Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  The door swung open before her knuckles had even touched the knocker. Her mother stood before her wearing an expression of shock and pleasure.

  Hesitant, Charlotte gazed back at her mother’s familiar countenance. With so few years between them, was it any wonder they were mirror images?

  One had to look closely to find the differences in her mother’s face. Tiny lines crinkled at the edges of identical blue eyes. A few strands of gray blended with identical golden curls. They shared the same height, the same curves, the same smile.

  Except neither of them was smiling now. Her mother’s surprised eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

  “I thought you weren’t coming back,” she gasped. “I thought you were never coming back.”

  “You knew it was a fool’s mission. I thought I knew better,” Charlotte admitted with self-deprecation. “May I come in?”

  Her mother pulled her forward and into her arms. “You can. Of course you can. You can stay as long as you like. This will always be your home.”

  Mixed emotions assailed Charlotte as she returned her mother’s embrace. She didn’t want this to be her home. She abhorred every memory she held of this place.

  And yet it contained her mother. Someone who Charlotte had never stopped loving. Who would always be an important part of her family.

  She leaned back to pull Anthony across the threshold. “This is Mr. Anthony Fairfax.”

  Her mother shot her a startled look out of the corner of her eye.

  “No,” Charlotte choked out in embarrassment. “He’s not here for that. Anthony is my husband. Darling, this is my mother. Miss Judith Devon.”

  He sketched a grandiose bow. “The pleasure is indeed mine.”

  Her mother stared in disbelief, then dipped an equally elegant curtsey.

  “The pleasure…” Scarlet flooded her cheeks as she turned toward Charlotte. “A husband. Does he—did you—”

  “Yes. He knows.” Charlotte led them into the front salon, which was just as elegant as it always was, if a little worn at the edges. “That is partly why I’m here.”

  Her mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Charlotte pulled a ruby earring from her reticule. “Who gave these to you?”

  Her mother’s eyes lowered. “That affair was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. It never mattered.”

  “It mattered to me,” Charlotte said softly. “It mattered to a little girl who longed for a father.”

  Her mother’s shoulders crumpled. “I never meant for you to be born ruined. I wanted to be a good mother to my baby, but my only choices were to keep you or leave you on the steps of a church. And I couldn’t leave you. I loved you before you took your first breath.”

  Charlotte’s throat tightened. As a small child, she had often fantasized about running away to an orphanage so that some other family could adopt her. A family respectable enough that, someday, Charlotte could marry well and come back to rescue her mother. So that they could both have a happy ending.

  Her mother met her gaze. “You may think I made the wrong decision, and that’s your right. But being sold to a workhouse isn’t better than the life you had. I grew up in a workhouse. Many children don’t live long enough to leave. Some, like me, leave the only way they can.” Her eyes were haunted. “I didn’t want that for my daughter. I didn’t want you dead, and I didn’t want you wishing you were dead while you were on your back in some alley. So I did the best I could.”

  “I don’t blame you for being a courtesan,” Charlotte admitted in a rush. “I always knew you were trying to give me the best life you could. But the harder you worked to raise money, the more infamous and disrespectable we became.”

  “That wasn’t the plan.” Her mother’s sad smile didn’t meet her eyes. “I thought the life of a kept woman would turn out differently. I was quite sought after, once. For one whirlwind year, I wasn’t a mere strumpet, but a fashionable courtesan. I thought I had it all. Operas, fireworks, romance. I was toasted at every turn. It still seems like a dream.”

  “What happened?” Anthony asked, his voice gentle.

  “I got pregnant,” she replied bluntly. “No one wants a mistress who cannot control her own body.” Her chin lifted. “And then I committed the second worst sin. I kept my baby.” She cast Charlotte a rueful look. “Once I was no longer a desirable catch, I had to be much less choosy about who I accepted as clients.”

  Charlotte swallowed. Of course, the “protectors” had become far less protective. Guilt snaked through her. A woman in her mother’s shoes was not elegant, but desperate.

  Her mother’s gaze unfocused. “I didn’t want a four-year-old knowing words like ‘courtesan’ or ‘protector,’ so I spoke in code as best I could. Instead of sexual favors, I offered bedtime stories. Instead of paying clients, a dìonadair would visit.”

  “Dìonadair,” Charlotte whispered. “I thought it was his name.”

  Her mother laughed without humor. “It was everyone’s name. I picked each man’s best characteristics, and those were the stories I told you. One day, Dìonadair would be a gallant rake, who always invited the wallflowers to dance. Another day, Dìonadair would be a great scholar, with the finest scientific mind in all of England.”

  “I meant… I meant my father,” Charlotte explained through her scratchy throat. “I thought the Duke of Courteland’s name was Dìonadair.”

  “The Duke of—how do you know that?” Her mother shot up straight, eyes wild. “Who told you?”

  “Not him.” Charlotte’s voice grew thick. “He’s dead.”

  “Oh, love.” Her mother fell to her knees before Charlotte and took her hands. “You were so angry with me for not giving you a father. You thought I didn’t know who it was. But I always knew. It was better that you never met. He wouldn’t have been what you wanted.”

  Not want a duke? Charlotte’s mouth flattened. She and her father should have been given the choice to decide that for themselves. But they’d never had a chance.

  Her mother gazed up at her, eyes pleading. “I grew up without love. Without a mother or a father. When I left the workhouse, no one cared. No one missed me. I didn’t want that for you.” She gripped Charlotte’s hands. “I didn’t want to give you a father who didn’t care. I wanted to give you a mother who did. I never wanted you to doubt for a single moment that the one parent you do have loves you with all her soul.”

  Charlotte’s anger began to dissipate. Would she really have been better off knowing who her father was, but that he didn’t care to meet her? Her shoulders slumped. She supposed sometimes there were no good choices.

  Her mother sighed. “I would do anything for you, love. I have done. More than I care for you to know. When you left, I felt as if the sun had been ripped from the sky. I didn’t just miss you—I mourned. I knew you were never coming back. Who would want a whore for a mother?” Her mouth twisted in self-recrimination. “All I wanted to be was a good parent. All I ever was, was a disappointment. To us both.” Her eyes shimmered. “No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I loved you, I failed you from the moment of your birth.”

  Charlotte’s throat grew thick. Her mother’s only wish had been for her daughter to love her. To accept her. Her stomach twisted. The very things she herself had longed to receive, she had withheld from her own mother. Shame filled her for her years of blindness.

  She slid off the couch and into her mother’s arms.

  “I do love you,” she confessed as she buried her face in her mother’s hair and held on for dear life. “I always have. You’re the reason I wanted to find us a better life.”

  Chapter 19

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon by the time Anthony realized he had spent all day with a courtesan, doing things no man of his acquaintance had ever done before: discussing the impact of Miss Devon’s profession on her life and her child, and complimenting her on what a splendid individual her daughter had grown up to be.

  Charlotte glanced his w
ay as he returned his pocket watch to his waistcoat. “Is it time?”

  He hated to break up their reunion. Lady Roundtree could wait—he hoped. “Only if you’d still like to make the other appointment.”

  His wife hesitated, then nodded. “We desperately need the money. I cannot let my name become synonymous with someone who doesn’t keep her word. Although I suppose that’s an improvement over—” She winced and color bloomed in her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t mean…”

  Miss Devon shook her head, her tone rueful. “We have both said plenty we didn’t mean. I do understand.”

  “There’s a lady who wishes me to intervene in some row between her servants. As preposterous as it sounds, she’s willing to pay me for my insight into the minds of the lower classes.” Charlotte pushed to her feet. “Who knew humble origins would one day be considered ‘expert knowledge’?”

  Miss Devon rose to walk them to the door. “Will you come back soon?”

  “Very soon,” Charlotte promised, her smile shy.

  Anthony kissed his mother-in-law’s hand, then led his wife to the street. The coal-tinged wind chilled his face and fingers. Hailing a hack was taking much longer than he had anticipated.

  After glimpsing him check his pocket watch for what must have been the tenth time, Charlotte lifted a wry shoulder. “Fares are less plentiful, and less desirable, this far from Mayfair.”

  He stared at her, startled to realize how dramatically one’s address changed one’s perception of how the world worked. He gazed at the endless row of houses just like Charlotte’s. How many of their inhabitants were long used to waiting for hackney cabs that never came? He swallowed. The lower classes had far fewer opportunities in countless ways… regardless of the size of their pocketbooks.

  Once they were finally inside a hack, he put his arm around his wife and held her close.

  She snuggled into his side. “When I return from Lady Roundtree’s, I’ll give you my jewelry. If there’s no inheritance money, you’ll be able to bargain a better price with a pawnbroker than I would.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t sell them. Your rubies remind you of your father.”

  “Not anymore.” Her mouth tightened. “Now they symbolize my mother, and her innumerable sacrifices for me.”

  He frowned. “Then why would you want to give them away?”

  “Because she’s not the only one who can make a sacrifice for someone she cares about.” Charlotte’s eyes didn’t leave his. “Promise me you’ll pawn them. It’s for us.”

  Warmth filled his heart as he gazed down at her upturned face. Handing over her most valuable possession wasn’t just a sacrifice. It was trust. She was placing her faith in him not to take the money and gamble it away. She believed he was worth the risk.

  He set his jaw with determination. Charlotte was also worth sacrifice. If there was any way to stay out of prison without selling her sole heirloom, he was determined to find it.

  “I promise we’ll sell your jewels only as a last resort,” he said at last. He would strip nothing from her if it could be helped. “Those rubies mean too much to you for me to pawn them without knowing if I’ll be able to earn them back someday.”

  Her solemn blue eyes stared up at him for a long moment before she returned her head to its resting place against his shoulder.

  He pressed a kiss to her hairline, in awe that, of all the women who he might have found himself accidentally betrothed to, this was the one he’d been fortunate enough to capture.

  What she perceived as her greatest flaw—being born the child of a courtesan—didn’t bear the least reflection on her own character. He didn’t care a fig about her past, or the reputation of her family members. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel that she needed to be someone she was not. Her mother was a delight, and loved Charlotte exactly as she was. So did Anthony.

  He froze in realization. Good Lord. He loved her.

  A rueful laugh rumbled within him at the thought. He’d beaten the dealer. Now he just had to deserve the trust she’d placed in him. He leaned his cheek against the top of her head.

  When the hack turned onto his parents’ road, Lady Roundtree’s extravagant coach-and-four was already waiting for Charlotte at the corner. Anthony instructed the jarvey to pull alongside.

  “You’ll do splendidly,” he assured his wife as he handed her from one carriage to the other. “All that’s required is your mind.”

  “I’ll try not to lose it on the way to Roundtree Manor,” she said wryly.

  Anthony grinned. He doubted the baroness had enough brains to note the difference. “Just remember—no matter what price she offers, ask for double.”

  After the coach-and-four drove away, the hack’s jarvey looked down from his perch “Be needing my services for anything else?”

  Anthony reached into his pocket for a coin. “No, I—”

  “There you are!” came a rough voice from behind Anthony’s shoulder. “We been standing at your door for an hour.”

  Full of dread, he turned to see the two ruffians who had confronted him at the Kitty and Cock Inn. He tipped his hat to belie his nerves. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. How may I be of service?”

  “You can give Gideon back his blunt.”

  “I am making great strides toward that task.” Anthony hoped his cheerful smile masked the lie. “Didn’t you gentlemen say I was entitled to a fortnight’s grace period?”

  “Was.” The first ruffian bared his jagged teeth. “Better hurry. You’ve only a few days left to make good.”

  “This oughta help motivate you.” The pockmarked ruffian shoved a folded document at Anthony’s chest.

  He smoothed open the parchment as if it contained nothing more urgent than a request from his grandmother to visit her for tea.

  It did not.

  Fear gripped him when he saw the stamp on the bottom of the parchment. The document was a summons to surrender his money or his person four days hence. His stomach dropped. This was it. There was no way out.

  “Superb,” he assured the enforcers. “Who doesn’t love an invitation? I shall be certain to note the date in my schedule.”

  “See that you do.” Pockmark’s eyes were cold.

  Broken Tooth smirked. “You don’t want us to have to escort you there.”

  An understatement. Anthony hoped his hands didn’t shake as he folded the parchment and shoved it into his greatcoat. Devil take it! He had to think of something.

  Once the ruffians departed, the jarvey glanced down at Anthony with a far less congenial expression. “Got that farthing you owe me, mate?”

  “Two of them.” He tossed up the coins and leaped back inside the cab before the hack could leave. “Drive me to the Cloven Hoof, please.”

  The jarvey sent him a doubtful glance. “The gaming hell?”

  Anthony grimly gazed out the window. “The very one.”

  Not for gambling; especially not with Charlotte’s rubies. Anthony would have to keep himself away from the tables, come what may. He was going to the Cloven Hoof to plead for mercy from its owner. He could pay every penny if he had more time. Surely the lord of a vice parlor had plenty of gold. What would a few months’ reprieve hurt before collecting on Anthony’s debts?

  Presuming the man could be made to see reason.

  Anthony had been wrong about everything. Not just wrong… He had been foolhardy. Immature. Careless. But he wasn’t that man anymore. He was happy to take responsibility. Proud to, in fact.

  He just needed more than four short days to do so.

  The hack dropped him off at the Cloven Hoof’s main entrance. The nondescript building didn’t look like much from the outside, with its dark windows and scuffed brick walls. But it was the one gaming establishment in London that still opened its doors to Anthony Fairfax.

  Head held high and an easy smile plastered on his face, he strode up to the door and gave the coded knock.

  To his immense relief, he recognized the enforce
r who cracked open the door. “Vigo.”

  The burly enforcer inclined his head. “Fairfax.”

  “I’ve come to see Gideon.”

  “Got an appointment?”

  “Ask him.”

  Vigo shut the door without further comment.

  His nerves sizzling with unease, Anthony laced his hands behind his neck to wait.

  This would work. Six o’clock in the evening was far too early for the Cloven Hoof to be crowded. Gideon had to see him.

  Whether Anthony could convince him to call off his hounds was another matter entirely.

  The door swung open and Vigo motioned him inside. “He’s in the back.”

  With a smile far more carefree than Anthony’s churning gut would indicate, he crossed the threshold into the gaming hell.

  Low-hung chandeliers illuminated rows of worn tables surrounded by clumps of bright-eyed gentlemen. Dice clattered across hazard tables, followed by the whoops or cries of the spectators. Cards flew across felt green Faro tables before the banker gathered the chips. In every corner was a different game. A different opportunity to win big—or to lose it all.

  Anthony’s blood sang from his proximity to so many gaming tables.

  “Fairfax,” Lord Wainwright called out. “Knew you’d be back. Care to roll the dice with me?”

  Anthony’s heart raced at the thought. Every particle of his body longed to do just that.

  “Some other time,” he called back. “I’m just here to see Gideon.”

  “Fairfax not gamble?” came a disbelieving cackle from behind a vingt-et-un table. “The end times are upon us.”

  Anthony sent a quelling scowl in the direction of the voice, until he realized the speaker was Phineas Mapleton, an insufferable gossip not even worth the effort required to frown at him.

  “If you’re not going to wager,” came a low voice in the opposite direction, “perhaps you’ll have a drink with us.”

  Anthony turned to see the Duke of Lambley sharing a table with the penniless marquess Lord Hawkridge. Anthony’s eyes widened in surprise. He had never pictured those two as friends. Then again, he supposed one never knew who the other guests were at Lambley’s infamous masquerade parties.