Who knew? Baynton was mortal after all.
Or perhaps he had wandered in by chance? Oh no, he wouldn’t.
She distinctly remembered him coolly informing her that he did not attend the theater. Well, he had added, save for the occasional Shakespeare.
This was no Shakespeare.
And it was intriguing to see him here.
The duke had once wooed her niece Charlene. When Charlene had run off with another, his twin brother, no less, Baynton had gone after them and Sarah had insisted on accompanying him so that she could protect her beloved niece.
In the end, Baynton had not won the lady. Charlene had married the man she loved and the duke had been somewhat gracious about it—that is, to everyone save Sarah. Apparently he did not appreciate outspoken women.
She had little admiration for him as well. Two days of traveling to Scotland with him had convinced her that no other man on earth could be more insufferable or self-righteous than Baynton. At their parting, she had prayed to never set eyes upon him again—except this was good. This was a moment to be relished.
Watched only Shakespeare. The hypocrite.
If she’d had a shoe on, she would have thrown it down right on his head. Let him think it was the judgment of God Almighty for being in such an immoral place. Sarah would have adored seeing the expression on his handsome face . . . and he was handsome. Sarah was not blind to his looks. It was the words that came out of his mouth she didn’t like.
But gazing at him, well, that was pleasure.
In truth, she’d been overjoyed when he’d first called on Charlene. She’d wanted what was best for her niece and the Duke of Baynton was the best London had to offer. He was wealthy, respected, honored, and Char would have made a lovely duchess.
Sarah could even recall the last words she’d heard the duke speak. Baynton had paid Sarah’s way home from Scotland by private coach rather than endure more travel time with her. He’d mentioned within her hearing that it had been “money well spent. She is too opinionated by half.” Words that Sarah had found surprisingly hurtful, although she’d had her fill of him as well.
The sheep were almost done with their act. It had gone on overlong. The crowd no longer yelled crudities or baaa’ed. They grew restless. That was the problem with this sort of entertainment. It could never capture the imagination—not in the way a well-written play could.
The Siren was up next.
Had Sarah thought to make her performance quick and be done with it? That had been before spying the Duke of Puffed Up Consequence in her audience.
She stood and wrapped the silken rope around her hand, readying herself to step off the platform the moment the dancers on stage finished. She felt strong, powerful, and inspired to give the performance of her lifetime.
If Baynton thought his matched set of grays were high flyers, wait until he witnessed the Siren.
Chapter Two
If not for his concern for his friend Rovington, Gavin Whitridge, Duke of Baynton, would have walked out of the Naughty Review.
Oh, he liked looking at women’s breasts as well as any man—and they were all on display here. Big breasts, little ones, and everything in between jiggled and bobbed to the point that, after a while, it became rather tiresome.
Well, at least for him. The other men in the theater could not seem to have enough. They crowded together, pushing against the pit where the musicians—two violins and a pianoforte—played, trying to close in on the stage and all those dancing breasts.
And what a crowd it was! Since the theater was lit by what seemed to be a thousand candles not only on the stage but over the audience, Gavin could count no fewer than three judges of the High Court in attendance and what seemed to be every member of the Commons. The octogenarian Lord Bradford was present in a sedan chair and enjoying the show with his carriers. Fathers were accompanied by sons. Sailors milled about by the shipload and lords, gentlemen, knaves, and obvious criminals exchanged catcalls and quips with gusto.
Serving lasses, their own bosoms barely covered, wove through the crowd with mugs of ale that they charged a half-guinea apiece for, and the lads happily paid.
Oh, yes, it was a great night at the theater, reminding Gavin why he could barely abide it. He detested crowds. Then again, he wasn’t here for entertainment.
No, he was here because he believed his trust in Rovington, in whose private box he now sat, was being betrayed.
Several months ago, Rov’s wife Jane had approached Gavin for help. Rov had always fancied himself a gambler except now, he had apparently been playing too deep. Jane claimed he was cleaned out, done. Ruined. He’d turned to the moneylenders and would start losing his unentailed estates. Since his father, also a gambler, had not been wise with his responsibilities, there were a number of them.
Gavin counted Rov as one of his oldest friends. They had known each other since school. Of course he wanted to help and had pushed for Rov to be named to the lucrative position as Chairman of the Committees in the House of Lords.
He did it for several reasons: First, Rov had a bit of a touch with the Common Man and this position called for good communication with the House of Commons. The Chairman of the Committees could dictate the importance of all legislation in Parliament. And that was the second reason Gavin had placed him there. Gavin expected Rov to carry out his suggestions. In turn, the income from the position would relieve Rovington’s money woes.
Unfortunately, the decision was not a successful one.
