The Fairest of Them All (3 page)

“I'll count it while you dress. Hurry and join us.” Sarah went down the hall to the front stairs.

Char shut the door and leaned back against it, annoyed with herself.
Why hadn't she carried the purse upstairs with her?

Perhaps there would be a moment when she could filch five guineas. She could hope, although, in truth, Leo hadn't pushed her to pay. It was almost as if he wished her debt to grow. Was that how it had been for her father?

She stepped out of the breeches before she tripped. She rolled down the wool socks and stashed all the clothes, including the shoes, in the back of her wardrobe. She quickly laced herself into the blue day dress she had been wearing before she'd gone pickpocketing.

Her braid was messy. She brushed it out and pulled her hair back into a simple style. She went downstairs.

Sarah and Lady Baldwin were in what the family called the front room. Her Ladyship sat on the settee while Sarah was in one of several chairs in front of a cold hearth. The room was small enough that with blankets and heavy clothing, Sarah and Char found themselves comfortable without the expense of a fire.

Lady Baldwin was almost as wide as she was tall, a sturdy woman who adored colorful prints and patterns that she used together in a style that suited her. She also enjoyed bold hats teeming with feathers. Almost everything about her spoke of a bygone era. She still powdered her hair and painted her face.

She had been Julie's godmother and it was Lady Baldwin who had tracked down Sarah and had warned her of Char's plight with her uncle Davies.

“I would take you in myself,” Lady Baldwin had told Char. “But you know my circumstances.”

The late Lord Baldwin had been one of the king's most respected advisors. However, now few remembered his name and he had not left his widow in good circumstances. His heir rarely spoke to her and her daughter thought her an ­embarrassment. She lived with that daughter, a dour son-­in-­law, and six rowdy children. It was an uncomfortable situation.

“She wishes I would just die,” Lady Baldwin had sighed to Char on many an occasion. “But I won't oblige her. I often wonder if I should have just stayed on the stage instead of running off with Bertie. Then where would my haughty daughter be?”

Her Ladyship enjoyed spending the night in the house on Mulberry Street, and Sarah and Char kept a bedroom for her use.

Sarah was refilling the glass Lady Baldwin held out with ratafia, something else their small household kept on hand for Lady Baldwin's enjoyment.

“Charlene, my girl,” Lady Baldwin called out in greeting. “Come give me a kiss.”

Char dutifully crossed to her and kissed her ­offered cheek. “Sarah says you have a surprise for me.” While she spoke, she noticed her aunt was untying the drawstrings on the money purse.

“Not just a surprise,” Lady Baldwin answered. “An opportunity!”

Just as she said those words, Sarah poured the coins into her lap and Char was distracted. The amount in the purse exceeded the money for the back rent. Here was enough to keep them a good long while. There had to be close to fifty guineas there. No wonder the purse had been so heavy.

Sarah's amazement mirrored Char's. She began counting the coins as she put them back into the purse. “I can't believe this. The randy old roué has honored his debt.”

“And just in time,” Lady Baldwin said. “We are going to need that money.”

“That is true,” Sarah agreed.

Money that
Char
had earned. She tried to make sense of the conversation. “I'm sorry, Lady Baldwin, what were you saying?”

“I'm saying that you have the opportunity of this century, my young friend. How would you like to be a duchess?”

“Yes, please, thank you,” Char said, matter-­of-­fact, reaching for the ratafia bottle to pour herself a glass from those on the tray Sarah had placed on a table in front of the settee. “That is, if there is a duke who wants a dowerless bride. Does such a man exist?”

“Yes, he does.” Lady Baldwin held up a gilt-­edged card with information written in the finest hand. “The Duke of Baynton is on the hunt for a wife. He is wealthy enough for seven dowerless wives and I believe you have a good chance to catch his attention. This is
your
invite to his ball given to me personally by his great-­aunt.” She threw the invitation down on the drink tray as if playing a trump card.

Char looked at the richness of that single paper and started to laugh. “The idea that I could go to a ball—­” She broke off at the preposterousness of the idea. “Or marry a duke? Why, I've never been presented. No one in Society knows me. I'm poor.”

“
And
you are uncommonly beautiful,” Lady ­Baldwin countered. “A woman's face is her ­fortune.”

“Not in the real world,” Char argued.

“It was for me,” Lady Baldwin practically sang, reminding her.

Sarah spoke. “I had the same doubts, Char. But hear Lady Baldwin out. This is your chance to take your proper place in Society, the one that is due to you.”

Char could have told her that her proper place was here, with people who loved her. Still . . .

“So why do you believe I could be a duchess?” Char asked Lady Baldwin. “I've heard of the Duke of Baynton. He is one of the most important men in England. He could take any woman for his wife.”

“That he could, but he desires someone special—­like
you
,” Lady Baldwin said with relish. “He doesn't need a dowry. He has more money than he knows how to spend. What he wants,” she said, holding out a green-­gloved hand to tick off his expectations, “is breeding, manners, breeding, beauty, and
breeding
. I have this on the best of authority. I am close to his great-­aunt. Dame Imogen is a stickler and she is desperate to find the ‘right' wife for him.”

“And ‘right' is about breeding?” Char said, unconvinced.

“It must be,” Lady Baldwin answered. “He has an obligation to the title and his descendants to choose a woman from the correct family. Dearne had faults but his bloodlines were impeccable, as were your mother's. Indeed, when I suggested you to Dame Imogen, she grew very excited.
She insisted I show you to her. She approves. She ­approves very much.” Lady Baldwin tapped the invitation on the tray for emphasis.

“When did she see me?”

“Three days ago when you and I went for a walk in the park. She was sitting in a sedan chair. I doubt if you noticed.”

“Because it was so cold,” Char said. She looked to Sarah. “I found it strange Lady Baldwin demanded we take a walk. I thought my nose would freeze.”

“If it froze, it was for a good cause,” Lady Baldwin declared. “She thought you lovely. You reminded her of your father. She apparently was quite fond of him.”

Char did not know what to think.

Seeing her confusion, Sarah asked, “What harm is there in going to a ball? You deserve to go to at least one in your life.”

“Will you come?” Char asked.

“That would not be wise,” Sarah said. “Actresses are not welcomed in formal ballrooms. However, Lady Baldwin will chaperone you.”

“But Lady Baldwin was an actress.”

“Who was been made respectable through marriage,” Sarah pointed out.

“Besides, you and Sarah are among the very few who know
all
the details about me,” Lady Baldwin said. “Dame Imogen is so rigid, if she were aware of my past, she would give me a direct cut. Then again, I'm such an old lady, who cares?” She helped herself to another glass of ratafia. The bottle would be empty shortly.

“So will you do it, Char?” Sarah asked.

“Is it important to you that I do?”

Sarah's eyes softened. “Yes, it is. You were made for a finer life. I would like to see you secure and safe.”

“But what of you?”

“If you are the duchess of the wealthiest man in London, you can take very good care of Sarah . . . and me.” Lady Baldwin lifted the glass to the thought. “Why, you would be so rich, you could pay to have Sarah's plays produced. Baynton could even buy the theater. Or build his own!” She was quite taken with the idea.

“We will have to buy you a suitable dress, ­perhaps some other new clothes as well,” Sarah said. She adored to plan. “We have the money now.” She indicated the coins in her lap.

“Several new dresses are a must,” Lady Baldwin said, giving Char a critical eye. “We will also need to hire a vehicle. And have you thought of taking on a servant? If the duke comes to call, the house is passable but a servant is a must.”

“I can be the servant,” Sarah said. “I'll wear a costume from the theater. We will let Baynton ­believe Char lives with you.”

“That will do.”

“
Wait
,” Char said. She set down her glass. “The duke has never laid eyes on me and the two of you are already planning what to do when he comes calling.”

“Because he will come calling, Char,” Sarah said. “Even if every woman at that ball is as lovely as you, he will single you out. There is something about you. You aren't jaded like so many young ladies of your class. Or as wool-­headed. Baynton will meet you and he won't be able to help falling in love.”

“Especially if Dame Imogen has anything to do with it,” Lady Baldwin said. “She doesn't like young women today. She calls them too modern but you struck her fancy.”

“My bloodlines struck her fancy,” Char corrected.

“Same difference in her eyes.”

Sarah leaned forward. “Will you do it, Char? Will you take the risk?”

How could Char say no? She didn't believe for one moment that the duke would choose her, but it was obvious the idea of her going to this ball meant a great deal to Sarah. “Of course I will.”

Lady Baldwin clapped her hands while Sarah put aside the money purse to jump out of her chair and give Char a hug.

“We have a great deal to do,” Sarah warned. “To save money may I suggest we design the dress ­ourselves. The wardrobe mistress at the Hay­market will help.”

“Yes, that will save a bit,” Lady Baldwin said, and they put their heads together on what style of dress would look best on Char.

For her part, Char hadn't quite grasped what all this meant. Unbidden, a face rose in her mind. A handsome-­in-­his-­own-­way face. A memory that might stay with her, even though he was the last man she should find attractive. The face of the angry American—­Whitridge.

She had to put him out of her mind. “Is the duke young?” she asked, hoping the answer was yes. Right now, he might be as ugly as a Sunday pig and she would feel obligated to consider him.

“Baynton?” Lady Baldwin said. “He is thirtyish, the right age to marry.”

Char nodded, and then had to ask, “Is he handsome?”

“I have never seen him,” Sarah said. “He doesn't go to the theater, or at least not the Haymarket.”

“I have never met him, either,” Lady Baldwin said. “But I have heard that he is considered very handsome. They say he is tall and well-­spoken.”

Whitridge had been tall but Char hadn't liked a word he said. Still, Lady Baldwin's description set her at ease.

“Do you know anything else about him, anything personal?” Char wanted to know. “Is he kind?”

“I'm certain,” Lady Baldwin said. “I've heard no complaints about him. He took the title several years ago when his father died. His mother is still alive. He has a brother, Lord Ben, whom I've been told works in the government. Oh yes, and the duke had a twin but he disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Char repeated. Even Sarah's eyes widened at the description.

“Terrible case,” Lady Baldwin said, the plumes on her hat waving as she shook her head. “The boy vanished from his bed at Eton.”

“How did he vanish?” Char asked, intrigued.

“That is the mystery,” Lady Baldwin said. “Some whispered he'd involved himself with rough characters. Other said he ran away, and still there is some speculation that he could have been a suicide and they just haven't found the body yet.”

Her words put a chill into Char, and yet they also gave her something in common with the duke. He'd known a family tragedy. He might understand hers.

She picked up the invitation. She'd not read it and she was now curious. Here was the manner in which the
haut ton
summoned each other to events. Here was her one link to the man who might choose her for his wife.

The paper felt heavy. She scanned the request—­and then the name jumped out at her.
Whitridge
.

The Duke of Baynton was Gavin Whitridge.

For a second, Char could not breathe.

She forced herself to reason. The man chasing her through the streets had
not
been a duke. She was certain of it.

The names being the same must be a coincidence. Nothing more—­she prayed . . . because listening to Sarah and Lady Baldwin plan, the die had been cast.

Char was going to the ball.

Chapter Three

February 5, 1812

W
hat the devil had Gavin got himself into?

The line to enter the ballroom ran down the hall and out the front door and still they came.

Ceremony with all of its pomp was part of being a duke, as was finding himself the center of attention. However, tonight was beyond anything Gavin Whitridge, Duke of Baynton had ever experienced, and it was his own ball. He'd created this affair when he'd given his great-­aunt Imogen permission to find a wife for him.

His mother had tried to warn him. “It will be a crush, my son. There isn't a family in Britain with a marriageable daughter who doesn't want an ­invitation.”

And apparently Imogen had seen that half the populace had received one. She was also ­directing the affair, dressed in her favorite color of purple from the turban on her head to the kid leather shoes on her tiny feet. She stood by Gavin and gave him the benefit of her opinion, in loud whispers, on every family and young woman presented to him.

He
would have preferred not having such a formal receiving line but
Imogen
insisted this was the only way the invited women would have a few seconds of his undivided attention. “You owe it to yourself to meet them all,” she'd said. “They expect it. Anything less would disappoint them.” And so, he had assented.

His brother Ben and Ben's wife, Elin, were the beginning of the line. His mother, the ­Dowager Duchess of Baynton, and her escort, Fyclan Morris, were to Gavin's left. Other ­various ­relatives had been tucked into the line where Imogen had deemed fit.

“Wellbourne,” Imogen now whispered, her voice still crisp.

She referred to a tall, long-­faced man speaking to Ben and Elin at the beginning of the line.

Wellbourne was accompanied his ­daughter. “Lady Amanda is the earl's only child. His ­politics are wrong. However, he is loyal and well ­connected. A possibility.”

Gavin had long respected Wellbourne's constancy to his ideals, although he thought him deluded. Could he tolerate being related to the Opposition by marriage?

“Unfortunately,” Imogen continued, “Lady Amanda is as horse-­faced as her sire. Her breeding is impeccable and she comes with an income of five thousand, but that jaw will show up in your children.”

Not for the first time this evening was Gavin uncomfortable with his aunt's bluntness. ­Hopefully, the musicians in the ballroom ­covered her more acerbic comments, like the horse-­facedness. She had high expectations, and her ability to ­catalog one proud family after another, ­including ­daughters, nieces, and cousins, was truly ­impressive albeit too much.

He nodded and smiled as Wellbourne presented his daughter to him.

He also began to listen to Imogen with half an ear. The gambit to find him a wife had turned ­ridiculous.

Peers of the realm, his friends, and many mere acquaintances, all dressed in their finest, kept coming forward. Each touted a flower of English womanhood for his perusal before happily tottering off to drink his punch and devour his food. Henry the butler and the staff hustled to see to the needs of so many. Trays would be carried out piled high and returned to the kitchen empty.

These weren't guests. They were locusts.

Of course, the idea for a ball was not an unsound one, Gavin thought as he smiled, nodded, bowed, and offered his hand. He was a busy man. There were affairs of state that needed his ­immediate ­attention. Britain was at war with France, a ­conflict that extended to almost every corner of the world. Meanwhile, domestic issues threatened to erupt into violence if not finessed soon. And, as if Gavin didn't have enough on his table, the prime ­minister insisted on his guidance with an American ­delegation that had made an appearance and now pestered everyone to hear their list of grievances.

Gawd, the Americans
. The damn upstarts thought to bully Britain out of her holdings. They wanted all of North America and would settle for nothing less than their dictated terms. They were like puppies who had shown their teeth once and won and thought to do so again. Gavin detested negotiating with them. They said one thing out of the left side of their mouths and something completely different out of the right. A more confused group of people did not exist in politics.

Meanwhile, what he really needed was a wife. It was time. He was thirty-­two years of age. He was ready.

In fact,
past
ready.

While other men had indulged themselves in wildly wicked ways, Gavin had been the dutiful heir to a dukedom. He'd not
wenched
. He had
morals
. He was known for his
character
. No bastards would muddy his line for the simple reason that he had yet to give in to base impulses and “know” a woman, as the theologians were wont to say.

But he wanted to. He wanted to very much.

However, first he must survive this travesty and Imogen's strong judgments.

If a young woman had the right connections and bloodlines, Imogen would dismiss her for looks.

“Unsuitable,” Imogen asserted in Gavin's ear when Miss Vivian Dorchester was presented to him.

“Because she is petite?”

“Because you are tall.”

“But the last one was tall and you rejected her.”

“Ah, because she was
too
tall,” Imogen argued. “The portraits of the two of you together would look odd.”

“I'm choosing my wife for how she will look in portraits?” Gavin replied in disbelief, annoyed beyond reason.

His aunt smiled her complete conviction. “The portraits will outlast both of your lives. Do you wish future generations to mock your images?”

To worry about what his descendants thought long after he was gone sounded outlandish to Gavin, until he remembered the numerous quips and jibes he and his brothers had made about the ancestors already hanging on Menheim's walls.

“You definitely don't want a petite wife,” his aunt informed him. “Yes, they are attractive bits, but you run a danger of breeding runts. And is that what you want for your sons?”

Gavin could have replied he just wanted to breed . . . but in truth, he was as picky as his aunt, well, when it came to looks or figure. Imogen was more a stickler for the family bloodlines. The Duke of Marlborough's niece was not good enough for her. However, the Most Reverend Berk's family could be traced back to the Conqueror so his oldest daughter had possibilities in Imogen's eyes. Gavin tried not to stare at her mustache.

Money was also of little consequence to either of them. Gavin was a very wealthy man.

Of course, if he could have his choice . . .

Gavin's jealous gaze drifted to where his brother Ben stood with Elin. They were very happy in their love. Elin was to have been Gavin's, even though they hadn't really known each other. The betrothal had been arranged by their parents more than two decades ago.

However, Elin had wanted more. She'd wanted a man who loved her with Ben's devotion and Gavin had reluctantly let her go.

Now, he found himself on the hunt for—­what? Love? What the devil was that?

His fate was to marry out of obligation and duty, hence Aunt Imogen's whispered opinions of each young woman's assets without respect to their, hmmmm, well, what Gavin and any other male in the room would consider
assets
.

At the same time, Gavin had a sense he, like Elin, wanted more. The word “kissable” came to mind, as did the thought of companionship. He longed for a helpmate. Ducal responsibilities wore a man down. Gavin could only bear so much alone—­

A prickling of awareness tickled the hairs at the nape of his neck. He looked to the door and his gaze centered upon a young woman waiting her turn in the receiving line.

Woman?

Goddess was a better description.

She was not too tall and not too petite but exactly right.

Her eyes were a sparkling blue, as clear as pieces of cut glass. Her hair was so blond it was close to white, speaking to some Viking forebearer, and her brows were dark, expressive. They added character to a face that would have been otherwise bland in its perfection. Her gown was a silvery white. The cut simply, but effectively, emphasized the womanly curves of some of the best
assets
Gavin had ever seen.

She was also undeniably kissable. Her lips were full and pink and, he was certain, very sweet.

Gavin's mouth went dry. His knees turned weak and every male part of him came to ­attention.

For the first time in his life, he had the urge to toss aside all veneer of civilization, throw this woman over his shoulder, and carry her off to his bed.

Aunt Imogen noticed the direction of his ­interest and her voice purred with satisfaction as she confided, “
She
is the one I wanted you to ­particularly meet. The late Lord Dearne's only child, Lady Charlene.”

“Dearne? The profligate?”

“And buried years ago for his sins. His wife quickly followed him into death. They left her a penniless orphan. However, her bloodlines are the purest in the realm. Her stock is hardy. Look at the hips on that child. She will bear many sons.”

Gavin couldn't stop staring at her hips or any other part of her. “And the portraits?”

“Will be spectacular,” Imogen promised.

And then Lady Charlene stood in front of him.

His aunt introduced them as if he wasn't ready to fall into her arms and beg her to kiss him. The tops of her breasts swelled against her bodice with the graceful movement of her curtsy, and Gavin could barely stifle the rush of desire.

He heard his aunt introduce him to Lady Charlene's chaperone. He wasn't interested in her. His focus was on the beauty before him.

Lady Charlene—­even her name was lush and full. He took her gloved hand and helped her rise.

She appraised him with the promise of a good intelligence and he realized she was waiting for him to speak. Everyone was waiting for him.

On the morrow, he was certain the papers and anyone witnessing this meeting between them would claim he'd been smitten—­and they would be right.

“Welcome to my home,” he managed to say.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It is an honor.”

Her voice surprised him. There was a huskiness to it, a unique, melodic timbre.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his aunt exchange a knowing glance with his mother. They approved.
He
approved.

He was cognizant that they were holding up the receiving line. He didn't care. He couldn't even let go of her hand.

In fact, he was done with this nonsense. He'd found
his
woman. Let the dancing begin and let him stake his claim by leading her first onto the dance floor. “My lady, will you give me the honor of the first dance?”

She blushed prettily. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

Gavin looked for Henry to signal the receiving line was officially at an end. The waiting guests could meander their own way in. He who only danced if he must was ready to run to the dance floor.

However, the always present Henry was missing from his post where Gavin could see him.

Instead, the sound of stern words and the sight of footmen moving toward the front entrance indicated that there was a disturbance.

Gavin stepped forward, placing himself between the door and the ladies even as Henry burst through the knot of footmen and waiting guests. He strode to Gavin's side. “Your Grace, there is a difficulty,” he said in a low voice.

“With whom?”

“The head of the American delegation has ­arrived and wishes to present himself to you.”

“I have no time for thorny Americans.” He was done with duty and obligation. He desired to spend an evening basking in the company of a woman. He did not want to discuss negotiations, or business, or favors. “Tell him to present himself to my secretary on the morrow. Talbert will schedule a meeting.”

But Henry didn't bow and obey. He leaned close to Gavin. “With all due respect, Your Grace, you may wish to meet this man.”

“
Not
tonight,” Gavin repeated, his tone alone making it clear he was in no mood for argument.

He turned to Lady Charlene, who had not stayed safely behind him but had moved to his side, obviously curious about the disruption. He offered his gloved hand. “Our dance, my lady?”

But before she could respond, the American ­literally muscled his way through the hallway door, several footmen gingerly holding on to his arms as if both determined and uncertain about holding him back—­and in the blink of an eye, Gavin understood why.

Of course
this man would not wait in any line, any more than Gavin himself would.

Lady Charlene vanished from Gavin's mind. The spectators in the crowded front hall all faded from his view, as did the humming of voices in the ballroom and the strains of music.

Instead, he was transported back in time, to his years in boarding school and the largest scandal his family had ever faced.

The “American” was tall and dressed in plain clothing. His jacket was one that had been worn many times before but he filled it well. His overlong dark hair touched his collar in contrary to any style on either side of the Atlantic.

He gave the impression of being headstrong and proud, something Gavin knew to be true because he understood this man well. He even knew his name before it could be announced.

Gavin and Jack Whitridge were not identical twins, but enough alike in appearance that people would immediately recognize them as brothers—­even now, over fifteen years after Jack had ­vanished without fanfare from his bed at school.

His disappearance had been the great mystery of that year. Their father had hired men to search for him and they'd found not a trace of his whereabouts or even a clue as to why he would go off in the middle of the night.