His expression said he begged to differ.
And Sarah had to, in all honesty, admit, “You may be correct.”
A lift of his eyebrow told her he knew he was correct and she couldn’t help pulling a face in return.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Geoff and Charles offered me the one thing I want most in the world—they would stage one of my plays if I would help them. So I agreed. But now I’ve learned, they had no intention of honoring that commitment to me or any of the other actors. They bilked the whole company out of what we deserved.”
“Are you certain they left?” he asked.
“One of the actors went by their quarters. They are gone. This was planned. What I need for you to do is stop them from leaving the country. Make them come back and give us our money.”
“And put on your play?”
She shifted her weight, the manuscript in her arms as heavy as a baby. “That would be the ideal.”
And yet what likelihood would there be that if the duke found Geoff and Charles, if they still had the money to pay the actors, if they were willing to stay in London that they would honor their promise to her?
She ran the side of her thumb across the leather folder holding Widow. Her throat closed. Tears threatened but she held them back. This was not the time for dissolving into tears. Now was the time to fight.
“It is about justice,” she insisted. She met his eye. “Everyone knows the Duke of Baynton does what is honorable and right. You can’t let Geoff and Charles run out on their commitment to people, especially to those who can least afford it. The tenor last night? Millroy? He has six children. Most of the dancers have a child or two. One, Liza, cares for a father who lost his sight at Talavera as well as an aging grandmother. I only have myself to consider but others have serious responsibilities.”
She stopped, uncertain if she could move him. He listened, but did he understand?
“Why should you care?” she said, thinking aloud. “I mean the chances of finding Geoff and Charles are nearly impossible. By now, they may have fled to the Continent, but it isn’t right to take the dreams of others, to make promises, and then use people in such a callous manner. It is the worst sort of thievery and not what we are about in this country. It isn’t right,” she repeated bitterly.
“It isn’t,” he agreed. But instead of giving her the support she had come here to request, his attention went to the door and Sarah turned to see two maids enter the ballroom carrying huge trays. “Ah, here is Cook’s sandwiches. Lena, place them over here.” Another maid held a tray with a pot of tea and a bottle of sherry. They set the trays on side tables next to the seating of chairs.
Only then, did Sarah start to take in her surroundings. She’d been so agitated when she’d arrived, she’d not had a sense of herself let alone the audacity of tracking down Baynton in his house.
If his presence couldn’t humble her, the house did.
They were in a ballroom large enough to hold eight score of people. The walls were of cream and gilt; the draperies seemed to be spun of gold.
The very comfortable chair she’d dropped herself down on was of a rich robin’s-egg blue velvet. Ornately carved tables were by each chair so that a guest would not have to sit holding a cup or a glass. The floor was of wood parquet; however, the section where the chairs were arranged was covered by an Indian carpet of the deepest pile.
Sarah would have screamed if she’d owned this rug and someone wore their wet shoes on it. She also became aware of the ruined hat on her head. Self-consciously, she removed it, feeling a bit humiliated. She placed it on top of her cloak and retook her seat.
The table beside the settee where Baynton sat was larger than the others. This is where he had directed the maids to place the trays. He now prepared to pour the tea himself . . . for her.
Sarah rested her hands upon the leather folder in her lap and was glad that she had at least worn gloves.
The duke said, “Lena, send Mr. Talbert to me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Both maids left the room.
Baynton added a generous amount of sherry to one of the cups. “This is for you, Mrs. Pettijohn.”
“I’m not truly thirsty—”
“Drink.”
She drank, and found it quite good.
He handed her a plate loaded with sandwiches. “Now eat.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” she answered, mimicking the maid’s subservience.
“Don’t play that game, Mrs. Pettijohn. Humility is not your strong suit.”
