by Erica Ridley
But she had no other choice. Even now.
He lightly stroked her forearm. Having grown up along the fringes of the beau monde with both his parents, 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 charming 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 a known courtesan’s.
Charlotte had never had a chance.
Anthony, on the other hand, did have a chance. He set his jaw. 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. Without the chains of the past.
A flutter of hope stirred in his belly. Once he paid off his debt, they could go anywhere. For the first time, it seemed that perhaps he might have something to offer besides money. He pressed his lips to her hair. 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.
Chapter 11
When they reached Newcastle upon Tyne that evening, Anthony found them a comfortable inn. Once he’d settled his exhausted wife, 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. Assemblies had something for everyone.
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 blood raced at the sight. How he had missed this! 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 had 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. Then he’d certainly be a husband she could be proud of.
And yet…
“Fairfax?” exclaimed a surprised voice from the other side of the room.
Anthony whirled to see a familiar face. “Thomas Quinton!”
“As I live and breathe.” Quinton stared as if he couldn’t quite credit his own eyes. “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 hedged with, “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 uproariously.
Anthony did not. 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. Which wasn’t at all true.
Was it? Guilt assailed him. He averted his eyes from the crowded card tables.
“All that’s over,” Anthony said firmly, needing it to be true. “I haven’t abandoned my wife. 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, my, someone is prickly,” Quinton teased. “Don’t be the jealous sort, Fairfax. Every man enjoys a pretty face.”
Anthony’s shoulders stiffened, but not for the reasons Quinton believed. Anthony curled his fingers. What if the man recognized Charlotte? He didn’t think Quinton would insult her, at least not purposefully. But if a jokester like Quinton could make just the right comment in front of just the wrong person, even the briefest of stays at this inn would feel like a lifetime of misery to Charlotte.
His 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? Even if they moved to Bath, they wouldn’t escape the London crowd.
“Well?” Quinton took a seat at a gambling table and motioned toward the last empty chair. “Will you not join us?”
Anthony paused, tempted to join in. God knew he needed a win. Quinton’s pockets weren’t light, and if Anthony managed to sweep the table…
No. It was a bad idea. A wonderful, terrible, seductive idea. That he absolutely must not indulge. No matter how tempting it was, or how quickly he could get them both out of this scrape, if luck would only be on his side.
His heart sped. No. He could not succumb. If not for himself, then for Charlotte. Aside from never forgiving him if he lost more money, his dwindling purse was upstairs in Charlotte’s valise. Where it needed to stay. He wouldn’t wake her. She needed to rest.
And Anthony needed to not lose what little they still had.
“No.” He forced the words from his mouth. “I will not be joining you this time.”
“What?” Quinton gasped, clutching his chest in melodrama. “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 at the gaming table. “Mind your purses. Fairfax can turn ten quid into two hundred faster than you can blink.”
Anthony’s pulse leapt, and he hesitated. Perhaps Quinton was right. With a few quid—even with a humble 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 single card.
The empty chair beckoned him. 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 in search of escape. 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 buttons. He couldn’t dare. Risking his own future was one thing. He would not risk Charlotte’s.
He forced himself to bow. “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 Fairfax here 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 hurried 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 dressing table. His breath caught.
Ever since she’d stopped wearing the graying cosmetics, her beauty almost hurt to look at. She dazzled everyone who glimpsed her. Especially her husband. Sometimes Anthony found it difficult to believe that his current predicament was bad luck at all.
Not when it had given him Charlotte.
“Did you have supper?” she asked as she freshened her hair.
He shook his head. “I was waiting for you. Are you hungry?”
With a frown, 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 his head must be more visible from the outside than he’d supposed.
“Something didn’t happen,” he admitted. His addicted mind was still down at that gaming table. His fingers still longed for a quick game. He took a deep breath. “I didn’t gamble.”
She tilted her head as she considered his words.
He tensed. She had every reason not to believe him. The first impression he’d given was of winning everyone’s money within minutes of making her acquaintance—and losing it all the very next instant.
She had every reason not to believe him. 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, her expression still inscrutable. “Well, that’s good. One never knows if one will win or lose. You made the right choice.”
Air escaped Anthony’s lungs his lungs in a whoosh. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. His head swam. He straightened his shoulders in preparation for much-deserved recriminations for the abominable choices he’d made in the past.
None came.
His mouth parted in shock. That was it? He stared at her as she finished dressing her hair. 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 he’d done the right thing without question. For some reason, she believed in him.
He strode across the room, cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her as if he could drink in her words, find salvation 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. Wish it were. 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. Not just to have her melt into his embrace, but to make her proud. He held her close.
His heart thumped. 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 looked 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
Every day brought them inexorably closer to London. Closer to the past Charlotte was desperate to forget. Closer to Anthony spending the rest of his future in debtors’ gaol.
She rubbed her tired eyes and gazed across yet another breakfast room in yet another inn. Leeds. Now they were in Leeds.
Charlotte 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 her past. 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 history.
To her, it sounded like heaven. But 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 beside the breakfast table.
Charlotte glanced up and coaxed 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 liver-spotted 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 mark. 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. You’ve taken action, and soon you’ll know. I do hope he accepts your apology.”
“As do I.” Mrs. Rowden wrung her hands. “Oh, how I’d love to meet my grandchildren. How big they must be by now!”
After chatting with Mrs. Rowden, Charlotte left the breakfast room and returned to her bedchamber to pack the valises.
Anthony had been out somewhere since well before dawn, hoping to earn a few coins doing this or that. She couldn’t help but be proud of his efforts, despite it all.
So far, he’d managed to earn more than enough to cover their travel expenses. But even with the contents of the purses they’d won in Scotland, their funds were meager compared to the size of his debt.
Yet he refused to give up.
It was incomprehensible. Noble. She hated that it was destined to fail. Hated that she couldn’t stop herself from caring far too much.
She had to struggle to keep her shield intact so that she would not be destroyed if she lost him. He was the one person who unfailingly treated her as if she mattered. No matter how determinedly she reinforced her defenses, the walls crumbled a bit more every day. With him, happiness was no longer an illusion. He made her believe it was within her grasp… if only they could be assured of a future together.
She was just latching her trunk when a key turned in the door.
Anthony stepped into the room.
She grinned at him like a smitten halfwit. She couldn’t help herself.
His chestnut hair was damp with sweat. His fancy clothes badly wrinkled. But the look of peace, of satisfaction, on his exhausted countenance as he handed her a trio of gold sovereigns made him as beautiful as an angel.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Wonderful,” he answered without hesitation.
Her lips twitched. Wonderful was his reply every time she inquired. After a lifetime of living inside the hopelessness of her own mind, his boundless positivity was fast becoming one of her favorite traits.
Nothing bothered him for long. Not his creditors, not jarring hackney rides, not grass stains on expensive breeches. Not even the ignominy of having a light-skirt’s illegitimate child for a wife.
When she was with him, sometimes she forgot her past altogether.
He dipped a handkerchief in the basin and blotted his forehead. “Do I have time to ring for a bath? What time did you reserve a hack?”
“I have already summoned a bath. The hackney will arrive within the hour.”
His grateful expression filled her with warmth. She enjoyed doing her part. They had to make the most of however much time they would have together.
A knock on the door indicated the innkeeper had noted Anthony’s return and had sent servants with a tub and steaming water. They set up the bath on the opposite side of a folding screen and assisted Anthony with a shave and the rest of his toilette.
Not for the first
time, Charlotte was grateful for the presence of servants. The thought of her handsome husband nude… No. She would not think of such things.
Life had taken too much from her already for her to willingly let Fate rip a lover from her, too. Especially if it meant losing Anthony.
“I saw you holding court in the common area last night,” he called from the other side of the privacy screen. “Have you given more thought to taking their money?”
She winced at the indiscretion. Servants were still in the room. Listening.
“Charging for your time, I mean,” Anthony clarified.
She knew what he meant. And now, so did the footmen freshening his bathwater. Charlotte sighed. She doubted Anthony even registered their presence. She, on the other hand, knew all too well what it was like to be invisible. For everyone’s sake, private matters were best left private.
“Can we discuss this later?” she called back.
“If you’re worried about trade not being good ton,” he continued blithely, “you’re not ton and you never will be. Try to be practical.”
She gritted her teeth. His honest words stung. She knew she would never be high society. She just wanted to be a member of regular society. Her nails bit into her palms. Even the footmen tending to Anthony’s bathwater now knew not to mistake her for someone respectable.
Rather than open her heart in front of servants feigning deafness to the one-sided conversation, Charlotte threw herself diagonally across the mattress and closed her eyes to calm the familiar wave of embarrassment and powerlessness. Deep breath in. Slowly let it out. She blocked out Anthony’s opinions and the sound of bathwater and instead concentrated on relaxing her toes inside her tightly laced half-boots. Then her ankles. Then her legs.
She imagined herself floating weightless as a cloud as each section of her body relaxed into nothingness. Her shoulders. Her neck. Now even her cares could slip away one by one, until all that was left was peace.