Her Proper Scoundrel (3 page)

Josceline moved into the foyer and dropped her bag on the Persian carpet that stretched from the doorway to the base of a mahogany staircase winding gracefully to the second floor.

Clasping her hands at her waist in a vain attempt to stem the butterflies, she looked about to get her bearings. In the shadows beyond the staircase stood a grandfather clock, its stately tick tock tick tock soothing her. She had nothing to fear, she chided herself. Elizabeth’s mama had assured Josceline the position belonged to her.

She moved forward a step or two. To her left hung a large portrait of a man dressed in forest green on a beautiful bay hunter; to her right, an arched doorway opened into a salon – she could hear laughter and the tinkle of glass. A few notes sounded from a pianoforte and someone began to sing an aria from Mozart’s “The Marriage of Figaro”. It was one of her favorites and she began to hum along.

Not wishing to peer in and risk appearing rude, she chose to study the portrait. A throat cleared behind her, a masculine grunt. She whirled about, nerves churning anew.

A tall, thin, blonde-haired man in black evening clothes inspected her through a tortoise shell lorgnette. “Lady Woodsby? I am Lord Oakland.”

“Yes.” She curtsied. “I am sorry I am late.”
 

“The position is no longer available. It has already been filled.” A disdainful Lord Oakland folded the handle of his lorgnette and tucked it into his pocket before looking down his nose at her.

“What?” Josceline’s jaw dropped; gape mouthed she stared at the thin man before her.

“We expected you much earlier, yesterday, in fact.”

Stunned, she finally remembered to close her mouth. This couldn’t be. She opened her mouth again to question the man but he continued talking. She closed her mouth, waiting to hear the man’s explanation.

“Yes, another candidate arrived this morning and Lady Oakland and I have engaged her services.”

“There must be a mistake,” Josceline replied crisply. This was not the time to be timid. She had not come this far to be cast off so easily. “Lady Watson informed me her good friend Lady Oakland had agreed to my posting.”

“Be that as it may, the position is filled.”

She pulled out her letters of reference and waved them in the air. “I have excellent references, Lord Oakland. I assure you I am tardy through no fault of my own.”

The man shrugged. “I can hardly entrust the care of my precious children to someone who cannot even find her way in a timely manner.”

“But how shall I return to London? My hack has left. I cannot leave.”

“That, Lady Woodsby, is none of my concern. If you will excuse me, I have guests to attend to.” His voice was cold; his eyes shards of ice. Clearly the man was through with her.

Josceline’s head began to whirl. The long hours in the carriage, her hunger, and now the realization her position had disappeared, made her light headed.

The hawk-nosed face of Lord Oakland disappeared into a black mist.

* * *

Josceline awoke to the acrid odor of smelling salts. Struggling to remember where she was, she lay with her eyes closed while a babble of voices wafted over her. None of them were familiar. Where was she?

Memories returned in a waterfall surge. Oakland Grange. She was at Oakland Grange and Lord Oakland had just informed her she was no longer wanted as governess. Despair nibbled at her – failure had set in before she even had the chance to show her capabilities. She kept her eyes shut, certain if she opened them, tears would trickle down her cheeks.

“I say, Lord Oakland, the chit looks as if she has seen better days.” A masculine voice floated from a distance.

“Indeed. Poor thing is in a dreadful state.” A woman’s voice. “Look at that hideous dress.”

“All of you move aside if you please and let me see.”

Josceline opened her eyes in time to see a well dressed mature woman kneel beside her. White feathers spilled from the woman’s black hair, matching the feathers on the lace stole draped about her shoulders, which in turn matched her high waisted lace dress. In short, the very epitome of current London fashion. They may be in the country but by no means was it the backwater Josceline had supposed.
 

“My dear, I am Lady Oakland. And you must be Lady Josceline Woodsby.” The woman picked up one of Josceline’s hands and patted it. “I must apologize. When you didn’t arrive as expected, we thought you had changed your mind so we employed a local woman. Pay no mind to my husband. You must stay here tonight. In the morning we shall set things to right.” Lady Oakland’s face showed concern; her grey eyes were sympathetic. She was not nearly the unfeeling monster her husband was.

Josceline blinked back tears at the woman’s kindness. Surely it was all a misunderstanding. Surely the governess position would belong to her after all.

She nodded slowly and looked up past Lady Oakland to the circle of eight or so shadowed faces hanging over them like a strand of mismatched beads. Her gaze roamed slowly from face to face. An odd mix they were: two young women in identical dress, twins, obviously; an elderly woman dressed in mourning; several unattached men of varying ages; a middle-aged couple. She had thought perhaps she might recognize one or two from London seasons past but no, they were all strangers to her.

Only one man hung back, leaning against the doorjamb of the salon, arms crossed. It wasn’t until he turned his head that she could clearly see his face.

She gasped in disbelief.

It was the highwayman.

At her gaze, he narrowed his eyes and lowered his chin, an almost imperceptible movement. Obviously, he recognized her.

“You!” She struggled to sit up, pulling at her skirts in a vain attempt to cover her ankles. “It was you!”

Her bonnet had been knocked askew when she had fallen and a ribbon dangled in her eye. One of the men offered her a helping hand and she clambered to her feet, nodding her thanks before adjusting her bonnet and pulling aside the offending ribbon.

It gave her time to think. It seemed unlikely a highwayman would travel in the Oakland’s social circle. What was he doing here? Perhaps she was mistaken.

Again she looked at him. His eyes were pinned on her as if by his gaze alone he could stop her allegations. Without a doubt, it was the man who had stopped her carriage earlier tonight.

“Do you know Captain Sharrington?” Lady Oakland too had risen and now, clearly astonished, she stood beside Josceline. “He recently bought a nearby estate and this evening we are introducing him to our neighbors.”

“I do not,” declared Josceline. “We have met, however.” She scowled, pinning her venom on him. His obstruction had caused her tardiness.

“No longer captain, I’m afraid. I’ve just resigned my position in the Royal Navy.” Sharrington pulled away from the wall and straightened up. “And as much as I would like to claim acquaintance with the young woman, I am afraid we have not met before. I would not forget someone as enchanting as Lady Woodsby.” A mocking smile hovered over his lips. Prove me wrong, he seemed to say.

Of course. He denied any knowledge of their earlier encounter. Reason fled at his sardonic manner; anger fueled her tongue.

“He is lying,” she blurted. “Why, it is thanks to him I am late. He-.” She stopped when she noticed the skeptical faces surrounding her. It was a case of her word against his. If anything, she had only succeeded in making herself appear deranged with her outburst. “I must beg pardon. It appears I am mistaken,” she whispered, feeling the fool. Her knees shook with fatigue. “Is there somewhere I might sit?”

Lady Oakland took one look at her and waved the others back to the salon.

“Let us sit here a moment, shall we?” She took Josceline’s arm and showed her to a horsehair armchair beneath the painting Josceline had examined earlier.

A grateful Josceline took the seat proffered her. “Please do not concern yourself for me. I shall be fine in a few moments. I swear, I was certain I had met Mr. Sharrington before.” She clutched the arms of the chair, the stiff fabric pricking her fingers.

“An honest mistake.” Lady Oakland patted Josceline’s hand.
 
“Join us in the salon when you feel ready.”

At Josceline’s nod, Lady Oakland turned and swept off, disappearing into the salon. Her voice drifted back to Josceline. “Agatha, oh Agatha, do sing more for us.” Notes rippled again from the pianoforte, joined by a strong soprano voice. The tune was not familiar to Josceline and she listened for several moments, welcoming the distraction. The song ended, applause sounded, reminding her of her precarious situation.

The last thing she felt like was facing the party. Really, the only thing she felt like was finding a bed to fling herself upon and pulling the sheets up over her head. She had no position, she had no means to return to London and she had only succeeded in making herself look a fool with Lord and Lady Oakland with her accusation against one of their guests. They must be appalled.

Never mind that. The problem was what could she do now? The apparition of her father staggering into the Eversleigh’s ballroom shimmered in her mind. To return home to London to face his ire and an unwanted marriage with Mr. Burrows did not sit well with her.

But if not that, then what?

* * *

Christopher could not believe the rotten luck.

Snagging a glass of port from the sideboard, he stalked past the twin sisters, ignoring their high pitched giggles when he inadvertently brushed against their skirts. Damnation, seeing Josceline had rattled him so much he had forgotten their names which meant he couldn’t even mount a proper apology.

Instead he swept them an exaggerated bow which elicited another round of hysterical giggles. If the two were an example of the women of the upper crust, then he doubted very much the nobility would last beyond another generation or two. Which then raised the interesting question: Why was he trying so hard to ingratiate himself into that very echelon of society? He swirled the maroon liquid around in his glass, looking into it as if he could find the answer there.

He lowered himself into his seat, slouching against the high back. If he turned his head, he could see Lady Josceline Woodsby sitting beneath that dreadfully pompous portrait of his host. Her eyes were closed, her fingers pressed to her temples. Even from here, he could see her shoulders heave from time to time.

It was obvious she was distraught. That he might have something to do with it bothered him a little. She had looked to throttle him when he had denied their chance encounter but now she just looked miserable. However, what bothered him more was that he had waylaid her carriage. If anyone believed her story, his reputation would be in tatters before he even had a chance to construct a new life apart from the Navy.

No matter the cost, he could not, would not let that happen.

Chapter Four

From the relative quiet of the hall and the sanctuary of the horsehair chair, Josceline regarded Mr. Christopher Sharrington. He seemed at ease in his surroundings, seemed to enjoy his companions, chuckling heartily at the jests and even offering a few of his own. He clapped appreciatively when the musical performance ended and lavishly praised Lady Oakland on the pleasant evening. In short, a likeable guest. Almost too likeable, as if he was trying to be something he wasn’t.

Her eyes narrowed. Quite simply, his likeable manner irked her. The way he lolled in the leather wingback chair irked her. The way he held his glass, the tilt of his head, the way he laughed, all of it irked her. How she longed to wipe the complacent expression from his face.

And now, after having had time to collect herself, she knew just how to do it. And, if she managed him properly, she would have a solution to her dilemma.

She rose and moved to the door of the crowded salon, waiting for a break in the conversation to catch his attention. While she waited, she glanced around the salon. It was a comfortable room, well meant for musical evenings for it was dominated by a pianoforte surrounded by a scattering of upholstered armchairs and benches. A fire flickered cheerily in the grate to her left; against one wall, a side board groaned with trays of sweets, mismatched crystal decanters filled with assorted cordials, and a large silver tea pot ringed by matching tea cups.

Josceline felt a sudden pang - it reminded her of convivial evenings at her parent’s home, before Mama died. Regret fluttered through her breast – Oakland Grange would have been a lovely home in which to live and work. Apart from the icy Lord Oakland, that is.

At last Lady Oakland noticed Josceline and gestured to her; voices fell away one by one as the others saw her until only the crackle and snap of the fire filled the air. Josceline seized her opportunity.

“Mr. Sharrington? May I have a word with you?” Josceline ignored the surprised look on Lady Oakland’s face, ignored the disapproving looks on the faces of the female guests, ignored the shocked silence.

Her actions were highly improper but she had no choice if she hoped to salvage something of the situation. Surely London was distant enough that word of her behavior would not find its way there. “You will all forgive me but I shan’t take but a moment with him.”