Wanted: One Scoundrel Read online

  Wanted: One Scoundrel

  By Jenny Schwartz

  All suffragette Esme Smith wants is a man. A scoundrel to be precise. Someone who can be persuaded to represent her political views at men-only clubs. As the daughter of the richest man in Australia, Esme can afford to make it worth the right man’s while.

  Fresh off the boat, American inventor Jed Reeve is intrigued by Esme’s proposal, but even more interested in the beauty herself. Amused that she takes him for a man who lives by his wits, he accepts the job—made easier by the fact that he already shares her ideals. Soon, he finds himself caught up in political intrigue, kidnapping and blackmail, and trying to convince his employer he’s more than just a scoundrel…

  26,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I recently wrote a letter to Comic Con attendees, for a promotion we’re doing. I’m going to quote from part of that letter here…

  I’m a self-professed geek. Sure, I’m a girl who likes to wear fun shoes, shop for makeup and feel pretty, but I’m also the girl who was totally into Doctor Who in grade school (I played the Doctor Who RPG 6th grade—and fell in love with Tom Baker’s scarf), who re-reads the entire David Eddings’ Belgariad series yearly, who mourned when Captain Tightpants was cancelled, and who sat on an editor panel at a romance conference nearly a decade ago and said, “I want someone to submit some great steampunk and space opera.” And then had to answer the question for both my fellow panelists and the authors in the audience of “What’s steampunk?”

  So you see, when we started Carina Press in 2009, I was thrilled to realize that I wasn’t alone…we’re a team of many self-professed geeks. Publishing professionals who love fantasy, love science fiction, and are eager to give authors and readers a cutting-edge publisher who would take a chance on niche genres, new authors and different stories. Maybe being a geek has become trendy, but at Carina, we’re not just interested in trendy: we’re interested in publishing great, compelling, readable stories.

  That’s why, when we were discussing our 2011 holiday collections, I just knew I had to do a steampunk collection. Steampunk can be unique, fun, entertaining and smart and I wanted to show readers some of the best of that. Plus, I’ve been asking to publish more of it for almost a decade! Though our other two collections, the contemporary and male/male collections, were by-invitation-only, we did an open call for this collection and the response from authors was…astonishing. I chose the four stories I felt fit best together, but we also signed a number of other stories that were submitted, and which will be released throughout 2012.

  I had so much fun editing this collection and I think it’s truly a unique collection of diverse stories. But though they’re all diverse in where they take place (Australia, England, Boston and a New Mexico you won’t recognize) and how the stories unfold, they all have one thing in common: they’re written by talented authors who know how to create a fun, exciting story. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed reading and editing them.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

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  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Swan River Colony, Australia

  June 1895

  “I need a scoundrel, Uncle Henry.” Esme Smith’s gloved hands tightened on her reticule. Behind her, the gangway swayed from her fast-paced boarding. “Urgently.”

  Captain Henry Fellowes grinned and spat tobacco over the side of his skimmer-boat.

  “But he has to be a convincing scoundrel,” she added. “Handsome, even. Someone the ladies will sigh over and the men will slap on the back and call a ‘good fellow.’”

  Henry leaned back against the ship wheel with its stylized anchor center and squinted at the storm clouds rolling in from the west. “You can’t beat the Indian Ocean for winter storms. The Athena can ride them out, but it’s good to be in harbor. Good to be home.”

  “Uncle Henry,” Esme said impatiently. She put a hand on the railing and leaned from the bridge, checking. From the hold she could hear male voices, a snatch of laughter. All too soon, Old Mark, the customs officer, would finish processing the passengers and they’d surge up, out and on their way. She needed to capture one first. “The matter is vital. I need a well-dressed, well-spoken man to front my political party and do as he’s told.”

  “Huh.”

  “I’ll pay him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “The thing is, I have to iron out the terms of his contract before he sets foot in the colony. From the get-go he must impress everyone as an earnest, aspiring politician. He must be respectable.”

  “A respectable scoundrel?”

  “Yes!” She frowned at two seagulls squabbling over a fish head from the trawler anchored nearby. “I know it’s a lot to ask…but, Uncle Henry, don’t you have one passenger who might fit the bill?”

  “Well now.” He adjusted his cap, tugging it down against the freshening wind. “I reckon as maybe I do.”

  Esme whirled around. “You do?”

  “What has me puzzled is why you suddenly want a man. When I sailed two months past, you were aiming to head the party yourself. What’s changed?”

  “Nicholas Bambury the Third.”

  Uncle Henry raised a greying eyebrow. “Who’s he when he’s home?”

  “An Easterner.” She made it sound a disease. “From one of the gentry families in Sydney. He’s here to give us the benefit of his lordly advice. Arrogant toad. Bambury has convinced people like the governor that high-level political discussions should be held in the men’s clubs—no women allowed. I’m working on changing it, but until then, I need a man to be there and put my side of the argument.”

  “Women’s rights and equality for all. Uh-huh. You know, your mother, God rest her soul, has a lot to answer for.”

  “Take some credit, yourself. Father, too. He’s always going on about a person defending their rights.” She smiled. “’Course, he was talking mining rights, but voting rights for women are just as important. So many women can’t fight for themselves, but I can and I will.”

  “Like a moray eel. Once you get your teeth into a cause, you don’t let go.”

  “Absolutely.” Being compared to a fierce, relentless sea creature didn’t bother her a whit. “Though they are ugly. Now, about your scoundrel…”

  “Tenacious.” Uncle Henry sighed. “He calls himself Jedediah Reeve. Decent bloke, but poncy clothes.”

  “Coming from you.” She studied his worn and stained dungarees, the faded and torn pullover, the oilskin discarded on a hook. “Poncy clothes could be as terrible as a clean shirt.”

  “None of your cheek, girl. I’ll shave and scrub up when I’m on land.”

  “I know. Maud has the boiler going, so you’ll have plenty of hot water.”

  “A good woman, Maud.” He rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. “What does she think of you buying yourself a man?”

  “I’m not
buying him for myself.” She checked her watch. She’d had the delicate gold instrument modified so she could wear it on a leather strap around her wrist. So much more convenient than pinned to her gowns. And it was just as she’d suspected: time was a’wasting. “Tell me about him. What makes you think this Jedediah Reeve is a scoundrel, apart from the poncy clothes?”

  “Flowered waistcoats. Hummingbirds, even. Picked out in gold thread. And he shaved every day aboard the skimmer. T’aint natural.”

  But Esme knew when her uncle was kidding her. She’d had twenty-two years’ experience of it. She folded her arms and waited. The wind whipped up and flicked an emu feather from her bonnet over the side where it floated on the water.

  Darn. She’d have to get another one. Those feathers were very handy with their tiny pencils cleverly fitted into the quill. You never knew when a good political slogan might strike. She’d scribbled any number of notes-to-self on crisply ironed white handkerchiefs, much to the ire of the laundry woman. And much to her own annoyance when her notes were washed out before she’d transferred them to her notebook.

  “Reeve is a card shark.” Henry cut a plug of tobacco. “Took money from the other passengers every night.”

  She refused to feel pity for the fleeced passengers. If you traveled skimmer-boat, you weren’t poor. Skimmers might look like overgrown water beetles, but their combination of wind and steam power plus their light design meant the journey out from England was a matter of weeks rather than months, and their speed enabled them to outrun the pirates off Africa’s west coast.

  “He’s American, ’bout thirty. Don’t know what he was doing in Europe. Probably some confidence game.” Henry chewed his tobacco. “Jed’s a talker, affable. No ladies aboard this trip, so I don’t rightly know how he does with them, but I’d put money they’d call him charming.”

  Esme nodded thoughtfully. “If he took money off the other men every night and they continued to play with him, he probably does have charm. Did he say why he wanted to come here?”

  “I figure he’s like all the fools, lured by the gold.”

  “Hmm. Do you like him, Uncle Henry? Can I trust him?”

  “A man’d be an idiot to cross you, darlin’. Jed’s not an idiot.”

  She stepped forward and hugged him, filthy dungarees, stubbled face and all. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Yeah, well.” He hugged her back awkwardly, a big tough man, appreciative but embarrassed by open affection. “I’ll call Jed to my cabin. You can meet him there.”

  Esme descended the ladder to the crew’s quarters and Uncle Henry’s cabin, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dimness below deck. She paused to check that the descent hadn’t knocked any more feathers from her bonnet.

  “Afternoon, Miss Esme.” The cook stepped back into his quarters so she could pass. The galley was spotless, pots shining and the coal stove gleaming.

  “Hello, Hemingway. How’s your lumbago?”

  “No worse.”

  “And no better?” she queried sympathetically. “Maybe some time ashore will help.”

  “I plan on trying it.” He winked. “And an ale treatment.”

  She smiled, knowing Hemingway could make a pint last all evening. He was no drinker. He just liked the company in the pubs. A lot of sailors did after the lonesomeness at sea. Miners were much the same. After months in the Outback, they’d hit town and whoop it up. The pubs and brothels that lined the goldfields towns testified to the habit.

  What she had no patience for was the men who drank and gambled away the money that should have been feeding and clothing their families. Such men were one of the main reasons she fought for women’s rights. If wives controlled their own lives and property, a lot of heartbreak could be mitigated.

  She wasn’t such a fool as to think heartbreak could be eliminated. Whenever you loved someone, trust went with it and you put your heart on the line.

  So far, she’d never been tempted. She was heart-whole, fully committed to her political causes.

  She ducked inside Uncle Henry’s cabin and found everything ship-shape: bedding stripped for washing ashore, logbook locked away, bag packed for his weekend at the house and the porthole open for fresh air. Securely fastened to the bulkhead were polished brass sextants, compasses, telescopes and boatswain’s pipes from his collection of old navigational and maritime instruments. A single chair was bolted to the floor near the shelf that served as his desk.

  “And he calls himself weather-wise.” She crossed to the porthole and secured it against the coming storm. The wild squalls that blew in off the Indian Ocean could be devastating.

  Up on the hill, Francis would be shuttering the windows of the big house and bringing in the garden furniture and anything else that might fly around and cause damage. Aaron Smith had designed the house to withstand the worst gales, but Francis, their man of all work, worried. And if he didn’t—Maud would direct him to.

  Esme turned away from the porthole. The staff who ran the house were more family than servants. She could trust them to look after everything. Her biggest problem was their tendency to want to look after her.

  She’d been looking after herself for years. The Outback instilled independence.

  The cabin door opened abruptly and a man walked in. He was tall, dark, not-quite-handsome and clean-shaven, a distinct improvement on the latest fashion for moustache and pointed beard. There was athleticism in his easy stride and in the breadth of his shoulders. Smile lines creased the corners of his brown eyes. Just now those eyes widened a degree in surprise.

  “I’m sorry. Captain Fellowes asked me to meet him here.” His drawl was low and attractive with the faintest touch of a question. American.

  Her heart beat a fraction faster. With relief, she assured herself. He would do very nicely.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Reeve,” she said with composure. “Uncle Henry suggested we meet.”

  Jedediah Reeve stared at the lovely young woman in Captain Fellowes’s cabin. In any situation she’d be remarkable for her beauty. In the cramped quarters of a skimmer-boat she was downright incredible.

  A strand of golden hair had escaped the confines of her upswept hairstyle and fashionable feathered hat to curl enticingly down the slender column of her throat and lie against the green wool of her dress. Unlike the emerald greens of Europe, her dress reminded him of the soft sage of California, of its untouched hillsides and the herb garden in his grandma’s house. It whispered of home and comfort. And the figure it covered…mentally, Jed whistled. The young woman had an hourglass figure men dreamed of, all lush full breasts and curved hips. Her eyes were remarkable, too, the bright clear blue of summer skies. Her mouth made him think of cotton candy and kisses.

  “Mr. Reeve, my name is Miss Esme Smith.” She held out her gloved hand.

  He took it automatically and blinked at the firmness of her clasp. “How do you do, Miss Smith?”

  “Very well.” She reclaimed her hand. “I don’t propose to waste your time or mine. I have a business proposition to put to you.”

  “You intrigue me.”

  She nodded as if that were to be expected. “Please, shut the door.”

  He raised an eyebrow at the impropriety, but obeyed.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Mr. Reeve. I’m not here as a woman.”

  In virtue of her curves, he found that hard to accept.

  “I’m speaking to you as the founder of a political party, the Women’s Advancement League. You’ve just sailed from London, so you must be aware of the activities of the suffragettes in England.”

  “We have them in America, too.”

  “And do you approve of them?”

  He grinned. “I don’t think my opinion matters either way to them. They are very determined women.”

  “As am I, Mr. Reeve. But you are wrong. Your opinion on women’s right to vote and own property is of the utmost importance to me.”

  “Then, I’d have to say I approve. Certainly, I kno
w any number of women with more intelligence and common sense than the vast majority of the American Congress.”

  She smiled blindingly. “Wonderful. I should have trusted Uncle Henry to choose wisely.”

  A faint flicker of caution tried to penetrate Jed’s bemusement, but vainly. He was lost in contemplation of the dimple at the left corner of Miss Smith’s mouth.

  “Mr. Reeve, I need a man.”

  Thank you, God.

  “To act the part of the leader of the Women’s Advancement League. Of course, I would continue to be the actual leader, but the numbskulls here in the Swan River Colony have decided to hold their political discussions on the future of the colony in their men’s clubs, where I simply can’t participate. I need you to speak in my place. We would have to work closely. I’d expect daily reports from you, and in return, would provide you with briefing papers.”

  We would have to work closely. Jed wasn’t deaf. He heard the other words about politics and briefing papers. They just didn’t resonate.

  “Closely, Miss Smith?”

  “I’d need to know that I could trust you. I would pay you, obviously.” She named a figure in excess of a congressman’s salary. “A lot of men arrive in Swan River hoping to strike it rich—either in the goldfields or in a city bustling with new enterprises. Most fail, abjectly. They end up wage slaves or working their passage back to wherever they came from. As for those who think to profit from games of chance or confidence schemes…Fremantle Prison is large, dark and noisome.”

  Jed bit back a smile as he realized Miss Smith had pegged him as a con man, and far from disapproving, was offering him a better con, one with assured winnings. She wanted him to take up politics. He played along. “You said Captain Fellowes recommended me?”

  She nodded.

  He adjusted the cuff of one sleeve. “Miss Smith, what exactly did you ask your uncle for?”

  A delightful pink carnation color flushed her cheeks. “A scoundrel.”