The truth was she’d lost her temper when the butler had refused to carry her request for an audience to the duke, especially once she heard Baynton’s voice from somewhere in the house. And once lost, her temper knew no boundaries.
She’d shoved her way past the surprised butler and made a mad dash in the direction of the duke’s voice.
Of course, she hadn’t stopped to truly listen to what he was saying or else she would have realized, as she did now, that he hadn’t been speaking but grunting, huffing, and snorting in that way men did when they took part in that strangest of all sports, boxing.
Was there ever a more ridiculous pastime? Men deliberately hitting each other?
She would never have considered Baynton a pugilist—until she saw him with his shirt off.
However, it was the sight of his bare toes when she’d curtsied that had startled her into awareness.
Baynton had wonderfully made feet. Masculine feet, with long well-formed toes—and if his chest and feet were so finely made . . . would not the rest of him be as well?
Her mind immediately recalled the feeling of his very obvious desire for her against her thigh last night in the hack.
Furthermore, she wanted a favor from him and knew he would expect in return what all men wanted. It might not be that great a sacrifice to make him happy . . .
Beneath her wet cloak, she tightened her hold on the play.
The butler had started apologizing for letting her slip by the footman but the duke interrupted him. “Never mind, Henry. I am well aware that Mrs. Pettijohn does as she wishes. Besides, my order to not be disturbed did not include her.”
On those words, warm heat once again graced her cheeks. Sarah studied a point on the floor, aware of what every man in the room must think of her.
“I am sorry, Your Grace, I did not know.”
“How could you? Who thought she would come calling?” She knew the mild gibe was for her. “Have a tray with refreshments sent in. Make certain Cook includes some of those sandwiches I like.”
At the mention of food, Sarah’s stomach rumbled noisily. She knew everyone heard it.
“You’d best hurry the tray,” the duke advised dryly.
“Yes, Your Grace. Michael, see that it is done,” the butler said to a footman.
Still staring at the floor, Sarah listened to the footsteps leave the room.
“Thomas, I believe we are finished for the day.”
The man the duke had been fighting bowed. “Yes, Your Grace. Let me know when you wish another go.”
“I will. Perhaps you would like to stop by the kitchen. I’m sure you have worked up an appetite as well. Henry, take him there.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
More footsteps.
And then, they were alone.
“You may stop pretending you are not here, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
That brought a reaction out of her. “I wasn’t pretending. I was hoping to disappear.” She glanced up at him. He was still shirtless and seemed completely at ease with his nakedness and her disturbed peace of mind. “Would you please put on your shirt, Your Grace? And your boots,” she ordered fussily. “Put your boots on as well.”
He actually laughed, the sound abrupt. “You are becoming bossy.”
“I’m learning no good comes of giving the Duke of Baynton too much rein.”
Again, there was a sharp bark of laughter, but he reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head. She pretended to study the pattern in the floor as he crossed to the sitting area where his boots were. She’d gawked at him enough for one day.
She could imagine him gathering his socks and slipping them over his well-made feet. He confirmed her fevered imaginings by stomping his foot on the ground as he settled it in his boot.
Sarah allowed herself to peek as he yanked on the other and followed the whole ritual.
Seeing he had her attention, he said, “I usually have a valet for this.”
“It is good of you to know how to dress yourself.”
He laughed again, this time as if he had expected her tart rejoinder. He crossed to her and offered his hand. “Arise, fair maid.”
Sarah wasn’t certain what to make of the gallantry, but she released the hold of one arm on her play to accept his hand.
“Let me take your cloak,” he said, coming around behind her.
“I’m fine,” she said. He stood close and she found that it was difficult to wipe the image of his body beneath the shirt from her mind.
“If you keep dripping on Menheim’s floors, the housekeeper will have a fit.”
He was right. Sarah was soaked through.
She reached up and untied the string of her cloak. She was surprisingly nervous. The anger that had propelled her to storm past his servants had dissipated at discovering him so . . . human.
Sarah felt the weight of his hands as he removed her cloak. He did not linger at the task, for which she was grateful. He was not the lecherous sort.
He shook out her cloak and draped it over a wooden-backed chair. She hugged her manuscript for courage and faced him. “I need your help, Your Grace. I’ve been robbed and I must use all the resources available to you to capture the culprits.”
“The resources available to me? Well, of course,” he answered, opening his hands as if to show he had no tricks. “And you were robbed? I’m not surprised. The neighborhood where you live invites robbery.”
“This isn’t about my neighborhood.” She moved to him, hating the sound of her wet soles on the floor. “Geoff and Charles, the ones who staged the Naughty Review, they have run away with the money from last night. They haven’t paid any of the actors or any of their debtors and they are cheating me.”
“Please, have a seat, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
She didn’t want to sit. She wanted to convince him to help her; however, niceties had to be observed. She plopped herself down on the closest chair in the sitting arrangement where he had placed her cloak.
The duke took the chair adjacent to hers. “How are they cheating you?” He was at ease in his element.
“They promised to stage my play. That was how they were going to pay me. Otherwise, I would never have played the part. Even years ago, I hadn’t wanted to play the part.”
That information seemed to surprise him. “Why did you do it then?”
Sarah hated explaining herself to anyone, but if the duke could help her, she owed him the truth. “The first time I played the Siren was to earn the money to support Char. You are familiar with her uncle Davies?”
He shrugged. “Barely.”
“He is not the sort one leaves alone with a young girl. The man is vile. I would have done anything to rescue her from him, including dancing ‘practically’ naked. Of course, who knew the Siren would be such a success? We made so much money that night that Geoff and Charles could afford to establish their own theater. Unfortunately, they are not good money managers. They were in danger of losing Bishop’s Hill. They told me they were going to put on another Naughty Review and asked me to play the Siren again. At first, I said no.”
“Even though you obviously needed money?”
“I know you will not believe this, but even actresses have standards.”
He held up a hand as if to ward off her temper. “I did not mean insult.”
“It was implied.”
“No, it wasn’t. It is acknowledging a truth, Mrs. Pettijohn. Your circumstances have lowered. You lost the house on Mulberry Street and anyone with eyes could see that you are living hand to mouth. Especially in that neighborhood.”
“The neighborhood is not that desperate.”
His expression said he begged to differ.
And Sarah had to, in all honesty, admit, “You may be correct.”
A lift of his eyebrow told her he knew he was correct and she couldn’t help pulling a face in return.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Geoff and Charles offered me the one thing I want most in the world—they would stage one of my plays
if I would help them. So I agreed. But now I’ve learned, they had no intention of honoring that commitment to me or any of the other actors. They bilked the whole company out of what we deserved.”
“Are you certain they left?” he asked.
“One of the actors went by their quarters. They are gone. This was planned. What I need for you to do is stop them from leaving the country. Make them come back and give us our money.”
“And put on your play?”
She shifted her weight, the manuscript in her arms as heavy as a baby. “That would be the ideal.”
And yet what likelihood would there be that if the duke found Geoff and Charles, if they still had the money to pay the actors, if they were willing to stay in London that they would honor their promise to her?
She ran the side of her thumb across the leather folder holding Widow. Her throat closed. Tears threatened but she held them back. This was not the time for dissolving into tears. Now was the time to fight.
“It is about justice,” she insisted. She met his eye. “Everyone knows the Duke of Baynton does what is honorable and right. You can’t let Geoff and Charles run out on their commitment to people, especially to those who can least afford it. The tenor last night? Millroy? He has six children. Most of the dancers have a child or two. One, Liza, cares for a father who lost his sight at Talavera as well as an aging grandmother. I only have myself to consider but others have serious responsibilities.”
She stopped, uncertain if she could move him. He listened, but did he understand?
“Why should you care?” she said, thinking aloud. “I mean the chances of finding Geoff and Charles are nearly impossible. By now, they may have fled to the Continent, but it isn’t right to take the dreams of others, to make promises, and then use people in such a callous manner. It is the worst sort of thievery and not what we are about in this country. It isn’t right,” she repeated bitterly.
“It isn’t,” he agreed. But instead of giving her the support she had come here to request, his attention went to the door and Sarah turned to see two maids enter the ballroom carrying huge trays. “Ah, here is Cook’s sandwiches. Lena, place them over here.” Another maid held a tray with a pot of tea and a bottle of sherry. They set the trays on side tables next to the seating of chairs.
Only then, did Sarah start to take in her surroundings. She’d been so agitated when she’d arrived, she’d not had a sense of herself let alone the audacity of tracking down Baynton in his house.
If his presence couldn’t humble her, the house did.
They were in a ballroom large enough to hold eight score of people. The walls were of cream and gilt; the draperies seemed to be spun of gold.
The very comfortable chair she’d dropped herself down on was of a rich robin’s-egg blue velvet. Ornately carved tables were by each chair so that a guest would not have to sit holding a cup or a glass. The floor was of wood parquet; however, the section where the chairs were arranged was covered by an Indian carpet of the deepest pile.
Sarah would have screamed if she’d owned this rug and someone wore their wet shoes on it. She also became aware of the ruined hat on her head. Self-consciously, she removed it, feeling a bit humiliated. She placed it on top of her cloak and retook her seat.
The table beside the settee where Baynton sat was larger than the others. This is where he had directed the maids to place the trays. He now prepared to pour the tea himself . . . for her.
Sarah rested her hands upon the leather folder in her lap and was glad that she had at least worn gloves.
The duke said, “Lena, send Mr. Talbert to me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Both maids left the room.
Baynton added a generous amount of sherry to one of the cups. “This is for you, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
“I’m not truly thirsty—”
“Drink.”
She drank, and found it quite good.
He handed her a plate loaded with sandwiches. “Now eat.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered, mimicking the maid’s subservience.
“Don’t play that game, Mrs. Pettijohn. Humility is not your strong suit.”
“As it is yours?” she had to pertly wonder.
A reluctant smile tugged his lips. “Far from it.”
She nodded her agreement but did take a bite of sandwich. It was a heavenly delight of roasted chicken, cheese, and chutney between two slices of gloriously fresh bread.
Sarah couldn’t remember the last time she’d had anything so delicious. She wanted to stuff the whole sandwich in her mouth and then gobble down more. The tea and sherry was the perfect thing to wash it all down.
So it was that when Mr. Talbert entered the room, she was holding a sherry-laced teacup in one hand, a sandwich in the other, and her mouth was full. In her damp clothing and hair ruined by rain, she imagined she offered a colorful picture, one that such an officious looking man would fail to appreciate.
She was right. He acted decidedly put out by her presence. “Yes, Your Grace?” he asked, pointedly ignoring her.
“This is Mrs. Pettijohn,” the duke said. “Lady Charlene’s aunt.”
“Ah,” Mr. Talbert said. Without turning to Sarah, he gave her a short bow. Not a complete one, half of one. Perhaps more of a quarter of one actually. A quarter of a bow.
“Send for Perkins,” the duke said. “I have something I wish him to do. Have him here as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mr. Talbert bowed deeply to the duke as if to contrast the respect he had for his employer against his feelings toward Sarah’s presence, and then left the room.
The duke started to put a sandwich on his own plate but then, seeing Sarah had almost eaten all of hers, tossed it on her dish before reaching for another for himself.
Sarah swallowed. “Who is Mr. Perkins?”
“A man I use when I need something done. If anyone can find this Geoff and Charles, it will be him.”
“Even if they have left the country?”
“Perhaps. Perkins is resourceful.”
“I like resourceful.” Sarah took another bite of sandwich. She knew she was gobbling but she couldn’t help herself. She had been actually starving. In fact, she needed to stop eating or else she might make herself ill.
“While we are waiting for him, tell me about Geoff and Charles. Do they have last names?”
“Geoffrey Simmons and, oh, I can never remember Charles’s. It is Italian.” She considered a moment. “Salerno. Charles Salerno.”
“And hair color?”
“Geoff is blond but Charles is dark-haired, as one would expect from a Mediterranean. He is the shorter of the two. Geoff is at least a head taller.”
“Does this Salerno have family in Italy? Would they flee there?”
“I don’t know,” Sarah answered. Egged on by the generous drop of sherry in her tea, another concern came to her. “We should discuss the cost of Mr. Perkins’s services,” she said, trying to be matter-of-fact. “And about your offer this morning.”
The duke stood abruptly.
His sudden movement startled her. She looked askance but he moved away as if restless.
“I believe your expectations of me must be discussed before we go further,” she pressed. Her heart hammered against her chest. There was only one way she could reimburse him for his help.
She’d always believed herself above prostitution and yet, what else did she have to bargain with if not her body?
“This is not a good conversation for the moment,” he said.
He sounded as if he was the uncomfortable one. “Why not?”
He placed his hands behind his back like a schoolmaster. “Do you see where we are? A man doesn’t discuss something like this under his own roof.”
“You brought it up under my roof this morning,” Sarah countered.
“We were alone. The walls have ears here.”
“I believe the walls of my room are far thinner than Menheim’s walls.”
/> “That isn’t what I’m saying—”
“I know what you are saying,” she interrupted. “I just don’t agree with it. I will not be treated like a pariah.” Like her mother had been and every other woman she’d known who had accepted carte blanche . . . as if there was something unsavory about them—and not the men who paid for their services.
Oh no, Sarah would never accept those terms.
However, before either could speak, a man’s voice called out from the direction of the front hall with great goodwill, “Don’t bother announcing me, Henry. You know Baynton and I don’t stand on ceremony. Do we, Your Grace?”
Sarah did not recognize the voice, but the duke did. He stepped in front of her to greet this new visitor—the man she had kneed the night before. “We do when I don’t wish to be disturbed, Rovington.”
Rovington?
He hadn’t noticed her yet. His attention was on the duke. She endeavored to make herself as small as she could behind the back of her chair, hoping to escape being seen.
“I’ll have you know I am closing in on my quarry,” Lord Rovington bragged as if the duke hadn’t spoken.
“Quarry?” the duke said.
“Yes, the Siren. I have her in my sights—!”
His voice came to an abrupt halt as his gaze fell upon Sarah.
He recognized her immediately.
She stood, facing her enemy.
Lord Rovington grinned as if Sarah was a beefsteak and he had a knife and fork in his hands. “This is her. You found her for me. You are the best of friends, Baynton.”
He would have moved toward Sarah with an eagerness that was off-putting, except the duke blocked his path. “Wait, Rov. She’s not for you.”
“Of course she is for me,” he countered, indulgently, his beady gaze on Sarah. “I’ve spent a fortune already this day hunting for her. She’s mine.”
“No, she’s mine. She is under my protection.”
Rovington whirled on him. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying she is my woman.”
Sarah did not know what to make of all of this. In another time and place, she would have been offended by Baynton’s proprietorial air. She’d always been her own woman, thank you very much.
But she was no fool.
A Date at the Altar Page 8