The Fairest of Them All (13 page)

While she had found him very interesting.

The music had started again. People began leaving the supper room to return to the dancing. Char wanted to go home.

Her enjoyment of the evening had vanished. She had the need to retreat to her bedroom, her sanctuary, to mull over the news about Whitridge. She tried not to let the duke see that anything was wrong. She was relieved when he suggested they return to the ballroom.

They had just gone out the door when a gentle­man came up to them. “Your Grace, here you are. We've been looking for you.” He leaned close to the duke's ear but Char could overhear him say, “Perceval wishes to talk with you in the library.”

Baynton drew a deep breath as if annoyed and yet could not say no. He said to Char, “I must step away for a bit. Let me take you to Lady ­Baldwin.”

She nodded, even though she was ready to leave. She was not accustomed to late nights or disappointing news. She prided herself on not complaining.

He delivered her to the dowager. Lady Baldwin was nowhere to be seen. She had probably gone to the card room.

With a promise that he would hurry back, the duke left to meet with the prime minister.

Her Grace was in a deep conversation with two women whom she introduced as old friends. The set for the dancing had already started. Several men looked her way as if interested in asking her for the next set, but Char avoided their eyes. She was not in the mood to dance. She needed to clear her head. She needed air—­especially when she saw Whitridge on the dance floor. She ­wondered if his partner, a buxom lass, knew he was married.

Char whispered to the dowager that she was going in search of the necessary room set aside for the ladies' use. The dowager nodded and Char slipped away, moving instead toward a door leading to the portico outside.

There was no one out there. It was too cold but the air felt good to Char. It made her think of something else other than her own disappointment.

Whitridge was married. It should not bother her. Everyone wanted her to marry his brother, the one with the money and the title.

However, she'd formed a bit of affection for Whitridge. He'd been kind to her yesterday. He'd believed her story.

How she had spun that into his having personal interest in her, even an attraction, was a bit unsettling. Char had prided herself on being sensible. Sarah had warned her a woman must be to survive in this world—­

“What are you doing out here alone?” Whitridge asked from the door behind her.

Char moved away from him and the light coming from the windows, toward the shadows. “I needed air.”

“It is cold out here. You need a coat.”

She nodded. Her teeth might start chattering soon, but she did not go inside.

“Something is the matter,” he said. A statement, as if he knew her—­and he didn't. Not any more than she knew him.

Char faced him. “You are married.”

“I am widowed.”

That was not the answer she expected. “I did not know. I'm sorry. That's terrible.”

He came up beside her and leaned a hip against the stone balustrade. “It is,” he agreed, “although my wife died seven years ago.”

“That is sad.”

“Yes, I loved her. Very much.”

Was it possible to be jealous of a dead woman? To want to believe Whitridge could say that of her?

“Who told you?” he asked.

“The duke mentioned it.”

“Ah,” Whitridge answered as if he had ­expected it. “He said I was married. In the present?”

“I took it that way,” she said. “I may have jumped to a conclusion. I—­” She broke off, feeling culpable and silly.

He looked out over Lord Vetter's night dark garden. She placed her hand on the balustrade, pressing her fingers into the rough stone . . . having a feeling for what he was about to say, and not wanting to hear it.

“My brother is a good man, my lady. An ­excellent man. You could do no better.”

Her chest grew heavy. She had to concentrate on breathing.

Whitridge pushed away from the railing. “That is what I have to say. I—­” Now he stopped.

“You what?” she prodded.

He lowered his voice and said not unkindly, “I didn't come to England for a wife.”

“I know.” She gathered herself. “We barely know each other.”

“True.”

She tried to smile.

He didn't. Instead, he reached out and lightly caressed her check with the backs of his ­fingers and then he pulled away as if touching her scalded. “We need to return inside.”

Before anyone noticed they were gone.

Before
the duke
noticed they were gone.

Char did not wait for him but lifted her skirts and rushed to the door.

Inside, all seemed exactly as she'd left it, and yet, everything was different.

The duke had returned. He scanned the crowd, looking for her. He wanted her.

She waved, a small gesture, catching his attention. He smiled and came for her.

And from the portico, she knew Whitridge watched.

During her second dance of the evening with the duke, an act that shouted louder than words that he was staking a claim to her, Whitridge left the assembly. She knew.

She watched him go.

Not once since she had returned to the ballroom had he looked at her, and he didn't look as he left, either.

O
n the step of the house on Mulberry Street, the duke asked her to call him Gavin, “When we in private, like we are now.”

Lady Baldwin, who had imbibed a bit too much at the ball, had already hurried inside out of the cold.

Char was anxious to go in herself but felt one of them needed to soberly thank the duke for his many kindnesses over the evening. The dowager had taken a ride with her friends.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

He took her gloved hand, lifted it to his lips, and turning the wrist, placed his kiss there.

Char could feel the heat of his breath through the thin leather.
My brother is a good man. An ­excellent man. You could do no better.

“Thank you . . . Gavin.” Her brain treated his name like a foreign word. A very personal word.

He released her hand. “Until the morrow.”

“Yes, that would be nice.” She stepped into the doorway, his signal to leave.

“Gavin” backed away as if not wanting to take his eyes off her. His footman held open the door. “Gavin” swung himself into the coach.

Char shut the door, and feared she would collapse. Only then did she feel free to finally relax the smile that had begun to seem plastered to her face.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked, coming from the front room.

“Oh yes,” she lied.

“How was the evening?”

“Good.”

Sarah tilted her head. “The way he lingered on the step, I would think it was more than just ‘good'?”

Char knew she should say more, but if she did, she had the strange suspicion that she might burst into tears.

And one wasn't expected to cry . . . especially when—­what? She had a handsome, important, wealthy man interested in her?

Whitridge was nothing to her except a man who had been kind. She didn't know why she was so disappointed or had expected something more. “I'm tired. I believe I shall go to bed.”

“Of course,” Sarah answered, sounding slightly deflated. “Lady Baldwin has already gone up.”

“I shall tell you all in the morning,” Char promised, even as she was starting up the stairs.

Inside her room, she could barely undress herself before falling into the bed. Both brain and body were exhausted; however, sleep eluded.

No, she curled up with her pillow and thought of Whitridge, remembering each and every detail of their conversation. She tried to reword it in her mind, to change his response or hers . . . and yet, it was done. There would not be a second chance.

The next morning she woke up groggy and out of sorts. It didn't help that Lady Baldwin was cheery. Char found her and Sarah at the kitchen table rehashing the evening over tea and toast.

“She conquered him,” Lady Baldwin was saying to Sarah as Char entered the room. “Every­one,
tout le monde
, whispered about them. They were the most handsome couple in the room and the most favored.”

“Well done,” Sarah said to Char as she sat in a chair, still not ready to face the morning.

“And the papers agree,” Lady Baldwin added, tapping the paper in front of her. “They are full of you, Charlene. The ‘Fairest of Them All' they call you. Don't you like that?”

“It is a bit nonsensical, isn't it?” Char answered.

“Let me make you a cup of tea,” Sarah wisely offered, and Char nodded her head.

She asked Lady Baldwin, “You've already been out and purchased the papers?”

“Oh no,” Lady Baldwin said. “Sarah started to go out and buy them. We were certain they would say something about the ball last night and we couldn't wait to read what they wrote. ­However, these were on the front step. And they were open to the recounts of last night's ball and your ­stunning success.”

“On the step?” Char repeated.

“Yes, isn't that interesting? Opened and folded to the social pages. A neighbor must have thought we should see them.”

But Char knew it was no neighbor. Stirring her tea, she knew Leo was keeping track of her.

After all, he'd learned to read in Newgate prison.

Chapter Thirteen

C
har's days became filled with the duke. She began to know his servants by name. Ambrose was his coachman, Pomeroy his tiger, Henry his butler, and Talbert—­well, Talbert took care of everything. He was the duke's secretary. She learned to distinguish the difference between the duke's handwriting and Talbert's. She could tell when the duke ordered a particular arrangement of flowers for her and when Talbert was just follow­ing general orders, which was quite often.

Sarah told her not to quibble. A hundred ­thousand girls would be glad to have such a ­problem.

Baynton was always busy and this afforded Char the opportunity to become well acquainted with his mother and other family members, ­including Elin, his brother Ben's wife. There was no rancor that she could see between the duke and the couple. He treated them with great affection as they did him in return, no matter what the gossips enjoyed whispering.

Whitridge was with their company from time to time. He was polite but formally distant. He was also an outsider. His family included him but even Char could see that a good number of ­Society didn't. There were always murmurs when he passed. Char had heard some of the names they mentioned.

However, women still found him attractive. Char had also noticed the looks they gave him, but he didn't seem open to their obvious lures.

He was focused on his purpose for being in London, his “meeting,” as his family called it, to discuss American interests. A meeting that always seemed to be on the brink of happening and then would be postponed.

She was certain Whitridge was frustrated by the delays. She wondered if his mother and brothers were playing with him a bit. Perhaps they hoped that time with them would give Whitridge a change of heart, that he would ­realize the error of his ways and denounce his American loyalties.

She could have told them he would not. He was one of the most honorable men she'd ever met. She mourned losing the right to trust him with her confidences.

What Char did have trouble doing was ­calling Baynton by his given name in private. She'd forget. He would gently remind her, and she would forget again . . . because it was annoying to have to think all the time if she was in a ­personal ­setting or a public one. And because, well, she wasn't certain
exactly
why she seemed unable to consistently honor his one simple request.

Invitations arrived daily.

She and Sarah were becoming adept at taking her meager wardrobe and changing dresses with ­ribbons and lace so that they looked ­different. These moments spent tearing off trim and ­replacing it were good times between them.

Baynton often asked about her aunt. He was anxious to meet Sarah and would wonder when she was returning from Manchester. Sarah was equally anxious to avoid such a meeting.

“It is too soon,” she would say. “The duke might reject you because he doesn't want to align ­himself with an actress.”

“He is always polite to Lady Baldwin and, from the stories she tells, she was rather wild.”

“She was, but her years on the stage were ­decades ago. We give the older generation a pass in meeting our standards. It is the way of the world. I'm content playing your maid.”

“But if I marry him, he will expect to meet you.”

“Not if,
when
. And we'll meet when the time is right.”

There was no arguing with her. Secretly, Char wanted to push a meeting between them. She was tired of keeping track of the lies she'd told. She wished to rid herself of all of them. Then her feeble brain would not hurt so much.

Furthermore, if Baynton could not accept her aunt, Char wanted nothing to do with him . . . but then the rent came due on the twentieth of the month.

And there was no money. It had been quickly spent on ribbons and lace.

The landlord called upon them. This was a first. He was also very polite. Another first.

“I understand how difficult it must be for two women alone,” he said. “I do not wish to pressure you—­”

“We know, Mr. Harris,” Sarah interjected. “We just request a bit more time.”

“You may have all the time you wish, Mrs. Pettijohn,” he answered, his hat in his hand. “I just hope you will mention me to His Grace, the Duke of Baynton. He actually owns a small warehouse close to Canary Wharf that I've had my eye on. If Lady Charlene could put in a good word for me, I would greatly appreciate it.”

Her eyes wide in shock, Sarah looked at Char and nodded. “You could, couldn't you?”

“I—­” Char started, uncertain, and then nodded. What else was there to do?

“Very good,” Mr. Harris said, placing his hat back on his head. “Very good, indeed. We will just consider the rent you owe as a loan to be paid when you have the ability.”

Which meant, once Char married the duke.

“I'll only charge three percent interest,” he ­concluded. “Good day to you.”

Sarah closed the door. “I'll wager the property he wants will make him more than our measly three percent interest.” She leaned back against the door. “Hopefully, Davies's money will arrive soon. Then again, he is always late when he pays.” She looked to Char. “You are very quiet.”

Char pressed her lips together before asking the question on her mind. “What if I don't marry the duke?”

“What do you mean?”

“What if he doesn't ask?”

Sarah laughed. “Oh, he will ask, and rather soon, I believe. When he calls, he looks at you as if he is ready to throw himself at your feet. I'm surprised he hasn't asked yet.”

“Perhaps he is waiting for my aunt?” Char ­suggested.

Sarah did not like that idea, although she did not comment. She went into the front room and sat at her desk. The manuscript pages of a play Colman wanted her to rewrite were spread upon it.

Char followed her. She sat in a chair by the desk.

Her aunt sorted the papers, trying to bring her attention to where it was before Mr. Harris's call. For a moment, she acted as if she was going to ignore Char, but then she looked up. “I don't want you to feel as if you are selling yourself in this marriage.”

“But I am,” Char said, her mind not only on rents and livings for people she loved, but also on Leo and the Seven. They watched her. Every once in a while, she'd catch a glimpse of Danny and the young boys. She sensed they were there all the time and letting her see them occasionally so that she would not forget the debt she owed them.

“Do you not like him?” Sarah asked.

“Of course I like Baynton. He is kind and proper—­”

“And very handsome.”

“Yes.”

“Then what is it?”

I think I don't love him
. Those words could not pass her lips. Nor would
I believe I love someone else
. Sarah would ask who . . . and not be pleased.

Only good would come from a marriage to the duke. As for Jack Whitridge, the man might not even return her feelings. His emotions might still be tied to the wife he'd lost. Shared confidences given in trust were not love, were they?

“I feel as if I am using the duke's affections for my own purposes.”

Sarah considered her words a moment and then said, “We all use each other. He gains something from a marriage to you—­a kind and intelligent woman for his wife.”

“But I don't believe marriage is that simple,” Char insisted. “If it was, then Father would have been happy.”

“Your father had a character defect. He was unable to appreciate Julie. Does Baynton drink?”

“Not to excess that I know.”

“There, see? There is no comparison.”

“Did you marry Roland Pettijohn because of what he could do for you?”

Sarah leaned away from Char, her gaze going out to the street outside the window. She sat still, a line of concern between her eyes, and then faced Char.

“Love. I married him for love. But I want something more for you.” She rested her arm on her desk. “You don't belong on Mulberry Street or doing your own marketing, or threading needles. You are finer than that. You were born for better things.”

Sarah drew breath, released it, and then added, “And in case you are wondering, Julie married Dearne for love. She told me the family was dead set against him but she would accept no other. Char, I've loved a man and learned I could not live with him. The duke is a man you can live with and you will learn to love him.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he is kind and you already, I believe, respect him.”

That was true.

“But will he slay dragons for me?” Char ­whispered.

“Slay dragons?” Sarah shook her head. “No one slays dragons anymore, my love. We just learn to live with them.”

Char rose from the chair.

“Are you all right?” Sarah asked.

“I will be,” Char answered, but when she went to her room, she lost herself in tears . . . tears that could never solve anything.

J
ack did not understand why Gavin hadn't made an offer for Lady Charlene yet. He was ­obviously ­besotted with her. He expected her to be at ­whatever social events he attended or family dinners. All of London was waiting for an ­announcement and the odds in the betting books on who ­Baynton would marry were firmly in Lady ­Charlene Blanchard's favor.

Nor had he needed any advice from Jack. He appeared to be doing well enough in wooing his ladylove. He rarely asked Jack to be his placeholder and protect her from the interest of other gentlemen. She was obviously his.

Gavin did keep his part of their bargain. He finally confirmed a meeting for the coming Monday. All players, including the possibility of the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, Lord Liverpool himself, would be in attendance.

The United States chargé d'affaires Russell was impressed. Lawrence, not so much. He had done his best to sabotage everything Jack was attempting to do. When Jack talked to someone of ­importance about the true issues, Lawrence would follow behind, often with his lapdog Rice, and raise questions on matters that were bound to inflame British opinions.

His favorite was to question whether any true Englishman should listen to someone like Jack who had apparently renounced his citizenship. That did not make Jack friends.

However, the Duke of Baynton was a powerful ally. Gavin had his lawyers research the question and in short order, a caveat was added to Gavin's own
letter patent
that stated any heir to his title must reside in Great Britain. It was unusual but resolved an issue, and generated a great deal of interest in Jack.

Of course, his mother was not happy. She wanted all her sons around her. “I know you will go. I understand you must,” she told Jack in a ­private moment. “However, never forget you have a mother here who loves you. Write her.”

“I'm the worst of sons,” Jack admitted. “Once I'd left and time had passed, I did not know what impact my turning up would have. Then I heard Father had died and it seemed wrong for me to bother you.”

She placed her hand over his. “Then I am thankful for the possibility of war if that is what it took to bring you back to your family. Never again doubt my love for you.”

He wouldn't. She was all that was gracious.

She even sensed that something troubled him. She questioned him several times, but he could not confide his feeling for Lady Charlene in her. He could confide in no one.

Instead, he kept himself apart when Charlene was around and remained polite and as distant as he could . . . which was difficult. They often ­attended the same events.

The more he observed her, the more he found to admire. She had a good heart and the sort of spirit that didn't suffer fools.

She knew Jack avoided her. A time or two, she'd tried to engage him in private conversation. He had not allowed it. There was hurt in her eyes, and yet, he believed she understood.

He did do one thing for her. Routinely he walked by the alley that was the lair of the Seven. There were signs they still visited the place. He knew it was only a matter of time before he met Leo. The trick to successful hunting was patience.

Saturday evening, the duke, Lady Charlene, the dowager, and Jack were together at a dinner party given by Lord Raneleigh. Fyclan Morris was slated to attend but canceled at the last moment. Jack was interested to note that his mother was not offended. Instead, she announced that Jack would be her escort.

“Don't worry,” she had assured him. “You may talk politics all you wish.”

Gavin felt Raneleigh was a person who could derail the meeting if he chose. He believed it ­important for Jack to be present and search for an opportunity to cultivate Raneleigh's support.

Jack knew he had a challenge ahead of him when he saw that he was seated well down the table. His brother, Lady Charlene, and his mother were in places of honor. Jack supposed he would need to bide his time to make an impression at the end of dinner when the ladies withdrew to the sitting room, leaving the gentlemen to enjoy their brandy.

Matters did not work out that way.

The caustic Lady Damian decided to mock Jack and his loyalties right there over the first course. She had a blistering tongue with an arrogance that would have put zealots to shame. She prided herself on being a social keeper of the hallowed
haut ton.

“Americans are like impertinent puppies,” she announced, picking up her soup spoon. “Sharp teeth, no manners, and a need to be routinely ­paddled. They act as if they have a voice in the world. They don't. And another thing I don't like about Americans, they are cowardly ­whiners. And yet we accept them.” She sniffed her ­disdain and shot Lady Raneleigh a look as if holding her ­personally responsible for Jack's offensive ­presence.

Lady Raneleigh appeared ready to swoon.

A gentleman did not attack a lady. Nor would Jack make a scene at a civilized table, even to defend his country.