The Fairest of Them All

Dedication

To a generous Seven:

Kathe Robin, Kate Voorsanger Ryan, Sandi Cararo, Kelly Justice,

Sandi Cararo, Kelly Justice,

Sarah and Gwen Reyes,

and

PJ Ausdenmore

Dedication

Prologue

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

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Author's Note

Excerpt from
A Date at the Altar

About the Author

By Cathy Maxwell

Copyright

About the Publisher

Dragons

London, 1801

C
harlene's father was rarely at home, so having him promise to spend the whole evening with her was a treat. She and her parents had eaten dinner together and her mother had even splurged and allowed her father to light a fire in the sitting room hearth to stave off the cold damp.

Cuddled into her father, who lay stretched out on some pillows on the floor before the fire, her eight-­year-­old self was as still as she could be so she would not miss a word of the story her father was telling. She liked books and she enjoyed her mother's stories, but her favorites were always those her father told. He shared tales of adventure and sometimes magic. There were elves and fairies and evil spirits like banshees and “little devils.”

Tonight he spoke of a noble prince who slew the dragon terrorizing the kingdom of a beautiful princess. In the end, they married and everyone in the kingdom came to their wedding and danced.

“Like they came to your wedding feast?” Charlene asked.

“Oh, this was grander than what your mother and I had. We only had a village,” he answered.

“Why didn't the princess slay the dragon, Papa?”

Her mother laughed, a bitter sound. “Yes, Dearne. Why must it always be a prince who wins the day?”

“Because, my love, that is the way of the world.” He mimicked her mother's tone, and Charlene began to regret asking her question. “Men slay dragons.”

“And if they don't, Dearne?” her mother pressed, leaning forward in the chair where she sat, her legs covered with blankets. “What if they can't or refuse to slay the dragon eating us up from the inside? Then what happens to the princess?”

Anger pulsated in the air, as dangerous as a dragon who could devour a whole village. Charlene clenched her father's jacket.

Her father covered her hand with his, its warmth reassuring. “Be at peace, Julie,” he said to her mother. “You are upsetting our lovely Char.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead and Charlene let herself relax in this haven of his comforting presence.

“I just want you to be my prince, Dearne.”

“And I am, Julie. I try.”

Her mother's mouth opened as if she would say something, and then she looked away without speaking, her brow furrowed in concern.

“I want to marry you, Papa,” Charlene chimed in, anxious for there to be peace. Then her father would stay with them always and not disappear for days, sometimes weeks at a time. Charlene wanted no more of the arguments that sent her mother into tears.

Her father liked her comment. He gently pulled her braid and laughed. “You can't marry me, poppet.”

“Then who shall I marry?” she asked, the question suddenly important.

He leaned close and whispered in her ear advice she would never forget. “Marry the man who slays a dragon for you, my little love. That is the man you can trust, and don't settle for anyone less.”

“There are no dragons in London, Papa.”

“There are, but one does not see them immediately,” he answered. “They come upon us unawares . . .” His voice trailed off into silence, one that was heavy with sadness for both her parents, and Charlene knew it was her fault.

She should not have pestered her father with talk of dragons. Why, everyone knew dragons were evil and evil thrived on unhappiness. That is what her mother said.

Charlene started to ask for another story, one that would take away the sorrow in the room, but it was too late.

Her father gently slid his arm out from under her head and came to his feet. “I must go out.” He spoke to her mother. “Don't wait for me.”

Her mother nodded, accepting, angry.

Charlene did not want to accept. She jumped to her feet, tears coming to her eyes. “No, Papa, don't go. Stay. I won't ask any more questions. You can be right here with Mother and me.”

He tilted her head up to look at him. “Tears, Charlene? Tears don't solve anything.” He dried her cheek with the pad of his thumb. He was a handsome man. From him she'd received her white blond hair and blue eyes. “And I do want you to ask questions. It is what I adore about you. Now be good and mind your mother. I have a dragon to slay.” He patted her head and left the room as he had time and time again, except this night was different.

This night, the dragon destroyed the prince.

Chapter One

January 21, 1812

L
ady Charlene Blanchard didn't know why the memory of her last evening with her father was tickling her mind. Perhaps it was because it had been on just this sort of dreary overcast day that they had pulled his body from the Thames.

Or perhaps it was because she now slew her own dragons.

Disguised as a lad in breeches, stockings, and buckled shoes, minus the buckles, she stood in the late afternoon's lengthening shadows along Threadneedle Street. She hid the curves of her nineteen-­year-­old body with a loose shirt and even bigger coat. Her braid was wrapped around her head and tucked beneath a wide-­brimmed hat of the sort an ostler would wear.

She watched with interest what was happening in front of the Bank of England. Three men had stepped out of the bank's doors. She had seen them go in and had been close enough to hear their speech. They were Americans.

Lady Charlene smiled. Americans or any foreigners were always good marks. They weren't wise to the ways of the city.

Her eye went to the heavy, brown leather coin purse the youngest of their number tossed into the air and then caught as if he hadn't a care in the world. He grinned at his friends. “I plan on enjoying London.”

“With wine and song?” the oldest suggested sardonically. He wore a bagwig and carried an ebony walking stick with a silver head. He was little taller than Char's own five feet four. His shoulders were back and his head high. He had a bored expression, accentuated by his beaked nose and flat mouth. He dressed with an eye to detail.

“No, with
women
,” the young one crowed. He had guileless good looks, the sort of man who ­usually married young and bred a gaggle of ­children.

If Charlene had been in skirts, she had no doubt he'd be one of those hanging his tongue out for her. However, dressed as she was, she escaped his notice. She was one of thousands of street lads scurrying about London. The threesome hadn't even given her a look as she moved closer to watch the purse.

Her mark confirmed her suspicions. “I'm marrying in three months,” he informed his mates. “I have wild oats to sow and a ready cock.” He threw the coin purse in the air again but the tallest of his companions reached out and snatched it out of the air.

A quick movement. A confident one.

This man was no fool.

He was thirtyish, tall, broad-­shouldered, with overlong dark hair and a square jaw. He was obviously the leader of the trio. There was a presence about him, a determination.

The man also had a distinctive voice. There was a depth to it, a sound that set him apart from the others.

Like Char, he wore a brimmed hat down over his eyes. She was hiding her abundance of white-­gold hair and long, dark, feminine lashes. She wondered what he was hiding.

“We are not here to feed your pecker,” the man said, offering the purse back to his companion. “Or for you to catch the French disease.”

“Sod off, Whitridge,” was the answer. The younger man tucked the purse into the deep pocket of his greatcoat.
On the left side. And he didn't button it.
“I can take care of myself. And the first thing I am going to do is put as much distance as possible between you and me. Seven weeks on a ship with your constant criticism is all I can stand. I need at least seven weeks apart from you.”

“We are here in the serv—­”

“
I know
, I know, we are here in the service of our country. You really are a prig, Whitridge. Isn't he, Lawrence?”

Lawrence had been stifling a yawn. “Men with responsibilities usually are. I'm heading to our rooms. I want a good supper and a bed that doesn't rock, which is the exact opposite of what you crave, Matthew. Until the morning, lads.” He didn't wait for a response but went briskly off, swinging his walking stick.

Matthew said, “Lawrence has the right idea. I'm off on my own.” Without a glance at Whitridge for approval, he charged into the flow of afternoon traffic.

Char made her way after him, the man with the purse. She was confident in her disguise. She'd been dressing as a lad for two months now and enjoyed the freedom. No one had noticed she was female yet, proving her aunt Sarah wasn't the only actress in the family.

She was also taking pride in her new talent.

Char, Lady Charlene Blanchard, was a pickpocket and a good one.

The idea of her doing a bit of larceny had come from Lady Baldwin. Her Ladyship was a frequent visitor to the house on Mulberry Street where Char lived with her aunt Sarah Pettijohn. Before marrying Lord Baldwin and stepping up into the ranks of Society, Lady Baldwin had been an actress like Sarah and had also apparently dabbled in a bit of crime.

“Sometimes a girl has to do what she must to survive,” Lady Baldwin had confided to Char. “Sarah has too much pride, but you understand the way the world works.”

And Char did. The daughter of the infamous Lord Dearne knew very well how precarious life could be. Six months ago, her uncle Davies had stopped sending the monthly funds he'd ­promised for Char's living. Even with Sarah working several positions at Haymarket theater, from roles on the stage to sewing costumes to even writing plays that the theater manager took credit for, money was tight and Char felt guilty. Her aunt could have made a very good living for herself if she hadn't taken Char in.

“We shall just slip a bit from those who can afford it,” Lady Baldwin had suggested. “It will be a balancing of the scales, so to speak.”

That idea had appealed to Char. There had been those who had preyed on her father's weaknesses to steal all that he owned. Now Char could repay them in kind.

“You have quick hands and a bright mind. ­Between the two of us, we'll have that rent paid,” Lady Baldwin had predicted.

Of course, it had taken time for Char to learn the art of picking a pocket. Fortunately, Lady Baldwin was a good teacher and they had met with ­initial success. Claiming the money was from Uncle Davies, Char had given Sarah enough to keep the landlord from tossing them out.

She was a bit short this month. The fat money purse Matthew had tucked into his open coat would make up the difference in the rent and more.

Matthew was a cocky one. He turned toward the wharves and the hubbub always going on there. This was life in London at its rawest and Matthew fit in. He gawked at every female bosom that passed him by, shouldered his way through crowds gathered by pub doors, and generally ­behaved as if he owned the street.

Char kept close without drawing his attention to her. She skirted around those Matthew offended. She trusted her disguise, and few noticed her.

“
Wait until the mark is properly distracted,
” Lady Baldwin always advised. “
Then you can lift his purse without his knowledge. His attention will be on something else. The secret to a good pickpocket is ­patience and the right moment.
”

The right moment for Matthew arrived when a tavern wench stepped out from the dark doorway of her establishment. She was a slatternly thing—­all bosom and chins—­but had the dark, sloe-­eyed look Char had observed men liked. The wench's gaze met Matthew's and then, with a shrug of her shoulder, her blouse fell down over one shoulder, revealing a good amount of bosom topped by a dark brown nipple.

The American stopped dead in his tracks. The bawd grinned and nodded for him to follow her.

At the same time, a woman carrying flapping headless chickens in both hands attempted to pass between Matthew and his coveted nipple.

A better distraction could never be found.

Char moved forward so that when Matthew practically fell over the woman with her chickens, she could pretend he had also shoved into her. His weight fell against her. Pushing back with one hand, she slid her other into his inside pocket.

Her fingers closed over his purse. She pulled it out without him the wiser and elbowed her way past him. Now, she would hurry home—­

“Stop,
thief
.”

On those words, everyone on the street tensed—­even the bawd, the headless chickens, and most certainly, Matthew.

But not Char.

She recognized the deep voice. She did not need to turn to know that Whitridge had seen her take the purse. She took off running, fear giving her feet wings.

For his size, Whitridge was fast. He was practically right on her heels. She could hear him breathe.

She dodged in, out, and around the ­pedestrians on the crowded street. Whitridge barreled over people, earning him some rough responses. He kept shouting the order to “grab the boy.” ­Fortunately no one wished to be involved. They stepped out of his way, but they moved out of Char's way as well.

Matthew had realized he had been robbed. He shouted his outrage but he was well behind Char and Whitridge.

Rounding a corner, she dashed down an alley and grabbing at a rain barrel as she passed. She threw it into Whitridge's path. There was the sound of wood on stone, a grunt of pain, and strong curses.

Char grinned at her success but did not ­indulge in a backward glance. Instead, she ­escaped onto a more crowded street, praying she had lost him.

She hadn't. She could
feel
his presence. The rain barrel had delayed him but had not stopped him.

This street was busy with coaches, carriages, drays, and even sedan chairs and dogcarts. She zigzagged her way around them. Her chest hurt from running so hard. The leather soles of her shoes slid on the cobblestones. She had managed to tuck the purse inside her jacket because she needed to use her hands for balance and to ensure her hat didn't fly off her head. Revealing her sex would be the ultimate disaster.

She was moving toward home, toward safety. Soon they would be in neighborhoods where she could be recognized. For a moment, she debated running in the opposite direction, but couldn't. She yearned for the haven of her bedroom, to throw on her skirts and safely return to being who she was supposed to be.

But first, she had to escape Whitridge. The man was a bloodhound.

Now it was Charlene who swore.

She ducked down another alley that was only wide enough for her shoulders. Certainly the giant Whitridge could not follow her here—­and she was right.

He tried to squeeze himself into the narrow space between buildings, and failed. She hurried on, hating the feeling of having the buildings close in around her. She had no idea what was at the other end of this alley but it didn't matter. In ten minutes, she would be home.

Home, home, home,
home
.

Coming out on the other side, she found herself on a strange street, but sensed she was within blocks of her house. This street was not as crowded as the others.

Her chest hurt and her heart pounded in her ears. She gasped for breath but forced herself to walk and act as if she didn't have a care in the world. Her disguise was intact; her hat firmly over her head. No one gave her strange looks and a burly man carrying a leather pouch filled with papers brushed by her with the rudeness men used on each other.

At last, she let herself smile.

She'd gotten away with it
. The purse weighed down her coat. It was hers.

Coming out onto a connecting street, Char realized where she was. Yes, home was only a short distance from here. She couldn't wait to—­

A tall, loathsome figure stepped out on the path in front of her as if he had anticipated she would be coming in this direction.
Whitridge.

He'd lost his hat during their chase. She could see his eyes clearly now. They were angry blue shards. His fists were clenched.

Charlene whirled around and ran, this time in panic. She shoved an orange girl and her patron aside and then almost ran over a child carrying eggs. Whitridge no longer hurled accusations at her. He was intent upon capturing her.

And if she hadn't been so stunned by his sudden appearance, by his dogged ­determination, Char would have been more aware of where she was going. Instead, she made a fatal error. She turned down another alley, and realized too late this one had a closed passage. Worse, she could not turn back, not without running right into her pursuer's arms.

The stone foundation of a building facing another street loomed in front of her. Charlene ran to the wall, placing her hands on the cold rock as if she could find a secret exit, a doorway, a window, a crack—­

Strong hands grabbed her arm. Whitridge threw her around and against the wall to face him. Her air left her body in a whoosh.

“Hand over the purse,” Whitridge ordered.

Char couldn't speak. She was trying to breathe. He took her by her shoulders and gave her a shake for emphasis. Her head rocked back and forth and her hat tumbled off her head. Her blond braid, the color of moonbeams, fell down to her shoulder, pins scattering everywhere.