“You needn’t. Men are covetous. They see; they want. Having you on my arm will do much to restore my reputation.”
“I am not a whore.”
She would have risen from the chair but he caught her hand. “This is a business proposition.”
“I. Am. Not. A whore,” she reiterated.
“I would never call you so. However, you have created an impression—a false one, perhaps—but people think what they will.”
“And for what others think I am to sell myself?”
“Or use this moment to your advantage. What do you want that you can’t have, Mrs. Pettijohn? What of security? Of owning a lovely house to call your own?”
“Attempting to take care of me again, Your Grace?”
“You have refused charity.”
Sarah made a sound of annoyance. Leave it to Baynton to use her own words on her. She crossed her arms. “I have principles.”
“Aye, the world is aware that Mrs. Sarah Pettijohn is no mere actress. She has principles,” he replied. “She’d never stoop so low as to sing away while pumping her legs on a swing over the heads of a pack of hungry lords behaving like dogs.”
For a bald second, Sarah hated him.
Nor would she defend herself.
She had good reason for participating in the Naughty Review. A woman alone had to do what she must to survive. She didn’t need to explain herself to His Haughtiness. She’d meet his haughty and raise it with her haughty. “A pack of dogs in which you were a member,” she reminded him archly.
“I was there,” he conceded.
She glared at him, angry . . . and tired. Exhausted actually.
For a moment, the struggle of her life threatened to overwhelm her. How hard would it be to say yes and own a house, a home no one could take away from her?
She could not give in to temptation. That is what her mother had done. Still, she was curious . . .
“There are a half a dozen birds around London men would be jealous to see you with, Your Grace. Why me?”
“Why not you? Besides, I require someone who will not be foolish. I do not wish to bring bastards in the world.”
He was being smart. Baynton was wealthy. He would be honor bound to support any child he bred. The mother could find herself set for life.
This was also an issue he needn’t fear with Sarah. She wondered if he knew, but he couldn’t. This was her secret.
“I also,” he continued earnestly, “need someone whose discretion I can trust.”
“And you believe that is me?” she asked, incredulous.
“As a matter of fact, yes. You actually do have principles, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
“Thank you, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes, you have me confused. You wish discretion and yet you obviously plan on letting everyone in London know we are lovers. What game are you playing?”
“No game, Mrs. Pettijohn. I need help and you are the only one I can trust.”
“Because,” she prompted.
