Scandal's Daughters

by Christi Caldwell, Eva Devon, Elizabeth Essex, Anthea Lawson

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Kissing you,” he answered automatically. The act might not have been in the forefront of his mind, but was never far from his thoughts. Not since the moment he’d met her.

  “How interesting,” she said. “I was recoiling from the horrendous grass stains on the rear of your breeches.”

  “What’s that? You say you were ogling my buttocks?” He peered over his shoulder as if to preen. “I cannot blame you. I’m told they’re the finest in England.”

  “Who told you that?” she teased. “Did you leave yourself a note?”

  He patted her hand where it lay against his arm. “Now, I don’t want you to feel badly about your ghastly deformity, but I thought I should mention the sharp stabbing pains of whatever is protruding from your ribcage cutting through my waistcoat as I bravely rejected your carnal advances.”

  Pink flooded her cheeks. “Oh, no. It’s the money pouches. I—I forgot they were there.”

  He nodded gravely. “I often forget affixing multiple heavy purses to my ribcage.”

  “And a necklace,” she added after a moment. “That might have been the lumpiest bit.”

  He inclined his head. “Lumpy, but iconic. Something to tie the pieces together. Underneath your petticoat.”

  “As one does,” she agreed.

  He considered asking her why she would hide ornamentation beneath her clothes, but changed his mind. A man with grass stains on his arse was in no position to criticize the fashion quirks of a lady.

  Not for the first time, however, he wondered how much money Charlotte did have. Her dazzling jewelry indicated her wealth wasn’t unsubstantial. And her willingness to wager an entire purse within moments of joining the table either indicated a complete lack of concern about her finances…or that she was a much better judge of cards and faces than he could ever pretend to be.

  He didn’t ask, because he didn’t need to know. His debt had nothing to do with her. Legalities be damned. Besides, the money a pawnbroker would give them for her jewelry was only a fraction of what he owed. It would be surrendering her most cherished possessions for nothing.

  Anthony couldn’t let that happen. His top priority was keeping Charlotte safe while he got things sorted.

  And then he’d buy her thousands of jewels. All the necklaces and tiaras her heart desired.

  Even if she wore them all strapped to her ribcage.

  “Your ear bobs are quite pretty,” he said. “What made you decide to wear them on the outside of your petticoat?”

  She touched her fingertips to her ear. “They belonged to my father. These, and the matching necklace, had been in his family for generations. He gave them to my mother before they lost contact.”

  He tried not to groan. The jewelry wasn’t even hers. They were family heirlooms. He couldn’t possibly let the debt collectors confiscate them. She would never get them back and he would still go to prison. “Why don’t we return them to your mother? Just until my current situation smooths out.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. These jewels aren’t just my legacy. They’re the key to reuniting me with my father.”

  Splendid.

  He let out his breath, completely at a loss for a glib rejoinder. Asking her to part with such an heirloom would be like asking her to part with a child. If those rubies were the one item that made her journey to Scotland worth the risk, only the worst of husbands would endanger his bride’s opportunity to be reunited with her father.

  It was Anthony’s duty to ensure her safety, and the safety of her legacy. Under no circumstances could he allow her to be forced to relinquish such treasure.

  Except, his creditors had not only found him… The Gideon’s ruffians knew about Charlotte, too.

  Chapter 7

  His back aching, Anthony crawled into bed and collapsed onto the now-familiar mattress with a sigh. This was his fourth morning at the Cock and Kitty Inn. His third as a married man. And his second day of farm labor before the crack of dawn.

  In other words, he had come up with a plan.

  Short of a series of extraordinary windfalls at the gaming tables every night, a fortnight was not enough time for any reasonable gentleman to raise two thousand pounds.

  Anthony knew it. Maxwell Gideon had to know it as well.

  The fact that Gideon had permitted a two-week period of grace indicated that, despite being the powerful lord of a vice parlor, their past friendship prevented him from throwing Anthony to the wolves without a fighting chance.

  This was good news. This meant there was a chance, however slight it might be. Anthony’s luck at the gaming tables the previous night had been miserable at best, but that was immaterial. Gideon would not be impressed by sob stories. The only thing that ever impressed him was money.

  So Anthony would bring it to him.

  Not two thousand pounds, of course. That was impossible. But he would take every job he could and save every penny he earned in order to prove his sincerity. He wouldn’t be able to repay Gideon this month, but he could do so eventually.

  Surely that would do. Gideon’s enforcers had not been sent to shake the shillings out of Anthony’s pockets, but to scare him into taking his debts seriously.

  It was as simple as that. Anthony hoped.

  His freedom depended on it.

  “What time is it?” Charlotte mumbled.

  He rubbed his tired face. “Half nine. Go back to sleep.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “It’s late. I should wake up.”

  Anthony couldn’t argue. He couldn’t even stay awake. He’d risen before dawn to collect eggs, milk cows, herd sheep—anything any soul in this town was willing to pay for. After luncheon, he had promised to trim hedges around the church. The property wasn’t huge, but the hedgerows soared. He’d be lucky to return home before Charlotte was already back in bed.

  Home. He covered his face with his hands. Had he just equated the elegant Kitty and Cock Inn with home?

  “I miss London,” he murmured. “Milking cows and trimming hedgerows is exhausting.”

  She opened her eyes. “Then why do it?”

  Originally, because it was his only hope to buy more time from Gideon. But that was not the only reason. Not anymore. A smile tugged at his lips as he let his arms fall back to his sides.

  He did it because the villagers were so thankful. At first, their honest appreciation was confusing. Flattering. But it had become addictive.

  For the first time in his life, people looked forward to his visits, not because they expected him to arrive bearing monetary gifts for them, but because they fully intended to pay him.

  The busy dairy with far more cows than milkmaids. The arthritic old farmer who couldn’t keep his sheep on his property. The grandmother whose hands were too gnarled to collect eggs without dropping them.

  In coin, each could only pay a pittance. But what they paid in smiles and happiness… The rush of answering pleasure in Anthony’s veins was second only to the rush of excitement at winning at the gaming tables.

  Yet this thrill was different. This wasn’t the vagaries of luck, or Lady Fortune. This exquisite high could be counted upon every single time he trimmed a perfect hedge, combed a basket of wool, or delivered a basket of intact eggs.

  He felt…he felt…in control of his life, rather than subject to the whims of Fate.

  He felt valued.

  “I’m good at milking cows,” he answered at last.

  Charlotte smoothed the blanket up over his chest. “I have no doubt you’d be good at anything you set your mind to.”

  He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The thought of being good at something—as opposed to occasionally being lucky—had simply never crossed his mind before. No one had ever expected it of him. Much less assumed he had natural aptitude.

  His father had never had a trade, or even a hobby. Nor had his mother. Or his sister. Ever since Anthony had entered his first gaming parlor as a young lad, the majorit
y of the family fortune had come from gambling.

  As had the majority of their misfortune.

  If they’d had a cow, or a few chickens, the efforts of their own hands might have alleviated the periods of hunger. There was no room for cows or chickens in Mayfair townhouses, of course, but what the devil was a family like his doing living in a Mayfair townhouse to begin with?

  When fortune blessed Anthony at the gaming tables, he and his family lived like royalty for months, or even years, at a time. But when luck was absent, they could not pay their servants or their rent. Long periods of poverty plagued them between months of riches.

  Such extremes of plethora and paucity could have been avoided. Rather than bounce from lease to lease, from abundance to beggared, never knowing what the morrow might bring, they might have chosen to live more simply. Somewhere in the middle.

  That was, if anyone in his family had an ounce of sense when it came to minding the purse strings.

  Anthony’s sister Sarah flashed into his mind. One might think the Fairfaxes the last family on earth destined to become farmers, but look at his sister now. He had thought her and her husband mad when they had given up their fashionable townhouse to move out to the country and raise their boys on a hill by a river. His parents had been horrified.

  It didn’t sound like madness now. It sounded like his sister was the brightest member of the family.

  He needed to be as strong as she was. He needed to think about the future, not just live in the moment. He needed to take even greater action.

  “I’ll find a job,” he said aloud. “Reliable employment.”

  Charlotte’s hand stilled over his chest. “More cows and chickens?”

  “A trade,” he clarified. “Perhaps an apprenticeship.”

  She jerked her hand from his chest. “You can’t be serious.”

  He turned toward her. “Why not?”

  “No trade on earth pays two thousand pounds per fortnight,” she pointed out. “Besides, gentlemen don’t work in trade. Your status…your reputation…”

  “My societal standing shan’t increase much by contracting gaol fever in debtors’ prison,” he reminded her flatly. “Where else am I to get money?”

  “You can have mine,” she insisted. “All of it. It’s legally yours anyway.”

  “It’s not your debt.” He averted his gaze. She was the innocent party. He would solve his problems by himself. “And it’s not enough money. Even if we sold your rubies.”

  She gasped at the idea. “You can’t have my jewels. Not until I find my father. Th-they’re my only proof that I’m his daughter.”

  “I’m not asking for them.” He stared up at the bed canopy. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Her voice shook. “Then what are we going to do?”

  He rolled over into his pillow rather than reply. He would return every penny, no matter how long it took him to earn them. Even if it meant sweating in a coal mine. Even if it took years.

  Even if it meant having to annul their marriage to keep her safe.

  When he awoke a few hours later, Charlotte was no longer at his side. He forced himself out of bed and over to the washbasin to splash cold water onto his face.

  He didn’t have to wonder where Charlotte was. Unable to toil in fields or otherwise raise funds to put toward Anthony’s debt, she felt powerless to help him. Since she couldn’t assist him, she helped whoever she could—namely, the featherwitted ladies who flocked to Charlotte in the common room seeking her sage advice. It sounded dreadful to him.

  She was frustrated with him, he knew, for not accepting her savings to use toward his debts. But in the event that he was unable to save himself after all, he refused to leave her penniless. He well knew what it was like to go days between meals. He would never willfully consign another person to such misery. His wife least of all.

  As soon as he was clean and dressed, he headed downstairs to find her. He only had a few moments to spare before his appointment to trim the church’s hedgerows, but he disliked the idea of departing with so much unresolved between them. She was clearly afraid the situation was not under control.

  He had to prove to her that it was.

  As he reached the foot of the stairs, a wave of boos and laughter near the front door caught his attention. Curious, he stepped forward to see what the ruckus was about.

  A handful of gentlemen crowded against the open window, pointing at a bashful female sheep who was deftly sidestepping the amorous advances of her would-be white-wooled lover.

  “Ten quid says the ewe will outfox him,” shouted one of the men.

  “Twenty quid says she’ll give in,” cried another. “That ram is a handsome one.”

  “Fairfax!” exclaimed a third. “Come and look. Is your money on the tup or the cut direct?”

  “Cut direct,” he replied without hesitation. “Females are mysterious creatures, and stronger than you think.”

  “Fairfax put twenty on utter rejection?” crowed the first man. “I told you I was right!”

  “I raise you to thirty,” said the second. “That ram is a force who will not be denied. Just look at the way he—”

  “Ohhh,” the men exclaimed as the ewe abruptly submitted to temptation. “That beast cuts a swath through his flock, he does!”

  An upside-down top hat tapped against Anthony’s chest. “Everyone who wagered on the ewe’s strength of character, put your money in the hat.”

  Laughing at the ridiculous scene, Anthony reached into his pocket for his gambling purse…and caught sight of Charlotte staring at him from just outside the dining room. The disbelief and disappointment on her pale face hit him like a blow to the chest.

  His hand froze on his purse. Shame washed over him.

  He had made hundreds of such idle wagers. Thousands, perhaps. A spot of nonsense between gentlemen, meant as nothing more than a moment of thoughtless fun.

  But he didn’t have the right to be thoughtless anymore. Or reckless or impulsive or any of his other previously defining characteristics. Not when he was ten days away from being tossed into Marshalsea. He needed to be hoarding every penny, not throwing twenty quid away on the whims of a sheep in heat.

  This was how he had fallen into this mess. His only hope for climbing out of it was proving this was no longer who he had been. That he could be responsible with money. That Gideon could trust Anthony to repay his debt. That Charlotte could count on him not to leave her alone and destitute.

  He broke eye contact with her long enough to count his sovereigns into the hat. This was the last time, he ordered himself fiercely. When had gambling become as natural to him as breathing, such that he no longer even noticed the risks he was taking?

  Not anymore. Now he had Charlotte. And the very real risk of prison. A man in his position could not afford to gamble away so much as tuppence.

  Every time he wagered, he risked ruining both their lives.

  Chapter 8

  Later that evening, Charlotte sat in the inn’s dining room awaiting Anthony’s return.

  Before leaving, he had begged her forgiveness for the asinine wager she’d happened to see him make. She had waved away his apology as if the incident meant nothing.

  It meant everything.

  Bearing witness to how wholly irresponsible he was with his finances served to underscore how carefully she needed to guard her heart. She would do everything in her power to help him, but if they could not raise the money—or if he lost it all on a spurious wager—she would find herself alone and husbandless.

  She touched the money pouch hidden beneath her shift. Although she was the disrespectable one, her financial situation was far more stable than his. Her shoulders slumped at the irony.

  “I just don’t know,” the anxious governess seated across from her continued. “What do you think I should do?”

  Charlotte forced her mind back to the present. Oftentimes, solving other people’s problems was far easier than addressing her own.

&n
bsp; “It sounds to me like you should definitely take the Banfield opportunity once Timothy comes of age. If Agnes decides to stay in Edinburgh as a governess, that is her business. I see no reason why you should be forced to mind a nursery if you dislike doing so. Not if your talents are more suited to being a paid companion, and you already have a position waiting.”

  The young lady sagged with relief. “You are so wise, Mrs. Fairfax. Thank you ever so much for your counsel.”

  At the words Mrs. Fairfax, a shiver of unreality danced along Charlotte’s skin. She still couldn’t believe she was married. Only in Scotland could her life have taken such an extraordinary turn.

  After the governess excused herself from the table, an increasingly familiar presence settled on the bench beside Charlotte. Even with purple smudges beneath his eyes, Anthony Fairfax remained breathtakingly handsome. Her heart leaped, despite her best attempt to tamp it down.

  He kissed the back of her hand, then lifted his chin toward the retreating governess. “Who was that?”

  “Future paid companion.” Charlotte raised her eyebrows. “How were the hedgerows?”

  “Tall.” His smile reached his eyes. “You could make a business of that, you know.”

  “Hedgerows?”

  “Helping people.”

  She furrowed her brow. “How is helping people a business? If we take tea at the same table and they happen to tell me their troubles… You can’t expect them to pay a total stranger for her opinions on the matter.”

  “A stranger over tea, no,” he agreed. “But if you had an office like a secretary or a barrister, and you were renowned as an expert in providing unbiased perspective and common-sense steps to take action on domestic matters, I am convinced you could be a rich woman.”

  She tilted her head in interest. This was a good sign. Perhaps he would finally accept her help. “I thought you didn’t want my money.”

  “I don’t.” He leaned back in his chair. “That doesn’t mean you should ignore your abilities. You are incredible. And you should be rewarded for it.”