Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  “I’ll stop by once I’ve spoken to Gideon,” he promised, “but I can’t stay long. I’ve a wife to get home to now.”

  “A what?” Whistles and good-natured ribbing filled the air. “What kind of woman would leg-shackle herself to you, Fairfax? You win her at the tables?”

  “As it happens, the lady won me,” he hedged, correctly anticipating the wild laughter and thumps on his shoulder. He raised his voice. “Besides being able to sweep the floor with any of you pups, Mrs. Fairfax has made quite a name for herself in the arena of advice-giving. If you’ve a sibling, wife, or parent in need of a good dose of common sense, my wife’s ability to convince featherbrains to make logical choices is second to none.”

  “Explains you not gambling, I’d wager.” Mapleton smirked. “Lord knows you aren’t smart enough to walk away on your own.”

  Anthony smiled back. “And here you stand, holding dice in your palm, further making your point.”

  “Is she the one who helped Leticia Podmore hire her new governess?” Lord Hawkridge asked.

  “The very one.” Anthony frowned in surprise. “How did you hear of that?”

  The marquess pulled a face. “My aunt shares her book club. Apparently, Mrs. Podmore was too busy boasting about her new governess to pay much attention to dissecting Radcliffe’s latest gothic novel.”

  “Then you understand the level of skill and patience required of Mrs. Fairfax,” Anthony replied with a grin. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve an appointment to keep.”

  Before anyone else could waylay him with talk of women or wagers, he strode to the rear office and stepped inside.

  Gideon sat behind a large mahogany desk, reviewing a stack of paper. Inky black hair fell into equally dark eyes. An unfashionable hint of whiskers shadowed the line of his jaw.

  He was at the gaming hell at least twelve hours a day, overseeing everything from each ha’penny in the till to the upkeep on the worn green baize of the Faro tables.

  Anthony took a seat opposite the desk and removed his damp hat. “Your ruffians came to call.”

  Maxwell Gideon glanced up. “The lads mentioned they bumped into you in Scotland.”

  “And outside my parents’ home, just a few moments ago.”

  “Clever.” Gideon leaned back in his chair. “I’ll have to increase their salaries.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Anthony clenched the ridge of his hat. “I could have sworn we were friends.”

  “I’d like to think we still are.” Gideon gazed back at him blandly. “However, I didn’t create your debts. You did. Their uncertain nature was causing mistrust and discontent in my gaming hell. I solved the problem. Now you owe the debt to me.”

  “I’m working on it.” Anthony tried to keep the desperation from his voice. “I’ve managed to earn a solid percentage of what I owe, and could gather enough to repay at least a quarter of the balance by tomorrow. But it will take months to save this kind of blunt. Not four days.”

  “You’re earning funds,” Gideon repeated with obvious interest. “And saving. How unlike you.”

  “Twenty-five percent,” Anthony said. “I can give you twenty-five percent tomorrow, and another twenty-five percent… a month from now.”

  Gideon nodded slowly. “What date was listed on the document my employees delivered?”

  Anthony pulled the folded parchment from his greatcoat pocket with trembling fingers. “Monday.”

  “Then I’ll see you on Monday.” Gideon returned his attention to the stacks of paper on his desk. “Bring one hundred percent.”

  Chapter 20

  Anthony stormed out of Gideon’s office and back into the gaming area. Instead of seeming as nostalgic and cheerful as they had moments ago, the candlelit card tables softened by cigar smoke and desperation were now darkly inviting.

  Anger at Gideon had every nerve in Anthony’s body on edge. He could never earn back the money in time doing anything respectable.

  He glanced around the Cloven Hoof. But in a place like this, if he could just win one good wager…

  “Fairfax,” rumbled a voice from the corner. “Still have time for that drink?”

  “Lambley.” Anthony blinked. He had forgotten about the duke. The allure of the gambling tables had that effect on him. He rubbed his face. “I have never been in more dire need of strong spirits and good company. But not here. I can’t… I have to get out.”

  “Very well.” The duke rose to his feet. “I possess far better in my own cellar. Come.” Lambley strode toward the exit. “My coach is always at the ready.”

  Anthony followed the duke outside.

  A stately black coach bearing the duke’s crest glided around the corner, pulled by a gorgeous set of matching grays. The postilion leaped down to open the door.

  Anthony entered after Lambley and arranged himself facing the rear.

  “Shall we wait until we have wine in our goblets?” the duke asked. “Or would you like to tell me what the deuce could have you in such a state?”

  “I owe Gideon money,” Anthony said dully.

  Lambley’s gaze pierced him. “When haven’t you?”

  “Wagonloads of money. More than I can pay.”

  “I see.” Lambley leaned back. “What do you hope to gain from me? A loan?”

  Anthony rested his head against the back of the carriage wall and covered his face with his hands. Was this his best attempt at responsibility? Robbing Peter to pay Paul in an endless series of loans until not a single friend remained?

  With four days to spare, it was perhaps the only option he had left.

  “I would need a way to pay you back,” he admitted. “I don’t have one. If you loan me money, I may only be delaying the inevitable.”

  Lambley gave Anthony a considering stare. “Hmm.”

  “Unless it wasn’t a loan, precisely. What if it were an advance against wages earned?” Anthony gave a crooked smile. “I don’t suppose your estate is in want of a new gardener?”

  “Have you any skill at gardening?”

  “I can’t tell a daisy from a dandelion,” Anthony admitted. “Besides gambling, I’ve no skills useful to our set at all. That’s the crux of the problem.”

  The duke’s gaze was impassive. “Businessmen generally invest in individuals with either talent or knowledge. Perhaps you have expertise in something I might find useful?”

  Anthony kneaded his temples and tried to think.

  “I can’t say that I have great knowledge in any field not taught to all gentlemen who attended Eton.” He had paid for every penny of that hard-won education with windfalls at the gaming tables. “I speak the same amount of French, recall the same amount of history. The primary difference between myself and the average buck is that I’m fashionable enough to be a common guest amongst the beau monde, yet unfashionable enough to be just as recognizable amongst the fast set, and worse. There isn’t a gaming hell in London unacquainted with my name.”

  “I see.” Lambley steepled his fingers. “How familiar are you with Vigo’s work?”

  “With—” Anthony stared at him, thrown off guard by the abrupt change in subject. “What is Vigo’s work? He guards the threshold to the Cloven Hoof, granting entrance to those with the proper background or qualifications, and turns away anyone who oughtn’t to be let inside. Isn’t that it?”

  The duke raised his brows. “It seems like important work to me.”

  “Well… yes, I suppose so.” Anthony smiled in self-deprecation. “Gideon can’t have riffraff like myself inciting discontent amongst his clients by promising debts that cannot be paid.”

  “That is one type of inappropriate guest,” Lambley agreed. “I should imagine there are many more. Vigo keeps out the street urchins, the penny harlots, the drunkards, any wayward fashionable ladies, the Prince Regent… It’s the Lord’s work, really.”

  Anthony chuckled hollowly. “Are you suggesting I ask Gideon for employment? He’s made his position quite clear. I pay him, not the other way
about.”

  The carriage stopped in front of the ducal residence. Anthony followed Lambley inside and into a sumptuous parlor, stocked with a dozen comfortable chairs and at least as many glass decanters.

  The duke poured them each a glass, then took a seat. “At last. Now we can discuss business. What do you recall about my masquerade parties?”

  Anthony frowned at the unexpected topic. The duke’s masked balls were infamous for their secret rooms dedicated to sensual pleasures. No member of the ton with any hope of preserving their reputation could ever admit to being anywhere near such a fête. Yet when Anthony had attended one the previous year, such a thick crush of masked partiers had filled the rooms that dancing was all but impossible.

  “I don’t think I’m overstating if I suggest your masquerades are scandalous,” Anthony said dryly. “Everyone in attendance risks far more than their Almack’s voucher just by walking through the door.”

  Lambley’s eyes glinted. “You’re assuming my guests were ever eligible for Almack’s vouchers… or have a reputation to defend.”

  Anthony burst out laughing. “You’re right. Having been to one of your masquerades, I can attest to having absolutely no idea who else was there. That’s the irresistible part: having the anonymity to do anything one desires. Nobody will ever know. The guests themselves don’t even know.”

  “But I know.” Lambley’s tone was mild, but his eyes were serious. “Nothing is ever completely anonymous. Admission is by invitation only, because I must keep out anyone likely to disturb other guests’ comfort, either during the event or after. It also serves as insurance, should one guest complain about the behavior of another. Partygoers might see each other as Mr. Red Mask and Miss Blue Mask, but I must know their proper names in order to deal with each situation appropriately.”

  Anthony frowned. That much responsibility did indeed sound more like the security measures of a gaming hell than the fun-filled soirées of a careless rake, as Anthony had always imagined. Then again, he supposed that a masked ball of that caliber could be seen as the very definition of a den of iniquity. A vice parlor in society clothes. Accepting the invitation was a shockingly high wager indeed.

  “How do you do it?” he asked. “How do you keep track of so many people?”

  “I can’t.” Lambley sipped his port. “When I held my first masked gathering, I invited perhaps two dozen friends. It was diverting and easy. As my notoriety grew, so did the demand for invitations. My presence is needed amongst my guests, but I cannot mingle in the primary salons and guard the front door at the same time. My butler shoulders that task.”

  Anthony thought back. The masquerade inside had been so much more interesting than the mundane act of surrendering his umbrella and greatcoat that he hadn’t given the process another thought. But now that he did… “I seem to recall him allowing entry to one person at a time. He took my invitation and jotted something down in a little book.”

  Lambley inclined his head. “The registry of invited guests contains the date, name, and identifying mask features of every person who attends the ball. To date, there have been no grave issues, but in the event something untoward should occur, it is vital to have the ability to ensure there are consequences.”

  Anthony nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

  “Using my butler as an enforcer may sound logical. He is a trusted member of my staff, and answering doors is one of his primary duties. However, it offers him very little opportunity for rest. He must be at his post by daybreak for his regular duties, yet masquerade nights also tend to last until daybreak.”

  Anthony frowned. Working more than twenty-four hours in a row was an unhappy circumstance in any profession. Yet hiring a new staff member would mean entrusting the identities of guests who were jealously guarding their anonymity to an untested servant without the butler’s years of experience and trust.

  Hope prickled his skin. “Am I to understand that you are offering me employment?”

  “The ‘common knowledge’ you dismiss so easily is the only reason I am considering it,” Lambley said blandly. “I have had instances of stolen or forged invitations. If Lady X tells my butler that she is Mrs. Y, he will simply note it in the journal and allow her entry. You, however, would not be so easy to fool. With your background, you are likely to have made the acquaintance of both Lady X and Mrs. Y, and would be able to put paid to that nonsense at the door.”

  The duke was right. Anthony’s hopes rose. Under the right circumstances, his social position bridging two worlds became an advantage, not a disadvantage.

  “Furthermore,” Lambley continued, “I have known you for two decades. You can’t be trusted with a loose shilling, but you’re a good man. You would never betray a confidence. The entire ton fully trusts in your character. When Lady X sees it is you at the door, she will not feel any less comfortable sharing her name than she does relinquishing it to my butler.”

  “There must be a catch.” Anthony straightened. “It sounds as though I would be perfect for the role.”

  “You are. The role, however, may not be perfect for you. Not only would you bear responsibility for tracking every single identity without ever breathing a hint of the intelligence you gather. The guests themselves will also be aware of your identity. It shall not require but a moment for all of London to know that Mr. Anthony Fairfax is now the paid night butler at the Duke of Lambley’s masked balls.”

  Anthony’s stomach dipped. Accepting this lifeline would mean severing ties with a world he loved. The only life he’d ever known. The sort of future he’d imagined himself living. By accepting such scandalous employment, his societal standing would be ruined.

  And as his wife, Charlotte would suffer the same fate.

  Lambley didn’t change expression. “Being in my employ is more than merely scandalous. If you take this position, you will no longer bridge both worlds. Your reputation amongst the smart set will be irrevocably destroyed.”

  The duke’s warning seeped into Anthony’s bones. Every word Lambley spoke was true. And yet, exchanging his status for his freedom wasn’t just the best choice—it was Anthony’s only choice. His sole chance to save himself, his marriage, and his future.

  “A mask,” he said suddenly. “I require leave to wear a mask.”

  Lambley arched a brow. “You require it, do you?”

  Anthony gazed back impassively. “A mask won’t affect my ability to do my job, but hiding my identity would help me protect my wife’s reputation.”

  “You can wear a mask, but you can’t hide your voice or your mannerisms. Some percentage of guests are still likely to recognize you.”

  “They can suspect all they like. They won’t be able to prove it—or even to say how they know. Not without implicating themselves as attendees of such a scandalous event themselves.”

  “It is scandalous,” Lambley reminded him. “Even with a mask. Are you certain this is the path you wish to take?”

  The gossip would be nothing more than idle rumor.

  Rumor that could ruin him… or clear his debts. And give him and Charlotte a chance at a real marriage. A new life. Free of fear from debtors’ prison.

  Anthony squared his shoulders. He didn’t care about the smart set anymore. About being invited to dinner parties or being welcome at Almack’s. He cared about setting things right. He cared about Charlotte. This was his sole chance to provide for her. To be there for her. Only a fool would say no.

  “I’ll do it,” he said without hesitation.

  “Then I shall have a contract drawn up at once.” Lambley’s eyes glittered in the candlelight. “I will settle your account with Gideon only after you’ve completed your first night to my satisfaction. At that point, you will be safe from prosecution or further retaliation from Gideon’s enforcers. However, if at any time you default or fail to meet your obligations to me as specified in our contract…” The duke’s tone was harsh and final. “You will not recover from the consequences.”

 
Anthony nodded. He couldn’t think about consequences. Failure was not an option. But even this opportunity—his only opportunity—might not save him. Not if his debts wouldn’t be addressed until he completed his first night. He tried to swallow his panic. “When is your next ball?”

  “Saturday.”

  His shoulders tensed. There might still be time. “I must repay Gideon by Monday or it will be too late.”

  “How much do you owe?” The duke gestured at a quill and ink on the sideboard. “Write it for me so I can pay the precise amount.”

  Cheeks flushing, Anthony forced himself to write two thousand and forty pounds, thirteen shillings and sixpence and handed Lambley the damning paper. There in black and white, the sum seemed astronomical… and he felt incredibly foolish.

  “I see.” Lambley returned the paper to the table. “Let’s talk terms, shall we? Given the highly sensitive nature of the information you must protect, I will pay you quite handsomely. But until you have paid off your debt, all monies earned shall be placed against the principal. Two thousand pounds is not a sum I invest lightly. It may take a full year until you repay your debt or receive a single penny to take home. Are you amenable to these stipulations?”

  Amenable? Anthony nearly melted in gratitude. The terms were leagues better than a lifetime in prison. Earning that much money in a single year was more than anyone of his stature could have dreamed. Paying off his debt before he took home a penny was only fair.

  But the following year! Once he did take home his salary, he could finally treat Charlotte to the life she deserved. If the loss of Anthony’s reputation meant the loss of his friends, so be it.

  But it wouldn’t be easy. He would have to vanquish his reckless impulse to gamble for an entire year. Dance to Lambley’s tune. The smallest slipup would ruin everything. Anthony could not let that happen. His skin went cold.

  What if his only chance to stay out of prison caused him to lose Charlotte anyway?