by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson
“I was small when my mother gave me that jewelry. The strongbox was hidden in my wardrobe, not hers. Once she realized her mistake, how desperate I was to find my father, she commanded me never to seek him, and then refused to speak of him ever again.” She tried to swallow the old hurt. Her throat stung. It never got easier. “I dreamed of him every night. Of a new life. A different me.”
His gaze was unfathomable. At least now he knew the truth.
“But I’m not different. I’m Charlotte the harlot, bastard daughter of a whore. And now you’re saddled with me, too.”
He took her hand. Refused to let her jerk free. “What are you afraid of? That I’ll reject you, too? That my association with you will ruin my pristine reputation? In case you’ve forgotten, I’m a hairsbreadth away from being tossed into debtors’ prison.” He forced her to meet his eyes. “I’m human, Charlotte. So are you. I can’t blame you for it.”
Hope dared to stir in her chest before harsh reality tamped it down. Her mouth flattened. “Others will. You can’t change Society. And what about your friends and family? What will they say when they discover you’ve wed the offspring of a whore?”
“My friends and family are no strangers to scandal.” His tone was rueful, but his eyes held no trace of regret. “My sister married her husband the same week that she gave birth. One needn’t have a head for figures to realize they must have taken a few liberties with the proper order of events.”
She stared at him in amazement, scarcely able to comprehend his meaning. She had told him her darkest secrets, the very things she had spent a lifetime fighting to hide, and…it didn’t change his view of her in the slightest?
She was human, he’d said without the slightest hesitation. Without realizing she’d struggled her entire life to be treated like a whole person. She’d dreamed of Society accepting her…but perhaps it was enough to be accepted by one man.
This man.
She gave him a wobbly smile. He pulled her into his arms and just held her. Letting his strength comfort her. She hugged him tight.
If only he were someone she could keep.
Chapter 10
Anthony cradled his sleeping bride in his arms as their hired hack rattled across the border into England. There was nothing left for them in Scotland.
He had never been the sort of person who could sleep in a moving carriage, but he was not in the least surprised to see his wife succumb to her exhaustion. She had slept fitfully at best, after having realized her lifelong obsession with being reunited with her father had never been anything more than an impossible dream.
As for the confession that followed… Entering the parson’s trap with the daughter of a whore was perhaps not the most ideal of circumstances, but when had Anthony ever done the ideal thing? He could scarcely hold her accountable for something that had occurred prior to her birth.
Besides, Anthony was painfully cognizant of the fact that he was no fine catch himself. He couldn’t even be caught at all, if he didn’t find a way to triumph over the debt collectors.
He had considered the situation over and over again—some might say dwelled upon the matter to the point of nausea—and had come to the same conclusion. The only honorable way out of his scrape was to earn the owed sums himself.
The issue was how to buy more time.
He still believed London the most viable city for easy employment. And the only place he could repay his debt, since Gideon’s vice parlor lay within city borders. But, given the new information about Charlotte, ’twas no wonder she had no interest in returning to a city that constantly made her feel worthless.
How could he sit behind a writing desk somewhere while his wife was suffering elsewhere?
At least they were heading south. On the move. Not just because they’d left the debt collector’s ruffians behind, but because all of England still lay ahead. London was not the only fashionable city. They could go to Bath. Perhaps there, Charlotte wouldn’t be recognized or disparaged… And perhaps there, Anthony could scare up enough blunt to save his life—and his marriage.
He caressed the back of her hand. Now was not the moment to make her promises about the future. Neither of them was in a position to consummate a marriage whose future would come to an abrupt halt in less than a fortnight. But he had meant what he said. He would fix his mess. And once he deserved her, Charlotte would be his. Completely.
His throat went dry. What if that day never happened? What if he managed to pay off his creditors and be the best man he’d ever been in his life, and it still wasn’t enough?
In his heart of hearts, he’d always dreamed his future wife would be a paragon. Not full of herself or high in the instep, but someone who was…complete without him. Someone who chose him because she wanted him, not because she was enamored by the baubles he bestowed upon her when he was flush.
Of course, beggars could not be choosers. He had no particularly redeemable qualities, which left spoiling his loved ones when his pockets were flush his only option.
So what was he meant to do with Charlotte? What could he possibly give her?
He drummed his fingers against the carriage squab in frustration. Besides having a father, the thing she wanted most was societal approbation—and he couldn’t give it to her. No one could. She would never be accepted at high society gatherings, much less be granted an Almack’s voucher to mingle with the crème de la crème.
She could probably be accepted into the societal fast set—rakes and gamblers and courtesans—but although Charlotte could move in those circles more freely, scandalous company wasn’t what she desired. The gossiped-about set wasn’t where she wished to belong, or who she wanted to be.
But she had no other choice.
He lightly stroked her forearm. Having grown up with both parents and along the fringes of the beau monde, he could not imagine what it must be like to have been born a bastard. A man in such a position could still become a dapper dandy or a famous poet or a respected officer in the army, but what was a woman to do? Especially when her face was recognizable as the very mirror of her mother, a known courtesan.
Charlotte had never had a chance.
Anthony set his jaw. He, on the other hand, did have a chance. This was his opportunity not only to make something of himself—ideally something other than a Marshalsea prisoner—and, in doing so, give Charlotte a chance at an alternate future. A better one.
Once he paid off his debt, they could go anywhere. Perhaps move to the country, as his sister had done. Close enough to London to still remain in contact with his friends and parents, but not so close to the city that Charlotte was in danger of being recognized.
A flutter of hope stirred in his belly. For the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps he might have something to offer besides money. To Charlotte, happiness stemmed from other sources. Peace. Safety. Love. He couldn’t change society to fit her dreams, but he could give her respect and worth in the sanctity of their home. Wherever that might be.
Starting here. Starting now.
He pressed his lips to her hair. Going forward, his new goal wasn’t to collect the purses of every man at the betting table. It was to be dependable. Reliable. To be a good husband and provider. To be someone even he could be proud of.
The only question was how.
Chapter 11
When they reached Newcastle upon Tyne, Anthony found a comfortable inn in which to settle his exhausted wife, whilst he took a turn about the common areas in search of a moment’s entertainment.
As anticipated, there was plenty to distract him.
A handful of couples were just setting out for some sort of local assembly with drink and dancing. A few younger bachelors joined the party in the hopes of encountering a nice young lady…or a naughty one, as the case might be.
The rest of the unattached gentlemen gathered in the inn’s main salon. In moments, drinks were in every hand and the cozy chairs were rearranged into gaming areas.
Anthony’s blo
od raced at the sight. There was nothing he liked better than the thrill of a good wager. The risk of losing it all followed by a dizzying rush of euphoria when an improbable card won it all. This was where he thrived.
A few nights of exceptional hands, and he could come close to paying his debts back. It was unlikely, perhaps, but certainly not impossible. He’d almost done it in Scotland, had he not?
Before Charlotte joined the table, he’d been well on his way to winning back at least a tenth of what he owed. If he could have a run like that every day for a fortnight, he’d not only pay off his debts, but he’d also have plenty left over to whisk Charlotte wherever she wished. How happy she would be then!
“Fairfax?” exclaimed a surprised voice from the other side of the room.
Anthony whirled to see a familiar London face. “Thomas Quinton!”
“As I live and breathe.” Quinton stared in disbelief. “Daresay I’ve never seen you anywhere but St. James. What on earth brings you to Newcastle upon Tyne?”
Fleeing creditors seemed the wrong response if Anthony sought an opportunity to rid his friend of his purse at the tables. Instead he offered, “My wife wanted to visit family.”
“Your what?” Quinton’s jaw dropped. “Now you must be bamming me. Sit, sit. Allow me to buy you a drink while you regale me with lies about some poor debutante silly enough to tie the knot with a man who’s never home at night.” He laughed.
Anthony did not. The humor was lacking. Not because it was an inaccurate description of him—what single gentleman spent his evenings at home?—but because of the unflattering implication that Anthony was unlikely to change, even for a wife. Guilt assailed him.
Given that Charlotte was dozing in a guest chamber whilst Anthony had gone carousing, perhaps Quinton’s teasing assessment wasn’t so far afield.
“All that’s over,” Anthony said firmly. “At the moment, she’s recovering from a long journey. I don’t see any harm in taking a stroll about in the meantime, do you?”
“Oh, perambulate all you like—be my guest! Just make sure you end up at my table, so you can tell me all about the bewitching creature you’ve hidden away upstairs. What’s her name? Do I know her?”
“You don’t,” Anthony said quickly. “And the bewitching creature is Mrs. Fairfax to you.”
“My, you’re prickly,” Quinton teased. “Don’t be the jealous sort. Every man enjoys a pretty face.”
Anthony’s shoulders stiffened. What if Quinton recognized Charlotte? Anthony curled his fingers. He didn’t think Quinton would insult her, at least not purposefully, but a jokester like him could make just the right comment in front of just the wrong person, and even the briefest of stays at this inn would feel like a lifetime of misery to Charlotte. Anthony’s palms went clammy.
If it was happening already, this far north, what would it be like the closer they got to London? How could he protect her from that?
“Well?” Quinton took a seat at a gambling table and motioned toward the last empty chair. “Will you not join us?”
Anthony paused. God knew he needed a win. Quinton’s pockets weren’t too light, and if Anthony managed to sweep the table… He shook his head. His dwindling purse was upstairs in Charlotte’s valise. He wouldn’t wake her. She needed to rest.
And Anthony needed to not lose what little they still had.
“What?” Quinton gasped, clutching his chest melodramatically. “Anthony Fairfax not wager? There can be only one reason. Sit, man. If you’re at Point Non Plus, I’ll give you ten quid to get you started.” He turned to the other gentlemen. “Mind your purses. Fairfax can turn ten quid into two hundred faster than you can blink.”
Anthony hesitated. The empty chair beckoned him. Quinton was right. With a few quid—even with a mere sovereign—Anthony had been known to turn a table to his advantage with devastating ease.
He’d also been known to lose the whole lot on the turn of a card.
He stared at the inviting stacks of ivory betting fish next to each fat purse. At the seductive fan of cards just waiting for him to pick them up and turn the table into a battleground. The pull was overwhelming.
His gaze darted about the room. He couldn’t sit down. Not even for a moment. One peek at those cards, the mere scent of a winning streak, and he’d wager every penny in his possession, right down to his stockings. He couldn’t dare. Risking his own future was one thing. He would not risk Charlotte’s.
He bowed. “I’ve a beautiful creature waiting for me, I’m afraid. Some other time, perhaps.”
His fingers were shaking at the thought of walking away. At the urge to pick up the cards, the suspense at what their faces might show. At the delirious uncertainty of each new hand, and the accompanying rush of excitement thudding through his veins.
But gambling money he couldn’t afford to lose was something a useless wastrel did—which was something he was no longer willing to be.
Charlotte, he reminded himself. He had to be a better man for Charlotte.
“Why, I cannot trust my eyes,” Quinton exclaimed with an expression of honest shock. “If I try to tell anyone back home that this gentleman turned down a game of cards, they’ll laugh me right out of the club.”
Frankly, Anthony couldn’t believe it either.
Before his itchy gambling fingers could change his mind, he bid the company farewell and strode out of the common area and back up to their chamber.
When he opened the door, Charlotte was out of bed and standing before the vanity.
“Did you have supper?” she asked as she freshened her hair.
He shook his head. “I was waiting for you. Are you hungry?”
She set down her pins and turned to face him. “You look pale. Did something happen?”
He touched his face, surprised she had discerned his conflicted emotions. The spinning of one’s head must be more visible from the outside than he’d previously supposed. His addicted mind was still down at that gaming table.
“Something didn’t happen,” he admitted. His fingers still longed for a quick game. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t gamble.”
She tilted her head.
He tensed. She had every reason not to believe him. From the moment she’d laid eyes on him, he’d established himself as being fearless to wager. The first impression he’d given her was of winning everyone’s money within minutes of making her acquaintance—and losing it all the very next instant.
If Quinton couldn’t believe Anthony would turn down the chance to win a few purses… He could hardly expect Charlotte to have any greater faith in him.
She returned to pinning her golden locks. “Well, that’s good. One never knows if one will win or lose. You made the right choice.”
Anthony’s breath escaped his lungs in a whoosh. He straightened his shoulders. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.
That was it? He stared at her as she finished dressing her hair. His mouth parted in shock. The first time he’d turned down a gaming table in fifteen years, the first time he realized he was strong enough to walk away, and when this fantastical event occurred…Charlotte simply believed him without question.
He strode across the room, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her as if he could drink in her words, drown in her faith, die in her arms. Perhaps he could. She was his talisman.
In her eyes, he was a different man. A better man. With her lips pressed against his, he could almost imagine it was true. He cherished this moment.
She would never understand how much her trust and acceptance affected him. How much he’d needed it. How much he needed her. To have her melt into his embrace. To make her proud. To hold her close.
He’d never been dependable enough before for anyone to have a reason to believe in him. Even if her faith in him was in part because she hadn’t known him long enough to understand the catastrophic depths of his unreliable nature, that innocence made him all the more determined never to fail her.
When she loo
ked at him, she didn’t see the man he was, but rather the man he could be.
The man he would be from this day forward. For her.
Chapter 12
Charlotte rubbed her tired eyes and gazed across yet another breakfast room in yet another inn. Leeds. Now they were in Leeds.
Every day brought them inexorably closer to London. Closer to the past she was desperate to forget. Closer to Anthony spending the rest of his future in prison.
She would rather never return at all. She had no fond memories of England.
Beau Brummell had fled to France to escape his creditors. To Charlotte, life in France didn’t sound half bad. Anthony could avoid prison and she could avoid everyone who knew how little someone like her mattered. They could present themselves as a perfectly respectable country couple. With no particular pretensions to grandeur and nary a sordid scandal in their completely fictional past.
To her, it sounded like heaven. To Anthony, hell.
He had family in London. Friends all over England. People who cared about him, who respected him, who missed him. How lucky he was! If that were Charlotte’s life, she would never leave. So how could she expect Anthony to?
“Mrs. Fairfax?” came a breathless voice from the beside the breakfast table.
Charlotte glanced up and forced her weary face to smile at the elderly widow who’d spent the previous evening pouring her fears out to Charlotte over several cups of tea.
“How do you do this morning, Mrs. Rowden?” she asked. “Is something amiss?”
“Quite the opposite.” Mrs. Rowden clasped her hands together and beamed at Charlotte. “Thank you so much for allowing me to bend your ear last night. Your advice was right on the button. Before I retired for the night, I sent my son a letter informing him of my presence.”
This time, Charlotte’s smile was genuine. “I am so pleased to hear it. Uncertainty is one of the worst emotions to suffer through. You’ve taken action, and soon you’ll know. I do hope he accepts your apology.”