by Erica Ridley
“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.”
“Then where do I sleep?” she asked tartly.
“Also the bed.” He turned back to the looking glass to dry his face. “Do try to pay attention.”
“Do try to stop dreaming.” Although she was still lying back with her eyes facing the tester, a telltale smile played at the edges of her lips.
Pleasure warmed him. He slipped his razor into his valise. “I’m afraid I’m utterly presentable, and cannot prolong my morning toilette for a moment without putting shame to Brummell himself. If you like, however, I could stay just long enough to accompany you to breakfast?”
“To my chagrin, I would like that very much.” She sat up, her expression now serious. “But I’ve dallied longer than I should, and must be off immediately.”
He bowed and picked up his valise. “Perhaps I’ll see you one day in London?”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s the last place we’d cross paths. Perhaps we’ll see each other again someday in Scotland.” A smile tugged at her lips. “So far, you’ve been my favorite husband.”
“So far?” he teased, echoing her earlier mock outrage. “Shall you replace me so easily?”
She grinned back at him. “You needn’t be jealous. We’ll always have… where are we again?”
“The Kitty and Cock Inn,” Anthony replied, straight-faced. If he were to be honest, he’d chosen the inn largely because of its name.
“The Kitty and Cock Inn. Has there ever been a more romantic posting house?” She clutched her hands to her heart as if tempted to swoon. “Good luck at the gaming tables, Mr. Fairfax. May fortune be with you.”
“It already is. Farewell, my lady.” He strode out of the chamber and into the corridor, and shut the door smartly behind him before he could do anything so foolish as dare to kiss her goodbye.
If she had let him, he might not have wished to stop.
What if she would not have wished to stop, either?
Anthony hurried toward the stairs before he could continue this line of thought. Much as he liked Miss Devon, a man as penniless as he was in no position to take on an idle flirtation. He couldn’t afford a wife, much less a mistress.
That the innkeeper had believed the claim was testament to just how far he was from home.
He shook his head as he entered the stairwell. Thank God no one who knew him would ever believe the rumors, should gossip about their Scottish encounter ever reach London. The last thing he needed was to embroil himself in a compromise, no matter how much he’d liked Miss Devon.
If he’d had the blunt, he would have loved to have at least been able to treat her to grander accommodation. A luxurious suite of her own. Which she would perhaps invite him to share…
Enough mooning. He rolled his shoulders. He had games to play and money to win. Someone would surely seed him a shilling, and by this time tonight his troubles might be nearly over.
He strode out into the corridor. His stomach rumbled. Unlike last night, at this hour few guests milled about the inn’s common areas. But the kitchen would undoubtedly be open. And his temporary wife had already paid for the day’s meals.
A pang of self-loathing made his muscles tense. He should be the one paying for meals. A better gentleman would’ve had the blunt to hire Miss Devon a maid, rather than resort to doing the honors himself. Hadn’t he sworn to never again pick up an iron?
Anthony’s shoulders sagged. How he wished he hadn’t been blown up at Point Non Plus. Money was happiness. When he was flush, life was perfect. He could make all his friends and family happy. Buy them anything they wished. Be wanted. When times were tight, the only doors that opened to him were those of the debtors’ prison.
He pushed the negative thoughts away as he set down his valise by the entrance to the dining room.
Enough. His luck always managed to turn around. No matter how dire things became, if he believed in himself and kept wagering ever higher, fortune eventually found him. Had he not recovered from similar losses dozens of times before?
Today would be more profitable. He would even have breakfast! More importantly, he’d spent the entire night in the presence of Lady Fortune herself. How could he possibly lose?
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fairfax,” came a rough voice from behind his shoulder.
Anthony whirled about.
Two burly, hulking ruffians with cold eyes and scarred faces had him cornered with his back to a wall. One of the men had mean fists and bloodshot eyes. The other had a hard smile and pockmarks covering his face.
“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Anthony asked as if their presence incited no concern whatsoever. Charm, he reminded himself. ’Twas the one currency he couldn’t lose at a gaming table. “Care to join me for eggs and kippers?”
“Care to pay your vowels?” snarled the one covered in pockmarks.
Anthony forced a carefree grin. His IOUs had been legendary but scattered until the owner of a vice parlor had purchased them. Previously, Anthony and the tempestuous Maxwell Gideon had been friends. He was unsurprised to learn now they were not. That was how money worked. Or rather, the lack thereof.
“Tell Gideon I’ll have part of it tonight. I’ve an appointment at the tables and I—”
“Won’t tell him nothing.” Pockmarks cracked his knuckles. “You’ll give us the goods directly, or we hogtie you straight to Marshalsea.”
Anthony swallowed. Gideon didn’t just possess Anthony’s IOUs. To keep what was left of their friendship—and to buy more time—Anthony had signed an actual contract promising to repay the debt. A promise he had yet to keep, despite his continual efforts. The sums were no longer mere debts of honor, but legally actionable. A chill shivered down his spine.
There was no money to give. Once he was locked in debtors’ prison, he would never be set free.
His shoulders straightened in determination. He needed to try a different tack, appeal to the ruffians’ logic.
“If I rot in Marshalsea, how will Gideon ever get his blunt?” he asked.
“From your wife,” Pockmarks replied instantly.
“My what?” Anthony almost burst out laughing. “Gideon knows I don’t have a wife.”
“Of course you do.” Pockmarks smirked. “We heard you say so.”
Everyone did, by the sound of it. Anthony shook his head, his smile fading. A niggle of worry slid down his spine. He had meant to disperse the crowd, not cause more trouble. “I swear it meant nothing. Just a bit of playacting. We aren’t married.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” The other ruffian’s smile showed broken teeth. “This is Scotland. Once you say it, it’s true.”
“You mean… legally?” Anthony stammered in disbelief at such an absurd practice. His stomach bottomed in dread.
God’s teeth. He’d known Scots law allowed for irregular marriages, but one would think they’d at least require a priest or a few witnesses. His blood ran cold. There had been plenty of witnesses. If saying he was married made it true, there would be no way to deny it. And now Miss Devon was caught in Anthony’s mess.
“Can I annul just by saying so, too?” Desperation clawed through him. “I am no longer married. She is not my wife. Leave her out of this.”
“You can’t undo anything without involving the courts.” Pockmarks stepped closer.
Broken Tooth licked his lips. “Did you consummate?”
“No,” Anthony blurted in relief, never so happy to have behaved like a gentleman.
“Doesn’t matter.” Broken Tooth smirked. “She’s yours.”
Pockmarks flexed his fingers. “Which means them jewels she was wearing… are ours.”
No. Anthony’s heart raced in horror. His past debts could not involve Miss Devon, much less strip her of her possessions. She was innocent. This disaster w
as Anthony’s, and his alone.
But was it, legally? His breath grew shallow. By marriage, anything a wife possessed became her husband’s property. And anything Anthony possessed… belonged to Maxwell Gideon. His blood chilled.
The ruffians were right. Either he surrendered items he had no business touching, or these blackguards had every right to drag him bodily to prison. At the very least, he needed time to undo his inadvertent marriage.
“I need three months,” he said as authoritatively as he could. These ruffians might be hired muscle for a gaming hell, but Anthony moved in society. Perhaps their class difference could buy him a little time. “Her jewelry isn’t worth a fraction of what I owe. In three months, I’ll hand Gideon the entirety. In person.”
“You don’t get three months.” Broken Tooth crossed his arms over his large chest.
“Two,” Anthony suggested quickly. “With an extra five percent for yourselves. I promise.”
Broken Teeth exchanged a glance with his partner. “We’ll give you a fortnight.”
Pockmarks flicked a speck of dust from Anthony’s waistcoat. “And not a minute more.”
His breath hitched in panic. Impossible. Two weeks wasn’t long enough to win back enough funds to repay all his debts. His limbs shook. “Then no bonus for you. It can’t be done. I need to pay in installments. I need time. Ten percent a fortnight from now, then ten percent every week until the debt is paid in full.”
“No installments,” Pockmarks snarled. “We’ve already given you time. If you don’t want gaol fever, you’ll settle your debts two weeks from today.”
“And if you don’t pay in full…” Broken Tooth’s smile was terrifying. “You’ll hand over everything you and your wife own, and still go to prison.”
“Don’t forget…” Pockmarks tipped his hat. “We’ll be watching.”
Chapter 4
Charlotte washed and dressed with renewed confidence. As unexpectedly wistful as she’d felt upon realizing she’d never see Mr. Fairfax again, her life balanced on the precipice of a huge, positive change. With luck, today was the day she’d meet Laird Dìonadair, her father.
Or at least find out where he lived.
She fastened her jeweled earrings to her ears, then concealed the matching necklace in one of the pouches strapped beneath her bound breasts. The bandages had always been the most important part of her wardrobe.
Years ago, she’d started hiding her curves to disguise her resemblance to her mother. The tight band of linen had quickly become a convenient place to hide objects of value she didn’t wish to be stolen.
Here in Scotland, however, wearing the rubies was a necessary risk. It was the only way to gain the laird’s attention.
Because he’d left before she was born, Charlotte wouldn’t be able to recognize her father even if they ran into each other on the street. He and his relatives, on the other hand, would immediately recognize family jewels. The rubies were the key to success.
Her father would recognize them and immediately invite her to be part of his family.
She hoped.
All she wanted was to be someone who mattered. She didn’t need the laird’s money. Not if she could have his love. Or at least his acceptance. She sucked in a shaky, hopeful breath.
She was mere days or even hours away from meeting her respectable father. From being welcomed somewhere. From being launched as a valued member of real society. Gone were the years of being shunned and looked down upon. She would be someone else at last. Someone accepted without question. Perhaps even loved. The thought of becoming part of his family made her dizzy with joy. Her childhood dreams were finally close enough to touch.
Thanks to Mr. Fairfax, Charlotte’s gowns were perfectly ironed and already tucked neatly away in her trunk. She placed a few final toiletries on top and closed the lid with determination. The day was beautiful. Perhaps even perfect. She would find a maid, find a coach, and then find her father.
A sudden knock rattled the chamber door.
She frowned. The innkeeper’s knock hadn’t sounded so frantic last night, when the older man hadn’t known if his debts would be paid. What on earth could he want now? She opened the door.
To her surprise, the wild-eyed man in the corridor was not the innkeeper at all, but Mr. Fairfax.
“Apologies,” he said as he swung his valise into the chamber and secured the lock. “You must let me in.”
She blinked in confusion. “I was just leaving, I’m afraid. If you’ll be so kind as to help me with my trunk, you may stay in the room until noon. The account is paid.” She smiled up at him. “How was breakfast?”
“Miss Devon.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, then grabbed her shoulders. “No. Not Miss Devon. Mrs. Fairfax. May God forgive me.”
Charlotte laughed. “I think we can dispense with that fiction now. Once we both go our separate ways, there’s no reason for—”
“We’re married.” His fingers were tight, his eyes glassy with panic. “Look at me. We’re married.”
Her smile faded. “What in heaven’s name are you nattering on about?”
He released her and fell back against the wainscoting, his face full of misery. “Scots law. I’m talking about Scots law. If two people affirm aloud that they are married to the other, that act legally has the same weight as marriage in a church, after banns and before God.”
“It… What?” Her stomach dropped. “We c-can’t be married.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I didn’t trust the source either, so I awakened Leviston, who confirmed my fears. Even had the stones to offer me an extra round of drinks at Boodle’s to celebrate, the rotter.”
She staggered backwards in growing horror. “No. This can’t be happening.”
He grimaced. “You have no idea.”
Her lungs gasped for air as if she were drowning. She clutched her chest. Impossible. How could she be married to a total stranger? All the joy seeped from her limbs.
There went her the dreams of marrying someone who loved her. Who wanted Who could have had his pick of women, but whose heart belonged solely to her. Who knew her inside and out, and was not ashamed to claim her as his own.
Her hands trembled. Fear clawed through her. How could this possibly be true?
“We need to speak with a barrister.” She hugged herself. “Immediately.”
Mr. Fairfax ran a hand through his hair. “We’re in Scotland. I don’t know any barristers. If we were in London…”
“If we were in London, we wouldn’t even need to have this conversation. Come.” She motioned him out of her chambers and into the corridor, then turned to lock the door behind them. “I do know a barrister. I met his wife earlier this week.”
Mrs. Oldfield had been asking the ladies in the common salon whether they thought book clubs or sewing circles to be more prestigious. Charlotte had declined to opine on the more meritorious, and instead offered suggestions on how to improve attendance and engage interest with either style. Mrs. Oldfield proclaimed Charlotte the most level-headed young woman of her acquaintance, and had invited her to tea that very afternoon, as if Charlotte were an actual lady of equal standing.
And now Charlotte would have to confess to Mrs. Oldfield’s husband that she’d accidentally handfasted herself to a perfect stranger. Mortification heated Charlotte’s cheeks. Shoulders tight, she turned and strode toward the stairs.
When she and Mr. Fairfax reached the common area, neither of the Oldfields were present. Charlotte had the innkeeper send a footman with a note requesting an audience with Mr. Oldfield, then settled down to wait at a small table with Mr. Fairfax. She clasped her hands to hide their tremble.
Up until today, the inn’s common salon had been home to some of Charlotte’s best memories in recent history. The further she journeyed from London, the less likely other travelers were to guess she wasn’t the respectable miss she pretended to be. For almost a week, she had spent delightful afternoons in this very room, chatting with the other
women over tea, and developing a small reputation as a fine sounding board for ladies seeking advice.
And now, the only advice that mattered was whatever Mr. Oldfield suggested to get them out of this dreadful pickle. Charlotte hadn’t intended ever to see Mr. Fairfax again, much less marry him. As soon as they undid the damage, the better.
His green eyes were beseeching. “Miss Devon, when I claimed we were married, I was only trying to help. A crowd had formed, and making them believe there was nothing remarkable to see was the fastest way to disperse them.”
“I know why you did it.” She twisted her earring nervously. “I thought the same thing you did. It’s why I went along.”
“I never thought it would mean…” Mr. Fairfax blew out a slow breath.
Charlotte closed her eyes. Of course he hadn’t thought a meaningless lie would legally bind him to a total stranger. What reasonable person would? She opened her eyes. This was a disaster.
Married. No worse farce could have befallen them. Who was this man? Would he want her?
Certainly not once he knew the truth. And then what would that leave them?
“Listen.” Mr. Fairfax hesitated, then took her hands in his. “The situation is more complicated than you know.”
“More complicated than us being married?” she said bleakly.
“Vastly.” His visage was pale. “It’s one thing to be penniless…”
She swallowed the sour taste in her throat. Penniless. The thought terrified her. As her mother’s youth and beauty had dried up—and as Charlotte’s resolve not to follow in the same footsteps had grown—their once-comfortable home had become old and shabby. But they had never been penniless. The townhouse was paid for, and her mother had saved enough in Campbell and Coutts to ensure they would at least have bread and firewood for the rest of her life. But it hadn’t come to that.
Her mother’s days of fireworks and theater might be long gone, but Charlotte had never lacked for food and clothing. The house might be worn at the edges, but Charlotte had always been presentable. It hadn’t been enough, of course. Even if she were wearing her nicest gown, every nose turned up whenever she walked by.