Her Proper Scoundrel by A. M. Westerling Page A

is any concern of yours but I am doing a favor for a friend,” he said haughtily. Traffic eased for a moment and he gave the boys a little nudge. “To the carriage,” he ordered. “I shan’t be a moment.”
    He gestured to the coachman to mind the two then turned back to the fop who stood and watched as Philip and Tom dodged across the street.
    This wasn’t the time or place he would have chosen to confront the man but he had to divert Candel’s attention from the boys.
    “May I remind you, you owe me a gambling debt?” Christopher kept his voice low and ignored the curious glances looking their way.
    “Gambling debt? I owe you nothing.”
    “Yes. Gambling debt,” he growled, irritated by the man’s drawl. His fingers twitched - he wanted nothing more than to grab Candel’s throat and throttle him.
    “Why, from our set to the other night? It was just a friendly game. Consequently,” he tapped Christopher’s shoe with his walking stick, “I do not have to pay you.”
    “We shall see.” Christopher ground out the words. He glanced over his shoulder to the waiting carriage. The boys had disappeared inside. “You and I have unfinished business, Candel.” He pulled out a calling card. “Saturday. Expect me on Saturday.”
    Rage washed over him anew as Candel took the card between pincered thumb and forefinger as if it carried the Black Death.
    “I dare say I may be receiving visitors that day.” Candel tossed the card to the ground and ground his heel on it. “Or not.” He stood there with an expectant look on his face, an insolent smile playing on his greased lips.
    The tactic was an obvious ploy for Christopher to call out the man but he would not give Candel the satisfaction of rising to the bait. Christopher’s military training had taught him that in some circumstances, this being one of them, discretion was the better part of valor.
    Ignoring the man, he turned on his heel and made his way to the carriage. Luckily the hubbub on the street drowned out Candel’s derisive laughter and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself before opening the door and leaning in.
    “I found this in my pocket just now.” He handed Josceline the letter that had been tucked away in his jacket. He had felt its sharp folds when fumbling for his card. “I do apologize, it came yesterday but what with Lady Oakland’s note, I forgot about it.”
    “Oh.” Her face was horror struck when he handed it to her - obviously she recognized the hand writing.
    “I’m going to sit with the coachman. Take some air.” A good stiff breeze would wash away his rage. Besides, he needed to think ahead to tomorrow’s impending visit from Lady Oakland.
    He gestured to Tom and Philip. “You two may sit on my seat.”
    Obediently, the two scrambled over. Promising. At any rate, they obeyed orders. He gave them a small salute before slamming shut the door but not before casting a concerned glance towards Josceline.
    Her face was drawn, white. She looked as if she had seen a ghost.
    “What is it?” he asked, uneasy at her reaction.
    “Not of your concern,” Josceline whispered, eyes glued to the envelope. She fluttered a hand in his vague direction. “Please, do not worry for me.”
    Mercifully, he didn’t question her further. From a distance Josceline noticed the slam of the coach door, then the creak and sway of the carriage as he swung himself up beside the coachman.
    Her head spun. The letter was from her father and she had no desire to read it. He had been none too pleased when she had announced her decision to take herself from London and earn her keep. His rage and disappointment was such she had thought she was lost to him forever, which suited her for it left her free to pursue a future as a governess.
    But now he had written her.
    He was not done with her, then.
    “What’s wrong, miss?”
    Philip’s hoarse little voice broke through her whirling thoughts and she raised her gaze to him. He looked back at her with a