsel. She had as much at stake as he did.

Christopher charged to the sitting room, bursting through the doorway with such urgency the door slammed into the wall with a shuddering bang.
 

A startled Josceline looked at Christopher with round eyes. The accusation she was about to make about him searching her room died on her lips.

Something had upset him. His cheeks were flushed and his hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through it not once but many times. His mouth was a taut line, his eyes bleak.

“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, dreading his answer. The man looked as if he faced the Grim Reaper.

“Lady Oakland is coming for a visit,” he growled. His lips barely moved. “To see you and my son.”

“Oh,” she breathed, feeling the color drain from her face. “You have no son.” She felt idiotic stating the obvious.

“Aye. Your reputation shall be in shreds.”

“Yours too.” She grasped the enormity of the situation. Her heart sank. “Could we not tell her your son is still with your mother?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been here for almost a week. She would find it odd he wasn’t here. After all, that is why I engaged your services.”

“True.” An idea occurred to her and she brightened. “When Lady Oakland comes, we could tell her I have taken your son out riding on his pony.”

“No. Unspeakably rude. It will be all over the county in a matter of hours that my governess and my son snubbed Lady Oakland.”

She stared at him, both hands covering her mouth. “Could we not borrow a boy for a day?” she asked finally, dropping her hands to rest them on her lap. An outrageous solution but it could work.

“You mean a sham?” He gave her an incredulous stare.

“Yes.” She nodded.
 

“Where do we find a boy?” The words came out grudgingly, as if he thought the idea splendid but did not wish to pounce on it too quickly.

“Are there no children on the estate?”

“There are.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But it may be hard to keep it secret that I borrowed someone’s child.”

“I know.” She clapped her hands. “Could we not ride into Bristol and find a child in a workhouse?”

“That seems rather cruel, does it not? To borrow a child for a day and then return it?”

“Could you not find a position for him in the stables, say? Or perhaps in the house? I’ve heard horrid stories about the workhouses. Anything you could provide would be better than a life of brutal poverty.”

He looked at her long and hard and she imagined she could see the thoughts whirling through his mind.

His hesitation was blatant and she hastened to reassure him. “It shall work, you will see. In three months time my position here is terminated regardless. If anyone should ask, you can say I’ve prepared him for school and he has been sent off.”

It was not an ideal plan, riddled with loopholes. Josceline knew it but it seemed the only answer to stave off imminent disaster.

Finally he nodded. “A plausible solution. Jefferson, the head groom, has been asking for a stable boy. I shall take the carriage into Bristol tomorrow.” He slanted a glance at her. “Do you care to accompany me?”

“Me?” She gaped at him.

“Yes, you. I know nothing of children.”

“Nor do I.”

“I should imagine you have a much better idea of it than I.”

She did not have any idea, not anymore than he did. The only exposure she had had to young children was in Hyde Park. At a distance.

Josceline simply looked at him, speechless. There seemed nothing to say.

“Good.” Christopher gave a curt nod apparently not bothered a whit by her silence. “It’s settled. Off to Bristol tomorrow.”

* * *

The little clock chimed a dozen times. Midnight. Josceline groaned and flopped over onto her back.

Over and over she had reviewed in her mind the plan she and Christopher had devised to mislead Lady Oakland. First, they would find a boy of suitable age, say, six or seven years. Next, the boy would need decent clothing which they could doubtless find at a rag shop in Bristol. A scrub down, of course, but that would not be until he arrived at Midland House. Finally, the boy need only remain silent during the meeting with Lady Oakland in order to hide his rough dialect.

It seemed a sound strategy yet her mind refused to calm.

She gave up and sat upright in the bed.

The letter to Elizabeth would clear her mind. Surely her employer would have no objection to her using paper and ink from the library.

The cheerful fire warming her room earlier had collapsed into a glittering pile of coals. The red hue from them would be enough for her to find her shoes and light a taper.

“Balderdash,” she whispered at the thought of creeping through the cold, dark house. But it seemed silly to lie tossing and turning when the time could be better spent accomplishing something useful. Before she could change her mind and wriggle back under the bedclothes, she slid off the bed and jammed her stockingless feet into cold slippers. Her toes curled in protest and she cast a longing glance to her still warm bed.

Resolute, she threw her winter cloak over the thin wrapper that would be no barrier to the chill air in the rest of the house. Taper in hand, she tiptoed through the silence. Shadows from her candle skipped over the wood paneled walls until she reached the library.

It was empty. With a sigh of relief, she slipped through the door, closing it behind her with a soft ‘snick’.

Josceline made a beeline to Christopher’s desk, putting down the candle on one corner. She knew the carved box inlaid with ivory held paper for it had been open once during one of their lessons. The location of the quills, she was not so certain – in a drawer, perhaps.

She started with the top drawer. It was locked. The drawer immediately beneath it slid open easily and she picked up the candle to peer inside. Ledger books. Not quills. She put down the candle again and bent over to try the next drawer down. It didn’t slide as easily. It stuck and she pulled at the handle with both hands.

It gave with a sudden jerk. In a twinkling she landed smack on her bottom with the drawer and its contents upside down on top of her. She had found the quills. And a spare inkwell. Its contents dripped slowly onto her lap.

“Josceline, you ninnyhammer!” The words spurted out of her mouth. Her tailbone ached from the tremendous thump and dismayed, she looked at the spreading ink stain on her cloak. Ruined. Her one and only cloak was ruined.

A floorboard creaked and she froze.

She was not alone.

Slow, measured footsteps sounded across the bare floor.

The taper flickered.

Fear filled her. She could taste it rising into her throat like bile. She did not believe in ghosts, she told herself sternly. There was no use cowering behind the desk. A show of bravado would stand her better than nothing at all. In a clatter of falling quills, she grasped the edge of the desk and pulled herself up.

To look right into the amused face of Christopher Sharrington.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I assure you, Mr. Sharrington, I was not prying. I was only looking for paper and quills. I could not sleep and thought to write a letter to my friend Elizabeth. The drawer stuck and -.” The words died in her throat at the predator-like glint in his eyes.

“And you have ruined your cloak.” He pointed to the stain.

“The floor, too, I fear. I do so apologize.”

He leaned over to look. “No. It would seem you caught the ink. That particular inkwell was almost empty. It was in the drawer awaiting a refill.”

She swallowed hard, feeling foolish. “I must beg pardon,” she managed to squeak.

The moon came out from behind a cloud, suddenly washing the library in silver. Christopher’s face wasn’t visible to her for he had his back to the windows but she could see he wasn’t in night clothes. His linen shirt gaped open at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and he still wore his riding boots. It would seem he had had trouble sleeping as well this night.

“You have only to ask.” He came around the desk to stand in front of her. “Mrs. Belton would have brought you what you needed.”

“Yes, I understand. The clock chimed and I couldn’t sleep and I wished to write a letter.” She was babbling but Christopher stood much, much too close. So close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. So close, she could smell leather and citrus. So close, she could reach up and touch his hair if she so chose.

He tugged the ties of her cloak, pulling her towards him.

She placed her palms on his chest, trying to push herself away. He caught her wrists with a firm grip. “Your hands are cold,” he whispered before placing them on his waist. “Here, warm them.”

“Oh, I could not.” Panic thumped through her breast. Josceline tried to pull away her hands but they had a mind of their own. Her fingers curled into the heavy fabric of his shirt, her knuckles felt the warmth pulsing from his skin.
 

“Oh, but you can.” He cupped his hands along her jaw and lowered his head. “You can.” His lips brushed hers, once, twice.