The Fairest of Them All by Cathy Maxwell

his mark on an issue that mattered.
    And then, perhaps, he would stop believing himself a failure.
    He wasn’t certain when the shadow of doubt had first fallen across him. He’d not lied to Gavin when he’d said he’d enjoyed his years sailing. It had been an adventurous life and a hard one. He’d been a smart sailor and he’d basked in the relative independence of being able to do as he pleased without his father’s constant criticism and disapproval.
    Jack had even considered himself wise when he’d taken leave of his ship. Here was true freedom. He’d roamed the American wilderness, ­working for his food whether by trapping, ­trading, or manual labor. He’d enjoyed those days. He’d met enough characters to tell stories over a lifetime. He liked Americans. He liked being one of them.
    Of course, his free-­spirited rambling changed when he’d met Hope. Lovely women like Hope had been scarce in the wilderness, and at three and twenty, Jack had been more than ready to take a wife.
    His days of wandering may have come to an end. However, his ambition had not. He’d needed to prove himself. He must. It was the lesson his father had drummed into him. Farming and working the trading post with his wife’s family had not been enough. He’d always wanted more.
    Then, after Hope’s death, he found he needed a complete change from what he had been doing. The law became his calling. He’d discovered he actually liked studying. Gavin would laugh if he heard that. Jack had never been a good student before.
    Now, as he walked past the statue of the first King Charles in Charing Cross, the thought struck Jack that he was becoming more his father’s son than ever before. That idea stopped him dead in his tracks.
    Perkins came to a halt as well and looked question­ingly at him.
    Jack stood where he was, taking in the sights and sounds where the Strand ran into Whitehall road. The traffic was busy. The coaches, riders, and sedan chairs of the powerful intermingled with drays and hundreds if not thousands of pedestrians from every walk of life. They were intent on their personal interests, weaving their way around other people’s busyness, going about their lives.
    And he was—­what?
    Oh, he had purpose. His legal practice in Boston gave him great satisfaction. He was determined to bring the list of American grievances to the attention of Prime Minister Perceval’s government.
    He’d lost much already in his life, including a wife whom he’d adored, but he had no complaints at this moment—­except, he realized, he was looking for her again. He searched for hair so blond it appeared white. Or startled blue eyes.
    â€œIs something the matter?” Perkins asked.
    â€œAh, no. Just thinking,” Jack answered. “Every once in a while, a memory forces me to pause.”
    Perkins accepted the excuse, nodding as if he under­stood, but Jack knew he didn’t. It was ­insanity to keep thinking of the pickpocket. Jack’s days of being ruled by his small head were long past.
    Or should be.
    Jack made himself walk toward the rows of government offices in front of him.
    Perkins went so far as to accompany Jack on his rounds of the different offices inside. Jack had already visited each of them numerous times. He had asked for an audience with different representatives of each department. He’d been rebuffed.
    However, today he anticipated matters to be different. As Silas Lawrence had pointed out, the papers were full of the very public family reunion. The civil servants who had been so disdainfully cold to him should be more temperate in their reception of him and his mission.
    They were not.
    Indeed, they were actually more condescending.
    So much so, Perkins started to take pity on him. “That was a rude fellow,” he said of the third assist­ant to the assistant secretary for colonial ­affairs.
    Jack