“What would that be?”
Again, he seemed to deliberate, and then pulled from his jacket a small vial. “This is a sleeping draught. It will not hurt whoever drinks it but they will slumber deeply.”
“You wish to give this to the duke?”
Mr. Talbert lowered his voice to say, “I believe you should give it to him.”
Shocked at the suggestion, Sarah said, “Why?”
“Because he is taken with you. If he oversleeps in your arms, he’ll assume the fault was his. I have word that the duel will be on the morrow. At dawn. If you give this to him before you take him to your bed, he will not wake for a good twelve or more hours.”
“But he will miss the duel. What will happen?”
“He’ll live. Lord Rovington will be declared the winner because his opponent failed to show. Meanwhile, I will spread the word that His Grace didn’t show because he was so lost in making love to you—and all will be well because each man will have what he wants.”
The plan was simple enough to make sense.
“Isn’t it a matter of honor that the duke appear?” Sarah asked. “Will there be repercussions harmful to His Grace?”
“What good is honor when one is dead? Of course,” he continued, sitting back, “if you have no desire to see him safe, well, I must consider another way to administer the draught or let him die—”
“I will help,” Sarah said. She could not have Baynton’s death on her conscience. Mr. Talbert’s plan was sound. She held out her hand.
With an approving smile, the secretary said, “I must apologize, Mrs. Pettijohn. I was wrong about your character.” He gave her the vial. She tucked it in the small pocket of her jacket.
“How shall I see that he drinks it?” she wondered.
“I’m assured it has little taste. He always enjoys a bit of whisky before bed. I had been thinking to find a way to pour this into his glass.”
She nodded mutely. The plan seemed simple. It would also stave off the inevitable bedding . . . and that was good. She was not ready yet. She didn’t know if she would ever be ready.
Mr. Talbert opened the door and climbed out. His tone was warm as he said, “Come, Mrs. Pettijohn, I believe you will like this house.” He invited her to climb out of the coach.
She accepted Mr. Talbert’s hand as she alighted. She did like the house though she barely registered anything she saw. Her thoughts were on the vial in her possession.
Whether Baynton was a great man or not, last night he had showed restraint beyond any she would have expected from a man. Today, he coupled it with kindness.
And, their differences between them aside, she found herself willing to do whatever she must to keep him whole and healthy. Even trickery.
Chapter Twelve
Gavin expected to spend a few unpleasant moments with the prime minister. He was certain Liverpool had choice words about the vote the day before.
But upon greeting Gavin in chambers and their taking their chairs, the prime minister surprised the duke by saying, “I understand that you are enjoying yourself.” He winked his meaning . . . but Gavin wasn’t certain he understood.
His mind was on the vote. Was this Liverpool’s sly way of letting Gavin know he was disappointed?
“Sir?”
“The Siren.” Liverpool looked around his office as if he feared someone lurked who might overhear him. “She’s yours, right?”
Of all the topics Gavin had expected to discuss with the prime minister this morning, Sarah was not one of them. And the term she’s yours was a delicate one.
But Liverpool needed no answer. He’d been speaking rhetorically. He’d already formed his own conclusions about Gavin’s relationship with Sarah. “I wish I could have attended her performance but then I did not think it completely proper for the prime minister to be seen in that crowd. Or possibly safe. I’d not have those heads of cabbages and mushy tomatoes usually reserved for disliked performers thrown at my head.”
“It was a rowdy crowd,” Gavin assured him.
And since the assassination of the former prime minister, Perceval, at the hands of an angry citizen last May, caution was warranted.
