The Fairest of Them All (6 page)

Her gaze went to the flowers. They were such a fulsome gesture. He wanted her to know he was serious in his intent.

Why, if a man could spend the money for hothouse flowers in February, he would be able to sponsor one of Sarah's plays or help Char provide for her aunt and her friend Lady Baldwin.

She'd even have five guineas to pay off the Seven and live a life free of petty larceny.

And she was glad now that Whitridge had not recognized her. He'd been standing practically next to her and had not realized who she was. ­Perhaps he had put her from his mind? Or had not registered her features as completely as she had the ability to recall his?

Sarah cleared her throat, a reminder to Char that the footman awaited an answer.

This marriage could change the futures for all of them. Would Char be her father's daughter if she didn't take a chance?

“Yes, I would like His Grace to call. I would like that very much,” Char said.

The servants bowed and left. Sarah closed the door behind them. She walked forward as if entering the presence of greatness. She threw her arms about Char and swung her around the room. Lady Baldwin did her own jig, the half-­empty sherry bottle held high.

“You did it,” Sarah said. “You did it, you did it,
you
did it. Oh, sweetie—­” She used a pet name for Char. “Our luck has changed.”

Char prayed she was right.

Chapter Six

J
ack woke the next morning in one of Menheim's very comfortable beds and his first thought was of the lovely pickpocket.

After their confrontation, he'd gone out of his way to walk that particular section of the city, looking for a slender lad hiding hair kissed by the moon under an overlarge hat.

Of course he didn't find her. She was clever enough to avoid him. And he had more important matters to consider than a petty criminal, even a lovely one.

He'd forced her out of his mind. He was ­singular of purpose and focused on what he needed to do . . . until this morning, and he wasn't certain why he thought of her now.

Something had prompted his curiosity about her and Jack couldn't fathom what it was.

Gavin had sent footmen the night before to the Horse and Horn for his belongings. Jack now dressed himself and, seeing the time, left his room bound for a meeting of his delegation at the inn.

Menheim was quiet when he went out the door, which was not unusual considering the ball the night before. Not even Henry, their ever-­present butler, guarded the front door.

“I hear you created a stir last night,” Silas ­Lawrence commented in greeting as Jack sat down at his table in the public room. The Horse and Horn was a busy posting inn and accessible to wherever one might wish to go in London, or in England.

The room charges were also reasonable. Jon­athan Russell, the United States chargé d'affaires to the Court of St. James, had recommended it to Jack's delegation. He'd also warned that the United States government was notoriously slow with paying travel vouchers. Matthew Rice might have enough money to lose his purse and replace it, but Jack didn't. He wasn't certain about Silas's financial standing, but the man had offered no protest at the choice of residence.

“And you heard this where?” Jack said.

“The papers.” Lawrence spread his hands over the paper he had been reading. “They are full of stories about your brother's ball last evening. I didn't realize you had gone missing and had been believed dead.”

“I am more resilient than most consider me,” Jack returned.

Lawrence gave him one of his tight smiles. “­Apparently. I knew you were well connected but I didn't realize there was so much family ­spectacle involved. You are all anyone can talk about. I've been sitting here for an hour and your name is on everyone's lips.”

“I am not here to discuss my family history. Where is Matthew?” Jack nodded as the ­serving girl, a buxom lass with more swagger to her hips than a sailor, gestured to see if he wished a ­tankard. He pointed to whatever Silas was drinking. “I sent word we should all meet at this hour.”

“And I am here.” Lawrence began folding the paper. “I did notice you didn't return last night.”

“I'll be staying with my family.”

“Ah.” Lawrence had a way of making that one syllable sound a condemnation. “Well, our young friend may not be joining us. He is sleeping it off.”

“Sleeping
what
off?”

“Relax, Whitridge. Matthew is young. He took in too many of the sights, if you understand my meaning.” His gaze lingered appreciatively on the serving girl as she placed a pewter mug in front of Jack.

Leaning forward to block his view, Jack said, “We are not here for enjoyment. I know you are a war hawk.” He referred to the faction in Congress that seemed always anxious and ready to declare war on Britain. “I expect you to do all you can to ruin any good I can accomplish, but let's keep Matthew away from the whores.”

“And spoil his enjoyment of the city?” Lawrence asked as Jack took a drink of his mug and then almost choked in surprise.

“Rum? This early?”

“It is beneficial to my constitution.”

“So when we finally have our meeting with Whitehall, I have on my side a rum swiller and a green lad who wants to make a name for himself not in diplomacy but by poking every wench he sees.”

“I don't swill all the time,” Lawrence answered. “However, it is good of us to finally have this conversation instead of our usual polite coldness.”

“Glad you feel so obliged.”

“Oh come now. If the powers-­that-­be—­and that does not include either you or me, but most certainly your mentor Governor Strong and my good friend, Speaker of the House Mr. Clay—­wished to negotiate with all the goodwill of our United States, then they wouldn't have sent us. Some of the most noble of our statesmen have already done exactly what we plan to do, lay out the American grievances, and they failed to earn any interest from our current hosts. If nothing has been accomplished since the Chesapeake-­Leopard Affair”—­he referred to a naval ­incident where the HMS
Leopard
had attacked and boarded the American ship looking for supposed British deserters among the ship's complement—­“then there is little
we
can do. We've been here two weeks, Whitridge, and we can't find anyone to accept even our letters of introduction. Another sign, if you ask me, of Britain's complete disregard for our country. War is inevitable.”

Jack took a more circumspect sip of his rum. It was not good quality. “We could be crushed.”

“With the English fighting the French and Lord knows whom else? Their forces are spread too thin. I plan on assuring Mr. Clay that
now
is the hour to strike.”

“Look around you, Lawrence. The very world is represented in this inn. People are here from every continent, merchants from all corners, ­visitors ­anxious to trade with the mighty. Don't believe for one second that Britain doesn't have the power to defend her holdings. Especially at sea.”

“So you are not up for the fight? Or ­perhaps seeing your family has changed your ­allegiances?”

Jack could have grabbed Lawrence by his bagwig and pounded his face on the table.

He didn't. He'd given up those sorts of actions once he'd decided to become a gentleman. That didn't mean he didn't have the thoughts.

“I've touched a nerve,” Lawrence observed, reading Jack's expression accurately.

“You have questioned my loyalty. We may have a difference of opinion but we both want what is best for our country.”

“
Our
country? The papers are stating you were welcomed home with open arms.”

“You can't believe the scribblers here any more than you can at home. I know my own mind and I know what happened last night.” Jack leaned forward. “The only reason I presented myself to my brother is because we were not making headway. Our reception should be different today.”

“My, the Duke of Baynton is powerful indeed if that is the case,” Lawrence said mockingly.

“He has more than power, he is respected,” Jack returned.

Lawrence laughed his response. “Very well, tell me what you wish of me. However, let me assure you that Madison and his war hawks have decided upon war. A delegation comprised of something other than a newly minted lawyer, a rum-­soaked scholar, and our wenching friend Matthew will not deter their decision.”

There was truth in that statement.

“My advice,” Lawrence continued, picking up his paper, “which I am certain you won't heed, is that we enjoy ourselves while we are here in London and keep our expectations low. For all we know, war may already have been declared.”

Jack refused to accept this. There were good men willing to do all that they must to avoid such a happening. “I'm not one to avoid a challenge—­”

“You are in the minority, my friend.”

“At least we know where each other stands.” Jack stood.

“Returning to the family?” Lawrence's manner was so offhand and mild, they could have been speaking of the weather instead of the future of a nation that Jack had come to value.

“I was sent to do what I could. I shall carry on.”

“Let me know how your request for the Canadian provinces is received.”

Jack could have taken the man's head off. “You may mock me, Lawrence, but you will not deter me. Warn Matthew of the clap. His future wife, Ruth, would not be pleased with such a surprise. And as for yourself, stay the bloody hell out of my way.”

With those words, he turned away, and that was when he noticed the seemingly nondescript man sitting on a bench by the door. His hat was pulled low over his eyes as if he was taking a snooze. Here was the perfect target for the Jack's frustration with his American compatriots.

Leaning over the table, supposedly for the purpose of pouring the contents of his almost full mug into Lawrence's now empty one, Jack said, “Do you see that man on the bench with his hat low over his head?”

“I do.”

“When you have the chance, mark his face. Tell me or send a message immediately if you see him or anyone like him following you or Matthew.”

“Who is he?”

Jack smiled grimly and did not answer. Instead, he walked over to the man and kicked his boots before sitting on the bench beside him. The man sat up and Jack had a good look at his face.

He did not know him, although he knew his hunch about the man was correct. “My father, the old duke, used to have a gent who dogged my every step when I was a lad. He was not success­ful, as you know. I still managed to elude him many a time, and I can do the same with you.”

To his credit, the man did not disavow Jack's suspicions. He stretched and sat up, tilting his hat on his head. “I am merely doing what is asked, Lord Jack.” He had even features but bland ones. Brown eyes, brown hair; he could stand in front of someone and, if he was surrounded by a crowd, they would not see him.

The title needled Jack. He was not comfortable with it. He held out his hand. “Call me Whitridge. Or Jack. I answer to both.”

The man hesitated and then shook his hand. “I'm Perkins.”

“I imagine my brother has charged you with following me around.”

Perkins did not answer.

Jack shrugged. “So much like Father.” He stood. “Very well, Perkins. I'm off to Whitehall. You can either follow me or walk beside me.”

His brother's man stood. “Which would you prefer?”

“Walk with me,” and on those words, Jack left the Horse and Horn. Perkins followed a step behind.

It was a sunny day for February in London. Jack made good time on his way to Whitehall, the ­section of buildings housing the government. He had traveled this way every day for the past week and a half. No one had been particularly ­interested in what he had to say.

However, matters might be different now that he had revealed his connection to the Duke of Baynton.

He'd gone to his brother last night because he'd finally come to realize he must swallow his pride and use his connections. He'd struggled with his rebellious streak. He had wanted to do this himself. Still, it was more important to him that he make his mark on an issue that mattered.

And then, perhaps, he would stop believing himself a failure.

He wasn't certain when the shadow of doubt had first fallen across him. He'd not lied to Gavin when he'd said he'd enjoyed his years sailing. It had been an adventurous life and a hard one. He'd been a smart sailor and he'd basked in the relative independence of being able to do as he pleased without his father's constant criticism and disapproval.

Jack had even considered himself wise when he'd taken leave of his ship. Here was true freedom. He'd roamed the American wilderness, ­working for his food whether by trapping, ­trading, or manual labor. He'd enjoyed those days. He'd met enough characters to tell stories over a lifetime. He liked Americans. He liked being one of them.

Of course, his free-­spirited rambling changed when he'd met Hope. Lovely women like Hope had been scarce in the wilderness, and at three and twenty, Jack had been more than ready to take a wife.

His days of wandering may have come to an end. However, his ambition had not. He'd needed to prove himself. He must. It was the lesson his father had drummed into him. Farming and working the trading post with his wife's family had not been enough. He'd always wanted more.

Then, after Hope's death, he found he needed a complete change from what he had been doing. The law became his calling. He'd discovered he actually liked studying. Gavin would laugh if he heard that. Jack had never been a good student before.

Now, as he walked past the statue of the first King Charles in Charing Cross, the thought struck Jack that he was becoming more his father's son than ever before.
That
idea stopped him dead in his tracks.

Perkins came to a halt as well and looked question­ingly at him.

Jack stood where he was, taking in the sights and sounds where the Strand ran into Whitehall road. The traffic was busy. The coaches, riders, and sedan chairs of the powerful intermingled with drays and hundreds if not thousands of pedestrians from every walk of life. They were intent on their personal interests, weaving their way around other people's busyness, going about their lives.

And he was—­what?

Oh, he had purpose. His legal practice in Boston gave him great satisfaction. He was determined to bring the list of American grievances to the attention of Prime Minister Perceval's government.

He'd lost much already in his life, including a wife whom he'd adored, but he had no complaints at this moment—­except, he realized, he was looking for
her
again. He searched for hair so blond it appeared white. Or startled blue eyes.

“Is something the matter?” Perkins asked.

“Ah, no. Just thinking,” Jack answered. “Every once in a while, a memory forces me to pause.”

Perkins accepted the excuse, nodding as if he under­stood, but Jack knew he didn't. It was ­insanity to keep thinking of the pickpocket. Jack's days of being ruled by his small head were long past.

Or should be.

Jack made himself walk toward the rows of government offices in front of him.