She would be wiser to worry about herself. Her rent needed to be paid. She might have to humble herself and return to Colman. What had seemed impossible months ago—working for him after he’d reneged on his promise to stage one of her plays—now seemed to make sense as the water oozed though her shoes and beat down upon her head.
Sarah had not traveled far when she heard a coach approaching from behind. Since she was now on a main thoroughfare, she did not think much upon it. She was too busy trying to protect her play and to stop her teeth from chattering. There was something about the damp that could give a person a chill no matter the warmth of the day.
The coach pulled past her and then stopped. The door opened, blocking her path.
“Mrs. Pettijohn, climb in the coach,” the Duke of Baynton ordered.
She frowned at him. He was snugly inside with the disapproving Mr. Talbert.
“I’d rather walk,” she answered and would have gone on, except he unfolded his tall frame from the coach, reached for her before she could take another step, and unceremoniously tossed her in the coach.
“Onward, Ambrose, to the address I gave you.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” was the reply a beat before Baynton folded himself back into the coach beside Sarah.
This was no hired hack. The seats were of luxurious velvet. The air seemed to be scented with sandalwood and Sarah was nigh on overjoyed to be out of the rain, even if her wet garments were not good for the seat—but she wasn’t about to concede defeat. A woman must never give in when she was in the right.
“Stop this coach immediately,” she ordered.
“I will do no such thing,” Baynton answered. “It’s raining.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Sarah answered with a toss of her wet hair.
He muttered something about stubborn women. Mr. Talbert gave a sly grin of agreement and Sarah wished she could kick the duke’s shins again, except her toes still hurt from her last attempt.
So, since he’d given the driver the address to her rented room, the least she could do was rest a moment. She had no doubt there would be another argument between the two of them in the near future, but for right now, she needed a bit of peace.
She noticed that Baynton had managed to be suitably dressed and was impressed he could change so quickly. His neck cloth was impeccably knotted and he now wore a canary-yellow waistcoat beneath a jacket of fine marine-blue worsted. A bolt of material of that quality cost a pretty penny and made her feel all the shabbier.
Of course, what she truly coveted was the oiled canvas coat he wore over his jacket. No rain could penetrate it. Meanwhile, she felt soaked to the skin and she feared her best dress was ruined.
“I gave Perkins what little information I could remember about those theater men,” he said. “I remembered the name Salerno. He’ll be able to do something with it. He is a master.”
Sarah refused to respond, although it would be a good thing to see Geoff and Charles caught before they could spend everyone’s money. As for herself . . . the Widow weighed heavy in her lap. The pages had got a bit damp. When she returned home, she’d spread them out on the floor to let them dry. Because of the leather folder, she was certain the ink had not run and counted herself fortunate.
“Your Grace,” Mr. Talbert said, “do you wish to review the list of votes in our favor before arriving at Westminster?”
“Later, after we have seen Mrs. Pettijohn safe. Although one would never be safe in such a neighborhood.”
“Says those who don’t live there.” The words just flowed out of Sarah’s mouth. She couldn’t stop them. Baynton was a hard man to ignore, especially when he was baiting her.
In truth, secretly, she was beginning to admire him. He was everything a nobleman should be—tall, strong, trustworthy, and blessed by God with good looks. And that chest. She considered that chest a blessing.
If she ever did take a protector—which she would never do—she would want someone like him. She was actually going to be a bit sorry when their association ended. There was an energy around him that made her feel present and alive, something she hadn’t felt since Charlene left.
And safe. She did feel safe with him.
Sarah glanced over at him. He watched her, his sharp blue eyes filled with concern.
The most natural thing in the world would be to slip her hand around his arm to reassure him she was fine, maybe to cozy up to him and his body heat and the scent of the shaving soap he favored. If she closed her eyes, she could swear she was so aware of him in this moment that she could hear the beat of his heart.
No good would come from that sort of thinking.
The lessons she’d learned from Roland had been hard ones. Her emotions had proven traitorous. Nor was she her mother and doomed to trusting one man after another. No, she guarded her trust . . .
The coach turned down her street. Because of the rain, few were out and about to watch her arrive with such style. The Duke of Baynton even had windows of real glass in his coach. Sarah looked outside and noticed masses of wet paper all over the street.
Paper—the lifeblood of her profession. She didn’t know why it was littering the street, but she could collect it, dry it, use it.
