Wanted: One Scoundrel (3 page)

“That man.” Maud sniffed.

Miss Smith turned to Jed. “Mr. Reeve, please meet Mrs. Washburn, housekeeper, cook and presiding genius of the house.”

Maud looked doubtfully at her floury hands, shrugged and nodded a greeting. “Good afternoon, sir.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” He smiled. “Kitchens are among my favorite places and this one smells particularly good.” There was a hint of spice, like Christmas minced pies, in the air.

“We’ll be in the library, Maud, if Lucy could bring through a tray, please?”

“Aye. My tea cakes will be ready in a few minutes.”

“With Uncle Henry’s impeccable timing, he’ll probably arrive as they come out of the oven. This way, Mr. Reeve.”

He and Kelly followed her, the dog’s nails clicking on the polished floorboards and then silenced as they crossed a tiled hallway and entered a large room with expensive Persian carpets scattered about. Deep shelves lined three walls filled with leather-bound encyclopedias, brightly jacketed fiction and stacks of cheaply printed journals, with many empty spaces for future additions to the esoteric collection that rubbed shoulders with the books. There were shells, ivory carvings, geological specimens, brass instruments, a globe of the world and astrolabe, even a violin. Intricate puzzles carved of wood or fashioned in metal made his fingers twitch to investigate how they came apart and fitted back together. A solid side table held a phonograph which looked to have two trumpets. A diving suit stood in the corner like an improbable suit of armour, flanked by a waist-high bronze elephant with its trunk raised.

It was a working library, the home of people insatiably curious. On the walls, between shelves, were excellent reproductions of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketches, slightly enlarged.

The dog headed automatically for a blanket folded near the fireplace. It lay down and watched its mistress’s movements.

“Have a seat,” she invited.

But she didn’t sit herself and Jed’s mother had drummed some manners into her boys.

He crossed instead to the fireplace and its welcome warmth. The wood smoke smelled unlike anything he’d encountered before. It held a faint trace of menthol, very comforting with the storm drawing in and darkening the winter sky. It was little things like alien smoke that reminded a man that he was in a strange land. Literally on the other side of the world.

Miss Smith gathered up some papers from a lady’s writing desk and put them aside. “I left in somewhat of a hurry when Francis reported Uncle Henry’s boat had been sighted.” She left the desk and sank into a leather armchair. “Do sit down.”

He chose a chair the pair to hers and stretched out his legs to the fire.

“Now, Miss Smith, tell me about my new job.”

Esme contemplated the fire for a moment, idly scratching Kelly’s ears. If she wasn’t careful, her eyes had a tendency to stray from the flames of the cheerfully crackling jarrah wood to the relaxed yet elegant figure of Mr. Jedediah Reeve. Her skin-prickling awareness of him was new and strange. Other men visited and never had this effect.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Whenever she saw Mr. Nicholas Bambury the Third, the skin over the nape of her neck crawled. But that was an unpleasant sensation, whereas Mr. Reeve—

He caught her looking and smiled as if they were long-standing friends, comfortable to sit together. He gave no indications of impatience that she appeared to have forgotten his question.

In fact, she was contemplating it. How did one tell a man such as Mr. Reeve—and my, wasn’t that a square and stubborn jaw. One quite overlooked it, masked as it was by his easy smile. Hmm, how did one tell him that his job was simply to be her puppet?

She folded her hands in her lap. Beside the chair, Kelly lay down, head between paws.

“Swan River is a typical British colony, which is to say relatively free, but burdened with a lot of outdated notions. Queen Victoria came to the throne a couple of years after we were founded, and as you know, she’s just celebrated her Diamond Jubilee. But what is quite an achievement for a monarch, is a mere handful of years for a human settlement.”

“The American West has a similar youth.”

“Then you’ll understand the mix of energy and insecurity. We have wealth, Mr. Reeve, but we’re not sure of our own identity. The question is acute because the Eastern colonies, led by the cities of Sydney and Melbourne, are pushing for the creation of a single Australian nation.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought you’d favor such independence.”

“I do. As colonies, we are always ripe for exploitation. I’ve read of the wealth Britain drained from India, leaving millions in poverty. We have a significant Indian population here, people intent on building better lives for themselves and their families. The racism they face is one of the issues that infuriates me. We might be a young colony, but we’re riddled with idiotic nonsense from what some idiots refer to as ‘Mother Britain.’ Indians are second-class citizens. Women aren’t citizens at all. Nor are the Aboriginal people of this country. Phooey. I do not want Swan River to join a nation that is intent on perpetuating these terrible injustices and boot-licking Britain, which has done nothing for us, nothing but exploit our mining and farming resources.”

She inhaled, energised by the passion with which she fought for everyone’s rights. “Mr. Reeve, I am a secessionist. I believe Swan River should form its own nation. We have the land and the wealth and our population is growing in leaps and bounds. We have the never-to-be-repeated opportunity to create a nation of justice for all. That is what I want you to argue for me in the men’s clubs and government rooms where I, by virtue of being a woman, am currently barred.”

“In other words, in pursuit of your political ambitions, I am to be the monkey to your organ grinder.”

“That is hardly the way I’d phrase it.”

“Perhaps you prefer puppet?”

The accuracy of his comment brought color to her cheeks. “I indicated the nature of the job onboard the skimmer-boat—and you accepted.”

“I did. But now I wonder that you couldn’t find a man in the colony to fill the role. Surely there must be some among them that share your views.”

“Quite a number are secessionists. It is my ambition for women and all residents of the colony to be equal that sticks in their craw. Those few that agree with me have work commitments that keep them from giving the time the cause requires.”

He raised an objection. “You offered to pay me.”

“It is a small community, Mr. Reeve. We know one another’s business. An established resident who suddenly quit his work to champion my cause would be known as a kept man.”

“And I won’t?”

“I believe people will accept that you are a friend of Uncle Henry’s and a believer in universal suffrage. Furthermore, handled tactfully, we should be able to give the impression that you are a man of private means.”

“Ah.” He contemplated the flames.

The rattle of a tea trolley announced the arrival of Sally with Maud’s tea cakesand—Esme noted—the best china.

So, Mr. Reeve has already impressed Maud.

“Thank you, Sally.” She stripped off her gloves. The money for white gloves had arrived too late in her life for her to take them and the potential ruin of tea stains for granted. “Milk and sugar, Mr. Reeve?”

He declined both with a slight shudder and an air of great courage.

Esme replaced the silver teapot on the tray and hid her smile. “Are you a coffee drinker?”

“Guilty as charged.”

She rose and crossed to a cupboard. She folded back the wooden doors to reveal a gleaming monster. “It is Mr. Amberley’s invention. He calls it a coffee geyser. He made it for Father.” She measured in coffee beans and for a few minutes, the noise of the grinder prohibited all conversation. Then there were gurgles, hisses and gushing before coffee jetted out in a stream to the waiting white china cup.

“An ingenious machine.” Mr. Reeve stood beside her, watching and admiring. He inhaled rapturously. “I haven’t had a good cup of coffee since I left France.”

She handed him the cup with a small sideways smile. “Then consider it a perk of your new job.”

Their fingers brushed as he accepted the cup.

“I expect I’ll discover a few.” He smiled down at her.

Relief welled up. “Then, you haven’t changed your mind? You’ll speak for the Women’s Advancement League?”

“Miss Smith, you’re stuck with me.” He waited till she’d sat, then sat himself. “And if we’re to be co-conspirators—which frankly I prefer to seeing myself as a puppet—my friends call me Jed.”

“Jed. It’s a very American name.” She offered him the plate of Maud’s tea cakes, hoping the happy smile that insisted on breaking through didn’t look ridiculous. She had an ally. A paid one, but none the worse for that. She understood that a man had to live.

“I’m named for my maternal grandfather. Thank you.” He accepted a tea cake.

“I’m named for some stupid heroine Mother was reading about in a novel. Esme is actually short for Esmeralda.” She dared him to comment.

“I think Esme is a lovely name.”

He really was a charmer.

And she was charmed.

Mentally, she shrugged. Stuffy and formal weren’t part of her nature. “Please, call me Esme.”

“Delighted to, Esme. Here’s to our partnership and the advancement of universal suffrage.”

They toasted one another with their coffee and tea cups.

The satisfied gleam in Jed’s eyes bothered her for a moment. Then she dismissed her caution and hopped up to collect a stack of papers and a couple of books from the corner of the desk.

“I’ve put together some background reading for you. The newspaper clippings give you a sense of the colony’s political situation, the books are treatises on women’s suffrage and the rights of all people, and I’ve included a couple of my most popular pamphlets, outlining the aims of the Women’s Advancement League.”

Whatever he might have said in response was lost to the noise of Uncle Henry’s entrance.

“Got the world sorted out yet?” He dragged a chair up to their circle in front of the fireplace. Esme poured him a cup of tea and added milk and two sugars. He snaffled a tea cake, broke it and tossed half to Kelly. “Or has Reeve seen the dangers and retreated out of self-preservation?”

“Swan River is not dangerous,” Esme said indignantly.

“No, but you are.” Uncle Henry was in fine form, happy to be home. He turned to Jed. “Did she tell you of the time she decided to test Amberley’s new pedal boat? She plowed it straight into a swan’s nest. Fortunately the cygnets all got out of the way, but mama swan pecked her good.”

“I still have a scar on my arm,” she said with dignity. “And it was Mr. Amberley’s steering that was flawed, not my captaincy.”

“Captaincy.” Uncle Henry choked on his second tea cake. “That pedal boat was no bigger ’n a bath tub.”

“Nonetheless.”

Jed intervened. “I’m glad you survived your ordeal, Miss Esme.” The “miss” was a polite compromise for public consumption. Laughter lurked in his brown eyes.

Esme found her mouth quite dry. She sipped her tea and brought them all back briskly to business. “How soon do you think you can read the papers? I would like to introduce you to supporters of the Women’s Advancement League at a quiet afternoon tea before launching you on the wider society.”

“Like a boat,” Uncle Henry muttered. “And see what happened to it.”

“It’s not that I like to fool my friends, but the more people who know a secret, the less secret it is. And if you can convince friends, then you can convince our enemies. Would Sunday afternoon be too soon?”

“Not at all. I’m a natural-born politician: I can lie with the best of them.” Jed grinned before his expression turned rueful as he regarded the stack of papers. “As for preparation, I’ll have your words by heart, Miss Esme, by tomorrow night.”

“So soon?”

“I understand and share your commitment to universal suffrage. I imagine your briefing papers are adequate to give me a sense of the situation here in the colony. And people will forgive any gaps in the knowledge of a newly arrived stranger.”

“Well, then.” She felt strangely as if initiative had been wrested from her. “How about afternoon tea, tomorrow?”

“Friday? Suits me,” Uncle Henry said.

Jed shrugged and nodded.

Esme squared her shoulders. “Then let’s do it.”

Jed had spent yesterday evening and this morning settling into his lodgings and arranging things to his satisfaction. Mrs. Hall had a shed she was willing to rent and he’d affixed a padlock to it. Tomorrow, he’d go in search of tools. He’d read long into the night, getting a sense of Esme’s political ideals and what she aimed to achieve.

She wrote well. Not with high falutin’ language, but directly. She wanted people to understand why universal suffrage was important. For Esme, politics wasn’t about personal ambition. The need to serve society burned through her words.

Now he looked around the drawing room of her family home and saw the people who’d chosen to ally themselves with her cause.

It was a mixed bunch, not unnaturally with more women than men. Two serene middle-aged Indian women sipped tea and wore saris by the warmth of the fire. They completely ignored the miniature railway that ran the circumference of the room, circulating plates of tea cakes and treats, and rising on miniature elevators to skirt doorways and windows. There were pinwheel sandwiches, bachelor button cookies and fog cakes shimmering in a cloud of dry ice vapor and tasting of vanilla.

An elderly British woman chatted with the two Indian ladies while pacing up and down, obviously restless indoors. She wore the tweeds Jed had come to recognize were the sign of a British woman happiest in the open countryside, and her weather-beaten complexion bore out that conclusion.

A timid-looking man in a worn grey suit hovered nearby, darting to the tea train if any woman expressed a desire for a cake or refill. He was obviously and painfully eager to fit in.

An older gentleman, wearing the frock coat of his medical profession, stood near Jed and confided frankly. “Let the women have the vote if they want it. Lot of fuss about nothing. If women want something, they get their men to do it. I’m here because Esme provides a damn fine tea.”

“Go along, dear,” his wife, plump, silver-haired and amiable, chided gently. “As if you ever listen to me. You’re here because you believe in secession, and so does Esme.”

“Damn right.” The doctor sprayed cake crumbs in his enthusiasm. “Join the rest of the colonies? Bah. Greedy beggars just want our gold.”

The tea party was an amusing gathering of unlikely people. Nor was Jed expected to say much. People were only too happy to tell him their views on any given issue. However, if there was one issue that united them, it was their respect for Esme.

Widow Bryant had been the most outspoken. Petite and youthful despite her mourning, she cornered Jed early. “I don’t know who you are or what you’re planning.” Clearly another woman who considered him a scoundrel. Jed hadn’t ever seen himself in such an exciting light—nor had his family. His brothers would laugh themselves stupid. “But Esme is important to us all. We won’t stand for anyone cheating or hurting her.”

“I’m glad to hear that, ma’am. Believe me. I have no intention of doing either.”

Such loyalty spoke well of Esme’s character, even if he hadn’t already discerned her essential honesty and generosity. He suspected Widow Bryant’s success as a seamstress owed much to Esme’s patronage, and in turn, explained Esme’s unexpected fashionableness. She seemed the kind to be impatient of fripperies like bows and ribbons, laces and silks.

“Another coffee, Mr. Reeve?” She joined his circle, offering tea to the Doctor and Mrs. Palmer.

“I’m fine, Miss Esme.”

She looked fine, herself. The deep sapphire blue of the gown emphasised the blue of her eyes and the close-fitting bodice emphasized, discreetly, the glories of her figure. She smelled deliciously of rosewater.

“Mr. Reeve?”

He realized he’d leaned closer to sniff her scent. He flushed and adjusted his collar.

The doctor’s wife smiled. “Are you married, Mr. Reeve?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Excellent.”

So perhaps there was one woman who didn’t label him a scoundrel on sight.

“Then you’ll be attending our Governor’s Christmas Ball, tomorrow night?”

He didn’t consult his political commander. Some decisions required no thought. “I look forward to it.”
And to seeing Esme in a ball gown
. “But did you say
Christmas
Ball?”

These upside-down seasons were doing his mind in. At home in California, summer would be in full swing, with picnics and peaches, ice cream and sailing. June was a beautiful month of women in white muslin and flowery hats. But here in the Swan River Colony, June meant cold winds, rain and crackling wood fires.

Esme laughed. “We’re not as crazy as we sound. It was Reverend Sherbrooke’s suggestion that the colony have a mid-winter celebration. The ball is the final element. The children celebrated last Sunday.”

“And didn’t they enjoy the party? Such a good idea.” Mrs. Palmer approved. “It drew everyone together and lifted their spirits. How did Reverend Sherbrooke phrase it when he gave the sermon?”

“Christmas is the promise that in the coldest, most desolate times, there is light, hope and warmth,” Esme quoted.

“Admirable sentiments.” Jed smiled at her. “You’re rather like a Christmas candle yourself, burning bright with hope and spirit.”

She blushed. Mrs. Palmer beamed. Dr. Palmer harrumphed.

“As for the ball, it is mainly for the ladies,” he said. “But I’ll see you meet the right fellows.”

“We’re launched,” Esme whispered triumphantly as the Palmers wandered off to renew acquaintance with a newly arrived couple. “Dr. Palmer is highly respected. I’ll send you briefing papers on the people you’ll meet, their political opinions and influence.”

He recalled his sister’s lengthy preparations for any dance and decided Esme wouldn’t have time to brief him in person.

“It would be much easier to simply talk it through with you,” she continued. “But I have a prior commitment. I always inspect Uncle Henry’s skimmer-boat when he’s in port. Left to him, passengers would sleep in hammocks and the crew would never clean their quarters.”

“Miss Esme, you never cease to surprise me.” She ran her world with ruthless, loving bossiness—and everyone let her. He’d bet the skimmer-boat crew adored her.

He raised her gloved hand to his lips. “Until tomorrow night.”

The buzz of excited speculation followed him out the door.

Widow Bryant had bullied Esme into the deep mulberry red satin gown. Its wide, square neckline, boned bodice and sweeping skirts were certainly impressive. Her shoulders rose creamy white against the foil of the satin and her hair gleamed golden fire in the candle light. Esme studied her reflection in the hotel mirror.

“Is it too much?”

“Heavens above.” Jane Bryant rolled her eyes. “Esme, you look like a goddess. Fashionable beauties in London would kill to look like you.”

“It
is
too much.”

“No, it’s not,” Jane said firmly. “It’s exactly as you should look. Your father is the wealthiest man in the colony, possibly in all of Australia, and you’re his only daughter. If you’re serious about your political plans, you need to remind everyone of those facts.”

“Hmm.”

Maud had traveled up from Fremantle with them and was staying in the hotel. The drive from Fremantle to Government House in Perth, where the ball was to be held, was too long for them to contemplate undertaking it at night in full evening regalia, so the hotel made a useful staging post. Uncle Henry had protested, then agreed to escort Esme. He waited downstairs.

“Necklace.” Maud held it out.

Esme turned and allowed the heavy array of sapphires to be fastened. She screwed the matching sapphire earrings to her ears and grimaced.

“I swear, Esme, if you take them off, I’ll take a slipper to your backside,” Maud said. “You listen to Jane.”

“Bullies. I’m surrounded by bullies.” Esme smiled. “And I appreciate you both. I bow to your judgment.” She curtsied instead. “And I guess I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be.”

“Excellent.” Jane jumped up from the chair in which she’d collapsed, exhausted by the effort of getting Esme ready for the ball. “Let me run downstairs. I want to see people’s faces when they see you in my dress.”

Esme and Maud listened to her light footsteps fade away.

“Jane ought to be at the ball, too.”

Maud’s shrug wasn’t unsympathetic. “Life changes. She’s not unhappy and thanks to all the gowns you’ve been buying, she can support herself. There’s many worse off.”

“I know, but she’s always so cheerful.”

“She’s a survivor, same like you. Now go on, get downstairs. Your Uncle Henry’s waiting and that’s not something he likes.”

Uncle Henry didn’t like waiting, but he’d found some congenial company. Jed stood with him, resplendent in black and white evening dress.

Jane clapped her hands in silent glee at the look on their faces as they caught sight of Esme descending the stairs.

“Hellfire, we’ll be beating them off with sticks.” Uncle Henry tossed off the last of his whiskey.

“Miss Esme, you are a vision.” Jed met her at the bottom of the steps and swept a formal bow. The custom was going out of fashion, but it conveyed all the gallant admiration of a thousand words.

“Thank you, sir.” She accepted his arm, resting her gloved hand on his sleeve. The slight touch was sufficient to register the tension in his muscles. She glanced at him inquiringly.

The corner of his mouth quirked, but his gaze remained serious and intent. “I am dazzled.”

“I thought you would meet us at the dance.” Her words were meaningless, her attention for the electricity humming between them.

“I hoped I might escort you. If you would allow me the honor?”

“She’ll need her wrap.” Maud trod heavily down the stairs and draped a soft charcoal grey cape around her. “It’s cold out.”

“Reeve looks heated enough,” Uncle Henry observed.

“Hush,” Maud scolded.

Esme flushed.

“He’s right, though,” Jed murmured. “I think I have a fever.” The usual laughter returned to his eyes, displacing the disturbing intensity of a few moments before.

“Perhaps then, sir, you shouldn’t attend the dance. Too much excitement.”

He covered her hand on his arm. “Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

“Well, they could me. Easily,” Uncle Henry said. “But if we’re going, let’s go.” He walked past the hotel’s famous doorman—a clockwork kangaroo. As it was designed to do, the pressure of Uncle Henry’s weight on the plate beneath the hotel’s welcome mat triggered the automaton into action. One paw raised its top hat, while its heavy brass tail pushed open the door.

Esme had time to smile a quick good-bye at Jane and Maud before Jed escorted her out.

The orchestra—three violins and a piano—had more enthusiasm than skill, but they emphasised the beat of the music and that suited the energetic rather than graceful dancers of Swan River. They stampeded through polkas and circle dances as well as waltzes and quadrilles. Jed partnered a giggling debutante and watched Esme whirl around in the arms of a sleek and handsome devil his own age, one whose golden fairness matched hers. The gas lighting gave them a shimmering angelic radiance.

But he’d heard the gossip.

The society matrons disapproved. They didn’t think Esme’s outspoken ways deserved the reward of a gentleman such as Nicholas Bambury the Third. Apparently, he was everything a doting mother desired and a dutiful daughter dreamed of. He was rich, handsome and socially connected. He was one of
the
Bamburys. Jed gathered they were one of the founding families of Sydney, the cream of the East Coast elite, gentlemen farmers who dabbled in politics.

So why was he in the West? Jed knew from his American experience that established Eastern families tended to dismiss Westerners as upstarts and irrelevant. His father fought that attitude regularly. Could it be that Nicholas Bambury took the threat of secession seriously and was over here, attempting to keep the Swan River Colony engaged in plans for the new nation? Even snobbish Easterners wouldn’t want to lose the Western wealth.

And speaking of wealth…there were any number of rich men who wouldn’t mind adding to their pile by marrying an heiress. Looking at Bambury’s smooth smile and gliding step, the hand firmly guiding at Esme’s waist, he thought he spied a fortune hunter. The man was a fool. Esme’s value wasn’t her father’s gold. It was her. She sparkled with light, eyes as bright as the sapphires that flashed in the gaslight.

He ought to punch Bambury in his smirking face.

Tarnation
. He’d known Esme Smith a mere two days and already he was feeling possessive.

The music stopped and he found a smile for his partner, thanked her for the dance and handed her back to her mama, who studied him thoughtfully. He backed away. Match-making mamas were dangerous. Besides, he had other fish to fry.

“Where’s your stick?” he muttered to Captain Fellowes, who was propping up a wall near the punchbowl. A strong scent of cloves and nutmeg, lemon and cinnamon indicated someone had been lavish in the preparation of the Christmas treat, mulled wine.

The older man chuckled. “Bambury bothering you?”

Jed settled for glaring.

“Relax. Esme told me herself she can’t stand the man.”

“That’s right. I forgot.” Tight muscles in Jed’s stomach relaxed a fraction. “He looks like every woman’s dream. The rest of the women certainly think so. They’ve been singing his praises all night. I’d forgotten he has one deadly fault.” He grinned with savage satisfaction.

“Yup.” Captain Fellowes swallowed a last bite of mince pie. “The man’s against women winning the right to vote. Esme thinks he’s poison.”

Jed watched Esme smile as Bambury led her into a group of older couples, including the governor. “So you think she’s using him for political purposes?”

“Ha. I gave up second guessing that girl when she turned seven. She’s smart and tricky and damn stubborn. Bambury doesn’t know what he’s tangling with. Question is, do you?”

“Yes.” Jed straightened from the wall. “And I’m not running scared.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“Which is why you told your niece I was the scoundrel she wanted?”