Wanted: One Scoundrel Page 5

  “I’ll look for it,” he promised.

  Their slow stroll brought them back to the Chai House with its bright-colored wall hangings and intricately carved wooden screens. They were shown to a table on the veranda facing the sea. A bronze wind chime, green from contact with the sea air, hung in a far corner.

  “Unless you would prefer to be inside?” Esme paused beside her chair.

  “This suits me. The air is bracing.”

  “And the horizon extends forever.” She smiled and turned to the hovering waiter. “Two cups of chai, please, Chandra, and a selection of sweets.”

  “Chai?” Jed queried.

  “Milky tea with a mix of spices, cardamom, ginger, cinnamon, pepper and some sugar. I can never make anything half so good at home, so I save it for a treat here. It is an Indian drink.”

  He mourned the absence of coffee silently, until he tasted the chai. “It’s good.”

  “You needn’t sound so surprised.” Her eyes laughed at him over her cup.

  Jed adored Esme’s laughter. He kept sharing stories just to provoke it, of his two brothers—now seriously involved in business and politics—and of his youngest sister, innocently and mischievously enjoying her introduction to society.

  “And what of yourself, Jed?” Esme asked as she finished her second cup of chai. “Did you get into scrapes?”

  “I once built a clockwork rocking horse. Well, more a bucking bronco.” He grinned reminiscently. “I added springs to the legs and a wind-up mechanism that set it swaying wildly. It was actually more violently unpredictable than I’d expected. I was thirteen at the time. My brothers and I loved it.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  “One of the housemaids snuck her boyfriend in to try it. He was a clumsy clod. He fell off and broke his arm. The maid had hysterics. Mom made me dismantle the bronco and build something safer.”

  He paused.

  “Go on.” Her face was alight with interest. “What did you build?”

  “An automated pea-shooter. I peppered the mailman while aiming for the dog chasing him. Mom was not amused.”

  They exited the Chai House on a wave of laughter and Jed again took the reins.

  The bridge held a mix of traffic—pedestrians, dogs, horses, carriages and bicycles. Below them in the river, the steam bucket dredge lay Sabbath-idle.

  A young man stood balanced on the edge of the bridge, showing off for his friends and a group of giggling young women watching nearby. He’d have been barely eighteen, his clothing showing the extreme of fashion with its wide collared jacket and padded shoulders and a blazing crimson waistcoat. He was Indian, slight and dark.

  The gust of wind off the ocean was sudden and powerful. It slammed into him and he fell from the bridge, arms windmilling.

  Women screamed. Men cursed and dithered. Someone shouted to throw a rope, but no one had a rope.

  “He’s drowning.”

  “He can’t swim.”

  “Get a boat.”

  Jed handed the reins to Esme, stripped off his coat as he kicked off his boots and dove from the bridge. The water was cold and, this close to the river mouth, salty. He spat out a mouthful as he surfaced and looked for the boy.

  The young man was churning up the water with his frantic and ineffective efforts.

  “Be still,” Jed shouted.

  The boy either couldn’t or wouldn’t listen.

  A few strokes were all Jed required to grip the boy’s collar and, when he continued to struggle, Jed hit him. Dazed, the boy floated and Jed headed for the riverbank.

  “Hold on, mate,” an Australian voice called out, loud and cheerful. “We’ll land your catch in the boat.” A middle-aged man rowed out and turned the boat to drift with the incoming tide. “There we go.” He hauled and Jed pushed and the boy fell into the boat. The man shifted his weight to balance the boat and Jed heaved himself in.

  “Thanks.”

  By the time they reached shore, the boy was shivering, coughing and effusive in his gratitude. The winter wind struck chill through Jed’s wet waistcoat and shirt. He shuddered. When the boat reached the shallows, he leapt out and helped beach it.

  Esme waited with the gig amid a gaggle of onlookers. She handed Jed his coat and wrapped the boy in a carriage rug.

  “Take him home,” Jed said. “I’m close enough to the boarding house. I’ll walk.”

  “Fine.” But her eyes were bright with concern. She looked beyond him and picked a familiar face from the crowd, the Smith household’s factotum. “Francis, could you see my friend home?”

  “Sure and I will, Miss Esme.”

  “S-s-sir, I m-must know your name,” the boy interrupted.

  “Jedediah Reeve.” He allowed his hand to be shaken for far too long. The hero worship in the boy’s dark eyes embarrassed him.

  “I am Gupta S-Singh, and I thank you. You saved my life, Mr. Reeve. I will not forget. And you, s-sir.” He turned to the man with the rowboat.

  Esme ended the scene, directing Gupta Singh into the gig and scattering spectators as she set off at a smart trot.

  “Lovely girl, Miss Esme,” Francis said. “We’d better do as she says and get you home.”

  “I can manage.”

  Francis just grinned and kept pace with him, the message clear: what Miss Esme wanted, Miss Esme got.

  Chapter Six

  Jed half expected Esme to come and check on him at the boarding house. Instead, she sent Dr. Palmer, who grumbled.

  “Lot of fuss about nothing. A dip in the river’s not going to hurt a strapping lad like you, not even in the middle of winter. And I see you’ve got the right medicine.” He looked approvingly at Jed’s glass of hot toddy.

  “Mrs. Hall doesn’t believe in drinking, but Francis informed her I was a hero.” Jed raised the glass. “Hence the toddy.”

  “Good luck to you.” The doctor snapped his bag shut. He studied Jed as he sat comfortably in his trousers and dressing gown by a roaring fire, his feet propped on the fender.

  The cuckoo clock on the wall whirred, then completely failed to chirp the hour.

  “I disabled it,” Jed said.

  “Yes, give me a decent grandfather clock any day.” But Dr. Palmer spoke absently. “I’m traveling to Perth, tomorrow. If you care to travel with me, I’ll put your name down at my club.”

  Jed raised an eyebrow. Club sponsorship was a far greater issue than a mere introduction to the governor. “I appreciate the offer, sir. Forgive my curiosity, but is it a favor for Esme or a reward for my jumping in the river?”

  “Ha! When Esme introduced you at Friday’s afternoon tea, I didn’t know what game she was playing. None of us know you from Adam. But I think she has the right of it: Nicholas Bambury is stirring up the authoritarian, aristo elements, the ones who want the rich to become richer and the disenfranchised to resemble slaves.”

  “That’s harsh. Slavery is—”

  “I know what slavery is,” Dr. Palmer interrupted. “I’ve treated men for infections when their backs were opened by brutal whippings. I’ve seen the marks of manacles and the devastation of rape. Our society has a chance to rise above such things, to give all people the right to freedom, dignity and security. I’m damned if I’ll stand aside and let such hopes rot so men such as Bambury can increase their wealth.”

  “I admit I don’t admire the man.” Jed swung his feet off the fender and leaned forward. “But what is it you think I can do?”

  “Speak in opposition. Remind people of other values. Bambury whirled in on the glamour of his Eastern family name and has stroked egos and wooed men to think of themselves, of their own advancement. He’s stoking an unhealthy sense of elitism. There are good men here who don’t agree with him, but like me, they have responsibilities that keep them from giving the time to politics that is required. Bambury is politicking full-time. If Esme is prepared to fund you to do that—and I’m guessing she is—then you have my support.”

  “Ah.” Jed stood a
nd put the empty toddy glass on the mantel. “You know, I didn’t come to Swan River to enter politics. Engineering is my field. I’ve been following the work of Nikola Tesla—”

  Dr. Palmer interrupted, uninterested in technological tomfoolery. “And this isn’t your fight? I understand, but you’re wrong. Travel with me, tomorrow. Hear for yourself Bambury’s insidious, pernicious nonsense. I saw you at the tea and the ball. You have charm, and now, you’re a hero. You can do a lot of good—for however long you’re here.”

  “I fear you overestimate me, sir. But I accept your sponsorship.” He had, after all, promised Esme to represent her Women’s Advancement League in the men’s clubs. “With thanks.”

  They shook hands and the doctor departed.

  Jed stood at the window. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown.

  He had entered into agreement with Esme light-heartedly enough, intent only on learning more of her and perhaps indulging a pleasant flirtation.

  “I should have stayed with my trade.” He looked at the sky. The clouds were back, grey and low, promising more rain. “Politics!” A rueful smile tugged at his mouth. “Oh lord. What would Father say?”

  Perhaps there was no escaping one’s heritage?

  Esme hung her coat in the hall. “I’m fine, Maud.” She refused offers of assistance and the recommendation of a hot bath. “A little rain won’t hurt me.” She ran up the stairs to her room.

  A personal maid was one of the trappings of wealth she’d steadfastly refused, just as her father rejected the notion of a valet. If you weren’t careful, wealth could rob you of all privacy.

  She closed her bedroom door with a sense of relief and leaned back against it. A deep tremor shook her.

  When Jed had dived from the bridge, all the horror stories she’d heard of lives lost in the river had risen to torment her. Only the strongest of disciplines enabled her to maneuver the gig through the crowd and wait with outward composure. She’d been so relieved, so glad, when Mr. Vann pulled Jed and the boy from the river.

  Common sense said a handful of days wasn’t nearly long enough for her heart to stop at the thought of losing Jed.

  The intensity of her reaction spooked her and she’d grabbed for the excuse of returning Gupta Singh to his family and an ayurvedic practitioner’s care. She’d left the boy excitedly recounting his adventure to his aunt and uncle, and singing Jed’s praises.

  “Jed Reeve.” She straightened from the door. If he was a scoundrel, he was one with intelligence and courage, and compassion—she’d seen how he’d danced with the wallflowers at the ball. A small sign, and yet…

  Perhaps her intense response to his peril wasn’t so strange? He’d become a friend.

  “So you’re the hero of the hour?” Nicholas Bambury drawled. “Rescuing a Hindoo from the river. Quite an achievement.” His tone disparaged it.

  The wood-paneled, leather-furnished, understated luxury of the men’s club fit Bambury like a tailored backdrop. Here, he was the undeniable leader, handsome, athletic, a son of the aristocracy.

  Jed shrugged. “I felt like a swim.”

  The comment won a few laughs and the tension Bambury had been building dissipated. Men turned back to a discussion of horses and, by degrees, of newer forms of transport.

  An elderly gentleman was loudly in favor of automobiles. Although he wanted them powered by steam. Younger men decried such adherence to old-fashioned notions. Steam was all very well, indeed, they wanted tracks laid for steam locomotives to power across the country, joining the west and eastern coasts.

  “But gasoline is the future.”

  “The smell?” Jed queried mildly.

  Questions of smell were brushed aside as nothing compared to horse dung on a hot summer’s day.

  As in the Smiths’ drawing room, a miniature railway circled the room, but nothing moved on it.

  “One of Amberley’s failures,” a young man said dismissively. His protuberant eyes blinked behind smoked glass goggles. Wearing those brass-framed monstrosities inside was a misguided fashion decision in every sense. “The old dabbler hooked it up to run on electricity using magnets—you have seen our electric lighting?”

  “Indeed,” Jed said politely, although the crude lighting made a poor show compared to the bright natural sunlight pouring in the windows.

  “The generator is in a cupboard behind that wall. Amberley redesigned it to increase the power outlet, but then when he ran the magnets, it was a disaster.”

  “Spoons!” A middle-aged man, wearing the wig of a barrister, brayed his amusement. “Club management had replaced the silver spoons with stainless steel. Thought to save money. Every spoon whipped through the air to clang against the powerful central magnet.”

  The young man looked disapprovingly at such unregulated amusement. “Amberley keeps promising to fix the machine, but so far it remains too dangerous to use. Mr. Puddlington’s glasses were ripped from his face.”

  “Inventions naturally require tweaking. Why perfection straight out of the box, or the workroom…”

  Jed let the discussion drift on while he observed the men. Their number increased as the lunch hour approached. Dr. Palmer returned from his business and introduced Jed to his cronies, including the barrister. Jed shared a table with them, eating a substantial roast beef meal followed by Christmas pudding. He grinned to see this remnant of midwinter festivities. The inhabitants of Swan River had a unique but enjoyable approach to life—taking the best of their home countries. He was glad, though, that they didn’t waste good brandy setting the pudding alight. Cognac this fine deserved to be savored, and he took his glass with him to sit by the fire.

  Nicholas Bambury chose a chair close by. He hitched his trousers carefully before sitting. “So, Reeve, I believe you’re a friend of Captain Fellowes?”

  “I have that honor.”

  From his corner chair, Dr. Palmer frowned suspicion.

  “And of his niece, Miss Esme Smith.”

  Jed inclined his head.

  “Nouveau riche, of course,” Bambury continued. “But a spirited beauty.”

  Men around them chuckled knowingly.

  Jed found his hackles rising. There was something condescending in the comment, as if Bambury judged a horse’s points.

  “It’ll take a strong man to tame her.” The tilt of Bambury’s head was the faintest of preening movements. The message was clear: he was a strong man and he considered Esme and her inheritance his.

  Jed studied his untouched brandy. Then he tossed it onto the fire and watched the flames flare blue.

  The men stared at him.

  Jed held Bambury’s gaze. Whatever he said would be repeated and embellished—and he would not risk Esme’s reputation. But if he said nothing, Bambury would win the encounter.

  “Interesting how alcohol burns. Pure energy. Perhaps one day, they’ll invent a car to run on it. Now, there’s fumes I’d like to smell.”

  “But the waste, man. The waste,” the barrister said.

  Men laughed.

  Jed stood and looked down at Bambury. “Yes. Fine spirits definitely shouldn’t be wasted on men who can’t appreciate them.” He nodded in general farewell, point made. “Gentlemen.”

  After the musty warmth of the club, he enjoyed the bracing outside air. It lacked Fremantle’s tang of salt, but had its own odor of busy city life lived beside a river. It reminded him of the leisurely trip down the Mississippi that he’d taken two years ago.

  Perth sat twelve miles inland. Apparently, the first governor had been a military man and hid his settlement behind a substantial hill, safe from ship-based cannon fire. The goldrush had led to a frenzy of building, and ornate shops and houses intermingled with square Georgian buildings from the earlier era.

  It was a city finding its place in the world. Esme and Dr. Palmer weren’t exaggerating. This was the time of opportunity, to set a new pattern of equality and freedom, or regret it for all of the coming century.

  A
nd sleek golden devils like Bambury were fattening on Swan River’s possibilities with all the disgusting tenacity of swollen ticks.

  Jed slammed his hat on his head and set off with long strides toward the newspaper office. That was the place to pick up the trends and gossip swirling through the colony.

  Because he’d be damned if Bambury got richer on Swan River—or by wooing Esme.

  Chapter Seven

  “I’ve hardly seen you.” Esme bit her lip. The complaint had escaped her even though she’d promised herself—sworn by the Southern Cross in the night skies—that she’d not mention Jed’s lack of attendance.

  He was, after all, doing exactly what she’d contracted him to do. Everywhere she went she heard people singing his praises—though none were quite so ridiculous in their admiration as Gupta Singh. The boy copied Jed’s style of dress, hair cut and way of walking. There was even a hint of an American drawl when Esme encountered Gupta at the Chai House in Bombaytown.

  Three weeks Jed had been in Swan River, and for the last two she’d hardly seen him. He spoke in men’s clubs, at political meetings, in the town hall, coffee shops and in print. He was amiable and intelligent. He signed the letter to the editor she wrote in his name.

  Match-making mamas trailed him hopefully, attending her Women’s Advancement League meetings that they had heretofore scorned.

  “Never mind that,” Esme said hastily. “I’m very pleased with all your work.”

  “It is work.” Jed peeled another chestnut, inhaling the nutty steam even as he burned his fingers. He’d bought them on impulse, having seen them unloaded from a skimmer-boat just in from Australia’s eastern colonies, and brought them to share with Esme, roasting them in the library fire. The sweet smokiness reminded him of Christmases at home—and he began to see the wisdom of Swan River’s midwinter celebrations: recalling old joys and creating new ones. “And some of the giggling young women—are you sure all women should have the vote?”