Wanted: One Scoundrel Page 6
“I could say the same of some men,” she retorted smartly. “Empty-headed popinjays.”
“Touché.” He handed her half the peeled chestnut.
She popped it in her mouth. “Thank you.” She swallowed. “But you are convincing people, Jed. I’ll need to get more pamphlets printed. In fact, I think you should meet my printer.”
“You have too much energy.”
“It’s only early afternoon. We can catch Angus easily.”
Jed sighed and dusted chestnut debris from his fingers. “You know, when you said you’d hardly seen me, I thought we might be able to steal a quiet hour.”
“You’re too young for quiet hours. Besides, we’ve finished the chestnuts.” She shook out her skirts and checked her hair in the mirror over the fireplace. She tucked the few loose strands under her hat. In the mirror, she saw Jed move to stand behind her.
She turned inquiringly. It brought her too close to his muscled frame, but with the fire at her back, she couldn’t retreat.
“Just checking my hair,” he teased.
It was slightly tousled and she reached out without thinking, only withdrawing her hand at the last minute. She was slightly breathless. “Your hat will hide any deficiencies in your grooming.”
The teasing gleam vanished from his eyes. He regarded her steadily for several moments before stepping back in silence. As she passed him, he put a light, guiding hand on her waist.
Other gentlemen had employed the courteous gesture with her, but she’d never been so aware of the warmth of their hands. His palm branded her skin despite the layers of wool and cotton petticoats, not to mention her lightly laced corset. It was as if her senses leapt to meet him.
“Let us visit your printer,” Jed said quietly.
She nodded. Whatever had entered the library at his closeness, she was suddenly, ridiculously aware of being alone with him.
Every feminine instinct in her shrieked danger! and wanted to rush toward it.
She drew a deep breath, summoned common sense and walked into the hall.
He held her coat for her and his fingers brushed her throat. “Do we need a carriage?”
She shivered at the inadvertent caress. “No. Angus has a shop on the outskirts of town. We can walk to it.”
And maybe the walk will shake me back into sanity. Her hyper-awareness of Jed was making her awkward and unnatural.
The view from the front of the house showed the harbor and the ships at anchor. The sooty marks of steamships smudged the horizon. Closer at hand, the town rang with noise and energy. Someone was learning to play the trumpet and sharp discordant blasts carried on the breeze.
She strode fast to the quieter, southern edge of Fremantle, tucking her hands into the pockets of her coat. It was most unladylike, but it meant she could ignore the offer of Jed’s arm. Touching him would not be a good idea.
A derisive blast from the amateur trumpet player faded behind them.
The streets narrowed. The shops huddled close, smaller and interspersed with workshops and family homes. The smoke from wood fires curled up, fragrant and reminiscent of the country. Tiny plots of land held vegetable gardens. Lemon and orange trees were glossy green, occasionally starred with white blossoms already anticipating summer.
The familiar walk restored her composure. She took her hands from her pockets, relaxed enough to gesture naturally as she gave Jed some background.
“The native people live here. In their own language, they are the Nyungar. Some have adapted to European ways and gained artisan skills—like Angus, my printer. Others still live nomadically. I would like them accepted as full citizens of Swan River, regardless of their lifestyle choices.”
They passed a small school and heard a chorus of children’s voices reciting the multiplication table.
“Segregation,” she said sadly. “A lot of white people won’t accept that the Nyungar are equal.” She gripped his arm. “We must change that. These children should be free to follow their dreams.”
“The attitudes of hate that lie behind segregation are hard to change.” He covered her hand with his for a second. “But we’ll try.”
They walked into the printers. The floor of the wooden building shuddered to the sound of a printing press. Esme walked around the counter to the doorway of the workroom. “Hello, Angus.”
A large black man looked around with a smile. “Miss Esme.” He wiped his hands on a rag and came toward them, ushering them back into the shop and closing the door to the printing room for a bit of quiet.
“Jed, this is Mr. Angus Warren. Angus, Mr. Jedediah Reeve.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Reeve.” The printer extended his hand.
Jed shook it.
“We need more pamphlets printed,” Esme said.
Angus took out his order book, questioning numbers and timing.
“May I ask a personal question, Mr. Warren?” Jed asked.
“Go ahead.” The printer didn’t look up from his copperplate note taking.
“At home, in America, the black people are mostly former slaves or their descendants. Much of their culture was lost and they’ve had to rebuild it. But how do you, living in your own country, reconcile your traditional beliefs with all this?” His gesture encompassed the printing office, town and the whole goldrush explosion of activity.
“It’s not a question many people ask.” Angus straightened from the desk. “The missionaries still think we’re godless heathens. We’re not. I’m Christian-baptized. But I’m also me, son of my father, child of the Dreamtime. I say my people make their lives with old beliefs, but new practices.”
“In a way, that’s what I hope for all of us,” Esme said. “The best of the old and the new, and a strong sense of who we are, of pride in being part of Swan River Colony.”
Angus’s smile was tolerant.
Esme’s hand tightened on her purse. “I know you think I can’t understand your struggles, Angus, seeing as how I’m white and wealthy. But all of us have to fight to be the person God intended us to be.”
“That is true, and He made you a burning lamp, Miss Esme, one who shall not be put out in the night. Proverbs, Chapter 31, Verse 18,” Angus said.
She blushed at the biblical compliment.
“Amen,” Jed said and his voice was a soft caress. “A valiant woman, her price is above rubies.”
Chapter Eight
Esme touched the discreet ruby pin she’d attached to her collar. It was the one spot of color in her grey, tailored walking suit. Even her hat was the soft grey of fluffy emu chicks. Unlike some young ladies she could mention, she had dressed appropriately for the annual midwinter inventors’ fair.
Two booths away Miss Nellie Bowles tilted her head in what she no doubt considered a coquettish angle and let loose a trill of laughter.
Esme was amused to see Jed flinch and step back from the feminine onslaught.
He swung around hastily and apologized to Miss Hannah Peyton, whose toe he’d trodden on.
“Oh, Mr. Reeve.” Hannah collapsed gracefully against him and he had, perforce, to escort her to a bentwood chair by the wall.
Nellie looked daggers before sniffing and stalking away in search of new prey. The wide, violet ruffles of her tea gown rustled loudly.
Esme smirked at Jed’s beleaguered air. Somewhat to her surprise, he appeared keenly interested in the business of the day: the exhibition, analysis and improvement of various gadgets devised by the colony’s inventors.
Her father had often attended the event in the past, generally as an exhibitor. She smiled at the memory of his patented potato peeler. The potato was fixed to a spike which spun it round while a blade moved slowly down, scraping away the skin. Except, when the peeler was cranked too violently, the blade spun with such force that chunks of potato splattered everywhere. She remembered how her mother had shrugged philosophically and made mashed potatoes.
“Good afternoon, Miss Smith.” A loud, arrogant voice intruded on her memories.
She checked a discourteous sigh. She might detest Nicholas Bambury and his politics, but he held a degree of influence over the men in Swan River that she couldn’t afford to overlook—not if she wanted to achieve her goal of universal suffrage. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“May I say how delightful you look? Your fair beauty brightens this dull event.” He glanced disparagingly around the crowded hall of the Mechanics Institute where the double doors were flung wide to allow more exhibitions space outside.
“I find the inventors’ fair fascinating.” She wished his evident boredom meant a swift departure—better yet, that he hadn’t turned up at all. Some people might find his blond good looks appealing. For herself, she’d discovered a weakness for dark-haired, dark-eyed rascals. Speaking of which, Jed had disengaged himself from Hannah and was striding over.
“Afternoon, Bambury.”
The man exchanged curt nods and greetings that sounded more like challenges.
Hannah and Nellie crowded in.
“I see you still have your shadow, Reeve.” Bambury’s sneer was for Reeve and the young man hovering a few paces behind.
The two sycophantic women tittered.
Gupta Singh’s youthfully plump face reddened and he ducked sideways, pretending sudden fascination with a ribbon-tyer at the next stall.
Esme’s hand tightened on her umbrella at the unnecessary cruelty. Gupta Singh was simply indulging in a little natural hero worship for the man who’d saved him from drowning. “Any number of young men would do well to imitate Mr. Reeve’s style. After all, he is recently arrived from Europe, where they set the fashion rather than merely follow it.”
“You and Singh both flatter me, Miss Esme. I’m no fashion-plate.”
“But you have such heavenly broad shoulders,” Nellie cooed.
The stern line of Jed’s mouth relaxed in amusement. “Now I am truly put to the blush.”
“I believe I see my friend Gordon. If you’ll excuse me.” Bambury’s haughty tone showed the offense he’d taken over Esme’s reprimand. Nonetheless, he bowed over her hand. If anything he retained it too long. Certainly, Jed’s eyes narrowed. “Until later, Miss Smith. Ladies.”
Hannah and Nellie hesitated, eyed Jed’s focus on Esme, and hurried after Bambury. His friend Gordon might be middle-aged, but he was also a well-to-do widower. Fresh blood, so to speak.
“Mr. Singh,” Esme addressed the embarrassed young man. “Have you seen Mrs. Dam’s incense burner?”
Gupta tugged at the cuffs of his navy wool coat, cut in colonial imitation of Jed’s French tailoring. “N-n-no, Miss Smith. Is it interesting?”
“I think so. Her stall is just over here.” She led the two men away from the scene of Gupta’s humiliation to a stall near one of the hall’s narrow windows. There was a break between rain showers and sun streamed in, gleaming off highly polished brass objects.
Mrs. Ayesha Dam was talking seriously with Mr. Amberley, a fellow inventor, but she smiled at Esme and nodded to Jed and Gupta.
Esme picked up a small brass elephant and balanced it on the palm of one hand. “See how clever it is? You light the incense in its belly, then when you tug its tail, the trunk raises to puff out the smoke and the ears flap to swirl it around.”
“Wonderful.” Jed laughed and stroked a finger along the elephant’s trunk.
“It is good fortune, too,” Gupta said earnestly. “The elephant is a symbol of Lord Ganesha who all Hindus pray to for blessings.”
“Lord Ganesha is patron of intellect and science, too. But this is mere frivolity.” Ayesha joined the conversation. “A toy to entertain the children. The real invention I brought to the fair is this, the All-Suck Insect Transporter.”
It was an odd, elongated object in brass and leather with a cylindrical body, a nozzle, pump handle and glass chamber.
Jed abandoned the pachyderm incense burner to watch Ayesha demonstrate her invention.
Esme set aside the elephant, giving it a friendly, farewell pat. Its frivolity appealed to her a lot more than the All-Suck Insect Transporter. Since she didn’t believe in reincarnation, she felt no compunction in swatting any creepy-crawlies that invaded her home.
Ayesha launched into her product description. “Many Indians are reluctant to kill even the smallest insect, but Australia has such venomous creatures that we need the ability to remove them safely from our homes. The All-Suck Insect Transporter allows the householder to capture the insect, transport and release it safely. It operates on the vacuum principle.”
She put a thumbnail-sized twist of paper on the table and began pumping the device. The feather on her hat trembled with her exertions. “A brief, preliminary action to generate the vacuum, then whoosh.” She pointed the device at the twist of paper and it was sucked up and into the glass chamber. Ayesha ceased pumping. “The chamber is sealed for transportation, but when I release this lever, the insect is freed.” The paper tumbled back onto the table.
“May I?” Jed took the All-Suck Insect Transporter from her and studied it. “Have you considered a crank system rather than pump mechanism for generating the vacuum? I suspect a crank would allow greater precision in aiming the device at an insect while continuing to power the vacuum.”
He had an air of professional curiosity.
Ayesha responded, one inventor to another. “Hmm.”
Their heads bent over the device.
“If you narrow this pipe…” Jed took a pencil and paper from his pocket and began sketching as he spoke.
Esme blinked, then grinned as she caught Gupta’s similarly baffled gaze. Somehow one didn’t expect a man who dressed as fashionably as Jed to be interested in and informed on the latest advances in scientific principles.
“I believe we’ve been forgotten,” she said to Gupta.
“Not at all,” Jed said unconvincingly, watching Ayesha unscrew the nozzle.
“Uh huh.” Esme’s mockery was affectionate. “Mr. Gupta, would you care to examine the rest of the exhibits with me?”
“D-d-delighted.”
By the door, Bambury looked in their direction and scowled.
Esme smiled. She mightn’t like the man, but with Nellie hanging off one arm and Hannah the other, he was truly punished. From the way they glared at each other, he was shortly to be torn apart in a vicious tug of war. His friend Gordon had taken one look at the man-eaters and vanished. Esme raised a gloved hand in airy farewell. “Toodle-pip.”
Karmic justice was a beautiful thing.
Chapter Nine
“Miss Smith, your beauty shames the stars in their golden slumbers.”
Esme reminded herself not to grimace at Nicholas Bambury’s overdone and ridiculous flattery. She could have done without his attentions. Everywhere she went these days, she stumbled over him. And every time she stumbled, he was there with another compliment, another smirk, another implication she should be honored by his company.
Odious toad.
She looked around for Jed, before reminding herself that to do so would only feed the gossip.
Small town nosey parkers. She was out of patience with everyone. How dare they imply Jed was her suitor! She was sure Nellie and Hannah had started the gossip. The rumors undermined all her political efforts. It made her a trophy and Jed a fortune hunter, and it simply wasn’t true.
More’s the pity.
She stifled that small, honest voice.
“More champagne, Miss Smith?”
“No, thank you.” She preferred a nice hot cup of tea on a cold winter’s evening, or better yet, a cup of chai. Most of all, she wished Bambury would go away. “Intermission will be over shortly.”
“And then we’ll be exposed to more of that interminable scratching and screeching.” Disdain dripped from Bambury’s upper class tones.
Esme’s shoulders stiffened beneath the cashmere shawl she’d wrapped around herself in the cold town hall. She mightn’t appreciate the “music” Mr. Amberley’s automated orchestra created, but sh
e’d be darned if she let this Easterner sneer at her uncle’s friend.
“I think Mr. Amberley is very clever.”
“Of course you do.” Bambury all but patted her on her pretty-little-head.
She turned and made her way back to her seat, a rickety wooden chair. She really couldn’t trust her manners if Bambury continued on this way. Behind her, she heard the creak of his polished boots and the crack of their heels on the scuffed floor as he pursued her.
She sat, presenting him with her averted profile, and found Jed watching the small drama. His mouth was set in an uncharacteristically stern line before he looked away to answer some comment Mrs. Palmer made.
The automated orchestra began their tune-up exercises: two violins and a piano player, not quite in concert.
“If I had ear plugs, Miss Smith, I would lend them to you, and greater love hath no man than that sacrifice,” Bambury murmured insinuatingly.
Esme maintained a frozen expression, but a glimmer of humor enabled her to endure his presence. She’d just remembered what Mr. Amberley planned for the second half of his entertainment—automated dancing girls. Bambury would hate it.
The orchestra started playing a scratchy polka, the curtains parted and three clockwork figurines, dressed in badly stitched red satin dresses, wobbled on. Arms linked, they shuffled in unison. Left, right. Forward, back. And for a grand finale, a high kick that landed all three on their backs in a gigantic clatter of metal and whirring, misfiring mechanisms.
The audience exploded in laughter and snickers. All except Bambury. He sat silent and disapproving, scornful of everyone in the hall.
Esme’s own giggles died.
Why on earth is he wasting his time with me?