Her Proper Scoundrel (2 page)

“Halt!” His voice sliced through the crisp air. “Candel, I know you’re inside. I want what is mine.”

The carriage stopped within scant feet of him, the coachman pulling so hard on the reins, the front pair reared and stumbled back, almost upsetting the carriage, causing the front lantern to swing crazily. The driver wound the reins about the rail then raised his gnarled hands. “I ain’t armed,” he whined. “This road be patrolled regularly.”

“I’m not the slightest bit interested in you and your sorry skin,” Christopher snarled. “I am acquainted with your passenger and wish to speak to him. This road is patrolled, so this shan’t take a moment.” He held out his free hand. “Give me the lantern.”

With a mutter, the coachman unhooked the lantern, swinging it down to jam it into Christopher’s open hand with a surly “’ere.” Christopher almost gagged at the gin fumes as the man leaned closer. A sorry excuse for a coachman – how ever did he keep his position?

Holding high the lantern, he stalked to the door of the carriage. He rapped the pistol muzzle on the scarred wood, certain the rat-a-tat-tat would echo inside with enough ferocity to scare the occupant into compliance. “Lord Candel, come out and face me like a man. I demand the note I won from you tonight.”

There was no answer. With a muffled oath, Christopher jammed the pistol into his waistband and flung open the door. Leaning forward, he maneuvered the lantern so he could peer into the gloom of the carriage. He swiveled his head to the front squabs. Even in the dim lantern light, he could see the empty seat was lumpy, velvet worn bare through years of use. He frowned. The worn fabric, coupled with the shabby exterior, set off warning bells – a dandy like Candel would never deign to ride in such a decrepit vehicle.

He swiveled his head the other way to inspect the rear squabs, his eyes widening in surprise when he spied the lone passenger, a young woman.

From beneath a frippery of fur and grosgrain ribbon that could scarcely be called a bonnet, a pair of green eyes fringed with the longest black lashes he had ever seen glared at him. Her face was pale with fright and a scrape on her temple oozed blood, yet her chin was lifted, the lush lips firmly set. He admired her display of bravado - she may be apprehensive but she did not show it.

His eyes dropped to inspect the rest of her but there was naught to be seen, buried beneath a moth-eaten heavy woolen mantle as she was.

Damnation, Candel must have been delayed. Christopher clenched his teeth at the unfortunate turn of events.

He’d stopped the wrong carriage.

Chapter Two

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.” A melodious female voice flowed over him. The cultured tones surprised him – they were at odds with the state of the carriage, both inside and out. Furthermore, now that he had a chance to inspect her more closely, even her bonnet had seen better days. Obviously a lady of the upper class but one who had been beset by hard times.

“I am in a hurry.” She spoke again, gaze snapping impatience, voice dripping with anger. “As you can see,” she pulled one slender arm free from the mantel and swept it about, “Lord Candel is not here. Now if you would be so kind as to step aside and let us on our way? My coachman found it too agreeable at the last posting inn and consequently I’m late for an important engagement. And you, sir, are merely aggravating the situation. Please step away immediately.”
 

Christopher could not resist the challenge issued by her eyes. “And if I do not?” He deliberately made his voice lazy, wanting to see her reaction to his insolence.

“Then I shall contact the authorities and accuse you of attempted abduction,” she replied crisply and with an air of authority reminding him somewhat of Mr. Smithson, his tutor. Mr. Smithson, too, had issued orders expecting full compliance at all times. An expectation he had disregarded on many occasions, much to the chagrin of his mother.

The young woman waited expectantly for his answer and he wondered at her calm demeanor over her current predicament. Most females of his acquaintance would swoon in such circumstances.
 

“Don’t I frighten you?” He narrowed his eyes. Perhaps her anger had blinded her to the potential danger.

She leaned forward and tapped him on his chest. “No, sir, you don’t. What does frighten me is the opportunity I shall lose if I do not make my engagement. Please, kindly remove yourself from this carriage or as I mentioned already, I shall report you to the proper authorities.” She settled back against the squabs, ignoring him while pulling the blanket up to her chin as if that alone was sufficient to make him leave.

“Go ahead.” Christopher shrugged. “You have no idea who I am.” Quite frankly, he doubted many of the ton knew who he was – a situation he meant to change soon.

“Ah, but I do know of Lord Candel. I’m certain a persuasive letter should bring forth the information I need.” She lifted her chin and glared at him anew, eyes gleaming with annoyance.

He stifled a smile. Aye, she had a temper to match the russet curls pulled back from her face.

A single drop of blood rolled down her temple. She swiped at it with one gloved finger and stared at it in surprise. “Oh my,” she whispered then lifted her eyes to gaze at him accusingly. “This is thanks to you, I suppose. I bumped my head when you stopped us. Perhaps I should add assault to the charges.” She frowned, her lips turning down in such an appealing way he had to quell the sudden urge to kiss them right side up. A wave of contrition rolled over him and he fumbled in his chest pocket for his handkerchief, handing it out to her.

“Thank you.” She took it and scrunched it into her fist.

Christopher’s scalp prickled at the sound of approaching hoof beats. He must be off. The young woman was right. Mistaken or not, he had unlawfully stopped her carriage during a time of night normally reserved for thieves and footpads.

“I must beg pardon.” He bowed slightly and placed the lantern on the floor at her feet. “It appears I stopped the wrong carriage.” He didn’t really believe she could influence the authorities but he would heed her threat and tread carefully for now. Besides, it was Lord Candel he wanted, not this threadbare young woman, no matter how alluring.

She snorted. “Indeed.”

He tipped his hat then slammed shut the door with such force the tipsy coachman leaned over on one arm to peer down at him with astonished eyes from his driver’s perch.

“The lantern’s inside,” Christopher ordered. “And the lady is late for her appointment so it best behooves you to be on your way.”

And with that, a disgusted Christopher Sharrington leapt on Vesuvius and galloped away. A wasted endeavor this had turned out to be – he was no closer to retrieving his winnings.

Then he remembered she had said she knew Lord Candel. If so, it was conceivable she could find him, Christopher, through Candel. Another reason to hate the man although who knew whether or not she would follow through on her threat.

He could only hope not.

* * *

Heart pounding at her audacity, a bemused Josceline sagged against the seat, clutching the handkerchief. It was still warm from where it had lain against the man’s chest, and soft, made of the finest lawn and embroidered with presumably his name. It almost seemed a shame to use it but she could scarce arrive at her destination with a bloodied face. Besides, a handkerchief could be washed.

She dabbed at her temple, wincing slightly then tucked the bloodied handkerchief into her sleeve.

“Oh my. I just ordered a highwayman from my carriage,” she breathed, gaze pinned to the door where he had stood scant seconds before.

The enormity of her actions dawned on her and she began to shiver, great, wrenching shivers that crawled up her back and rattled her teeth. She must be cold, that was it. She grabbed the mantle and pulled it higher, over her nose, not even caring that the edge of it was greasy and frayed and it smelled of horse.

Luck was with her that the man had heeded her words and left. No, came the rueful realization, more likely he had taken one look at her and realized she had nothing. She pressed her lips together to stop them from trembling.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, milady?” The driver rapped on the door and swung it open. “I needs me lantern. It be black as Satan’s heart tonight.” Without waiting for her answer, he reached in and grabbed it.

“Now you have your lantern, carry on to Oakland Grange, if you please.” To her ears, her voice sounded boorish and she opened her mouth to apologize. Before she could, the coachman slammed shut the door with nary a comment, apparently well used to the vagaries of his passengers.

In a few seconds, the coach tilted and creaked as he climbed aboard and then came the slap of the reins and a croaky “geeup”. The clip clop of hooves resumed, the rhythmic clatter renewing her anger of moments before.

Anger warmed her, spread its welcome heat into her chest and face. The entire journey had been a disaster. The mail coach had become stuck and the better part of yesterday had been lost freeing it. Then, after an uncomfortable night at the posting inn, the coachman she had engaged this morning to take her to Oakland Grange laughed in her face at her repeated orders to depart and had instead drank away most of the day with the money she had given him for the fare.

When they were finally underway, she realized the horses were old and swaybacked and could not go faster than a walk. The coach itself was ancient and did not even boast a foot warmer so she had caught a chill.

And just when the coachman had assured her “Milady, it be just a mile or two at most”, they had been stopped by the highwayman.

Who did that rogue think he was, she fumed silently, to stop her coach, scaring her witless and then offering a clearly insincere apology.

In her mind’s eye, she could see him: Tall, so tall he need not stand on the step to peer inside. Dark, so dark, his hair, worn long, blended into the night sky. His eyes, although she had not been able to make out the color - brown, she thought - had inspected her with an intensity that fair scoured her skin and she felt her cheeks warm at the remembrance. Couple all that with a firm, clean shaven chin and generous mouth and under different circumstances she would certainly describe him as handsome.

He didn’t fit her idea of a highwayman at all. Highwaymen were a scruffy, disreputable lot - this man had been dressed in evening clothes beneath the unbuttoned great coat. Too, his handkerchief was of the finest fabric and richly embroidered – scarcely the accoutrement of a dissolute man.

Her heart beat faster at the memory of him; that angered her too, that the man, whoever he was, had caught her attention as if she was fresh from the school room.

At the thought of the school room, she remembered why she was in the coach in the first place. Therein lay the real root of her anger. She, who prided herself on her punctuality and through no fault of her own, would be late arriving for her new posting as governess to the children of Lord and Lady Oakland.

Certainly not the most auspicious start.

Chapter Three

Josceline stepped gingerly from the coach. Much to her surprise, every window in Oakland Grange glowed with candlelight. Had they been awaiting her arrival all this time? With frozen fingers, she managed to pull out the slim, gold pocket watch from where it hung around her neck and in the muted glow of the single oil lantern standing sentinel at the top of the crushed stone drive, checked the time.

Almost midnight. She slipped the watch back into her neckline and curled her fingers into her palms to warm them. Drawing a deep breath, she willed her shoulders to relax. Finally she was here. Her stomach grumbled reminding her it had been a long time since her last meal.

Then she spied the waiting carriages. Lord and Lady Oakland were entertaining this evening. Apparently her late arrival would not go unnoticed. Her heart sank.

“Yer bag.” The coachman dropped it at her feet.

“Thank you.” She nodded coolly. The man was a disgrace to his trade but to reproach him now would serve no purpose. She turned to face the front porch, picking up her carpet bag and gripping the handle tightly. It was heavy and bumped against her legs as she ascended the steps.

Behind her, the hack’s wheels crunched down the drive, fading into nothing until all she heard was the rattle of bare branches in the wind.

She raised the polished brass knocker and let it fall. It hit with a frosty “clank”, the sound echoing off the stone driveway.

Nothing. The door remained closed.

She tried again, lifting it and banging it a number of times. From inside, she heard the thump of footsteps and then a sharp “clack” as the bolt was drawn.

The massive door swung open. Framed in the light stood a rotund man - the butler, she supposed.

She hastened to introduce herself. “Lady Josceline Woodsby. Late of London. I’ve come for the position of governess to the children of Lord and Lady Oakland. My carriage was delayed -.” She stopped at the disinterested look on the man’s face. Best to save her explanation for her new employers.

“Come in. I am Howard, butler of Oakland Grange.” He stood back and gestured. “I shall tell my lord you are here.” He waddled off, swaying side to side like a carriage with broken springs.