The Fairest of Them All (5 page)

Gavin held up a hand for understanding. “You left school to pursue an actress? Was that a mature action?”

“It wasn't my maturity doing the thinking.”

Jack's comment startled a snort out of Ben, one he quickly stifled after a glare from the duke.

But Jack was not put off by Gavin's disapproval. “You wanted the story. I'm giving it to you. I ­traveled with them to Portsmouth. The troupe was playing in a fair and I found myself cast in a role. I rather liked acting and I certainly enjoyed the lass, so, if someone was searching for me—­and on my word of honor, I was not aware of any search—­then, no, I did not want to be found. Unfortunately, my life took a bad turn. I was taken by an impress gang.”

“You were impressed?” Ben repeated.

“Aye. I served on His Majesty's ship the
Hornet
. They needed a crew for the Indies since most of theirs had succumbed to fever on the last run, and they chose me.”

“Did you tell them who you were?” Gavin demanded.

“So often it earned me a lashing,” Jack assured him. “They had no desire to hear me claim to be a duke's son, especially to a man as important as Father. It would have been far easier for them to toss me overboard than reckon with the Duke of Baynton.”

“That was not right of them,” Ben said.

“True, but I found I liked the roving life. I've seen Bombay. I've sailed around the Horn and ­enjoyed my time in the West Indies. I became the
Hornet
's storekeeper. However, the first chance I had, I jumped ship.”

“And you didn't think to come home?” Some of the anger had left Gavin's tone.

“I would be a wanted man,” Jack explained. “The Crown does not look kindly upon deserters.”

“We would have taken care of that misunderstanding for you,” Gavin said.

“Aye, but after four years of living by my own wits, I'd come to like it. I was in an American port, Charleston, and I started walking until I couldn't see the ocean.”

“Then what did you do?” Ben asked.

“I trapped, traveled around, married.” He said the last evenly as if it was of no consequence, but it was—­and, of course, Gavin caught it.

“You are married?”

“I was.” Jack glanced over to the cabinet with the whisky decanter and moved toward it. He needed a drink. He could be calm, reasoned . . . until he let himself remember. He poured himself a healthy amount and took a swallow, ­letting the smoke of very good whisky ease a hated memory.

“Childbed fever took her.” Jack drained his glass in one gulp. “It was a difficult birth. My son was stillborn.”

For a moment there was silence, and then Ben said, “I am sorry.”

“As am I,” Gavin agreed.

A hard lump formed in Jack's throat the way it always did when he let himself remember too much. “She has been gone seven years.”

“What was her name?” Gavin asked.

“Hope.”

“What was your son's name?”

Jack paused a long moment and then said, “Daniel, after her father.”

“I'm sorry,” Ben said.

Gavin picked up his own glass and swallowed before saying, “As I am as well.”

Jack set his glass on the cabinet. He now turned it thoughtfully as he finished his tale. “I had a farm at the time. There was nothing left for me there so I sold it and decided, ironically, to return to school. I attended Harvard College, studied law, and apprenticed under a man I admire, Caleb Strong. I started my practice in Boston. After so much time in the wilderness, the city suits me.” He took a step away from the cabinet. “So there is my story. That is where I've been. And now I'm here because our two countries are dangerously close to going to war.”

Gavin made a restless movement as if the change of subject to Jack's purpose annoyed him. “And this is why you have finally returned? To persuade us to do what? Give you Canada?”

“There is a list of grievances I wish to share with you—­”

“Bah!” Gavin said, rising and moving out from behind his desk on the side away from Jack. “I don't want to prattle about that nonsense now.”

“Then when?”

Before Gavin could answer, the door opened. A lovely dark-­headed woman came in holding the
seemingly frail arm of their mother. ­Marcella, the dowager duchess, wore a dressing robe,
and the pins had been removed from her hair so that it fell in silver locks around her shoulders.

Gavin was by her side immediately. “Mother, I thought Mr. Higley suggested you rest?”

She waved him away while she moved toward Jack. She stopped in front of him and placed her hands on his arms above the elbows. Tears formed in her eyes. “I had to see him again, to feel him. I needed to be certain I wasn't dreaming.” She leaned close and Jack felt his arms go around her in the same manner that she had once hugged him when he was half his size.

His mother seemed impossibly small in his arms.

She drew in a deep breath. “Yes, you are my Jack. You have the scent I always remembered about you.”

“What? Flowers and roses?” Gavin suggested.

“Dirty potatoes,” their mother said, straightening and smiling up at Jack. “Welcome home, my son. Welcome.”

Jack hugged her tighter then, the sting of his own tears in his eyes. He blinked them back. Men did not cry. He'd cried over Hope and the son he'd lost. He'd mourned for them for years. However, now he had heavy responsibilities. He could not let sentimentality cloud his vision.

His mother stepped back and urged the young woman to come forward. “Here, do you remember Elin?”

“Elin Morris?” Jack said. “Ah, you were betrothed to Gavin.” Their father had betrothed him to Elin when she was little more than a babe. “Certainly, you are his duchess now?”

A becoming color swept her cheeks. It was Ben who answered. “Actually, she is
my
wife.”

If someone had punched him in the face, Jack could not have been more surprised. The old duke had prided himself upon the Morris alliance and it stood to reason that Gavin, who had always jumped to their father's bidding, would have married whom he'd chosen.

Except he hadn't.

Jack now saw his twin with new eyes.

“You are a lucky man, Ben,” Jack said and he meant the words. Elin had an air of both grace and good intelligence.

Again, she blushed as a modest young wife should. “I am also pleased to make your acquaintance. It is good to see that our worst fears for you had not happened.”

“Tactfully spoken, my lady,” Jack said, bowing again.

His mother wrapped her arms around his as if he were a mooring anchor. “You will stay here,” she said.

Jack wanted to please, but he couldn't. “It would not be wise—­”

“Why not?” she demanded.

Words failed him. He looked down into her eyes and did not want to tell her the truth.

Gavin did it for him. “He is an American now, Mother. He is negotiating for his new country.”

“But that doesn't mean he is not
my
son,” she ­informed the duke. “I want him under my roof. We have been apart for too long. What would people say if my lost son did not stay at ­Menheim?”

Jack looked at Gavin. His face had become a mask. Jack remembered how their father would retreat in that manner. No one knew his feelings or how he would react.

“I can't stay,” Jack said gently to his mother. “There will be negotiations that could be ­compromised—­”

“Nonsense,” Gavin cut in. “In fact, if you wish my support in opening negotiations, then your wisest course is to please Mother.”

“It is a conflict of interest for me to stay here,” Jack insisted.

“Then return to Boston,” Gavin answered. The negotiations had begun. To win the Duke of Baynton's cooperation, one must do as the duke wished.

And Jack wanted to refuse him, to exert his own authority, but he was a man now and the stakes at play were high. This was no time to indulge in old grudges.

“Then, yes, Mother, I will stay,” Jack heard himself say, and prayed he was making the right ­decision.

Chapter Five

S
arah was sitting in the front room at her desk, writing away under the flickering light of a brace of candles, when Char and Lady Baldwin walked into the house on Mulberry Street. She set aside her pen and placed the cap on the ink bottle.

“How was the ball?” she asked. “You are home early, earlier than I had anticipated.”

“We have quite a story,” Lady Baldwin said before taking a moment to place a coin in the palm of the driver of the hired chaise that had carried them to the duke's ball and then home again.

The man did not want to leave. Hungry eyes on Char, he said, “If you ever need me again, ask for Lewis. I'm happy to be at your beck and call.” He was young and handsome in a rawboned way and quite obviously taken with her.

“Yes, well, that is enough for tonight,” Lady Baldwin assured him and all but slammed the door on him to make him leave. She looked to Char. “I always receive the best service when I'm with you. However, sometimes, it is a bit too much.”

“
He
was,” Char agreed. She was tired, exhausted. She hadn't realized how wound up she'd been about this evening until now that it was over. She helped Lady Baldwin out of her velvet cape and took off her own cloak, hanging them both on the row of pegs in the hall.

Char had thought herself quite presentable for the evening until she'd arrived at the duke's house, handed over the wool cloak she'd borrowed from Sarah, and had seen it against the furs and embroidered outerwear of the other female guests. The poor wool had appeared quite shabby. It had been a humbling moment for Char, one of many.

Sarah knew something was wrong. “What happened? You weren't refused at the door, were you?” she asked as if she had feared the invitation was a hoax.

“Oh no, nothing like that,” Lady Baldwin assured her, walking past her into the front room. “Something worse.”

“Worse?” Sarah repeated.

“Yes, worse,” Lady Baldwin declared, practically falling into a chair, the green and yellow feathers of her turban slightly askew. “Charlene, a glass of something,
please
.”

“I need one as well,” Char murmured. “And so will you, Sarah.” She started for the kitchen but Sarah stopped her.

“I have it in here. I set up a tray for us to celebrate. Now tell me, what happened?”

“You will need a glass of something first,” Lady Baldwin said.

Sarah began pouring from the sherry bottle on the tray. She handed a glass to Lady Baldwin. “Did she meet the duke?” she demanded.

“I met him,” Char said.

Sarah handed her a glass. “Did he not like you? Oh no, he must. What did he say? Did you talk to him very long? Did he appear interested? Did you dance with him?”

“Oh, he was
very
interested,” Lady Baldwin assured her. “I have never seen a man more taken with a woman than the Duke of Baynton was with our Charlene. One look and it was as if everyone in the ballroom—­and it was packed, mind you. There were lovely girls and not so lovely ones with hopeful parents covering every inch of it. Packed to the rafters they were—­”

“Will you finish your sentence?” Sarah said with no small amount of exasperation. “Everyone in the ballroom
what
?”

Chastened, Lady Baldwin said, “Why, it was as if everyone in the ballroom disappeared. He only had eyes for Charlene. He couldn't look hard enough at her. Dame Imogen was right by his side. She gave me a smile and a little nod of her head—­” She demonstrated the barest of movements. “I took it as a sign that he had not had this reaction to any other young woman.”

“He
liked
you,” Sarah said to Charlene. “But then I knew he would. How could he not? This is wonderful, exactly what we'd hoped for. But then, why are the two of you so crestfallen? Why are you not happy?” Sarah's face had gone pale and Char knew what her aunt was thinking. They had spent almost all the money from the stolen purse. The rent had been paid for the month but everything else had gone toward preparing for this one evening.

And it had all been for naught—­because of the appearance of
one
man.

“The duke's brother arrived,” Lady Baldwin said. She drained her glass.

“And?” Sarah prodded.

“Apparently, he's been missing
for years
,” Char explained, and of course, Whitridge would show up when she least needed him. She had not told anyone about her confrontation with him, not even Lady Baldwin. He had been her secret.

“Yes, everyone thought him dead,” Lady Baldwin explained. “I remember when he first ­vanished. They said he had been sleeping in his bed at Eton and then—­
poof!
He was gone. And then decides to show up on this one night, just as Charlene has been presented to the duke.” She began acting out the moment. “The duke had asked her to dance. He looked around as if to signal that he was done with the receiving line, that he had found the woman he wanted.”

“Oh my,” Sarah said.

“But then the duke's brother broke in,
uninvited
, to the ball and ruined it all. The duke was not happy to see him and he seemed to forget our Charlene. She was pushed back out of the way while the two brothers had this reunion that they could have had tomorrow or the next day or the next one. I pushed her forward, Sarah. I wanted to remind him of her presence. By the by, Charlene was
not
help with that,” she added as an aside. “I pushed forward; she kept trying to hide behind me.”

Charlene had been trying to elude Whitridge's attention. Fortunately, he was so focused on his brother and the drama of the moment, he hadn't noticed her . . . which was good . . . except it had stung her vanity, which was odd because Whitridge was definitely someone she should avoid. She'd been very lucky to escape his notice and risk being labeled a thief in front of the duke and all the world.

And yet she found herself piqued about how oblivious he had been to her.

“Then the dowager duchess fainted,” Lady Baldwin continued, “and the ball was called to a halt.” She poured herself another glass of sherry.

Sarah reached for a glass as well and filled it to the brim. She looked to Char. “I don't suppose there was any chance the duke might remember you?”

Char shrugged and then admitted, “Not even a remote one. The ball came to an end then. We were practically pushed out the door by the ­footmen.”

“Well.” The word was a sentence in and of itself. Sarah looked into her overfull glass a moment and then lifted it in the air. “We tried. We took a risk and you can now say you have attended a ball.”

“Or part of one,” Lady Baldwin corrected. She tipped her own glass. “To our Charlene. Baynton is a fool to lose you.”

Char could agree to that and raised her glass. “And to my lovely aunt and caring friend. You are my family and all I need to be happy.”

They drank, the moment mellowing their disappointment over the evening.

Sarah spoke. “So, what did you think of Baynton when you met him? Is he as handsome as they say?”

“I couldn't quibble over his looks,” she admitted. “He is tall with deep blue eyes and dark ­curling hair. If the Haymarket had him playing the lead roles, Colman would sell out every night.”

“That handsome?” Sarah said, impressed.

“Aye, he has looks,” Char returned.

Then again, the man who had caught her attention—­and not just because he could denounce her—­had been Whitridge.

She found herself thinking about him at odd moments, and not just because he had almost caught her. His looks were rougher than the duke's. He was far from being as polished. However, there was an air of confidence, an assurance about him.

Tonight, he had walked into their glittering company in tall boots and a plain jacket, and she knew there wasn't a female in the room who hadn't noticed him. Almost immediately, fans had started fluttering and there had been an air of restless interest.

And that had not set well with Char, either.

How contrary she was being. She should want to stay away from Whitridge.

Instead, she was not pleased that he had caught the eye of other women.

“Char, are you all right?” Sarah asked.

Her aunt's concerned question startled her. “Yes, of course. Why?”

“For a moment, your mind seemed miles away.”

“I was thinking about the ball. You were right. I am glad I went. I will never forget it.”

“I'm sorry it didn't turn out the way I had hoped,” Sarah said. “My imagination had penned a whole new life for you. Baynton would sweep the penniless orphan up in his arms and make her his lovely duchess. There would be no worry, no doubt, and only happiness in your future.”

“And stuffed goose every Sunday for dinner,” Char added lightly.

“Oh, a stuffed goose would only be the beginning of the Sunday feasts in the ducal mansion,” Sarah assured her.

“For my tastes, I would want a rib roast,” Lady Baldwin said. “My daughter had one served last Sunday, but they sent a plate of chicken to my room. They had guests,” she explained.

“That was rude,” Char said. “What did your daughter say when you informed her that you were attending the Duke of Baynton's ball this evening? Was she surprised? Humbled?”

“She doesn't know I went and I don't know if I will tell her. I said I was going out and she didn't bother to ask where. And look at me—­I'm in all my finery . . .”

Lady Baldwin fell into a sad silence before almost ruefully saying, “Last week, I let my granddaughter Verity play in my clothes. She is only six. Lovely girl. Reminds me of my daughter at that age. Margaret used to enjoy dressing up with my things when she was that age. However, when I sent Verity to show her mother how pretty she looked in my feathers and scarves, Margaret laughed and asked her if she was trying to be a clown like her grandmother. She didn't know I was listening.”

Sarah reached over to give Lady Baldwin's hand a squeeze. “Did you tell her what you heard?” Char asked.

“No, not that she would care.” Lady Baldwin finished her glass and added, “I had some thought that after our Charlene was a great success, I would tell Margaret of the part I'd played. I would be the close friend of a duchess and not just
any
duchess, but the Duchess of Baynton. Now it is not to be. Silly of me to want to dream that way.”

“My lady, I am so sorry—­” Char started but Lady Baldwin shushed her.

“It isn't your worry, my girl.”

“But you should come live with us,” Sarah said.

“And add to your already many burdens? I think not. Besides, I value our friendship. If I lived with you all the time, you might not be so pleased with me. Margaret certainly isn't.”

“Margaret is a prig,” Char said loyally, and her friend smiled, an expression that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Before any more could be said, a knock sounded on the door.

“Who would be calling at this hour of the night?” Sarah asked, rising to go to the window and glance outside at the step before answering—­and then she raced to the door.

“Who is it?” Char asked, coming to her feet.

In answer, Sarah stepped back, inviting two liveried and bewigged footmen into the house. Between them they carried an arrangement of red hothouse roses so large it was half the size of Char.

One of them bowed to Sarah. “Lady Charlene?”

She pointed toward Char, before covering her lips with both her hands as if to contain her excitement.

The servants gravely bowed before Char. “My lady,” one said, “the Duke of Baynton bid us deliver these flowers to you.”

“In the middle of the night?” Char said, dumbfounded.

“His Grace ordered it be done with all haste.”

And when the Duke of Baynton spoke, his servants apparently jumped to his bidding.

“Where would you like us to place them, my lady? They are a bit heavy.”

“On the desk,” Char said as Sarah rushed to clear her writing from the surface.

The glorious bouquet took over the top of the desk. The servants were careful of the vase. It was swirled glass and a tribute to a glassblower's art.

“How could he arrange for this in the middle of the night?” Char said in wonder.

A footman answered, “The Duke of Baynton may do anything he wishes, my lady.”

The scent of roses filled the air.

“His Grace also bid me deliver this letter.” The footman presented to Char an envelope in the same heavy, gilded vellum that had been used for the ball invitation. “He directed me to wait for your response.”

Char shot a look at Sarah and Lady Baldwin who gestured for her to hurry and open the envelope. The sealing wax was imprinted with a crest featuring a stag and a crown. Carefully prying it from the paper so that she could save it to examine later, she pulled out the card inside.

I regret we did not have our dance this evening. However, with your permission, I would call on you on the morrow.

The signature at the bottom was “Baynton,” carelessly scrawled as if he wrote his name a ­hundred times a day.

She looked up at Sarah and Lady Baldwin. “He wants to call on me.” She could scarce believe she was saying such a thing.

Fear of Whitridge vanished.

There wasn't a marriageable young woman in London who wouldn't have sold her soul for this request.
Char had been chosen
.

It was only then she realized that she had not actually believed it had been possible. Yes, Lady Baldwin and Sarah had predicted he could not help but notice her, but Char had not been convinced. After all who was she? The penniless daughter of a disgraced earl. A poor, pitiful ­relation.

And
she
had captured the attention of the most important duke in Britain. A handsome duke. A thoughtful one.