A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  With that confident prediction, Mrs. Hillsman called, “Come, everyone. It is time to leave. We shall send the dresses as we finish them, Mrs. Pettijohn. Wear them with joy.”

  In moments, Mrs. Hillsman and her entourage picked up every bolt, pin, and other accouterment of their art and left, just as Mr. Talbert arrived, followed by a footman in the Baynton colors carrying an ebony wooden box with brass fittings in his arms.

  The secretary entered the sitting room his usual officious self, but then pulled up sharply at the sight of Sarah.

  For a long moment, he appeared speechless.

  “Hello, Mr. Talbert,” she said, pulling on the short white gloves purchased for the dress.

  “Yes, hello,” he managed and then took another stare as if he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

  “Are you ready?” Sarah asked, rather enjoying herself.

  “There is a vehicle waiting downstairs. However, first, His Grace asked me to see this delivered to you.” He nodded for the footman to put the chest on the table. “He picked it out himself and bid me to tell you that he wished he could give it to you in person. Unfortunately, there are some difficulties over a vote he missed yesterday—” he said this as if she was in some way responsible “—and he is currently in a meeting with the prime minister.”

  Sarah took off a glove to run a hand over the smooth wood. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps you should open in it,” the secretary said with a hint of a snit.

  She lifted the handle and was delighted to discover that the box was a traveling secretary complete with an inkpot, pens, and a stack of paper. She touched the paper, overwhelmed by the gift.

  “His Grace said for me to set up an account at Fieldings, the stationer on Pall Mall.” Talbert placed a card on the table beside the box. “Any time you wish to order more supplies, you may do so.”

  “This is too generous,” Sarah murmured.

  “His Grace is a generous man,” Talbert said. “Now, if you are done staring at the box, we need be on our way. I have a schedule.”

  “Of course, let us go.” Sarah picked up the key from the table and locked the door as they left. She had a puzzling moment when she stopped at the top of the stairs to ask the floor steward to remove the dishes and the cold bath from her room. She didn’t know if she should also hand him her key or not.

  “He has a key to all the locks,” Mr. Talbert said, rightly guessing her dilemma.

  She gave both men a smile to hide her discomfort over her naivetiés and went downstairs.

  Sarah had been so disheartened when she first arrived at the Clarendon, she did not remember very much of Baynton’s leading her across the reception area. She now appreciated her lovely clothes that allowed her to hold her head high as she made her way to the front door and out onto the white stone step.

  She remembered Mrs. Hillsman’s words about all the gossip over Baynton’s mistress. She wondered if there were those who stared. She tried not to pay attention but moved with unhurried grace to the ducal coach waiting for her.

  Apparently, Mr. Talbert was aware of the fuss. “That was easier than I anticipated,” he said once they were in the coach. He knocked on the ceiling to signal the driver to go.

  “Where are we going?”

  Mr. Talbert referred to his ever present ledger book. “His Grace suggested a place called the Bishop’s Hill Theater. He understood that it might be available for lease.”

  Geoff and Charles’s old place would be the perfect stage for Widow. Had the duke known that? She doubted he had. Instead, he would have surmised the landlord would be happy to have a paying lease, and he was.

  He bowed and scraped before Sarah and Mr. Talbert to a point that was almost embarrassing.

  “What do you think?” Mr. Talbert asked Sarah as they stood on the stage still in need of a cleaning after the Naughty Review.

  She was pleasantly surprised that she had a voice in the matter. She was tempted to ask to look at other theaters just to see how much of a voice she possessed, but dared not tempt fate.

  “This is fine,” she managed.

  “Good,” Mr. Talbert answered. To the theater owner he said, “I shall contact you in the morning at eleven to discuss the details.”

  “Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Please, offer my congratulations to His Grace. If he wishes to change the theater name, he may.”

  Mr. Talbert dismissed him with a wave of his hand that was more ducal than any gesture Sarah had seen Baynton make. They returned to the coach.

  “That was easy,” Sarah said, settling back on the coach’s velvet cushions. “Having money does make all the difference.”

  She’d spoken her thoughts aloud and had not considered how they could be interpreted. Mr. Talbert’s frown warned her—not well.

  Sitting up, she was ready to clarify her thoughtlessness, but the secretary spoke first, holding her off with his raised palm.

  “Please, Mrs. Pettijohn, no excuses. I understand what the rules are. You are not the first mistress I have been expected to escort around for an employer.” He said this as if he would just as soon toss her into the Thames.

  And Sarah had the unsettling sense that this man had a grievance—not against her—but certainly against Baynton. He was not happy with his employer.

  “Let me inform you,” Mr. Talbert continued, “that these arrangements between a woman and her benefactor always end. You may believe you own the enviable position, but you do not.”

  “Are you warning me, sir?” If so, Sarah could tell him a thing or two, having watched her mother and her lovers over the years . . . but there was something else here. A discontent that she sensed had nothing to do with her.

  “Why should I do that?” he said, his face suddenly a mask. “However, I shall ask you not to lead him to his ruin.”

  “I have no desire to do such a thing,” Sarah answered soberly.

  “Aye, but I don’t trust what is between the two of you,” Mr. Talbert said. “I grew concerned in the way he used his own coat to protect you in the rain yesterday when we learned your landlord had turned you out. He also missed several important engagements for you. He’s never done that before to my knowledge. He is an important man, Mrs. Pettijohn. England needs him and the political world is fraught with intrigue. He has enemies.”

  “I’m not one of them.”

  Talbert gave her a tight smile. “Whether you are or you are not, I’ll not stand by and idly watch you toy with the honest emotions of this great man. After all, I know your kind.”

  “You do not know me at all sir,” she said. “And you have no basis other than your own prejudice to believe ill of me.”

  “My prejudice? Heavens, woman, he’s fighting a duel over you. Have you stopped to think of the cost if he is killed?”

  Sarah sat back in the seat, both incensed and justifiably upset by his accusation because she did feel guilty. “I had nothing to do with their argument.”

  “Says the Siren,” he replied softly, his disdain in every word.

  “The Siren is not me, the person,” Sarah shot back. “I did not ask His Grace to miss his appointments. Is it not your responsibility to see that he maintains his schedule?”

  “And he usually listens to me. Or he did . . . before you appeared.”

  “Oh dear,” Sarah replied mockingly. After years in the theater, she’d worked with spite before. She understood this game. Talbert had no cause to hold a grudge against her, but she sensed there was more to the matter. Perhaps he’d been disgruntled for some time? If that were the case, he would certainly be annoyed at the attention the duke lavished on her.

  The coach began to slow to a halt. They pulled up in front of a charming house off of Knightsbridge, a neighborhood where she would never have imagined she could have lived.

  “This is the first house I have chosen for you to see,” Mr. Talbert started, his manner formal, distant, but then he changed abruptly. He asked, “Are you sincere in your desire
to help His Grace? To prevent the duel? I warn you, Lord Rovington has already killed two men dueling.”

  “And what of the duke?”

  “He has never faced the fire or sword of another. He is a novice.”

  “Dear Lord,” Sarah whispered. The implications of what could happen were horrific. “I did not ask to be a part of their argument,” she said. “I have done nothing and wish only for them to set this argument aside.” She thought of the man who had refused to basely use her last night, who had been so generous to her this day. “Please believe me, this is not what I want.”

  “Speaking to you now, I believe you.” He paused a moment as if considering and then said, “Perhaps there is something you and I may both do together to save His Grace.”

  “What would that be?”

  Again, he seemed to deliberate, and then pulled from his jacket a small vial. “This is a sleeping draught. It will not hurt whoever drinks it but they will slumber deeply.”

  “You wish to give this to the duke?”

  Mr. Talbert lowered his voice to say, “I believe you should give it to him.”

  Shocked at the suggestion, Sarah said, “Why?”

  “Because he is taken with you. If he oversleeps in your arms, he’ll assume the fault was his. I have word that the duel will be on the morrow. At dawn. If you give this to him before you take him to your bed, he will not wake for a good twelve or more hours.”

  “But he will miss the duel. What will happen?”

  “He’ll live. Lord Rovington will be declared the winner because his opponent failed to show. Meanwhile, I will spread the word that His Grace didn’t show because he was so lost in making love to you—and all will be well because each man will have what he wants.”

  The plan was simple enough to make sense.

  “Isn’t it a matter of honor that the duke appear?” Sarah asked. “Will there be repercussions harmful to His Grace?”

  “What good is honor when one is dead? Of course,” he continued, sitting back, “if you have no desire to see him safe, well, I must consider another way to administer the draught or let him die—”

  “I will help,” Sarah said. She could not have Baynton’s death on her conscience. Mr. Talbert’s plan was sound. She held out her hand.

  With an approving smile, the secretary said, “I must apologize, Mrs. Pettijohn. I was wrong about your character.” He gave her the vial. She tucked it in the small pocket of her jacket.

  “How shall I see that he drinks it?” she wondered.

  “I’m assured it has little taste. He always enjoys a bit of whisky before bed. I had been thinking to find a way to pour this into his glass.”

  She nodded mutely. The plan seemed simple. It would also stave off the inevitable bedding . . . and that was good. She was not ready yet. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready.

  Mr. Talbert opened the door and climbed out. His tone was warm as he said, “Come, Mrs. Pettijohn, I believe you will like this house.” He invited her to climb out of the coach.

  She accepted Mr. Talbert’s hand as she alighted. She did like the house though she barely registered anything she saw. Her thoughts were on the vial in her possession.

  Whether Baynton was a great man or not, last night he had showed restraint beyond any she would have expected from a man. Today, he coupled it with kindness.

  And, their differences between them aside, she found herself willing to do whatever she must to keep him whole and healthy. Even trickery.

  Chapter Twelve

  Gavin expected to spend a few unpleasant moments with the prime minister. He was certain Liverpool had choice words about the vote the day before.

  But upon greeting Gavin in chambers and their taking their chairs, the prime minister surprised the duke by saying, “I understand that you are enjoying yourself.” He winked his meaning . . . but Gavin wasn’t certain he understood.

  His mind was on the vote. Was this Liverpool’s sly way of letting Gavin know he was disappointed?

  “Sir?”

  “The Siren.” Liverpool looked around his office as if he feared someone lurked who might overhear him. “She’s yours, right?”

  Of all the topics Gavin had expected to discuss with the prime minister this morning, Sarah was not one of them. And the term she’s yours was a delicate one.

  But Liverpool needed no answer. He’d been speaking rhetorically. He’d already formed his own conclusions about Gavin’s relationship with Sarah. “I wish I could have attended her performance but then I did not think it completely proper for the prime minister to be seen in that crowd. Or possibly safe. I’d not have those heads of cabbages and mushy tomatoes usually reserved for disliked performers thrown at my head.”

  “It was a rowdy crowd,” Gavin assured him.

  And since the assassination of the former prime minister, Perceval, at the hands of an angry citizen last May, caution was warranted.

  “I would have liked to have seen her knee Rovington,” Liverpool responded wistfully.

  “That was a good moment,” Gavin had to agree.

  “So . . .” The prime minister leaned across his desk. “Is she all everyone claims?”

  Gavin’s first response was anger. What did they claim her to be?

  Of course, he knew. He’d thought the same . . . and the image of her trembling in the bed with fear the night before rose in his mind. The memory had haunted his dreams. Dogged his steps all morning.

  He didn’t answer the prime minister. Throttling a head of state was bad form.

  Instead, he did the ducal thing and changed the subject. “You wish to speak to me about the vote? I regret it did not go the way we anticipated.”

  Liverpool sat up. “I’ve been led to understand Rovington had a hand in the matter. We needed the Act passed.”

  “I shall see it is revisited.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. And about the military money bill in the Commons. Rovington is making noise especially with the members who do not support our policies. Does the fool have no fear?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “We need that bill to go forward. We have two battle fronts and we cannot fight without those monies.”

  “Commons will pass the bill.”

  “You put Rovington in power, Your Grace,” Liverpool said. “I expect you to do what you must to keep him in check. Did your brother give you my suggestion?”

  “To put a hole in him?”

  Liverpool did not answer. He knew there was no need.

  Gavin spoke. “It was my mistake to recommend him for Chairman of the Committees. I sought to help a friend and earnestly believed he would do a good job for all of us. Apparently there were parts of his character I did not know.”

  “There are no friends in politics, not when power is involved,” Liverpool answered.

  How many times had his father said the same thing? He’d drilled it into Gavin. There is no place for friendship in your life. Not if you would be a great duke. Your power is predicated by the expectations of others.

  And Gavin had allowed Rov to slip past his guard. He’d let friendship blind him to Rov’s faults. Now, betrayal was the price he paid. Just as his father had predicted.

  He thought of Rov’s wife Jane and her worries about her husband’s mounting debts. The least Gavin could do was speak to her before everything came crashing down around her. Because it would. Her husband’s excesses would ruin her as well.

  “I expect you to do what is right, Your Grace,” Liverpool continued. “These matters always resolve themselves when you are at hand.”

  To wield the stick, Gavin could add silently. He understood exactly what the prime minister meant and for the first time in his life, he experienced a flash of resentment.

  It was startling. He usually thrived on these challenges. They were a demonstration of his power. His father had groomed him to control such situations—and he never once questioned his purpose, until this moment.

  As quickly as he co
uld manage, Gavin took his leave and hustled himself out in the hall. Finding a window corner where he could take a private moment, he examined his reaction to Liverpool’s instructions.

  Gavin knew his position in life. He facilitated the smooth order of his political party. He’d made an error of judgment with Rov. It happens.

  But why did a part of him bristle at the prime minister’s assumption that Gavin must take care of the matter? Isn’t that what Gavin had always done?

  Gavin wasn’t even certain what he was questioning except something inside of him was rebelling and he had no idea why.

  It was almost as if he were mimicking the thoughts of the Widow Peregrine, a character in Sarah’s play that he had read yesterday—and that was a ludicrous suggestion. Her play was a flight of fancy. He was living real life.

  Granted, while reading the play, he had understood how Peregrine would grow tired of always being the moral person, the upright one. He had enjoyed her mutiny against the powers-that-be in the imaginary parish of Lofton. He’d silently cheered when she’d given the gossips their comeuppance and had been pleased when the obvious hero of the piece, Jonathan Goodwell, had recognized Peregrine’s sterling qualities, admired her pluck, and had dropped to his knees in front of her and declared his undying love.

  He had found The Fitful Widow vastly superior to Shakespeare’s comedies, which he thought unbelievable and tedious. After one was read, the others were very much the same and lacked the brilliant wording of the tragedies.

  In contrast, Sarah’s play had entertained him, and yet, there was a kernel of human honesty in the characters. Why else would he have related this situation to what he’d read? Indeed, Sarah’s play may have jolted his personal complacency and made him think a bit beyond his usual sensibilities—and that meant she had talent, even if she wasn’t a male.

  Offering to stage her play had been an easy matter after he’d read The Fitful Widow.