The Fairest of Them All (19 page)

“He is not, Your Grace, but neither is my niece. Instead of being in her bed, she has shaped her cloak into the form of a body and covered it with blankets. I know of no other way to say this except honestly—­there is a possibility that your brother and my Char are together.”

She whirled around, going to hooks by the door where a red cloak and shawls were hanging. She chose the cloak. “I pray they are still in the city.”

“Do you mean they could have eloped?” This possibility had never crossed Gavin's mind.

“Exactly that.” She threw the cloak around her shoulders. “We must go to the wharves and search the ships. I can't believe she would do this. Charlene is not a flighty child. She knows that eloping would upset me, and yet she can be willful. Wait, I must send word to the theater that I will not be in today.” She had been speaking to herself and came back into the sitting room, going for the desk by the window where several of his arrangements of flowers sat. She started pulling out paper.

“The theater?” Gavin said, trying to make sense of what was happening.

“Yes, I'm an actress.”

“And not a maid?” he repeated dumbly, ­attempting to wrap his mind around her change of status.

She pinned him with a sharp green gaze. “I do answer the door and clean the house.” She put her attention back to the note before blowing on the ink to dry it.

“Who exactly is Lady Baldwin?” Gavin asked. In truth, he'd always thought Lady Baldwin a bit odd.

“A family friend. Well, more than that,” she clarified as she folded the note and addressed the back of it to someone. “Lady Baldwin is ­Charlene's mother's godmother. She is very dear to us.”

“But she is not what I was led to believe?”

Mrs. Pettijohn straightened. “She
did
­chaperone Char to routs and parties and as her great-­godmother, so to speak, I believe her actions are completely proper. It would have not been out of place.” She started for the front door, her note in her hand—­

“
Stop
,” he ordered.

She did. He walked over and took the note from her. He looked at the address on the outside, recognizing the handwriting. “You were the one who sent the note to me Sunday evening about your concern that Lady Charlene was forming an attachment for my twin. Not Lady Baldwin.”

Mrs. Pettijohn swallowed. “I did.” Her ­shoulders slumped. She raised a hand to her ­forehead. “Dear Lord, I did. What did you do with that ­information?”

“I confronted my brother.”

“Did you tell him the note was from this house?”

“He believes I had him followed by a man I use for such purposes.”

“And he said?”

“He did not deny he was here.” Gavin took another step away.

“Then what happened?”

“I had him removed from my house. My men took him back to the inn where he had been staying. When did you last see your niece?”

“Yesterday. I was at the theater very late last night. It was quiet there and I had some writing to do. As you see, my desk is useless here.” She nodded to the piece of furniture displaying the flowers that Gavin had been sending. “I know she and Lady Baldwin had returned before I arrived home. I could hear Lady Baldwin snoring. I thought Charlene was in bed. Her door was closed but I did not check. You do not know where your brother has gone?”

“No, but if he and Lady Charlene are at the wharves, then my men will see them. They are searching ships even as we speak.”

“Wait a moment,” Mrs. Pettijohn said. She ran back upstairs. After several minutes, she returned. “Char did not take anything with her. Her toiletries are right as they always are. The wardrobe was open but full of her clothing. Oh no, oh no, oh no.”

“What is it?”

“This is terrible,” she muttered to herself.

“
What
is terrible?” Gavin demanded.

Mrs. Pettijohn sank into a chair as if her legs could not support her. “Yesterday, Char told me she had been picking pockets and this gang called the Seven had threatened her. But then your brother talked to them and they were going to leave her alone. What if she is
not
with Lord Jack? She would have taken her personal items if she was going to run away. What if she has been
kidnapped
?”

“Pickpocketing?” Gavin repeated. “Lady Charlene is a thief?”

She waved her hand as if his question was of no consequence. “It is a long story. However, she became involved with a criminal element.”

“Lady Charlene? The woman I have been ­escorting on my arm?” The young woman that was the very picture of propriety? That his aunt Imogen had approved?
That everyone expected him to marry?
“You allowed her to pick pockets?”

Mrs. Pettijohn looked up at him and frowned at the suggestion. “No, she completely deceived me. She told me the money was from Davies Blanchard, the current Lord Dearne. But yesterday morning she told me the truth. I'm sorry, Your Grace. I know this all sounds preposterous. It was not our intent to involve you in all of this.”

“No, your intent was to trap me in marriage to a woman who lies and participates in reckless, criminal behavior.”

Mrs. Pettijohn rose. “She is not a thief by nature.”

“It looks very much that way to me, Mrs. Petti­john.”

“Charlene may have made some bad decisions but her heart was in the right place. We were just trying to survive.”

“And make a fool of me at the same time.”

“You were the man looking for a wife. You choose Charlene. Do you not remember?”

“I thought she was a proper young woman.”

“She is. In fact, she is more than just proper. She was trying to help me. She went about it the wrong way.”

“Then perhaps you are not the best chaperone for her.”

Fire shot from Mrs. Pettijohn's green eyes. Gavin braced himself, ready for a fight. Right now he was angry at the whole world. He had done it again—­fallen in love with the wrong woman.

A knock sounded on the still open door. “Your Grace?” Perkins said from the doorway.

“In here,” Gavin barked. “At last, someone ­sensible to talk to,” he muttered. As his man ­entered the house, Gavin said, “Have you ever heard of a gang of criminals called the Seven?”

“I have not, Your Grace. However, there are gangs all over London and every one of them has a name.”

“Mrs. Pettijohn fears that Lady Charlene may have been kidnapped by them.”

“Why, that is not good to hear,” Perkins ­answered. “Although I don't believe they will hurt her. If anything, they might hold her for ransom.”

“I don't have any money to pay a ransom,” Mrs. Pettijohn protested.

“I do,” Gavin answered, bitter and disgusted.
Gawd
, he was a fool.

“My poor Charlene.” Tears came to her eyes. She blinked them back, thankfully. Gavin didn't believe he could handle tears in the middle of this tempest.

Perkins didn't appear comfortable with a weeping woman, either. “I do have news of your brother, Your Grace.”

“Did you find him at the wharves?”

“I had another idea and while your men were searching the docks, I started at the Horse and Horn asking questions. Someone saw a man ­answering Lord Jack's description leave. However, he did not go to the wharves but in the ­opposite direction. I started making inquiries and at ­another posting inn, learned that Lord Jack hired two horses.”

“Two horses?” Mrs. Pettijohn said, taking heart. “Why would he need two horses?”

“Apparently, there was a young lad with him.”

“
That's her
. That is Charlene,” Mrs. Pettijohn cried.

“
She is a man?
” Gavin asked, incredulous. “Are you saying now that the woman I have been ­escorting is a pickpocketing man?”

“She is a woman,” Mrs. Pettijohn responded tartly. “However, she is disguised as a boy. Your Grace, I now understand what is happening. They are eloping.”

“Which means Scotland.” He looked to Perkins. “What time did they hire the horses?”

“Very early this morning. Say three o'clock.”

“So they haven't been gone long. I can catch up with them. Good work, Perkins. You can tell them to stop searching the waterfront. I'll take care of the rest of this myself. I'm sure you understand the importance of discretion. See that the servants helping us are justly compensated.”

Perkins nodded and went out the door. Gavin started to follow.

Mrs. Pettijohn had the audacity to reach out and grab his coat. “Where are you going?”

“To stop an elopement. My family does not deal in scandal.”

“And what about my niece?”

Gavin did not want to think about Lady Charlene. She'd deceived him. She'd let him believe his feelings were reciprocated. She'd allowed him to make a fool of himself in front of the
ton
and then she'd run off with his brother. The betrayal from both of them cut deep, deeper than he wanted to admit.

He had loved her.

“She's brazen enough to fend for herself,” he answered.

“I will not let that happen. I'm going with you, Your Grace.”

“No, you are not. I'll be driving my phaeton. It is not a comfortable ride.”

“But it is a fast one and time is of the essence.”

“Agreed, however, you are staying here. I've had enough of our acquaintance.”

Her grip tightened on his coat. “If it is scandal you wish to avoid, then you had best take me with you. That is the price of my silence. I must protect my niece. Otherwise, I will stand on the highest roofs and tell everyone what I know of this story.”

“You would be destroying your niece as well.”

“Those of us who have little are not afraid of what others say.”

“Amazing. Blackmail, pickpocketing, thievery, and deception. Is there no end to the talent in your family, Mrs. Pettijohn?”

Her manner equally cool, she answered, “I take your question to mean that I am going with you.” She let go of his coat. “Let us not delay.”

Chapter Nineteen

J
ack wasn't certain where Gretna Green was but he knew to ride north and trusted he would find his way as they came closer to Scotland. His main concern was to throw anyone who possibly followed their trail off the scent.

Charlene was game for whatever he suggested. Her concern was mastering sitting astride a horse. The animal chosen for her was docile enough but her lack of riding experience began to show. They did not make the progress traveling Jack would have liked.

After following the Post Road for several hours, Jack began taking country lanes and riding across fallow fields. It would take longer to reach their destination but he felt they were safer. He had the uncanny feeling that Gavin knew what they were about.

There was little conversation between them. In the beginning the road had been busy and it had been wise for Charlene to be silent lest someone detect the lad riding with him was a lass. Now that the path they took was free of traffic, she was tired and, in truth, so was he. Soon, they must either change horses or find a place to rest. They also needed food. He'd purchased some cheese and two mugs of ale mid-­morning but that had only sharpened his appetite. Gavin's men had not been concerned about feeding him during his stay in the storeroom.

He'd also purchased a lap rug for Charlene to wear around her shoulders. A blanket would have been better but beggars on the road could not be choosers. The cold didn't affect him that much but she felt the chill. However, after hours of riding, she tried to fold the rug and place it between her seat and the hard saddle. It was not an effective solution. Only rest would help both of them.

When they reached a good-­sized village, Jack inquired if there was someone about who let rooms to travelers for the night. He was directed to the tidy cottage of the Widow Fitzwilliam.

Dismounting and handing his reins to ­Charlene, he knocked on the widow's door.

“Who is there?” a pert voice said from the side of the house. A rotund, energetic woman with smoky brown hair under her hooded cloak came around the corner to see who stood at her front door. She held a basket of feed, and was followed by a clucking peep of brown chickens anxious for her to finish her task.

Jack removed his hat. “I'm told you have a room you can give us for the night.”

“I might. Who are you?”

“I'm Jack Whitridge and this is my”—­he had to think fast—­“nephew, Charles Blanchard.”

Charlene did not remove her hat but kept her distance by the horses and bowed subserviently to the widow.

“I see.” The widow looked Jack up and down. She was a shrewd one. He doubted much escaped her. He was glad his boots weren't run down at the heels.

Apparently she was satisfied with what she saw. “Twenty shillings a night and that includes a meal and something to break your fast—­”

“That would be excellent,” Jack said, scarcely believing his luck, but she held up her free hand to let him know there was more.

“For that price, I will be expecting a favor of you, Mr. Whitridge. A tree fell in my garden. I need the wood chopped and stacked.”

“I am happy to do whatever you wish,” he said. “The boy is tired—­”

“No, I'm not,” Charlene called. “I can help.”

She'd gruffed up her voice a bit and for that Jack was thankful—­still, he was not pleased to be countermanded, especially when he was trying to protect her.

Then again, Charlene was not a hothouse flower who let others do her bidding. She would make a great success of it in Boston.

So he didn't argue but respected her enough to believe she knew her own mind.

“There you have it, we both work,” he said. “Let us settle our horses and we will see to your tree.”

“I own a shelter in the back next to my henhouse that will house your horses if you wish to put them up.”

“May I hobble them to graze?”

“Whatever you like if you take care of the tree for me. Are you partial to chicken for your supper?”

The way his stomach rumbled just at the ­suggestion answered her question. She laughed. “Let me show you the tree.”

The tree wasn't actually that difficult a project. It was only fifteen feet tall and a little less than two foot in diameter, but it had landed across her garden and she couldn't have cut it alone.

“The roots were rotted,” she explained. “Fell last night and, while my neighbors are always happy to help, this will be one less problem for all of us, thanks to you.”

Jack truly didn't need Charlene's help but she picked up the wood he cut and split, stacking it where the widow indicated. The chickens clucked around their feet and offered suggestions. The widow came to her back door from time to time to check their progress. The smell of a good stew kept Jack working.

Within an hour, it was almost dark and he was done. If he and Charlene had not been tired before, they were now.

He moved the horses to the shelter, closing them in for the night. The widow nodded after surveying his work. “I have food on the table.”

“We'll eat it out here,” Jack said. If they went inside to eat, the widow would expect Charlene to take off her hat and that would be a mistake.

“After all the work you did for me? You will eat in here. If you are thinking that your ‘nephew' will need to remove his hat, you are right. ­However, I already know he is a female. Now come eat.”

“How did you know?”

“I've eyes, don't I? Are you telling me you
didn't
know?” She didn't wait for an answer but said, “Come along now.”

Charlene looked at Jack as if she half expected them to continue running. He offered his hand. “Let's trust her.”

“I'm so grateful you said that,” Charlene ­confided. “I didn't want to leave, not without having something to eat. Hot water also sounds good right now.”

“Aye, and I'm a bit ripe.”

She laughed. “Your stay in that storage room did you no favors.”

“Thank you, nevvy.” He held the door open for her and Charlene rewarded him by removing her hat. Her braid fell down her back.

“You are a pretty one,” the widow observed in that frank way women had for one another. “There is hot water in that bowl and a good soap for you to wash. She began ladling a thick chicken stew into the three bowls she had set on the table. There was a loaf of bread and a bit of cheese as well. “Here, help yourself.”

Both Jack and Charlene were happy to sit down and do so.

“I used to be as lovely as you,” the widow ­continued as she poured out mugs of apple cider. “You can't tell it now though. I'm an old woman. But when my husband was alive, he looked at me the way your gentleman looks at you, as if he'd do anything to keep you safe. So, are you two ­eloping?”

Charlene glanced at Jack and he decided to be honest. The woman had treated them well. “We are on our way.”

“You are a lovely couple. Your secret is safe with me as long as you promise to call the first baby Elizabeth, Libby for short, after me.”

“If it is a girl, that would be a lovely name,” Charlene said, and Jack was so grateful for the woman's good humor, he could honor the request.

They ate their fill and then, at Jack's request, the widow let him heat more water for them to use to bathe. He wondered if she was going to insist they sleep separately. He wanted Charlene close to him.

As if reading his mind about her ­sensibilities, Libby said, “Oh, go on now. You are a lovely couple. I've a good feeling about you. I've been a widow for two years now and I miss my husband every night. Widowhood has taught me we must all make the most of every moment. You can say the words to each other or you say them before the anvil priest in Scotland.” She referred to the blacksmith priests who were reputed to make a fine living witnessing the marriages of English couples. “What matters is, do you care for one another? Will you be kind? Generous? I watched you work on that tree together. The two of you will do fine in this life. Trust me.”

Beneath the table, Charlene reached for Jack's hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Be good to each other,” the widow offered as a last piece of wisdom before rising from her seat and picking up their empty bowls.

The water over the fire was starting to boil. As Jack moved it from the fire, the widow said, “Let me show you the room.”

It was neat enough with a bed big enough for two, a wood floor, and a side table and a chair. Perfectly serviceable with a washbowl on the table. There was plenty of room for him to sleep on the floor, if need be. He didn't know what Charlene was thinking and he loved her enough to be patient.

After the widow said her good night, Jack ­offered to pour hot water in the bowl for Charlene to use in the bedroom. “I'll wash in the kitchen.” He set about doing exactly that.

Rubbing his jaw, he realized what he needed was to shave. He thought he'd have to wait until they reached Scotland and married to do ­something about it, but Mrs. Fitzwilliam had laid out a razor, a strop, and some soap that had ­probably belonged to her husband.

Jack took advantage of her generosity. He shaved and scrubbed off as much of the travel dust as he could. Tomorrow would be another day of hard travel but at least they wouldn't look like ruffians.

He returned to the room and tapped lightly on the door. “Are you ready for me to come in?”

There was the sound of light footsteps, the rustle of sheets. He imagined Charlene climbing into bed.

“Yes,” her soft voice said.

He opened the door and refused to look at the bed. He was having trouble enough keeping his randy side contained. Soon, she would be his. Very soon.

It didn't help to see her shoes, stockings, jacket, and breeches neatly folded over the chair.

He had removed his jacket in the other room. His shirt was damp from where he'd used it to dry himself but he put it back on for Charlene's sake. He sat on the chair and pulled off his boots.

Jack blew out the candle. The room was saved from blackness by the soft moonlight flowing in from the window. He stretched and then ­reclined on the hard wood. He should have asked the widow for an extra blanket. He'd not take one from Charlene. He did not want her to feel a chill. At least this floor was cleaner than the one in the storeroom. His muscles protested. They knew the bed was right there.

The bed ropes rubbed together as she moved. He could feel her close. “Why are you on the floor?”

“We need our sleep,” he lied, turning on his side away from her. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion but the sound of her movements on the bed stirred the other parts of him that were never too tired.

“We could both sleep in this bed. There is room.”

“It would not be wise, Charlene.”

There was another rustle of movement . . . coming closer to him. When she spoke, he knew she was right at the edge of the bed. “I was ­thinking the widow was right. We could speak our own words. It may not bind us legally, but what are legalities in the sight of God, and it seems somewhat silly to pretend.”

“Pretend what?”

“That I don't want you here beside me. I'm not certain, Jack, how one goes about it, but I want you as close to me as possible. I want to know you in all ways. I'm tired of waiting for my life to begin.”

Her hand lightly touched his shoulder. “Come to bed, Jack. Come to my bed. Then no one will ever be able to take you away from me. Even if your brother catches us, I will already belong to you.”

Jack rolled onto his back. It was as he suspected, she was right at the edge of the bed, the moonlight catching on her glorious hair and turning it to silver. “I'd not let anyone take you away from me either way,” he vowed.

“Yes, but should we not be comfortable?” She lifted herself as if to move to create room for him beside her. The covers fell down from her shoulders and he discovered it was as he suspected, she was naked under those sheets.

All noble thoughts fled his brain.

Jack came to his feet. He unbuttoned his breeches because he needed the space there first, but he didn't remove them. Being noble was a damn trial, especially when Charlene threw back the covers and there she was in all her glory.

“Char, you are killing me,” he whispered. Her skin glowed. Her breasts were firm and perfectly made. The line of her waist flaring to her hip was smooth and feminine in its curve.

He could see her blush even in the moonlight. “Really? You want me to cover up? It seems silly but Lady Baldwin said that on my wedding night I need never worry. If I was naked, my groom would know what to do.”

“For once in her life, Lady Baldwin is right.”

And he could no longer hold back the lust inside him.

Jack pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. He didn't know what his young bride would think about his very obvious desire for her, but he was about to find out. He slid off his breeches and tossed them in the direction of his shirt.

He knew Charlene had never seen a naked male by the way her eyes widened at the sight of his full arousal, and then she came to her knees. He half expected her to ward him off.

Instead, she whispered, “May I touch?”

That request almost brought him to
his
knees. “I pray you do.”

She placed her hand upon him and, God help him, he was almost unmanned. “Gentle now,” he warned, covering her hand with his. “When we first met, you almost gelded me. I wouldn't advise you to try it again.” He showed her what he did like.

Charlene was an inquisitive student. She curled her fingers around him, ran the pad of her thumb over his tip—­

Jack grabbed her hand, bodily lifted her up, and kissed her.

And it was every bit as sweet as he'd dreamed. He liked the taste of her and the way she trusted him. She was eager and open to his lead. He pressed his body to hers, letting her feel him as he explored her mouth—­and yet, this seemed wrong.