A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  Dedication

  For Geri Krotow

  Step by step, word by word . . .

  I am wealthy in my friends.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Broadsheet

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  And so . . .

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Broadsheet

  The SIREN Returns!

  The Glorious Creature who captured London and then Disappeared will once again

  Grace the Stage.

  The Bishop’s Hill Theatre

  Tuesday, July 7, 1812

  An Evening tailored to Gentlemen with Refined Tastes

  and for their Special Enjoyment

  Come see

  THE NAUGHTY REVIEW:

  A Clandestine Performance

  This is a return Engagement of London’s once most Talked about Evening in the Theatre, having been received with Roars of Laughter, Applause, and Great Appreciation.

  For ONE night ONLY

  Lovely ladies, Song, and Frolic!

  Special boxes close to the stage available.

  An event NOT to be missed.

  Discretion would be kindly advised.

  Chapter One

  Sarah Pettijohn had vowed she would never play the role of the Siren again . . . and yet here she was, tucked high above the stage behind the proscenium arch so that the audience could not see her, dressed in practically nothing, waiting her turn on stage. From her perch, she watched the teeming mass of male bodies in the audience below and knew they did not bode well for her.

  The owners of the theater, Geoff and Charles, were masters at creating a stir. The house was packed with men from every walk of life. The rich, the poor, the old, the young, and the stupid had all paid their four shillings because, as Geoff said, men could never have their fill of “tittie” watching. “No matter how much it costs them, they like to look.”

  Sarah was not showing her “titties.” She wore a nude shift beneath her diaphanous costume. Granted there was little beneath the shift, but she was well covered compared to the other women in the company. She’d insisted upon it. She knew from the last time she had been compelled to play the Siren, six years ago, the male imagination could fill in the details, whether seen or not.

  Keeping her identity a secret was important, just as it had been in the past. To that purpose, Sarah wore a bejeweled mask and mounds of face paint and powder to create a fanciful, feminine creature with long lashes and golden skin. A black wig plaited into a thick braid hid her red hair. She’d also refused to attend rehearsals, preferring to practice her act in secret. She was not proud of what she was doing. She had a reputation to protect.

  After all, she wasn’t just an actress. She was a playwright.

  She’d agreed to play the Siren because Geoff and Charles promised to stage her play.

  Her play.

  For years, Sarah had rewritten and edited the work of men who used her talent and gave her none of the recognition. This past summer, Colman at the Haymarket Theater where she’d been part of the company for years, had promised to produce one of her plays but when the time came, he’d reneged and put one of his own on the schedule instead. One Sarah had rewritten for him.

  Sarah had walked. She’d left his company with her head high, and her pockets empty.

  That is when Geoff and Charles had approached her.

  They were talented theater men who had staged the first Naughty Review in order to raise the funds to build the Bishop’s Hill Theater. It had been a one-night event, just as this was. At that time, Sarah had been desperate for money so that she could provide a home for her half-sister’s orphaned daughter. She didn’t expose her “titties” then, either, but she would have done that and more to protect Charlene.

  What no one had expected was for the Siren to become almost legendary in men’s minds. Even Sarah was astounded and she was thankful that she’d been disguised so no one knew who she was. For months after that first Review, personal notices were run in the papers from men either begging the actress playing the Siren to contact them or looking for information about her. Fortunately, those few people who knew Sarah never betrayed her.

  Now, after years of running their own theater, Geoff and Charles were deeply in debt. They were in danger of losing the Bishop’s Hill and hoped that if the Review worked once, it would do so again.

  “Everyone wants the Siren,” Charles had said. “You do this for us and we will stage your play. We’ll all have what we want.”

  Sarah had reluctantly agreed. She’d had no choice, really. She didn’t have the means to stage the play herself. Charlene was now happily married and living in Boston, an ocean away. The time had come for Sarah to live her own life.

  If dancing and singing almost naked would bring her what she wanted, then so be it. A woman alone had to do what she must to survive—and if Sarah was one thing, she was a survivor.

  She shifted her weight on the narrow shelf and tightened her hold on the silken rope that would be used to lower her to the stage. The Siren would be the last performance of the evening. She’d secreted herself an hour before the curtain.

  Below her, two female gladiators with swords shaped like phalluses left the stage. William Millroy, an Irish tenor, came out and began singing about being cuckolded by his wife. The audience wasn’t paying attention. They had come for women. Someone threw a cabbage at Will but he ducked. More vegetables and a few fruits were thrown to the delight of the crowd, especially when they hit their target. William scampered off stage to the sound of cheers.

  “Where’s the Siren?” someone called out. A chant began. “Siren! Siren!” Sarah shook her head. Men could be so ridiculous. They had been doing this all evening. Her nerves were frayed.

  A group of bare-breasted dancers costumed as sheep came out onto the stage and the men forgot their chanting and roared their approval. One gent leaped from one of the boxes upon the sheep nearest him. Sarah knew the girl. Irene. She screamed and pushed his hands away from her breasts just as the bullyboys Geoff and Charles had hired rushed forward to toss the man into the pit. Laughter and ribald comments met his comeuppance.

  The music started and the sheep pranced around while a shepherd ran among them poking them in the bum with his staff. Every time he touched a sheep, she’d cry “Baaa” and the audience started mimicking the sound with an obscenity in place of the “Baa.”

  Sarah had an urge to go down on that stage and lecture the men on manners. If they kept up this rowdiness, her performance would be a short one.

  In fact, she would make it quick.

  She would sing one song, escape this theater without anyone being wiser to who she really was, and then she could start living the rest of her life the way she wished. She’d cast her play, The Fitful Widow: A Light Comedy Concerning the Foolishness of Men, and prove that her talent was equal to any male playwright’s—

  Her fierce determination came to an abrupt halt as she recognized one of the men in the very expensive boxes to the side of the stage.
>
  Uncertain she could believe her eyes, she leaned forward as far as she dared on the platform for a better view, balancing herself by holding on to the rope.

  It was him. There was no mistaking the broad shoulders or that arrogantly proud tilt of the head.

  The Duke of Baynton, that Pillar of Morality, the Nonesuch, the Maker of Ministries was at the Naughty Review.

  Sarah sat back, stunned, and then drew a deep breath.

  Who knew? Baynton was mortal after all.

  Or perhaps he had wandered in by chance? Oh no, he wouldn’t.

  She distinctly remembered him coolly informing her that he did not attend the theater. Well, he had added, save for the occasional Shakespeare.

  This was no Shakespeare.

  And it was intriguing to see him here.

  The duke had once wooed her niece Charlene. When Charlene had run off with another, his twin brother, no less, Baynton had gone after them and Sarah had insisted on accompanying him so that she could protect her beloved niece.

  In the end, Baynton had not won the lady. Charlene had married the man she loved and the duke had been somewhat gracious about it—that is, to everyone save Sarah. Apparently he did not appreciate outspoken women.

  She had little admiration for him as well. Two days of traveling to Scotland with him had convinced her that no other man on earth could be more insufferable or self-righteous than Baynton. At their parting, she had prayed to never set eyes upon him again—except this was good. This was a moment to be relished.

  Watched only Shakespeare. The hypocrite.

  If she’d had a shoe on, she would have thrown it down right on his head. Let him think it was the judgment of God Almighty for being in such an immoral place. Sarah would have adored seeing the expression on his handsome face . . . and he was handsome. Sarah was not blind to his looks. It was the words that came out of his mouth she didn’t like.

  But gazing at him, well, that was pleasure.

  In truth, she’d been overjoyed when he’d first called on Charlene. She’d wanted what was best for her niece and the Duke of Baynton was the best London had to offer. He was wealthy, respected, honored, and Char would have made a lovely duchess.

  Sarah could even recall the last words she’d heard the duke speak. Baynton had paid Sarah’s way home from Scotland by private coach rather than endure more travel time with her. He’d mentioned within her hearing that it had been “money well spent. She is too opinionated by half.” Words that Sarah had found surprisingly hurtful, although she’d had her fill of him as well.

  The sheep were almost done with their act. It had gone on overlong. The crowd no longer yelled crudities or baaa’ed. They grew restless. That was the problem with this sort of entertainment. It could never capture the imagination—not in the way a well-written play could.

  The Siren was up next.

  Had Sarah thought to make her performance quick and be done with it? That had been before spying the Duke of Puffed Up Consequence in her audience.

  She stood and wrapped the silken rope around her hand, readying herself to step off the platform the moment the dancers on stage finished. She felt strong, powerful, and inspired to give the performance of her lifetime.

  If Baynton thought his matched set of grays were high flyers, wait until he witnessed the Siren.

  Chapter Two

  If not for his concern for his friend Rovington, Gavin Whitridge, Duke of Baynton, would have walked out of the Naughty Review.

  Oh, he liked looking at women’s breasts as well as any man—and they were all on display here. Big breasts, little ones, and everything in between jiggled and bobbed to the point that, after a while, it became rather tiresome.

  Well, at least for him. The other men in the theater could not seem to have enough. They crowded together, pushing against the pit where the musicians—two violins and a pianoforte—played, trying to close in on the stage and all those dancing breasts.

  And what a crowd it was! Since the theater was lit by what seemed to be a thousand candles not only on the stage but over the audience, Gavin could count no fewer than three judges of the High Court in attendance and what seemed to be every member of the Commons. The octogenarian Lord Bradford was present in a sedan chair and enjoying the show with his carriers. Fathers were accompanied by sons. Sailors milled about by the shipload and lords, gentlemen, knaves, and obvious criminals exchanged catcalls and quips with gusto.

  Serving lasses, their own bosoms barely covered, wove through the crowd with mugs of ale that they charged a half-guinea apiece for, and the lads happily paid.

  Oh, yes, it was a great night at the theater, reminding Gavin why he could barely abide it. He detested crowds. Then again, he wasn’t here for entertainment.

  No, he was here because he believed his trust in Rovington, in whose private box he now sat, was being betrayed.

  Several months ago, Rov’s wife Jane had approached Gavin for help. Rov had always fancied himself a gambler except now, he had apparently been playing too deep. Jane claimed he was cleaned out, done. Ruined. He’d turned to the moneylenders and would start losing his unentailed estates. Since his father, also a gambler, had not been wise with his responsibilities, there were a number of them.

  Gavin counted Rov as one of his oldest friends. They had known each other since school. Of course he wanted to help and had pushed for Rov to be named to the lucrative position as Chairman of the Committees in the House of Lords.

  He did it for several reasons: First, Rov had a bit of a touch with the Common Man and this position called for good communication with the House of Commons. The Chairman of the Committees could dictate the importance of all legislation in Parliament. And that was the second reason Gavin had placed him there. Gavin expected Rov to carry out his suggestions. In turn, the income from the position would relieve Rovington’s money woes.

  Unfortunately, the decision was not a successful one.

  Yes, Rov did well with the members of the Commons—as could be seen by the number of them who had stopped by their box this evening. But he was not controllable. He ignored Gavin’s recommendations and handled matters his own way . . . and Gavin was starting to suspect Rov might be involved in double-dealing, even in accepting bribes.

  Nor had the income helped. Rov’s gambling was even worse now. Jane had come to Gavin only that afternoon, begging him to help. Apparently Rov had placed wagers all over London that he would bed a woman known as the Siren.

  “He’s besotted with her,” Jane had said. “He saw her in performance years ago and has never forgotten her.”

  “But to place a bet on bedding her?” Gavin had said in disbelief.

  “See for yourself. My husband is a fool.”

  She’d been right.

  With a bit of investigation, Gavin had learned Rov had placed a fortune on the bedding wagers. He’d also paid five hundred pounds for the private box right next to the stage, an exorbitant amount even if there had been some decent acting presented.

  And Rov was as bold as you please about his wager. All evening, men had stopped by to up their wagers or badger Rov about his “swordsmanship.” Gavin knew Rov was fond of actresses. He liked Jane and hoped she never found out about Rov’s many mistresses, who probably had received more of her husband’s money than she did.

  All in all, Gavin realized he had made a bad decision in trusting Rov. He could hear his father mock him. His father had always warned Gavin to stay away from gamblers. Then again, his father himself had made more than one bad investment, and wasn’t that a form of gambling?

  Other members in the box with Rov and Gavin included Admiral Alexander Daniels and Lord Phillips, who was a member of the Chancery. Both were well into their cups, Phillips being the worst of the two. There was also Rov’s cousin, Sir John Harmond, a well respected mathematician who twittered like a girl at every act. There were also two sly fellows who were quite obvious sharps, confirming the disturbing rumors Gavin had been hearing about his friend. />
  “This is Harris and Crowder,” Rov had introduced them offhandedly.

  “Your Grace,” Crowder had said for the twosome, but not with the deference Gavin was accustomed to receiving. They acted as if they’d seen too much of men, of the underbelly of the beast, to be humbled just by his mere presence. Rov was nothing more than a mark for them, a man caught up in his spending ways and, if friends did not become involved in the situation, they would eat him alive.

  Gavin didn’t have many close companions—male or female. His title was a barrier as were the duties that took up the majority of his time. His father had impressed upon him that a man of substance must hold himself to a higher standard than those around him.

  So, while his peers were going off on larks and entertainments, Gavin worked. He had a sense of obligation to his country. He used his considerable political influence to support the right causes, to be the sort of duke his title bade him to be. He prided himself on being the kind of man who stood head and shoulders above others.

  It kept him busy and left little time for personal friendships and perhaps that was why he’d trusted Rov too much. As he watched half-naked sheep dance on stage, his mind chewed on the problem of how best to keep his friend from ruining himself—

  A sharp jab to his arm almost caused him to spill the swill in his mug. “I told you this was going to be something, eh?” Rov asked, his eyes bright, excited. He was a tad shorter than Gavin and thinner, with blond hair. Lines of dissipation from long nights and hard drinking were beginning to show on his handsome face. “I said this is what you have been needing, Baynton, instead of poring over reports to Parliament and Whitehall. A man needs to play. You need to unleash the wolf inside.” He emphasized the last words by bouncing his fist off of Gavin’s shoulder. “Especially before you leg-shackle yourself.”

  He referred to Gavin’s hunt for a wife.

  “If I had a wife like yours, I’d be home playing,” Gavin said pointedly, trying to keep his tone mild.