by Erica Ridley
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. It helps when I need to relax. Or escape.”
His forehead creased. “Turned off your senses? 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. She and the beau monde could never view their world through the same eyes.
“When I was young, my mother taught me to do it.” 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?”
“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 staunch the memories. It didn’t work. “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 gave a crooked smile despite the lump in her throat. “Closing myself off has often been the one thing that has 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.”
If only that were true. Her eyes pricked. She did not have him. He was the reason she’d needed to retreat inward.
She didn’t relax into the warmth of his embrace. 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. These days in his company had been the closest to “normal” life she’d ever experienced. She longed to believe it could last. But there was no denying the truth. They had less than a week left.
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 hefted 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. Made no hopeful promises. 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. She spun about in alarm.
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 must have received terrible news. But no matter what the outcome, Charlotte’s advice had been sound. Once Mrs. Rowden knew where she stood with her family, she could finally move on. “Your son responded to your letter?”
“Tea,” she whispered, as if that single syllable held all the power of the universe. Her breaths hitched. “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.”
Joy 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.”
“I…” Words failed her.
“Thank you again.” Mrs. Rowden gave Charlotte a warm embrace. “I wish you Godspeed.”
Charlotte’s head was topsy-turvy as the older woman rushed off to prepare herself for her tea. Mrs. Rowden credited Charlotte with reuniting her family. And had hugged her in thanks. In front of witnesses!
“That was incredible,” 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 Charlotte’s fog of pleasure. She seized the notes from his hand to count them herself.
Eighteen… nineteen… twenty. Her mouth fell open. She clutched the bills to her chest. Mrs. Rowden had given her twenty pounds for helping her reunite with her son.
As the jarvey set the hack in motion, Charlotte stared out the window in a state of unreality. 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 astonishing. Hope wriggled into her heart.
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 she could? Perhaps not today, perhaps not in a fortnight, but even if the creditors took him away… she might still get him back.
Then, once he had his freedom, she could talk him into staying as far away from London as possible.
Chapter 13
By the time their hired conveyance pulled into Nottingham, Charlotte’s bones were exhausted from so many days of travel. Scotland seemed like a century ago.
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. Anthony’s unshakeable faith that good fortune was always right around the corner was baffling, but infectious. Perhaps this time luck would find them both.
She tried to be cautious, tried to fight the unexpected sense of comfort she felt in his presence. It couldn’t last. Yet she wished it could.
Impulsively, she turned to hold his strong, handsome face in her hands and pressed her lips to his as if this might be their last chance. 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 preferred to be than in his embrace.
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.
His presence would always make her feel as though 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 would never take him for granted. Charlotte 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 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. “Shall 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.
“Any specific inn?” 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. She might have just ruined the adventure.
Although she’d tried her hardest to stay out of sight, sharing a face with a courtesan made attempts at anonymity laughable.
Most men of a certain set knew who her mother was. Many of them, intimately. “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 with a limp she’d seen at the inn back in Scotland. Her stomach hollowed.
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. Her skin went cold.
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 when he caught sight of the man. “Was that gentleman 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 slowly 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? Alone?”
Dread sent her a step back. Who was this presumptuous man? A client of her mother’s? He couldn’t possibly mean to insult her beneath her husband’s nose, could he?
Anthony crossed his arms. “I’m not leaving her side.”
The man cleared his throat. “Ma’am, I couldn’t help but notice the distinctive ruby earrings 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? The irony heated her cheeks. She’d worn the rubies so her father would recognize her… and instead, had labeled herself as a thief.
“He has no claim to your jewelry,” Anthony murmured into her ear. “You don’t have to answer.”
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. I think.”
The man’s blank expression did not change. “I see. Who is your father, ma’am?”
Her throat closed. She could not answer. There was nothing to say.
“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.
Very well. If this man had come all the way from Scotland 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 snarled.
“Mr. Ralph Underwood, Esquire. One of the Duke of Courteland’s solicitors and a trusted advisor.” 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 such a ridiculous mistake. “I can assure you, my birth had no such noble beginnings. You have me confused with someone far more fortunate than I.”
“The set you were wearing,” the solicitor continued, “has belonged to the Courteland family for several generations. Now that I’ve had a closer look, I am certain. Those jewels are part of a collection that includes not just a necklace and earrings, but also a matching bracelet and tiara. The latter two pieces remain at the Courteland country estate.”
This… wasn’t a mistake?
“I don’t understand,” Charlotte stammered. “Perhaps the rubies were once part of a set, but I cannot possibly be related to a duke. My mother…”
The solicitor withdrew a folded parchment from a pocket inside his greatcoat and studied the cramped handwriting covering one side. “Are you the sole offspring of one Judith Devon, of London?”
“Yes,” she croaked through a suddenly raspy throat.
She had been born with the stigma of her mother’s profession, but she would not deny their connection. Up until last week, her mother was all Charlotte had ever had.
“In that case, I am in possession of a document signed by His Grace’s own hand, indicating you are indeed his daughter.”
His Grace’s daughter? Charlotte sagged backwards against Anthony. A duke. Signed by his own hand. She tried to process the solicitor’s claim.
Her
father wasn’t a laird. He was a lord. Her child’s mind had muddled the two, and her mother had never corrected the mistake—she’d simply added to his legend.
“Not Scotland,” she whispered in stupefaction. “Courteland.”
Her mind was spinning.
She might still be a courtesan’s by-blow, but she wasn’t merely one of many such unfortunate bastard children. She was the daughter of a duke. One who recognized her. In writing! She grabbed Anthony’s hands, giddy with joy. He grinned back at her.
“I have a father,” she choked out, half laughing, half crying. The world was so much brighter than it had been mere moments before. “Anthony, I have a father!”
“Actually, ma’am… I’m afraid you—you had one.” The solicitor cleared his throat. “A few weeks ago, His Grace passed away, at his London home.”
An icy breeze whipped straight through Charlotte’s heart, ripping away every trace of the joy she should have known better than to believe in. Of course she would never meet him. Girls like her didn’t get to have fathers. Not even for a moment. A great hollow void spread through her, replacing her excitement with devastation.
Her father had known who she was. He had known that he had sired her. Worse, as a member of the House of Lords, he’d lived at least half the year in London. Where a scared, lonely little girl rocked herself every night on her bedchamber floor, staring at her locked door and praying for a different life. Dreaming of a father who could whisk her away from the fear and the self-loathing and the endless humiliations.
As it turned out, her father could have whisked her away, or taken her out for ices, or visited her, just once. Something. Anything.
It would’ve meant the world to her.
And now he was dead. Now that she finally knew who he was, finally knew where to find him, she would never get to meet him. Never spend a single moment in his presence.
Not because she was too late. But because he hadn’t cared enough to bother, back when he still had time.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asked dully. As if every word, every breath, didn’t rake open all the old scars guarding her heart. “I never knew him. He’s dead. Nothing matters anymore.”
