Twenty years ago, Judith Devon had been one of the most infamous courtesans in all of London. Now, she was simply… old. Forgotten by the fashionable set. Plagued by the lower classes—the only clients she had left.
For the past two-and-twenty years, the only person either of them could count on was each other. Proper ladies and gentlemen treated them like rubbish.
Society never let Charlotte forget her base roots. From the time she was old enough to toddle, gentlemen callers would toss an extra coin her way, and tell her how blessed she was to be the image of her beautiful mother.
It wasn’t a blessing. It was a curse.
The mere fifteen-year age gap between them meant, as Charlotte grew older, they were often confused on the street. Pointed at. Spat upon. There was no denying her heritage; no salvaging her reputation. She was a by-blow. A whore’s daughter.
Born ruined.
All those long, wretched years, her one chance at some level of respectability was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, she had a father. All she knew about him was his name, that he was a noble laird in Scotland, and that he had no idea he had a daughter.
Her mother had told her he was a wonderful man. Kind, compassionate, wise, thoughtful, gentle—everything a father should be. He hadn’t abandoned her. The poor man hadn’t even known she existed. He’d returned to Scotland before either of them had realized they’d created a child.
But what if Charlotte could find him?
The tantalizing utopia of living in a respectable household had obsessed her for her entire life. This was her best chance. A man even half as caring and honorable as her mother had painted him would not hesitate to take her in, to welcome her. She didn’t want his money. She simply wanted his time and affection. A place in his world.
As a child, Charlotte had lain awake every night dreaming about the day he would discover her and whisk her away to a better life, far from London. For years, she’d actually believed her father would return to rescue both her and her mother.
He never had. So here she was. An adult now, closer to her dream than she’d ever been. He would not sweep in to save her, so Charlotte would have to do so herself. First, she had to find him—convince him she was virtuous enough to take in.
Then she would persuade him to send for her mother, or at least provide for her. Every new client Mother was forced to take added lines to her face and took years from her life. Charlotte was determined to marry well and rescue her mother herself, if her father could not. But to do so, she had to portray herself as honorable and proper.
Starting with never admitting to the truth.
“That should do it.” Mr. Fairfax slid the fire iron back into its stand and turned from the grate. “What is my next chore?”
Charlotte gazed up at him, startled. She had thought the farce was over. “You truly wish to be my slave for the night?”
“Of course I don’t wish to,” he assured her. “But I wouldn’t want it said that I reneged on our wager. Now, what shall it be? I likely oughtn’t to divulge a secret, but I am world renowned for a quite unparalleled foot massage.”
She frowned repressively. “If it’s a secret, how are you world renowned?”
“I’m also not half bad at dressing hair and mending hems,” he continued without pause. “I minded my younger sister and often had to play maid-of-all-work when times were lean.” He lowered his voice. “Playing maid-of-all-work is not nearly as diverting as playing whist or Faro, but a boy of twelve does not sail his own ship.”
Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t keep a smile from forming. What must it be like to grow up so secure in one’s self-worth that one could admit to such poverty and have the confession sound charming? Either she truly did not understand the ton, or Mr. Fairfax wasn’t as well-connected as it had seemed in the common room.
Then again, he was welcome at fashionable gentlemen’s clubs like Boodle’s. So which was it?
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know any dukes or earls?”
“I know scads of dukes and earls,” he assured her. “However, most are married and the rest are scandalous, so I really cannot recommend them to a lady.”
“Name one,” she challenged.
“The Duke of Ravenwood,” he answered immediately. “First-rate fellow, married to an absolutely dreadful hoyden who I love quite dearly. Cannot recommend her, either. Bad for one’s reputation.”
Charlotte tilted her head, unsure whether to believe even half of his tales. “Name a scandalous lord.”
“Lord Wainwright,” he said without hesitation. He lowered his voice. “The majority of his interactions with society are horizontal. A frequent guest at the even more scandalous Duke of Lambley’s infamous masquerade balls.”
She crossed her arms. Both of those names often appeared in the scandal columns. Which did not mean Mr. Fairfax knew either gentleman personally. “Are any of these rakes and do-gooders as skilled as you at darning socks?”
“You know, I’ve never asked them,” he said with wide-eyed innocence. “I shall add it to my diary straightaway, so as not to forget the next time we meet.”
Charlotte harrumphed to hide her amusement. It didn’t matter whether he knew the men. She would never be introduced to them. “How are you at pressing wrinkles from gowns?”
“Let me assure you,” he said with utter seriousness, “that I have never worn a wrinkled gown in all my life.”
“Very gentlemanly.” She tried not to smile. “Let’s see your skill as maid-of-all-work, then. My gowns are in the wardrobe, as is my traveling iron. See what you can do.”
“At your service.” He bowed, then turned and marched to the wardrobe like a soldier off to war.
Now that he couldn’t see her, she let herself grin. The man was incorrigible… but she couldn’t help but find his frankness humanizing and his silliness refreshing. “You’re certain you know what you’re about with those gowns?”
“You will think my valet pressed them,” he called back in a tone filled with such portent that Charlotte half expected her muslins to be dotted with burns in the shape of smoothing irons.
It would almost be worth it, just to have this one night. This memory of a man above her station treating her as if she were above his. Of being an equal, rather than an object incapable of feelings or rights of her own. Of feeling… happy.
Charlotte hugged herself in astonishment. When was the last time she’d felt safe enough and carefree enough to be happy?
She gazed wistfully at his strong back as he placed the iron in the fire. He smoothed out the first gown on the chaise longue before dampening the wrinkled material with water from the pitcher.
A man like this was even more dangerous than the sort who usually approached her, she realized in surprise. A man like this wouldn’t just take what he wanted. He’d make her want to give it to him of her own free will. He’d make her desire him, long for his kisses. Plead for more.
She forced herself to look away.
No. She would not be like her mother. She had promised herself that the first time she’d seen her mother cry. Charlotte’s life would be different. She’d find a way to be respectable if it killed her.
Which meant keeping her distance from the tempting Mr. Fairfax. No matter what happened.
Charlotte still had dreams for the future. She’d sworn to never so much as kiss a man, much less lie with him, until she was in love. She would only give herself once, to the right man. The gentlemen she’d wed would be perfect. Some handsome, moneyed, landed, laird friend of her father’s.
Or at the very least, her husband would be above reproach. And very much in love. The rest was optional… but a girl could dream.
A knock sounded upon the door. “Miss Devon? It’s Mr. Garman, the innkeeper.”
Frowning, she pushed herself out of the wingback chair. What could the innkeeper want at this hour?
When she opened the door, his expression was apologetic. “I’m so sorry to bother you, miss,
but I must inquire… Is Mr. Fairfax within this chamber?”
“I’m busy ironing my lady’s morning gown,” Mr. Fairfax called from somewhere behind Charlotte’s shoulder. “’Tis ever so relaxing!”
She pasted on a pained smile. “He’s here.”
“And, pardon me asking, miss, but it’s a matter of some importance. Is Mr. Fairfax your husband?”
Charlotte’s throat dried. It had been one thing to playact in the corridor, but now that the gentleman in question was otherwise unaccompanied inside her bedchamber…
Her fingers grew cold. Scotland didn’t know her past. If Charlotte hoped to keep her reputation, there was only one possible answer. She just didn’t dare give it. One lie was enough. She wouldn’t involve Mr. Fairfax any more than she already had.
“Yes,” he called from somewhere near the fireplace. “Of course the lady is my wife. Do you think I extend my ironing services to all your guests?”
“Yes,” she echoed faintly, forcing herself not to clap her hands with relief. “I’m afraid Mr. Fairfax is indeed my husband.”
The innkeeper yanked a very expensive, very battered valise from the hallway to her open doorway. He lifted his chin to project his voice over Charlotte’s shoulder. “In that case, these are the items we are certain your husband accidentally left behind in the bedchamber he forgot to pay for in the excitement of reuniting with his wife. I assume he’ll be down first thing in the morning to settle the bill?”
“Absolutely, tomorrow,” Charlotte’s faux husband called back. “I have a whist appointment with Leviston after noon, and then I’ll settle everyone’s bills. I can feel my luck upon the wind!”
Several doors along the corridor cracked ajar, and various occupants peeked out, their gazes shamelessly curious.
The innkeeper cut Charlotte a flat look. “Given your husband’s reputation for forgetfulness in monetary matters, would you be so kind as to remind him tomorrow of his promise?”
“We’ll pay you right now,” she said quickly, lowering her voice to a whisper so the onlookers could not overhear. “What’s the balance, including a full day’s meals?”
She counted out the sum from her winnings and sent the innkeeper on his way before every head under this roof was pointed in her direction. Her hands shook. She despised being the subject of gossip. She could not remain a guest here a moment longer than necessary.
Tomorrow morning, she would leave at dawn and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Fairfax as humanly possible. He was charming, but apparently not as upper crust as she had presumed. She could not chance becoming an object of ridicule in Scotland, too. Had he only offered to save her because he required saving, himself?
That was the only answer. Blackguard. Once the door was shut and locked, she turned back toward the fireplace.
“You offered yourself as maid-of-all-work because you couldn’t afford to stay through the night,” she accused.
“I offered to fulfill the lady’s every desire,” he corrected with a playful wink. “You were the one who preferred I employ my talented fingers with an iron.”
She glared at him. But her true disappointment was in herself. Of course a dapper gentleman would not offer himself as hall boy—much less chambermaid—out of the goodness of his heart. If she hadn’t been so frightened by the break-in, such improbable charity would have raised every suspicion.
He blinked innocently. “I should mention that I am happy at any time to cease ironing and go back to the original plan of—”
“That was never my plan,” she bit out. Yet she could not summon true anger. Regardless of his motives, he had saved her from ruining her reputation, and was watching over her to keep her safe lest the thief return in the night. As to his manner of offering it… Undoubtedly her low upbringing caused her to find his irreverence more charming than scandalous. But she could not let it show. “I have no interest in participating in misconduct of any kind. Come morning, we shall part ways as strangers.”
“Yes, my lady. Your indifference is quite clear.” He returned the iron to the fire and held up the first gown. “How am I doing with this one?”
She stalked forward, intending to yank it out of his hands—then stopped short when she realized the condition of the gown was absolutely impeccable. No wrinkles. No burn marks. Just soft, warm muslin.
“It’ll do,” she said grudgingly.
His smile was angelic. “Allow me to fold it and place it in your valise in such a way that when you arrive at your next destination it will be just as perfect as it is at this moment.”
She no longer doubted that he could do it. Nor could she deny that his offers of help were both competent and sincere. Her shoulders relaxed. Perhaps his hardworking upbringing had made him more of a gentleman, not less of one.
“I hope you’re not expecting to sleep, maid-of-all-work.” She returned to the wingback chair and rested her tired head against the side. “I have plans for you all night long.”
“Those are my favorite kinds of plans,” he assured her. “Ask anyone.”
Charlotte raised an eyebrow in stony silence. She couldn’t allow him to guess that she was far more intrigued than offended.
For all that her mother’s paramours had declined in attractiveness and wealth over the years, her mother had truly seemed to enjoy the company of a few favorites.
Being forced to spend a night trapped in a bedchamber with a charming, talented rake was far from a nightmare. No one with a pulse could blame a lonely young lady for being tempted to make some very bad decisions with a man as handsome as Mr. Fairfax.
But carnal relations were a dark road, and Charlotte would not let herself travel down that path.
“Traditional nocturnal activities are slightly different,” he acknowledged. “That is your fault, I might point out. You should take this moment to think about your actions and the importance of better decision making. I will be happy to meet you again tomorrow at the gaming table so you can attempt to correct this devastating mistake.”
She tried not to smile. Or to show the inner war playing out between her brain and her desire. “You can’t fool me. All you want is to win the money back.”
His eyes widened. “Not all I want. If an unfortunate turn of the cards were to force me to share your bed, I should have to do the gentlemanly thing and follow through. Luckily for both of us, rumor has it I’m even better at certain entertainments than I am at pressing gowns.”
Her cheeks heated at the idea of finding out just how talented he might be. She gave him a scolding look. “I’m afraid we shall not have an opportunity to find out. I’ll be leaving at first light. I doubt we will meet again.”
“Ah, such is Fate.” His tone was light, but his eyes looked genuinely sorry to see her go. “At least we’ll always have… Where are we?”
She curled into the wingback chair. “Oxkirk.”
“Oxkirk. Of course. My new favorite town.” He tilted his head. “Thus far, you are definitely my favorite thing about Scotland.”
“Thus far?” She gave him a mock frown. “How temporary. Will you have a new wife tomorrow?”
“You shall not be present,” he answered primly, “and thus you needn’t be jealous.”
Needn’t be, perhaps. Charlotte looked away. She liked the idea of him charming the chemise off some proper debutante much less than she ought.
She pulled a blanket over her shoulders and snuggled into the oversized chair to watch him iron. Or perhaps to admire his shoulders. And the way the firelight lit his chestnut hair with glints of gold.
Her heavy eyelids were almost completely closed when he finished the last of her gowns.
Without bothering her, he sat down to tug off his boots and ready himself for sleep.
Concern for her reputation ripped through her drowsiness. Quickly, she scrambled out of the chair and onto the four-poster bed so that she would not be in the vicinity of a gentleman in his stocking feet.
She closed the bed curtains as
best she could, but a gap between the cloth panels gave her a clear view of Mr. Fairfax removing his cravat and folding it neatly.
He blew out the last candles. “Go to sleep and dream about what might have been.”
Charlotte did not dare respond.
She watched through her eyelashes as his silhouette stripped off its tailcoat and waistcoat and stretched out on the chaise longue before the low fire. Her heart pounded. He was now wearing merely breeches and a linen undershirt.
A proper young lady with a respectable upbringing would likely require smelling salts to recover from such a scandalous predicament. Charlotte, however, fought a traitorous thrill at being so close to forbidden fruit. She could not help but remember his words.
“Are you going to dream about what might have been?” she asked him softly, emboldened by the darkness.
His reply was almost too soft to hear. “Possibly forever.”
Chapter 3
Anthony was just finishing his morning shave to the sound of roosters and whinnying horses when a creak of the mattress indicated that Miss Devon had awakened as well.
“Good morning, my love,” he called out as he rinsed his straight razor in a small basin. “You’ll be appalled to know this chaise longue isn’t fit for a pig to sleep upon. I never quite got used to my legs dangling off the end, and my neck is so stiff I won’t be able to turn my head to the left for days.”
“Why would a pig stay in a bedchamber?” She swung her legs off the mattress and rubbed her face. “And what ungodly hour is it?”
“Six,” he answered brightly.
“Six?” Miss Devon groaned in dismay. “I would’ve thought a prodigal rake might be counted upon to sleep until at least ten.”
“And that is what you get for assuming all prodigal rakes act in precisely the same way. Let that be a lesson to you.” He shook a finger at her.
She fell back against the mattress with a moan. “Why on earth are you awake?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure,” he said. “Did you miss the part about my legs dangling into the abyss all night or the bit about my neck bones being fused at an odd angle? The next time we share a room, I’m taking the bed.”
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 4