A Date at the Altar

by Cathy Maxwell

  “I must. I haven’t spent that much time with her, but my mother and my aunt have made inquiries. Her parents have approved the match. There are expectations.”

  “Ah, yes, expectations.” Fyclan began cutting his meat. “The bane of a civilized society.”

  “I’m not just anyone. I’m a duke—”

  “Because you were born first and had the luck of a certain set of parents. I’ve worked with the peerage all my life, Baynton. Men who feel it beneath them to dirty their hands. Or who play at politics to make themselves feel important. Worse are the ones who don’t do anything but gamble and socialize. And then there are the good ones.” Fyclan pointed at him with his knife. “I would have been proud to have had you for a son-in-law. You worked hard to turn your family’s fortunes around. I know what a struggle it was. And I should state, I am pleased with your brother. Lord Ben makes Elin happy. Your father may have been a rigid man but he turned out sons with initiative and drive.”

  “I know.” Once again, Gavin experienced the tightening in his chest. “I understand what I should do.”

  “Do you?” Fyclan set the knife aside. “Your father was a good one for saying one thing and doing the opposite himself. What does that tell you?”

  “That he was the man he was.”

  “No, it should tell you that those responsibilities and expectations people talk about are subject to interpretation. Jenny’s father didn’t approve of me. He felt I wasn’t good enough because I didn’t have a title before my name and because I was Irish. He was wrong. So, the question I ask, do you believe people who would look down their noses at your Sarah are wrong?”

  “Absolutely.” Gavin leaned forward. “She is the bravest woman I know. I have learned from her how difficult it is for a woman to survive alone, but she has. She even did what she must to rescue her niece from, well, an unspeakable fate. She has overcome odds that would break any dozen men I know.”

  God, just thinking about Sarah, about his admiration for her and all that she had brought into his life the last two months and how people might perceive her made him a bit crazy. He wanted to pick up chairs, throw them, and rail against the injustice of narrow minds. “If I was a boot maker or a deacon or any number of working occupations, I’d ask her to be my wife and be humbled if she answered yes.”

  “But you can’t ask her as a duke?”

  “You know that I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Gavin frowned at Fyclan. “She is an actress. People know her as my mistress. It is not done.”

  Fyclan shrugged. “Of course it has been done. There has been a mistress or two who has married her man and gone respectable.”

  “None that I know. Or that my family knows.”

  “Yes, but what is the purpose of being the most powerful duke in England if you can’t do exactly as you wish?”

  “She can’t have children, Fyclan.”

  That statement stopped him. “You know this?”

  Gavin nodded. “It isn’t just that I need an heir for the title, I always imagined myself with children. I want them.”

  “And you are certain she can’t have them?”

  “Sarah is certain.”

  “Damn. Now I understand. I’m sorry, my friend. That is a facer . . . however, we can’t always order our lives.”

  “We can for what is in our control.”

  “Whether or not we have children is far from under our control.” Fyclan took a drink of his stout and set the glass down, studying it a moment before saying, “Jenny wanted a cartload of children, but her heart was not strong. The doctors warned us there was a danger to her heart if she should be pregnant. I loved Jenny, Baynton. From the moment I set eyes on her, I knew she was the one and I would have happily foregone children to keep her well—but she didn’t agree. She said her arms felt empty without a child.”

  Gavin could understand that sentiment.

  “So, we tried. There were some miscarriages. It was as if Jenny’s body was protecting her, and then we were blessed to have Elin, and very lucky.” He spoke as if living a happier time in his mind. “When I said as much, Jenny had laughed at me. She teased me for not believing in my gypsy gran.”

  “Your gypsy gran?”

  “Aye, she had the gift of sight. She could see the future.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “When I was a lad I did. None of us questioned her because she was often right. She predicted that my children’s children would be peers. Dukes, she said. But I loved Jenny. I knew about her heart and I loved her all the more, Baynton. She was light to my dark. A joyful, giving woman. I didn’t care about the prophecy when I was with her. My heart, even my soul was hers. Still are.” His eye had gone misty and he looked away for a moment to gather himself.

  “You can imagine how excited I was when your father suggested a match between you and Elin,” Fyclan continued. “Jenny was elated. I’d given up the prophecy as nonsense. Jenny believed. She was proud our daughter would be a duchess, that Gran’s words would come true. And then, Elin bypassed you to fall in love with your brother.”

  “They are truly made for each other.”

  “Aye, they are. I also feel Jenny has given them her blessing. I have a sense of peace about it, especially since you were more than decent about the whole situation.”

  What choice had he had? Gavin frowned at the now cold beefsteak on the plate in front of him.

  “What I’m trying to say, Your Grace, is that love must have its way. My grandchildren may be peers or not. My daughter is happy and that is all that matters to me.”

  Fyclan sat forward. “You have asked my advice in the past. You have not asked it now but you will receive it. You need to decide what you can live with. Years from now, when you have your children around you, will you be happy? Or will you think of your actress and have regrets? Don’t live a life with regrets, Baynton. It is not worth it, even if you do have a ducal title.”

  Gavin could have told him that he’d been schooled in regrets. His father had burned into him an understanding that the good of the title took precedence before all else.

  However, they were interrupted by Lord Naylor and Mr. Dinwiddie, who had spied Gavin at his breakfast, and begged a moment to discuss the difficulties of the Money Bill.

  The damn Money Bill.

  Fyclan took his leave then. He had no desire to listen to men chew over politics.

  Gavin never did eat his breakfast. He heard what they had to say and then returned home to be cared for by his valet. He had a busy schedule set by his new secretary, Andrew Riffey, an eager, experienced gentleman sent over by an agency.

  “Your mother asked that you call upon Miss Charnock this afternoon. She intends to join you on the visit.”

  Gavin knew what was expected, and then he thought of his conversation with Fyclan.

  He had no desire to call on Leonie Charnock, who was a lovely woman. He especially did not want to see her this day, hours before he was to watch Sarah’s triumph on the stage. He did not wish the distraction.

  Sarah would be a success this evening. Gavin enjoyed The Fitful Widow and he didn’t like anything on stage. He knew Sarah was an uncommon talent. London would embrace her. Tomorrow he would do his duty and call on Miss Charnock.

  Tonight, he was going to celebrate Sarah’s accomplishment.

  “Delay the call,” he told Riffey.

  “Until when, Your Grace?”

  The word “tomorrow” was on the tip of his tongue, but Gavin held back. “When I decide,” he said.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Riffey left Gavin’s study.

  Gavin poured a whisky and silently counted, one, two, three—

  His mother burst into his office. “What do you mean you will not go with me to call on Miss Charnock?”

  “Exactly what you just said. I will not go. Not today.”

  “It is because of this actress, isn’t it?” the dowager charged.

  “Partially.”
/>   “Can you care for her so much that you would insult one of the leading heiresses in this city? Are you that much of a fool?”

  Gavin considered his mother’s question and answered, “Quite possibly.”

  The dowager practically stamped her foot in frustration. “This will not do—”

  “It must,” Gavin answered. It wasn’t the son who had interrupted her; it was the duke. Fyclan had been right. What was the purpose of being a powerful duke if he couldn’t do exactly as he pleased?

  He moved over to his desk and sat down, placing his glass to the side. He expected his mother to stomp out.

  She didn’t.

  Instead she took the chair in front of his desk.

  Gavin wanted to ignore her. He also knew she wouldn’t let him.

  “Why have you made this decision?”

  Because I’ve lost the only person who means anything to me, Gavin almost responded, but didn’t. “I do not have time.”

  “Yes, but I imagine you have time for the theater this evening. Isn’t tonight the opening of your paramour’s play? Oh, don’t look so surprised. Of course I know this. All of London is gossiping about it. Did you truly imagine I would not know of your involvement? I’ve received more questions than you can imagine about this play. Eyebrows have been raised. Not just about this woman being your mistress but that you are supporting her play.”

  “And why is that? Do they not think a play is a wise investment?”

  “Do you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Mrs. Pettijohn is very talented. It has been my honor and privilege to support her.”

  “Baynton, it is not done. A woman is not a theater manager.”

  “This one is.” He picked up his drink.

  The dowager eyed him in the way only a mother could. “You are done with her, aren’t you?”

  Gavin set the whisky down without a taste. “Actually, she is done with me.”

  His mother’s chin lifted in affront. “Done with you? Is she mad?”

  “She may well be the sanest person I know.”

  He could feel her scrutiny as if she weighed his words for what he had not said. In that moment, Gavin could look anywhere save his mother’s eyes. He would be a disappointment to her. He knew her thinking. And yet, God help him, his heart was broken.

  Yes, his heart. He’d often wondered if he had one. While other men did fanciful and foolish things over women, Gavin had focused on duty and responsibility. He’d thought those men deluded for their lack of sound reason.

  Now Gavin wished he was not so responsible, so chained to family honor and expectations.

  His mother rose majestically to her feet. “I shall go with you this evening.”

  “You don’t like the theater.”

  “I do not, save for the occasional Shakespeare. However, this play is your investment. And you are my son. I consider it a show of family solidarity.”

  “There is no need for that.”

  “Then understand I need to be there this evening.”

  “For what reason?” he asked carefully.

  “My own purpose. We women have a feeling about these things. Imogen will also attend. You may need the two of us.”

  “Lest I do something foolish? I told you—”

  “We will be there, Baynton.” And with that, she sailed from the room.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sarah woke with a groggy brain and with eyes so swollen they hurt to open.

  Today her play opened. She’d dreamed of this day, worked for it—and instead of elation, she looked to the empty side of her bed and didn’t know if she could move.

  Then again, the one thing she had learned over her years is that to survive, a woman never gives up.

  She crawled from the bed, shoved her hair back, and walked to the washbasin. She splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection in the glass was not good. She looked old, defeated.

  In her plays, Love always won . . . but not in life—not for her.

  It had been a blessing that Charlene had found love and been happy. Perhaps that is why Sarah had let down her guard, had started to let herself hope?

  “What a terrible word—’hope,’” she muttered to her reflection.

  He said he loved you, the devil’s angel said in her head. He claimed you would always have his heart. It is yours and will never go to another woman.

  Sarah dropped her hands into the basin’s cold water, holding them there, appreciating the feeling of something other than pain, denying that ache inside her that begged her to settle for what crumbs Baynton offered.

  But she knew better. She’d watched her mother trust one lover after another. In the end, people moved on with their lives. The woman who won was the one with the commitment.

  A commitment Baynton was not free to make.

  “I will overcome this,” she assured herself. “My play will be a success and I will go forward without him.”

  And Gavin could have his little wife who was barely out of the schoolroom and his hundreds of horrid children. Sarah would not only survive, she was determined to thrive.

  With that mind-set, she arrived at the theater shortly before one. Already, as with any opening night, members of her company were at work. Costumes were being carefully inspected. Bits of stage business were being rehearsed. The workers tested the ropes that pulled the set pieces and finishing touches were added to the scenic curtain of a country village.

  There were hundreds of small tasks to keep Sarah’s mind busy and off of Baynton. She helped realign the bench seats in the pit. She personally swept the boxes and was thankful that Geoff and Charles knew how to spend money and had good taste because the cushioned chairs and appointments of the boxes could have rivaled the finest theaters.

  Her dear, dear friend Lady Baldwin came early as she had promised to help with selling seats. Having been an actress, she understood what was important. Lady Baldwin was as tall as she was wide and adored flamboyant feathers in her turban and bold prints.

  Sarah had never been so happy to see anyone. She confided in Lady Baldwin that she and the duke were no more. Her ladyship enveloped her in a hug.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told Sarah. “I had hoped you would be like my Bertie and me.” Her late husband Bertie had been one of the king’s closest advisors. “I had believed you would make a lovely duchess.”

  “I didn’t want a title,” Sarah said. “I just wanted him.”

  “I know, dove,” Lady Baldwin commiserated. “But a title is never a bad thing, either.”

  Her common sense sparked a laugh out of Sarah.

  “Very good,” her ladyship said approvingly. “That is the spirit I want from you. No moping. Not now. We have a play to stage—and one that has all of London buzzing.”

  She was right. Seat sales were brisk. In fact, people were clamoring for even the most expensive boxes.

  Usually first nights, especially in new theaters, were not well attended. Sarah had been worried that no one would show. Now it seemed as if all the fashionable world would be in attendance.

  She was certain it was because of Baynton. London knew what he was doing for her and now wished to know if he had purchased a pig in the poke. Sarah was determined to prove all critics wrong.

  Of course, Gavin would be in attendance. She knew he would not stay away.

  Standing in the wings of the stage she would grace in a few hours as the Widow Peregrine, Sarah looked up at the finest box in the house where he would be sitting. She could well imagine him there. For a second, her throat tightened and tears threatened. If she allowed herself, she could have a complete breakdown—

  “Mrs. Pettijohn,” Lady Baldwin said in an officious tone, “we are completely sold out and there are still more who want to come in. What shall we do? I suggest we add more benches in the pit. Sir John Dawson said he’d be willing to sit there if it means he may have a ticket.”

  “No, it is already a crush as it is. Please offer my apologies and beg him t
o return tomorrow.”

  “All right, but I believe you are making a mistake. One extra bench will not hurt.”

  Sarah glanced out at the people already milling around for seats in the pit. “It is never wise to overstuff a theater. I’ve seen what happens when fights are started.”

  “Very well,” Lady Baldwin replied and then gave a giddy laugh. “This is all so exciting.” She hurried off to deliver the bad news to Sir John.

  Time before a show always seemed to travel slow and fast, all at once. Sarah had spent the afternoon fearing the moment the curtain would be drawn and impatient for it as well.

  She went to wardrobe to put on her costume. Elsie, the wardrobe mistress, helped her dress. When they were done, Elsie, in the most casual manner possible, said, “I haven’t seen Thom.”

  “He should have been here an hour ago.” Cursing the lead actor under her breath, Sarah went in search of him. It was quite possible he was busy having a flirt with the actresses or mingling with the audience.

  “Rawlins just arrived,” Billie, the watchman at the back door, said. “He asked after you.”

  “I pray he is changing into his costume,” she muttered. She charged off in the direction of the dressing room and there she did find Thom, but he wasn’t in costume.

  Instead, he was talking to the gathered members of the company who listened intently. This was a strange scene to Sarah with only fifteen minutes to the performance. The actors were so absorbed with what Thom was saying, they didn’t notice her at first.

  Something was happening here and she was not certain what.

  Then someone caught sight of her in the door and nudged another and soon Thom realized he was losing his audience. He turned and faced Sarah.

  “Why aren’t you in costume?” she asked.

  He swallowed. “I will not go on, and before you become angry, you need to listen to me. We should cancel the performance.”

  “I will not. We have a curtain in fifteen minutes.”

  “Sarah, someone is determined to sabotage your play.”

  “What?”

  “That is right. I have been warned by a person I trust that there will be men here tonight who wish to ruin you. They are intent on ridiculing you and destroying your play. They have cabbage heads and rotten apples to throw at any of us who step on stage. They plan on making an example of you for what you are doing.”