Although terminating their union would destroy her reputation in the process, she would not be stripped of her belongings and bound forever to a prisoner. He would not add leaving a penniless wife behind to his list of sins. Destroying his own life was one thing. If he were not there to protect her, it was even more vital that her money and her possessions remain in her control.
That was no future at all.
His fingers clenched. How he wished this were a different kind of outing! If he were going to have a wife, why couldn’t they have met during better times? He could imagine how different the courtship might’ve been if he’d been flush enough to have one. Stealing a kiss atop the natty phaeton he’d had to sell to finance his trip north. At the best clothier in London, where he’d give her modiste carte blanche to create as many gowns for the Season as the lady wished.
Money. It always came back to money. Something he rarely possessed.
Anthony was not at all surprised that the way he’d got a wife was because she hadn’t even realized she was entering into a contract. It wasn’t at all how he’d hoped it would happen. He’d imagined wooing his future bride with operas, parlors overflowing with flowers, the promise of a palace fit for a queen.
In every dream, his future wife was not only thrilled… she chose him. A woman so lovely inside and out that she could have her pick of the ton—and she would choose Anthony. She needed him. He made her happy. He was worthy of her love.
Instead, all he’d done for Charlotte so far was ruin her plans and come perilously close to ruining her life. What would he do if the debt collector’s ruffians took her jewelry and savings by force? What would he do if he never found any money, and they made good on their promise to send him to Marshalsea prison? What would happen to Charlotte then?
His stomach twisted. He only wanted the best for her, but had accidentally given her his worst.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
She hesitated, then answered, “London.”
London. Same as him.
A terrible thought struck him. What if she’d had a beau back home—wherever home was? He hadn’t even thought to ask. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. What if she had been betrothed? Or promised to the Church? Or had been perfectly happy as an independently wealthy woman of leisure until he came along and stole her independence away? He came to a sudden stop.
“Was there someone else?” he asked her roughly. “Is your heart… are you promised elsewhere?”
“No,” she said. Her chin dipped down. “I have no one.”
Relief coursed through him. “You had no one,” he said gruffly. “Now you have me.”
She shook her head. “I meant my heart isn’t spoken for. My mother lives in London. I hated to leave her, but it was the only way to find my father.”
“My mother lives in London, too.” He smiled back at her, irrationally pleased her heart was still free. “My parents’ townhouse is in Mayfair. They can’t bear to be too far from fashionable things.”
Charlotte made no reply.
“We should try to get to know one another,” he suggested, after the awkward silence stretched on for minutes. “Your heart may not be promised, but surely you’ve thought about your future. Have you always dreamed of bearing many children?”
“What?” she choked. “No. Why would you ask that?”
“You were good with those hellions,” he pointed out.
She shook her head. “You were also quite good with the children.”
“I have two nephews,” he admitted. “Still a bit younger than those lads, but already tremendous terrors. Identical twins. I’m one of the few who can tell them apart.”
She smiled. “They sound lovely. Do you see them often?”
Not often enough. He sighed.
“I visit every time I have a lucrative evening at the tables. I love to bring them little boats, paints, wooden horses… Their eyes light up when my carriage pulls in the drive, because they know there’s a treat for them inside.”
Or they had. Back when he’d had a carriage. And lucrative evenings at the tables.
Her eyes softened. “I’m sure you’re their favorite uncle.”
“I should expect so,” he said with his haughtiest sniff. “The other uncle got all the looks. I should at least be the most fun.”
“I doubt he got all the looks.” She waved the idea away. “I’m not nearly as repulsed by your emerald eyes and bedimpled smile as one might presume.”
“No?” He turned to her with interest. His heart lightened. “Tell me more about how devastatingly handsome I am. Could you send a short note to the society papers?”
She arched a brow. “I doubt you’ve suffered any lack of ladies gushing over how attractive you are. Just to be different, I shall admire your character instead. I admit I like the sound of you spoiling your nephews.”
He twisted his lips. “Even if I can only do so when luck is in my favor?”
“If you spoiled children every day, they truly would grow up to be terrors.” She gave a mock shiver. “It sounds to me as if you do everything you can, whenever you can. The best gift is time, not money. How could anyone ask for more?”
His step faltered. No one had ever viewed his wild swings of fortune and famine in such a positive light before. The idea that someone could see all his faults and still find something in him worth praising had his heart pounding.
A win at the gaming tables over a decade ago had been the first time Anthony had made his family proud. It had changed his life. Since then, he had spent his entire life trying to buy love, to buy approval, the one way he knew how.
He had brought Charlotte nothing but trouble. Yet she did not hate him. She even seemed to… like him.
To think that the innocent person who’d borne the worst of his recklessness might still view him as a good, or at least as a reasonably attentive uncle… His chest expanded. Such praise was addicting.
He did not yet deserve it.
Self-recrimination washed over him. He had no business taking pride in a life he had little control over. How different their relationship might have been if he had met Charlotte with his affairs actually in order! He needed to get his situation sorted, and fast. Not just for himself, but for Charlotte.
But what could he do? The sums he needed…
Anthony did have acquaintance with a fair number of dukes and earls, but he could not possibly misuse their friendship in such a fashion. Indeed, the man currently in possession of Anthony’s IOUs had also once been his friend. Today, the man had sent enforcers.
Someone with a title would be even more persuasive when it came time to repay debts.
Anthony would have to earn the money himself. Somewhere, somehow. Within the next fortnight.
Only then could he truly begin to be a proper husband, to make Charlotte happy. His jaw tightened. He could think of nothing worse than for the one person who had ever refrained from judging him a useless wastrel to decide she had erred and he was worthless after all. He had to come up with something.
“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 he suddenly realized it had never been 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 it’s the finest in England.”
“Who told you that?” she teased. “Your mirror?”
He patted her hand where it lay against his arm. “Now, I don’t want you to feel bad 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. I
t’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 affected a foppish pose. “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 a gaming table indicated a complete lack of concern about her finances.
He didn’t ask, because he didn’t need to know. Her finances had nothing to do with his debt. 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 for safekeeping.
“Your earrings 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. It’s the only jewelry I own. These earrings 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 rubies were family heirlooms. That eye-catching jewelry wasn’t even hers. He couldn’t possibly let the debt collectors confiscate them. Charlotte 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… or a plan. It was his 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 managed to find him… Gideon’s ruffians knew about Charlotte, too.
Chapter 7
Back aching from hours of hard work, Anthony crawled into bed and collapsed onto the now-familiar mattress with a sigh. This was his fourth morning at the Kitty and Cock 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.
It wouldn’t be 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 week or even 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 he was going to make their lives better.
The busy dairy farm 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 and then jerked her hands away. She should not touch him like that. “I have no doubt you’d be good at anything you set your mind to doing.”
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. Yet being active members of society was expensive. Ever since Anthony had entered his first gaming parlor as a young lad, the majority 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.
He frowned. 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 baby 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 certainly been horrified.
It didn’t sound like madness now. It sounded as though his sister was by far the brightest member of the Fairfax 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 position,” 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 cannot 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…”
Her rational logic dashed cold water on his plans. Yet it was the only plan they had.
“My societal standing shan’t increase much by contracting gaol fever in debtors’ prison,” he reminded her flatly. If she and the rest of society liked him less because he had worked as a farmer or a secretary, then so be it. “Where else am I to get money?”
“You can have my savings,” she insisted again. “It’s not much, but it’s legally yours. If it helps keep you out of prison—”
“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?”
“We aren’t going to do anything. You must remain in the posting houses when I’m not here, in order to keep watch over our savings. After that break-in, I don’t trust leaving them unattended. Nor is it a wise idea to carry pound notes and gold coins to a dairy farm.”
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 8
