In answer, Sarah stepped back, inviting two liveried and bewigged footmen into the house. Between them they carried an arrangement of red hothouse roses so large it was half the size of Char.
One of them bowed to Sarah. “Lady Charlene?”
She pointed toward Char, before covering her lips with both her hands as if to contain her excitement.
The servants gravely bowed before Char. “My lady,” one said, “the Duke of Baynton bid us deliver these flowers to you.”
“In the middle of the night?” Char said, dumbfounded.
“His Grace ordered it be done with all haste.”
And when the Duke of Baynton spoke, his servants apparently jumped to his bidding.
“Where would you like us to place them, my lady? They are a bit heavy.”
“On the desk,” Char said as Sarah rushed to clear her writing from the surface.
The glorious bouquet took over the top of the desk. The servants were careful of the vase. It was swirled glass and a tribute to a glassblower’s art.
“How could he arrange for this in the middle of the night?” Char said in wonder.
A footman answered, “The Duke of Baynton may do anything he wishes, my lady.”
The scent of roses filled the air.
“His Grace also bid me deliver this letter.” The footman presented to Char an envelope in the same heavy, gilded vellum that had been used for the ball invitation. “He directed me to wait for your response.”
Char shot a look at Sarah and Lady Baldwin who gestured for her to hurry and open the envelope. The sealing wax was imprinted with a crest featuring a stag and a crown. Carefully prying it from the paper so that she could save it to examine later, she pulled out the card inside.
I regret we did not have our dance this evening. However, with your permission, I would call on you on the morrow.
The signature at the bottom was “Baynton,” carelessly scrawled as if he wrote his name a hundred times a day.
She looked up at Sarah and Lady Baldwin. “He wants to call on me.” She could scarce believe she was saying such a thing.
Fear of Whitridge vanished.
There wasn’t a marriageable young woman in London who wouldn’t have sold her soul for this request.Char had been chosen.
It was only then she realized that she had not actually believed it had been possible. Yes, Lady Baldwin and Sarah had predicted he could not help but notice her, but Char had not been convinced. After all who was she? The penniless daughter of a disgraced earl. A poor, pitiful relation.
Andshehad captured the attention of the most important duke in Britain. A handsome duke. A thoughtful one.
Her gaze went to the flowers. They were such a fulsome gesture. He wanted her to know he was serious in his intent.
Why, if a man could spend the money for hothouse flowers in February, he would be able to sponsor one of Sarah’s plays or help Char provide for her aunt and her friend Lady Baldwin.
She’d even have five guineas to pay off the Seven and live a life free of petty larceny.
And she was glad now that Whitridge had not recognized her. He’d been standing practically next to her and had not realized who she was. Perhaps he had put her from his mind? Or had not registered her features as completely as she had the ability to recall his?
Sarah cleared her throat, a reminder to Char that the footman awaited an answer.
This marriage could change the futures for all of them. Would Char be her father’s daughter if she didn’t take a chance?
“Yes, I would like His Grace to call. I would like that very much,” Char said.
The servants bowed and left. Sarah closed the door behind them. She walked forward as if entering the presence of greatness. She threw her arms about Char and swung her around the room. Lady Baldwin did her own jig, the half-empty sherry bottle held high.
