“Millroy knew about this?”
“All the men did. Rovington is a braggart and half of that audience was there to have a look at you and see if he’d win.”
“Why, that is immoral.”
Irene laughed at Sarah’s outrage. “’Tis, isn’t it? You know the fancy bucks, they think they own the world and we are just here for their pleasure.” Her tone had turned bitter.
Sarah understood. She looked down at the handbill. “Ten pounds.”
“It is good wages,” Irene said. “Especially after one has been rooked from what should have been an excellent payday.”
A person like her fellow actors in the Naughty Review.
“Perhaps some of those lads have gone for a pint, but you’d best be careful, Sarah. They might also be going to pay a call on his lordship.”
“I hear your warning,” Sarah answered, “but in truth, I can’t worry about Rovington. Who I want is Geoff and Charles and I shall find them.”
“If I were them, I’d be flying to the Continent,” Irene countered. “Can you imagine how much money we took in last night? They could live for years on it. They lived for years off the first review we did.”
“This is not right,” Sarah said.
Irene gave a fatalistic shrug. “What can we do? Life is not fair. There are those who take and a host of us who are taken.”
“But they are playing with me,” Sarah answered. And her dreams. Her hopes. Her ambitions.
The play she so carefully held in her arms felt heavier than a cord of wood. Her blood boiled with anger.
She could well imagine Geoff and Charles laughing at how gullible she’d been, how utterly, to their larcenous minds, clueless.
But they had underestimated Sarah Pettijohn.
Chances were that if the two crooks were not in London, then they might still be in England. She’d chase them to the ends of the earth, if possible. And while perhaps she couldn’t hunt them down, she knew someone who could.
If you ever need me, send for me.
The duke’s words echoed in her mind. Did she dare . . . ?
Did she have any other choice? This was survival. Geoff and Charles were attempting to crumple her dreams. She would not let them.
“Are you all right?” Irene asked. “You have the most fierce expression on your face.”
“Fierce? Yes, that is right. I’ll do anything to find Geoff and Charles. I will find them.”
“And how are you going to do that?” the other actress asked.
“I’m going to call on the Duke of Baynton.”
Irene laughed and then stopped as she saw Sarah was serious. “Do you really know Baynton?”
Sarah nodded. “And I know how to convince him to help me.” Baynton wanted her. Well, then, here was her price: she wanted Geoff and Charles brought to justice. Sarah set off walking. She’d not reached the end of the street before the skies opened and it began to rain.
She kept walking.
Gavin had left Sarah Pettijohn’s room feeling as if someone had stirred up his insides with a red-hot poker. He was surprised he could walk away from her with any sense of dignity. He moved as if the world around him had slowed.
His horse waited where he had tied it. He glanced at the whorehouse across the way and found himself hoping that one of those randy bucks who had gone in earlier would come out now and challenge him. He’d like nothing better right now than a good mill.
The thought flitted across his mind that any reasonable person would tell him to cross the road and climb the steps into that house. His was a problem easy to solve, as both of his brothers—and Mrs. Pettijohn—had pointed out to him, but he wanted her. Mrs. Pettijohn . . . Sarah, because after a man kissed a woman the way he had her, didn’t he have the right to address her by her given name?
God, he burned for her, and she had rejected him. Him, the man that supposedly every blasted woman in London wanted.
Save for two others. He could almost hear her voice dryly reminding him of the truth.
And perhaps that is why he was so taken with her. She told him the truth. She’d done that during the escapade with Lady Charlene and she certainly had spoken her truth a moment ago.
Gavin mounted. Ares picked up on his mood and danced, testy. With a kick, Gavin sent him on, but his mind was not on his riding. No, he was reliving the scene between himself and Sarah.
Was there ever a more independent minded woman? She’d rather starve than accept his largesse.
Well, it wasn’t truly largesse. Sitting there with her wearing that ugly, heavy nightdress that covered her from her neck to her toes, he’d desired nothing more than to gather her in his arms and roger her with all the pent-up passion of his being.
He couldn’t imagine another male in London who didn’t want the same thing.
Although he was probably the only male who felt confounded by her refusal—and he didn’t understand why.
When his long-standing betrothal ended because Elin had chosen another, Gavin had let her go. When Lady Charlene had eloped, Gavin had been insulted, but he had let her go. These women meant more to him than Sarah Pettijohn. They were of his class and he had been planning to marry them.
He just wanted Sarah in his bed. One good night, that is all he wished.
And then there was that kiss.
It had not seemed to have any impact on her, but for him . . . well, he could have fallen on his knees before her—something he would never do. Dukes did not beg. That was one of the first rules his father had taught him.
Still, he’d been tempted to plead for another kiss.
Gavin rode through the park on his way home, giving Ares his head. The sun was just starting to come up. London was stirring. There were other riders at this hour but not many.
It wasn’t until he’d traveled around the park that he remembered he had left the lantern in Sarah’s room. So be it.
He returned Ares to the stables.
His valet Michael was waiting for him when he reached his bedroom. Talbert, his secretary, always left a list of what appointments and meetings Gavin had for the day so that Michael would know what the duke should wear. Today was to be a busy one but Gavin waved away the elegant jacket his valet had prepared. He knew he would not be worth a farthing until he worked Sarah Pettijohn out of his system.
“Send word round to Jackson.” He referred to the renowned Gentleman Jackson who owned the boxing saloon Gavin favored. Since whenever Gavin went there to practice the sport, someone was always vying for his attention to ask a favor or push a pet project, Jackson often sent one of his best pupils to Menheim to give the duke privacy and a challenge. “Tell him to send over someone good. As soon as possible. If I don’t pound something I shall explode.”
If this declaration sparked alarm in Michael, he was too well trained to show it. “Yes, Your Grace. May I then suggest a simple shirt and breeches with the green jacket?”
Gavin waved his assent. The valet set out the clothes and left to relay Gavin’s message for someone to deliver to Jackson’s rooms.
While he was gone, Gavin took the liberty of shaving himself and didn’t like what he saw in the mirror. He looked as if he was a man possessed. “Take hold of yourself,” he warned his image and decided that breakfast, a few rounds of good physical exertion, and he would be himself again.
Down in the breakfast room, he came upon his mother. Marcella, the Dowager Duchess of Baynton, was a lovely woman with silver hair and a regal bearing. Gavin had great respect for her. Over the years since his father’s death, she had become his most trusted advisor.
She smiled her welcome. “Good morning, my son. Did you sleep well?”
“Absolutely,” Gavin murmured. He wasn’t about to confide his difficulties in his mother.
“Good, and I’m happy to see you this morning. Saves me from hunting you down later.”
Gavin helped himself to the breakfast dishes on the sideboard. He was pleased to see Cook had included his favorite, b
eefsteak. “What is it you wish?” he asked.
“I believe Imogen and I have found a wife for you.” She referred to his great-aunt Dame Imogen. Imogen was a stickler for bloodlines and had become quite involved in his search for a suitable bride.
He choked back a groan. “How nice.”
“This young woman is nice,” his mother said, leaning across the table toward him as he sat down. “I didn’t want to say anything until Imogen had a chance to meet and approve her. You know Imogen feels responsible for what happened with Lady Charlene. She had vouched for the girl and had thought her better mannered.”
Gavin shrugged as he cut his beef. “There was nothing wrong. She is making Jack a good wife.”
“But it is your wife we worry over. My son, you must marry and soon. You are in the prime of your life, the right age for a family.”
He nodded. She wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t told him a hundred times before. Mothers could be that way. “So who have you found?”
“Her name is Miss Leonie Charnock.”
“Charnock? Sir William Charnock?”
“Yes, she is his daughter, his only child. He married Elizabeth Snavely—you remember the Snavelys. Like the Charnocks, they have close ties to India.”
“The Nabobs.” He referred to those officers of the East India Company, many who had earned great wealth through their services.
“Exactly. Miss Charnock’s great-grandfather was Job Charnock, one of the first of the Nabobs.”
Gavin set aside his knife and fork, his appetite disappearing. He knew he must marry, but right now, with his heart battered, he didn’t appreciate the conversation—
His heart battered.
The direction of his thoughts startled him.
What bloody nonsense. He realized he was becoming ridiculously dramatic and acting like Rovington. His heart was not the portion of his anatomy upset over Sarah Pettijohn. It couldn’t be. He didn’t know her that well. In truth, given her high-handed ways, he was better off not knowing her that well.
It was another part of his anatomy that was severely disappointed by her rejection.
“I’d like for you to meet her, Baynton,” his mother was saying, after waxing on about Leonie’s looks, her breeding, and her manners. “I believe the two of you would be an excellent match.”
“Arrange an introduction then,” Gavin said.
“I have . . . for this evening.”
“This evening? Does this mean you and Imogen have already decided the matter and are merely manipulating me?” he asked his mother, only half in jest.
“No, we are prodding you. I don’t want you to waste any more time licking your wounds. I want you to have children and know the peace your brothers have found.”
“I am at peace,” he murmured, nodding to a footman to pour him coffee.
His mother waited until the small service was done and then dismissed the servants attending the breakfast room with, “Leave us now.” When the duchess spoke, the servants obeyed.
Once alone, the dowager said, “Are you happy? Remember, I know you well, my son. You are no monk. Although, some are beginning to wonder.”
Tension tightened his shoulders. “Do you, Mother?”
“I told you, I know you well.”
“You would have made a skilled politician,” he answered.
“The territory of men or else I would have tried my hand at it. So, will you meet Miss Charnock this evening?”
Gavin realized when he had been outmaneuvered. “Tell Talbert to arrange my schedule.”
“I have,” his mother informed him. “We will leave this evening at half past eight for dinner with the Charnocks.”
“Have you even informed Michael what I am to wear?”
His mother did not flinch from the mild rebuke. “Do you wish me to?”
Gavin waved away the suggestion, aware that his life was moving on . . . while a part of him moped over Sarah—and, in truth, he was not one to sulk. He liked action. He rarely allowed a setback to disturb him—and yet, her rejection had hit him hard, and it shouldn’t have. She was just not that important.
Or so he told himself.
“If you will excuse me?” He rose from the table, gave his mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and retired to his study and away from her too astute observation. Henry, his butler, passed on the word that Jackson would be sending over a man in two hours’ time.
Good.
Gavin tried to read through the treatises he would need for the Bank of England later that day, but snippets of his conversation with Sarah kept intruding. At one point, he was so caught up in his errant thoughts, he’d snapped his wooden pen in half and that was as Talbert, his secretary, was giving him pertinent information about Wellington’s latest plea for supplies and money for his troops.
“I know, Your Grace,” Talbert said in commiseration. “The Commons sent the bill to the Chairman of the Committees to review. He does not seem to be moving quickly on the matter. The prime minister asks if you can use your influence with him?”
Gavin nodded. He had meant to talk to Rovington yesterday about the Money Bill but there had not been a good opportunity. Here was another example where Rov was proving to be a disappointment. Thankfully, Gavin was certain Rov did not know he had been in the hack that had stolen Sarah away or else nothing would be done in the government’s favor. “I’ll bring him round.”
“I shall pass the word to the prime minister’s secretary.”
A sound at the door interrupted them. A footman informed him that Jackson’s man had arrived.
“Enough of this,” Gavin said, pushing away from his desk. “Draft the letters I’ve requested and send a note to Rovington inviting him to dinner or lunch, whatever. You know the wording.”
“Yes, Your Grace, I do,” Talbert announced, happily efficient.
“And now, I do not want any interruptions for the next hour,” Gavin said, knowing Talbert would pass on his instructions to Henry.
He went downstairs to the ballroom and was pleased to see Jackson had sent Thomas, a boxer five years Gavin’s junior and one not afraid to give him a fight.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Thomas said, bowing and pulling a forelock as he did. He was a country lad, big, brawny, and well matched for Gavin. “Ready to give it a go?”
“Past ready,” Gavin said, meaning the words.
Both men removed boots, socks, and shirts and Thomas wrapped strips of rough cotton around Gavin’s hands as he had his own. These would soften any blows and protect the knuckles.
“Are you up for a practice or a mill?” Thomas asked in his broad Scottish brogue.
“A mill.”
“Very well then, Your Grace.” They took up a stance in the middle of the ballroom and set about their business in earnest.
Soon the two men were coated in sweat with the only sounds between them the grunts of physical exertion and the noise of bare skin hitting bare skin. Gavin was pleased. Thomas was a shrewd and clever fighter and Gavin couldn’t think about Sarah or he’d have his head knocked off his body.
That didn’t stop a stray thought or two, but considering how deeply he’d been mooning over her rejection for most of the morning, this was a welcome relief. Slowly, he was exorcising her from his mind. He was regaining his sanity. Who was Sarah Pettijohn when there were other women in the world?
The question spun through Gavin’s mind as round and round the ballroom the two men went, each managing his fair share of good hits—
A commotion at the door caught his attention.
Gavin put his hand up in time to stop Thomas’s next blow. The younger man straightened, now aware that they were being interrupted as well.
There was a struggle going on between two footmen, Henry the butler, and a furious figure in a wet wool cloak.
And then the figure stomped on one of the footmen’s shoes. The man yowled his pain and the figure, a woman, slipped under his arms and ran into the ballroom, her wet shoes
squishing with each step. She came to a sliding halt when she realized she was before the duke.
“Your Grace,” Sarah demanded in typical Mrs. Pettijohn style, her voice one of authority. And then, as if realizing how bold she sounded, she sank into a deep curtsy that took her all the way to the floor with a subservience he would never have credited her. “I must talk to you,” she said. “I beg an audience.”
Last night, she had been any man’s lustful vision; today, she had the look of an angry kitten caught in the pouring rain. Her bonnet may have once been stylish and smart but now appeared a damp rag on top of her head. Strands of her hair were plastered to her skin. Her cloak was dripping a puddle on Menheim’s always immaculate floor.
And then, Gavin had the strangest sense that she was staring at his bare toes. They actually tingled in reaction. He knew he was right when she lifted startled green eyes and then openly gawked in surprise at his naked chest. Apparently she had been in such a rush to see him, she hadn’t taken in his state of undress.
Red heat flooded her face, and Gavin smiled. He’d had the same reaction last night when he’d seen her on the stage.
He had to say it. He couldn’t help himself. “I am not naked,” he chided softly, echoing her prideful words to him last night.
Without missing a beat, she answered in a humbled voice, “But you practically are.”
“Only in the nonsense going on between your female ears, not anything you can see with your eyes.”
Chapter Seven
Only in the nonsense going on between your female ears.
Sarah was embarrassed that she’d ogled the duke like a dairy maid. However, who knew he had such a remarkable form? Why, he was as muscled as a laborer and it was not a bad thing.
Having been around the wardrobe rooms of many a theater, she knew men came in all shapes and sizes. Her own husband had been a broad-shouldered man but his chest was no comparison to the Duke of Baynton’s. Nor had he had the hard abdomen. Most men did not have that.
A Date at the Altar Page 7