The Fairest of Them All (7 page)

Perkins went so far as to accompany Jack on his rounds of the different offices inside. Jack had already visited each of them numerous times. He had asked for an audience with different representatives of each department. He'd been rebuffed.

However, today he anticipated matters to be different. As Silas Lawrence had pointed out, the papers were full of the very public family reunion. The civil servants who had been so disdainfully cold to him should be more temperate in their reception of him and his mission.

They were not.

Indeed, they were actually more condescending.

So much so, Perkins started to take pity on him. “That was a rude fellow,” he said of the third assist­ant to the assistant secretary for colonial ­affairs.

Jack didn't answer. He was too angry.

And then he saw his brother Ben. Ben had just stepped out of a room with a group of men. He carried several ledgers and appeared to have his own assistant to the assistant.

His younger brother stopped at the sight of Jack. The men he was with looked on with more than polite interest. Ben said something to them and then started walking toward Jack.

“Hallo, brother,” he said as if he and Jack were on the friendliest terms.

Aware that they were being observed by the ­curious, Jack held out his hand. “Good to see you.”

While shaking Jack's hand, Ben nodded to ­Perkins. “Baynton has you back at work, I see.”

Perkins shrugged. “It is always my honor to work for His Grace.”

“Give him a wild chase,” Ben advised Jack. “Perkins becomes bored if we don't do something to liven his dull existence.”

There was humor in his comment but a touch of anger as well. So Jack wasn't the only one Gavin had unleashed Perkins on.

“What are you doing here?” Jack asked his brother.

A guarded expression came to Ben's eyes. He glanced at the gentlemen waiting for him. They actually
all
had the look of assistants—­and they waited for Ben.

His brother looked down at the floor as if uncertain of what he was about to say before admitting, “I work for Liverpool.”

Elation and relief flood Jack's veins. “How fortunate. I didn't know.” Ben could have told him this last night, but Jack dismissed the idea. The meeting with his family had been an emotional one and, while he was always ready to advance the cause of his adopted country, he could understand there was a time and place for such discussions. Like now.

“Let me have a moment of your time,” Jack said. “Perhaps you can listen to what I have to say and between us we can chart the best course.”

Ben glanced again at the men waiting, a signal to Jack that he did not have time. “Have you talked to Russell?” he suggested. Jonathan Russell had been named chargé d'affaires when Ambassador William Pinckney had been recalled by President Madison.

“I have done more than talk to him. He has made the rounds with me and is as frustrated as myself over the implied slights we have received. Ben, I have yet to present my letters of introduction to anyone of importance. Even to those who are
un
important. I am continually put off—­”

“It is difficult, Jack. We have more pressing concerns with Napoleon eating up the Continent—­”

“You are going to have two battlefronts if I can't find someone willing to listen. Our grievances with Britain can be resolved. However, we need your government to sit with us in good faith.”

Ben took a step back. “With us?”

“With us Americans,” Jack clarified, although he thought it was obvious.

His brother now moved closer. “Everyone knows that you are the head of the American dele­gation but you
are
British.”

“I was born in England,” Jack agreed slowly. “However, I've taken up residence in America.”

“But you are
British
.”

“I don't consider myself so.”

“And that is the problem. Once an Englishman, always an Englishman, Jack. Of course many of the gentlemen in this building remember you calling on them numerous times before last night. However now that they know you are Baynton's missing twin, well, the mood is not welcoming. They think you disloyal.”

“I'm not being disloyal to
my
country.”

“That isn't how they see the matter.” Ben sounded almost regretful, until he added, “I understand their concerns. You are English, Jack.
I'm
English, and we have the same parents. You come across as a—­” He caught himself from finishing the sentence, but Jack was not going to let him slip away so easily.

“A what, Ben? A traitor?”

His brother frowned as if not liking the sound of the word and then said in a low voice, “Somewhat.”

“Somewhat like yes? Or somewhat like no?” Jack was pushing him, but he was quickly moving past caring.

“You were
born
English,” Ben insisted ­doggedly.

Jack could have roared his irritation. “Regardless of
which
country I am from, or which country I choose, I would
like
to believe
any
of us would wish to avert
a war
. To me, that is the larger question. Does that not make sense?”

“My government is not concerned about ­American grievances right now, Jack. We have more pressing issues.”

“More pressing than
war
?”

“We are already at war.”

Now it was Jack who took a step away from his brother. Their conversation was going in circles. Ben would not see reason. He would not help him. Meanwhile, gentlemen had come out of their offices to witness the confrontation. Perhaps one of them would have heard his case and realized the grave concerns at stake.

Or
Jack might find himself the topic of more articles in the papers on the morrow.

That thought gave him pause.

He struggled with his temper. Creating a scene, especially with his brother, would not help his cause. “Very well,” he said quietly. “But there must be someone who is willing to listen. Someone who has the power to make your government do what is honorable and right.”

“You know who that person is,” Ben said.

Of course, Jack did—­Baynton. His twin. There was so much between them. Too much.

“Where is he now?” he asked Ben.

“At the time of the day, he can be a number of places. However, I happen to know that his intention was to go courting.”

“Courting?”

“Yes, Jack, our brother is in the market for a wife. The purpose of the ball last night was to ­introduce him to eligible young women.”

This information tickled Jack's interest. “Did he meet anyone he liked?”

“Well, the ball came to an abrupt end,” Ben reminded Jack. “However, I believe he was ­introduced to someone of interest. Lady ­Charlene Blanchard,” he said as if needing to share the ­information. “He is calling on her this afternoon. Elin and I also spent the night at Menheim and when I saw him this morning, he was—­well, how to describe it? Afloat. He was cheerfully afloat.”

Jack gave his brother a look of disbelief. “Gavin is never cheerful in the morning, unless the years have worked a miracle in him.”

“They haven't. He still is not his best in the morning. However,
this
morning, he was afloat. I even heard him humming.”

“
Our
brother?”

Ben nodded.

“So what you are saying is that if I want to speak to Baynton right this minute, I need to find this young lady?”

“Well, if you want him
right
this minute,” Ben agreed. “But I wouldn't. Baynton will not be pleased.”

Jack didn't care. “I have been complacent, Ben. I have been polite and I have been diplomatic. The time has come to shake the tree a bit, starting with the one man who has the power to help me.”

“Don't tell Gavin I was the one who gave you the information.”

“You needn't worry. Our brother will be so annoyed to see me, he won't ask. Come along, ­Perkins.”

And with that Jack set out to track down his twin.

Chapter Seven

G
avin was courting.

He stood on the front step of the address on Mulberry Street and took deep breaths to calm his nerves. Dukes could not fear anything. They lived to lead, and confidence was vital to that process.

However, from the first moment he'd received word Lady Charlene would be honored if he called, his initial elation had quickly turned to a cold sweat. Gavin had never wooed a woman before. He'd never even paid a call on one.

For most of his life, he'd been promised to Elin Morris in a betrothal his father had arranged back when they were children. His father had explained that having a wife chosen for him freed Gavin to prepare to be the duke he should become. His father had high expectations. He'd wanted his heir to focus on becoming a man of importance, a man of history.

Nor had Gavin balked at following his father's dictates, not like Jack had. Jack had always been surly over their father's demands.

In contrast, Gavin had actually enjoyed the ­challenge of meeting his father's standards and often bettering them. He'd come to gain ­confidence in
every
facet of his life from the political to the social . . . except for one area.

Women.

They were a mystery to him. Because he had Elin, he'd shied away from forming any ­attachments to them other than his female ­relatives. And those women seemed a bit capricious to him, even his mother. He was never ­certain what they were going to think or do. It was only logical to assume the rest of woman­kind would share this trait, one that served no purpose to his way of thinking: Facts were facts. A schedule was set and to be followed. Black could not be white.

Elin should have been his wife . . . but her heart had taken a different direction, something Gavin wasn't certain he understood. He was never comfortable with talk of emotions.

However, he'd had the good sense to realize that she belonged with his brother Ben.

Now he had to find another woman to take to wife. He could do this. He knew he had looks that attracted them, even if his title hadn't. Even Jack had managed to marry.

His twin's admission had rattled Gavin a bit. He and Jack had once been very competitive. That Jack had achieved matrimony and he hadn't, well, the thought gnawed at Gavin a bit.

And he wasn't going to win a wife unless he knocked on Lady Charlene's door. He lifted his hand and rapped smartly.

The weather door opened immediately, which told him Lady Charlene's household knew he'd been standing there. Perhaps they had noticed his phaeton pulled by smart grays that his tiger was walking while he paid his addresses. Perhaps they had been aware of him standing on their stoop and had wondered
when
he would knock.

The maid, her hair hidden under a huge mobcap, lowered her eyes modestly and curtsied. “Welcome, Your Grace,” she murmured in a strangely subdued voice. “Please, come in.”

He offered his coat and hat to her. As he did, he caught a glimpse of her eyes—­cat eyes. Green ones. Quite unusual.

Something else bothered him as well. The maid seemed to be playing at being subservient. He sensed, and it was an odd notion, that she was anything but dutiful.

He looked around the cramped hallway. The house was exactly what he expected for this neighborhood. The appointments were modest and yet the energy was good, as if the occupants liked each other.

Gavin had learned to detect the moods of a place early in his youth. He'd used the skill to divine his father's often mercurial tempers.

He looked into the front room of the house and all thoughts of maids, fear, nerves, and father were banished by the sight of Lady Charlene standing demurely in front of the hearth, waiting for him.

There had been times, over the hours since he'd last seen her, that Gavin had questioned if she was as lovely as he remembered. His feverish yearnings had pictured her as perfect, exquisite. His common sense warned that he might have just been caught up in the intent of the ball. Everyone had been dressed their best. In everyday life, there would be flaws, imperfections . . . but if there was a blemish anywhere on Lady Charlene's person, he did not find it.

Her very presence lit up the winter afternoon.

She was glorious, a Viking goddess come to life dressed in rose-­hued muslin. Her eyes were the color of cornflowers, her skin as lustrous as the Scots pearls that were the pride of his family—­and would be his bride's gift to the woman he would choose.

Lust was a new and intriguing emotion. Gavin had never felt it as sharply as he did now. And ­certainly, the fire in his blood was encouraged by the way the fire in the hearth behind her ­illuminated the shadow of her shapely legs beneath her skirts.

He walked into the room and bowed. “Lady Charlene.”

She curtsied. “Your Grace.” She gave him a tentative smile that was charming in its shyness. “You do remember my chaperone, Lady Baldwin?”

No, Gavin hadn't a memory of anyone but her. Beautiful, luscious, delectable her.

Dame Imogen had been correct. The sort of children he should breed was an important ­consideration and their children would be magni­ficent. In fact, he was ready to breed right now.

It was a struggle for him to tear his attention away from Lady Charlene and bow over the hand of the older woman with a lace cap covered with cherry-­red ribbons over her powdered hair. She had risen from her seat on the settee. “Lady Baldwin,” he managed.

“Your Grace.” She gave a small curtsy. “You honor us with your presence.”

“The honor is mine,” he dutifully answered.

“Please, sit,” Lady Baldwin said, perching her own ample self on the settee and spreading her orange and red striped skirts over the cushions.

Gavin waited for Lady Charlene to delicately sit on one of the two chairs before the hearth while he took the other. Usually, he was impatient during these sorts of formal calls. However, he would do anything to please Lady Charlene.

“We have tea,” Lady Charlene said, indicating a tray on a side table next to her chair, “and some sandwiches. Would you care for refreshment?”

“Tea would be nice,” he answered, and watched with approval as she poured just the right amount in a cup and lifted the creamer to see if he wished any. She was grace personified.

For the first time, he was glad, no, overjoyed, that he had not married Elin Morris.

“No cream,” he said to her unanswered question. “I'm surprised you had the tray ready,” he managed. He found himself surprisingly tongue-­tied, another first.

She smiled and handed him his cup. “There is always a hot kettle in our kitchen and we had time to prepare for you.”

“You knew what time I was coming?” he said, flattered at the thought they had been poised at any moment to receive him.

“You were out on our front step for a bit of time,” she said, the most charming light in her eyes. “Would you care for a sandwich?”

At her mention of how long it had taken him to gather his courage to knock on her door, Gavin felt a dull heat creep up his neck. In another time or place, he would have laughingly tossed out some witticism about having important matters on his mind. After all, he was a duke.

However, with her, he seemed struck mute.

With a shake of his head, he declined the sandwich and she turned her attention to preparing tea for Lady Baldwin and herself.

He watched her every move, marveling at her perfection. He was also aware that the maid had entered the room. She stood by the door, and he had the uncomfortable sense that instead of being properly servile, she was taking in all that was happening as if weighing him for her own opinion.

Gavin tried to block out her presence, but she had a thorniness that was hard for him to ignore.

Lady Charlene did not seem to notice her servant. Instead, she offered Lady Baldwin a cup of tea and then saw to her own. She liked her tea with cream and a sweet. She stirred the cup and smiled at him. “We enjoyed your ball last night,” she said.

“Yes, Your Grace, it was excellent,” ­Lady ­Baldwin agreed.

“The evening ended far too early,” he admitted, and then dared to add, “Before we could have the dance you promised me.”

A blush rose to her cheek. Lady Charlene smiled. Her dark lashes lowered shyly against her cheek as she confessed, “It was probably just as well. I'm a terrible dancer. I always step on someone's feet.”

Gavin could have promised she was free to tromp on his feet all she liked. “I shall keep that in mind when we do have that dance,” he answered, and she laughed, the sound as light and musical as angel wings.

And then they fell into silence.

And Gavin, usually able to make conversation in any other circumstance, did not know how to break it.

He didn't dare say or do anything that might possibly make her disapprove of him, and consequently was paralyzed. He looked around the room, noticed the gigantic arrangement of roses that he'd sent to her. It was a wonder he hadn't noticed them immediately. Their scent owned the air.

The arrangement was really too ostentatious and he experienced a stab of panic. No wonder she was quiet. The flowers were exactly the wrong gift. They were over the top. She probably thought him a braggart.

C
harlene was uncomfortable in the silence.

She felt she should say something but what does one say to a person one doesn't know? Especially if the person is the Duke of Baynton.

It was one thing to have met him in his home with all the trappings, but to have him here? On Mulberry Street? Char was certain he must think them several steps below him.

She glanced at Sarah, who stood like a humble maid waiting orders. As Char had hoped, Sarah knew she was in over her head. Sarah helped her out.
Horses
, she mouthed.

Oh yes, every man liked to talk about horses. “Tell me about your horses,” Char said.

The duke jumped at the topic. He was proud of his grays and had bred them himself. He carried the conversation, and all Char had to do was appear interested. She was so relieved.

Lady Baldwin acted thankful as well. Apparently she had been equally stumped for a topic.

Of course, after the first few minutes, Char's good intentions began to lag. She knew very little about horses, having never been around them much. Her attention began to wander. She also wondered what subject she would choose next once he'd run dry on this one.

She also noticed that the duke did not ask her anything about herself.

Perhaps being a duke, no one else was as important as he was . . . ?

Such an observation would not serve her well. She was determined to marry him for the security that the marriage would provide for herself and Sarah and Lady Baldwin. She must learn to like him—­although she did not
dis
like him.

Char wasn't quite certain what she felt.

She did believe the duke was handsome. She could understand why eligible young ladies had flocked to his ball. However, she found herself looking for signs of his twin in the duke's perfectly groomed person. It was almost as if the two men were shadow, not mirror, images of each other.

Was it wrong to possibly prefer Whitridge to the duke?

She was certain Sarah would think so.

“Well,” the duke said, bringing her attention back to him, “I need to take my leave. There are matters I must attend.”

Char smiled, relieved. “Thank you, Your Grace, for making time for me during your busy day.” She and Sarah had practiced this statement and Char thought she had delivered it rather well.

He seemed pleased. He stood. Bowed over her hand and murmured, “I would that I had nothing to do but bask in your presence.”

That was an alarming statement. Char didn't know if she could manage the agony of the silence she had suffered before she'd asked about horses. She would go half mad.

Fortunately, dutiful Sarah-­the-­maid had fetched His Grace's coat and hat. She held it for him by the front door. Seeing her, he bowed to Lady Baldwin and started from the room.

Prompted by a look from Sarah, Char rose and trailed after him, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.

Sarah helped him with his coat. He took his hat and then faced Char. “I must admit something.”

That statement lifted Char's interest. Sarah's as well, she noted.

“This is the first time I have paid a courting call.”

The news surprised her. She would have supposed a gentleman like him had wooed countless women. For the first time, she truly looked at him. His eyes were kind.

“This is the first time I've ever had one as well,” she answered.

“So, we are both celebrating firsts.”

“Is that why we both were a bit stiff?”

“Stiff? Or wary?”

She blinked at the choice of words and the insight into his character they offered. She frowned. “Stiff. I'm not wary of you.”

The smile he gave her transformed his face. He could make any woman light-­headed when he looked at her like that instead of the intent ­scrutiny he'd given her while she'd poured tea. It had made her feel awkwardly aware of him.

However, now, she found she could breathe.

“I've discovered that ‘firsts' are always difficult,” he said. “I look forward to bettering our acquaintance. My hope is to see much of you over the next several weeks.”

The smile Char gave him was genuine. “Nothing would please me more, Your Grace.”

He released his breath as if he'd been holding it against her answer. “That's good.
Very
good. Until the morrow then. And be ready,” he warned, “I have a feeling you will soon receive a stream of invitations. They will be for events that are on my calendar. I hope you accept them. Wherever you are, I shall look for you.” He took her hand. “As you come to know me better, you may feel you can relax around me and we won't have to talk about horses.”