Scandal's Daughters

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

  “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 Mrs. Rowden took her leave, Charlotte quit 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. 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.

  He was capable of stealing her heart. 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, Anthony’s 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 whore’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.

  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 glad for the presence of servants. The thought of her handsome husband nude…No. She would not think of such things. Not yet. If she allowed herself to take even a step down that path, losing him to Marshalsea prison would rip her soul to shreds.

  Thus far, there had been no pressure to consummate their marriage. For his part, Anthony wished to wait until he felt he deserved her—meaning settling matters with his creditors in a way that left his freedom secure and his gentleman’s honor and reputation intact.

  Charlotte was simply avoiding undue intimacy until she knew she could keep him.

  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,” Anthony called from the other side of the privacy screen. “Have you given more thought to taking their money?”

  She gritted her teeth. 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. 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. Please try to be practical.”

  She gritted her teeth. His words stung. She knew she would never be high society. She just wanted to be a member of regular society. To not give anyone any other reasons to look down their noses at her and judge her. Her nails bit into her palms.

  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. 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.

  When she opened her eyes, the bath and the servants were gone and Anthony was at the mirror, folding his neck cloth.

  He glanced at her in the looking-glass. “Were you asleep?”

  “No.” She sat up and re-pinned a stray hair. “I just…turned off my senses for a bit.”

  His forehead creased. “Which one? Sight?”

  She shrugged. “Sight, sound, sensation. All of them.”

  He turned to stare at her. “You can do that?”

  She set down her pins. He was right. She would never blend with society. Not with a past like hers.

  “When I was young, my mother taught me.” It was not a memory she enjoyed revisiting. “At first, I thought she invented the technique to keep me quiet and calm while she entertained her…guests. Sometimes there were sounds no mother would wish her daughter to overhear.”

  Anthony paled. His voice softened. “And then?”

  “One day, I was old enough to understand what the sounds meant. That some of my mother’s lovers treated her like a duchess while others…did not.” Her voice wobbled as she tried to tamp down the memories. “I realized the relaxation technique was a strategy she used to survive. When she had no choice but to close off her emotions, her hearing, her sensation, and try to live through another night. Another hour.”

  Anthony’s expression was horrified.

  To Charlotte, it was just life. One learned to live with the horror. Somehow.

  “Her relaxation technique was the most helpful gift she ever gave me.” She lifted a shoulder. “Closing myself off has often been the one thing that helped me survive.”

  He rushed to the bed and pulled her into his arms. He stroked her hair as he held her close. “You don’t have to shut yourself off anymore. Now you have me. We’ll fight the world together.”

  She didn’t relax into the warmth of his embrace. Her eyes pricked. She did not have him. He would be gone in little over a week. His supportive presence was ephemeral, his affection a temporary salve to a lifetime of wounds.

  The idea of him—the intoxicating fantasy of being loved, or even cared about, now and forever—was the precise lie she needed to protect her scarred heart against.

  A knock sounded upon the door. “Mrs. Fairfax? Your hackney is here.”

  Grateful for the interruption, she sprang out of Anthony’s arms to open the door. A pair of footmen lifted their luggage and carried it out to the street.

  Charlotte hurried to follow.

  Anthony reached her side in an instant. He placed her hand on his arm, but asked no further questions. Perhaps he didn’t have any.

  Or perhaps he’d realized some truths were better left unspoken.

  As they crossed the common area toward the exit, footsteps rushed up from behind them and a strong hand nearly jerked Charlotte’s arm from its socket.

  A wild-eyed Mrs. Rowden stood before her, tears streaming down her face.

  “Mrs. Fairfax…Oh, Mrs. Fairfax.” The widow swiped at her cheeks.

  Charlotte’s heart twisted. The poor woman. Bu
t no matter what the outcome, her advice had been sound. Once Mrs. Rowden knew where she stood, she could move on. “Your son responded to your letter?”

  “Tea,” she announced with pride, as if that single syllable held all the power of the universe. “He’s invited me for tea, this very afternoon. It’s not an invitation to stay overnight, much less to spend a few weeks with them—but it is more than I dreamed. My grandchildren will be there. I’ll finally get to meet them.”

  Relief coursed through Charlotte’s tense muscles. “That is marvelous. I was worried about you. I’m glad we ran into each other again so that you could let me know.”

  “I don’t just want to tell you. I want to thank you.” Mrs. Rowden fumbled for her reticule and thrust the banknotes therein into Charlotte’s hand. “Money doesn’t begin to repay your kindness. You’ve given me my life back. You’ve given me my son’s life, and my grandchildren’s lives. Bless you, child. I will never be able to thank you enough.”

  Charlotte’s head was topsy-turvy as Mrs. Rowden rushed off to prepare herself for her tea.

  “That was amazing,” she mouthed as Anthony helped her into the coach and climbed in beside her. She still couldn’t quite comprehend what had just happened.

  He rescued the banknotes from her trembling fingers.

  “I’ll be damned,” he breathed in obvious shock. “She gave you twenty pounds!”

  Charlotte hadn’t even thought of the money. She was still floating at the experience of being seen. Remembered. Appreciated. Mrs. Rowden had not just sung Charlotte’s praises—she’d acknowledged her publicly, in front of everyone. She’d treated Charlotte like an equal.

  “Twenty pounds,” Anthony repeated, his wide eyes stunned. “For one piece of advice.”

  His words punctured her fog of pleasure. She seized the notes from his hand to count them herself.

  Her mouth fell open. She clutched the bills to her chest. He was right. Mrs. Rowden had given her twenty pounds for helping her reunite with her son.

  Charlotte stared out the window in a state of unreality as the jarvey set the hack in motion. Her mind bubbled with dizzy joy. Twenty pounds was as much as Anthony could earn doing odd tasks for an entire week. He was right. Counseling wealthy people was more than profitable. It was amazing.

  What if she could pay off Anthony’s debt?

  He didn’t want her money, said his vowels were his responsibility—plus their current finances couldn’t come close to resolving the matter—but what if someday she could? Perhaps not today, perhaps not in a fortnight, but even if the creditors took him away…she might still get him back.

  But once he had his freedom, how would she be able to talk him into living far from London?

  Chapter 13

  By the time their hired conveyance pulled into Nottingham, Charlotte’s bones were exhausted from so many days of travel.

  Her heart, however, was yearning to hope again. Not in a childhood dream of a long-lost father who would sweep her into a new life, but in the flesh-and-blood man seated next to her in the carriage. His unshakeable faith that good fortune was always right around the corner was baffling, but infectious. Perhaps this time, luck had found them both.

  Impulsively, she turned to hold his strong, handsome face in her hands and pressed her lips to his. He cupped the back of her head as he responded in kind, his mouth as hungry as her own. She let him hold her close. There was nowhere else she wished to be.

  One by one, she extinguished every sense except for their kiss. The clatter of the carriage disappeared until all she could hear was the beating of her heart. The jarring bounce of stiff wheels over uneven road vanished, as did the chill of the night air whistling through the carriage door. All she felt was the strength in his arms, the heat of his embrace. The dizzying taste of his mouth covering hers.

  Another woman might wish such a kiss would never stop. Not Charlotte. She hoped it would occur again and again. That her future would be filled with a thousand passionate kisses, safe in the arms of this man. She would never take him for granted. His presence would always feel like she’d slipped into a dream. A place where she was the thing that mattered most. Where every kiss was a promise of five more to come.

  She didn’t pull away until her lungs were out of breath and her heart was in grave danger of surrendering itself completely.

  Anthony stared at her, his eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. His slow smile was as dazed as her own. “What was that for? Tell me, so I can be sure to do it again.”

  “For being you,” she said. She could tell he didn’t believe her, but the truth was both as simple and as alarming as that. He was such a joy to be around. Easy to talk to, easy to travel with, easy to kiss until every beat of her heart pulsed with his name.

  “Nottingham,” the jarvey called out. “Should I take a few laps about the square, or do you want to go straight to an inn?”

  Cheeks burning, she jerked back to the other side of the carriage and tried to arrange herself as demurely as possible.

  Anthony’s eyes met hers. “Definitely the inn.”

  She tried to slant him a quelling look, but ended up smiling back at him instead. With Anthony, there was never a reason for shame or embarrassment. Every moment was simply part of the adventure they were building together.

  “Got a specific inn in mind?” the jarvey asked. “There’s three up ahead.”

  Anthony glanced out of the window and feigned deep thought. He tilted his head toward Charlotte. “Are you in a White Lion sort of humor or are you feeling a bit more Haystack and Horseshoe today?”

  “With a full moon tonight?” she teased back. “Only a white lion can protect us.”

  “The lady has chosen the second inn on the left,” Anthony informed the driver.

  As the jarvey steered his horses in front of the White Lion, another carriage pulled to a stop a few yards behind them.

  “Popular choice.” Anthony smiled at Charlotte in approval. “Must be a wise decision.”

  Popular. Her earlier elation faded at the idea of staying somewhere fashionable enough that she was likely to be recognized.

  Most men of a certain set knew who her mother was. Many of them, intimately. Although she’d tried her hardest to stay out of sight, sharing a face with a courtesan mother made attempts at anonymity laughable.

  “Gentlemen” with presumptuous comments and shameless leers were the best of the lot. Others simply assumed “like mother, like daughter,” and yanked her into the nearest shadow with every expectation of enjoying a quick tup.

  It was embarrassing, infuriating, and demeaning. And it would be all the worse when it happened in front of Anthony. He still saw her as a respectable woman. As a person.

  She didn’t want to change his mind.

  As he handed her down from the carriage, a short man with a limp and a scuffed black beaver hat alighted from the coach that had pulled up behind them.

  She frowned. Not a man. The same man she’d seen at the inn back in Scotland. Her stomach hollowed and her skin went cold.

  For the man in the scuffed hat to show up at the same randomly selected inn, two hundred miles south, having matched their grueling breakneck pace… It was more than an improbable coincidence.

  They were being followed.

  “Anthony,” she hissed, then stepped in front of him to block the approaching gentleman’s view. Her heart thundered. “The debt collectors have found us.”

  “I’ll handle it.” He eased in front of her, stepping directly into harm’s way. His voice lowered. “Was that man one of the other guests at the Kitty and Cock Inn?”

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “Should we run for it? Our luggage is still in the hackney.”

  He shook his head in confusion. “That’s not one of the enforcers.”

  She blinked. “Then who is it?”

  “Dashed if I know.” Anthony’s eyes narrowed. “But he’s coming this way.”

  She wrapped her arms about her chest and tried not to
panic.

  “Excuse me, miss?” the man called out.

  Anthony stepped forward. “She is my wife.”

  “Ma’am,” the man corrected. He bowed in haste. “Sir, could I speak to your wife for a moment?”

  Dread sent her a step back. Who was this man? A client of her mother’s? He couldn’t possibly mean to proposition her beneath her husband’s nose, could he?

  “I’m not leaving her side.” Anthony crossed his arms.

  The man cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice the distinctive ruby ear bobs you were wearing at the Kitty and Cock Inn. Do you mind telling me how they came to be in your possession?”

  Her stomach turned at the unspoken implication. He thought she’d stolen them?

  “You don’t have to answer,” Anthony murmured into her ear.

  But of course she did. People like her never stopped having to defend themselves against insinuation and accusation.

  “They were my mother’s,” she blurted. “And before that, my father’s.”

  The man’s blank expression did not change. “I see. Who is your father, ma’am?”

  “Never mind him, Charlotte,” Anthony murmured again. “He’s no one.”

  It was too late. All her newfound self-assurance had already fled, leaving her shoulders as deflated as her confidence. If this man had come all this way to accuse her of something, he must have had a reason. It was better to deal with suspicion before it had the opportunity to spiral even more out of control.

  “I don’t know who my father is,” she answered quietly, unable to meet the man’s eyes. “There’s no way to tell.”

  “As it happens, ma’am…” He lowered his hat. “That’s not precisely true.”

  Her startled gaze jerked up.

  “Who are you?” Anthony demanded.

  “Mr. Ralph Underwood, Esquire. One of the Duke of Courteland’s trusted advisors.” The man gestured at Charlotte. “And this is His Grace’s daughter.”

  She gaped at the strange man in disbelief, then burst out laughing at his mistake. “I can assure you, my birth had no such noble beginnings. You have me confused with someone far more fortunate than I.”