Scandal's Daughters

Chapter 2

Miss Charlotte Devon hefted the three gaming purses in her hands and hesitated.

She wasn’t penniless. Not yet. And her father would be settling a sizable sum upon her, either as a dowry or as an independent living or as…as something. Of this, she was certain. The problem was finding him.

In the meantime, she oughtn’t to be gambling away small fortunes. The future was too uncertain. She probably ought not to have been gambling at all. But she could use the cushion. The other men’s earlier rebuff had been so infuriating that when Mr. Fairfax joined their table and sent her so many curious, friendly glances, the lure had been impossible to resist.

When was the last time a gentleman had sent her a friendly look, not a lewd or dismissive one? Come to think of it, when was the last time anyone had been friendly to her at all?

Ladies treated her with disdain, if they even acknowledged her presence. Gentlemen only sought a quick tup with someone they could easily discard. As far as Society was concerned, Miss Charlotte Devon wasn’t a person at all. She was nobody. Meaningless.

Was it any wonder this profligate’s roguish smiles and open face had drawn her like a moth to a flame?

It wasn’t merely attention from someone above her station. Everyone was above her station. Charlotte was long used to being treated like it.

But Mr. Fairfax was different. She’d suspected as much from observing his interactions with his peers, yet he continuously delighted her. Her surprise when he’d treated the barmaid like a person, rather than a stick of furniture, had turned to astonishment when he’d given the woman an entire sovereign to do with as she would. Charlotte’s astonishment was eclipsed by shock when he’d lost his winnings and still let the barmaid keep the coin.

His friends had seen nothing wrong with asking for its return. After all, the recipient was a mere serving wench. To them, her sentiments and situation need not enter the equation.

But not to Mr. Fairfax. His gifts were permanent. His debts were his own.

Now he wanted a chance to rejoin the game. She shouldn’t give him one. Perfectly nice gentleman or not. Chimney slave or not. She had won their money fair and square.

But he had given her a chance when he should not. When no one else would have done. She watched him from beneath her lashes. He had not only allowed a woman to join his gaming table, but he’d allowed her to wager nothing more than a lock of hair to stay in the game. Not because it made sense to do so, or because he was beholden to anyone else’s wishes in any way, but because he was kind.

Her pulse skipped. No one else had ever cared before.

She sat a little straighter. He might be too handsome and charming for his own good, too reckless and overconfident with his wagers. But by all appearances, this happy, devil-may-care rogue was also a genuinely nice person. He’d given her an extra chance at his own expense because he’d wanted her to feel like she had been treated fairly.

She could do no less. A begrudging sigh escaped her lips. Blast.

“If you lose, you may escort me to my chamber,” she began, and frowned sternly when he gave his dark eyebrows an exaggerated wiggle. “And then you may return to your own chamber without so much as crossing the threshold of mine. Or donating any hair.”

His green eyes sparkled at her merrily. “Done.”

Mr. Leviston gathered up the cards and fumbled them into a shuffle. “In case you were unaware, you are both delightfully mad.”

Didn’t she know it. Charlotte tightened her lips.

She dumped the pile of purses back onto the table with a thud. “All in?”

“All in.” Mr. Fairfax smiled back at her, both dimples showing sweetly.

Charlotte picked up her first card.

If Mr. Fairfax was watching her for a reaction, he would not discern one. Not solely because of Charlotte’s legendary self-control. But because she was in shock. Expressionless. Emotionless. Even she couldn’t believe the hand she’d been dealt.

This was surely the worst opening card anyone had ever held in the history of stupid wagers.

She touched her jewels. Her necklace and ear bobs were the sole possessions she could not lose at any cost. She normally wouldn’t even wear them in public, but Scotland was the one place where a bit of ostentation might help, rather than hurt her.

The other reason she wore them was to keep them safe. For the past few days she’d felt like someone was following her. She never saw the same person two days in a row, but she couldn’t shake the sense of being spied upon.

Today, there had been a man with a limp and a scuffed top hat who had stared at her with far more than casual interest. Perhaps he had seen the jewels and was waiting for her to leave them unattended.

A prickle went down her spine. She was positive that the contents of her valise had been rifled through at the last inn. Nothing had been taken—perhaps because the rubies were still on her person. But she couldn’t take the risk of losing them.

And now, without her purse, she couldn’t even afford to hire a maid or a hall boy to watch over her at night. Just until she was reunited with her father. In fact, protection was the real reason she’d agreed to let accompanying her safely to her chamber be Mr. Fairfax’s wager.

That, and she hadn’t expected him to win.

She swallowed. No sense drawing out the torture. She played all three cards, then lifted her chin.

Mr. Fairfax was ashen.

Slowly, as if touching his hand was more pain than could be withstood, he displayed his final card.

She’d won. Charlotte stared at the cards in disbelief. She’d won.

Mr. Leviston cackled. “I reckon it’s off to clean chimneys for you, Fairfax. Or whatever mischief the two of you decide to get up to.”

The nameless horror on Mr. Fairfax’s face vanished as if it had never existed. His visage resumed the same sunny cheer he had displayed earlier.

He shrugged and clapped Mr. Leviston on the shoulder. “Fortune giveth, and fortune taketh away.”

“Every time.” Mr. Leviston chuckled. “Shall we have another go tomorrow? I suppose I could scare up a shilling or two.”

“You know I’ve never said no to a game,” Mr. Fairfax replied easily. He fixed his magnetic gaze on Charlotte. “Ready, my lady?”

As she nodded her acquiescence, her mind was not on the short walk to her chamber, but on how blithely both men shrugged off staggering losses and agreed to repeat the same foolishness the following day. Were they daft? She had always supposed town gentlemen could not possibly be as careless and as dissolute as the Society papers painted them, but she had clearly been too generous.

She rose to her feet. Good. She was glad they were foolish. She could not possibly feel guilty at relieving them of more money than she normally spent in a year if they didn’t even have the good sense to miss it. She would be a much better mistress to these purses.

Hope fluttered in her belly. In fact, with two hundred pounds, she could hire a maid before taking the next hack north. She would do so first thing in the morning.

As for tonight… Well. Perhaps fortune truly was on her side.

She slipped her hand about the crook of Mr. Fairfax’s arm and let him lead her from the table. With a man like him seeing her safely to her chamber, her virtue would remain safe for one more night.

As they exited the common guest area, another gentleman was entering, and pulled up short the moment he laid eyes on them. A chill swept over her.

Please be a friend of Mr. Fairfax, she repeated in her mind. Please.

He squinted at her with interest. The wrong kind of interest.

Her stomach sank.

“Do I know you, miss?” His brow furrowed in concentration. “You look incredibly familiar.”

“I have one of those faces,” she said automatically, and all but hauled Mr. Fairfax out of the common area before the other man could recall where he might have seen a face like hers.

To his credit, Mr. Fairfax made no protest at being dragged bodily from the room.

As soon as they were safely out of sight, second thoughts immediately crowded Charlotte’s brain. The scene was so familiar, she hadn’t even questioned it. But what if the man wasn’t confusing her with her mother? She was in Scotland now. Far from London. What if he’d recognized her because of her similarity to her father? Wasn’t that why she’d dropped the assumed name and begun using her birth name again after she’d crossed the border? Didn’t her plan hinge on someone recognizing her and leading her back to her father?

Stupid girl. She was going to have to unlearn two-and-twenty years of rejection and automatic denial if she meant to have success with this mission.

The positive side, however, was that if people were starting to notice a family resemblance, her father must reside in the general area. To be sure, this innkeeper hadn’t recognized his name, but someone would—and soon. Her heart felt light.

“Congratulations on a wonderful win tonight.” Mr. Fairfax’s warm voice melted over her. “Enviable display of luck.”

She looked at him sharply, but his eyes were sincere. “Thank you.”

Perhaps he was right. Perhaps fortune was finally on her side.

Perhaps Mr. Fairfax was proof that she was on the right path, the perfect path. Where she could start over, find her father, marry a prince—or a laird, she wasn’t choosy—and live happily ever after. She straightened her spine.

Finding her father was her only chance to have a good future.

As they neared the dining area, she pointed down a corridor to the right. “My chamber is just up the stairs at the end. If you prefer to leave me here…”

“Nonsense.” Mr. Fairfax’s green eyes were surprisingly serious. “A wager is a wager. I’ll see you safely to your door, and not a step farther.”

She sucked in a breath, grateful for his presence. It was awful to feel insecure, unsafe. A woman alone was always at risk. One could never truly be used to it, no matter how long one had lived in fear.

Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow, for the first time in her life, she would be able to afford a maid. And the next day, or the day after that, she would have something even better. A home.

A sudden buzz of conversation erupted behind them as a crowd of guests exited the dining area together.

Loud footsteps clumped against the wood floor as a man reeking of gin staggered up to them and reached for Charlotte’s arm. “I see you found your dìonadair, lassie.”

Mr. Fairfax instantly placed himself between Charlotte and the drunkard. “Sir, you overstep. Find your quarters and stay there.”

The crowd from the dining area edged closer to watch.

“Well, you know how it is.” The drunkard swayed as he tried to get another look at Charlotte. “With a puss like this looking for a protector, of course a man’s going to be interested. When you’re done with her—”

Charlotte spluttered. “This man is not my ‘protector,’ nor am I looking for one.”

The last thing she needed was for rumors of her supposed easy nature to reach her father’s ears. Even he wouldn’t be able to consider her respectable if she arrived with her reputation as ruined in Scotland as it was in England. But how else could she explain being on Mr. Fairfax’s arm, whilst clearly headed toward the guest chambers?

Her mind spun. She needed the crowd to go away. “Mr. Fairfax is just… Mr. Fairfax is my husband.”

Splendid. It took all of Charlotte’s self-control not to drop her face into her hands at that blurted nonsense. A husband was a better excuse than a paying client, but it was also a blatant lie. Mr. Fairfax had only agreed to walk her to her chamber, not to participate in any marital farces along the way. Soon she would be known as a harlot and a liar.

To her surprise and relief, he didn’t so much as change expression.

“I am the lady’s husband,” he repeated firmly to the drunkard. “Now find your room, or I will put you there myself.”

Alarmed, the drunkard scuttled backwards out of harm’s way before lurching down the opposite corridor.

Mr. Whitfield stepped up from the rear of the crowd. “Fairfax, you sly dog. No wonder you were making eyes at her all evening. Why didn’t you just say that’s what you were about?”

Mr. Fairfax hesitated.

Her heart pounded. Would he lie to a friend? For her? She held her breath. In her haste to save her reputation, she hadn’t considered the ripples she’d be causing in his.

He waved a careless hand in the air. “I’ll explain how it all happened next time we see each other at Boodle’s. You’ll have to buy me a glass of brandy, though. It’s quite a story.”

Her shoulders sagged with relief. Mr. Fairfax had saved her reputation.

“I expect nothing less than a fantastical tale from you,” Mr. Whitfield said with a chuckle. “Boodle’s, then.”

Charlotte winced and murmured, “I am so sorry.”

“For that twaddle?” He turned her away from the crowd and led her down the corridor toward the stairs. “If anything, you’ve not only guaranteed my re-admittance to Boodle’s, you even earned me a free glass of brandy while I’m at it. They’ll all have a great laugh over the time Anthony Fairfax was married for an entire minute.”

Anthony. Charlotte smiled wistfully. He had a lovely name.

Though she would never see him again, she, too, would look back on this moment with fondness. Not because it was a humorous episode, but because it had been oddly empowering. She’d had no doubt of their ability to fend off a simple drunkard, but convincing a passel of Londoners that a handsome gentleman like him could be married to a nobody like her… She was very, very far from home indeed.

It was magical.

She climbed the wooden stairs with a curve to her lips. The happy smile died when she caught sight of her chamber.

The door was ajar.

Her palms went clammy. She gripped Mr. Fairfax’s arm. “Someone has been inside my chamber.”

“They may still be there.” He touched his fingers to her hand. “Stay here and don’t move until I ensure it’s safe. If you hear any scuffling… Scream.”

She stared back at him, frozen in place.

He disappeared inside.

She tried to calm her racing heart. Everything was going to be fine. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. Imagine muscles relaxing in the neck, the shoulders, the forehead. Mr. Fairfax would be fine. She would be fine.

She stifled a scream when he burst back into view.

Alone.

“No one is inside.” He covered her hands with his own. “Do you feel safe in there? Would you like a different chamber?”

Did she feel safe? A bubble of hysterical laughter tangled in her throat. Had she ever truly felt safe?

“It’s fine,” she managed. She would bar the door and find a maid at first light. “I’m fine.”

He studied her for a long moment. “I can stay, if you like.”

Fear flashed through her and she shook her head wildly. Not at his offer—for a town gentleman, he seemed surprisingly trustworthy—but because if a few steps together in the corridor could raise that many eyebrows, him spending the night in her chamber could ruin what little respectability she possessed.

Yet the thought of being left alone was even worse. What if the thief returned to rob her? What if the blackguard wasn’t after her money or her jewels, but the unwilling company of a young woman with no one to call out to for help?

“Not inside,” Mr. Fairfax said quickly. “I am happy to guard your door from the corridor. You may set as many locks and chairs for barriers as you like. I shan’t allow passage to a single soul.”

“Y-you would sit in the corridor all night?” Her leaping heart slowed to a more sedate pace. She hoped his offer was sincere. She already felt safer at the thought of him guarding the threshold from the other side.

“Keeps me from the gaming tables,” he answered cheerfully and positioned himself against the wall facing her door.

Relief washed over her. She flashed a grateful smile. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.”

A door creaked open down the hall.

“As my lady wishes.” Mr. Fairfax tipped his hat. “I did offer to spend the night doing your bidding. Playing hall boy is certainly less tiring than what I thought you might demand of me. I should be thanking you.”

“Shh,” she hissed as another door creaked open. “You never thought I was going to ask you for anything. Now mind your tongue. Someone might overhear you.”

“My tongue,” he mused in thoughtful agreement. “Ironic you should mention it. I’m reminded of a time when—”

“Who’s making all that ruckus?” a scratchy voice called out. “Some of us would like to sleep.”

Flames of embarrassment shot up Charlotte’s cheeks.

Another door swung open and a pale face in a mobcap peered out. “It’s Mr. Fairfax holding court in the corridor, by the look of it.”

“Holding court?” cackled a voice down the other end of the hall. “Better hope it’s with his wife. Had no idea that yellow-haired girl was a married woman. Fairfax ought to keep her close.”

“Fairfax ought to keep quiet, is what the rotter ought to keep!” bellowed a voice on the other side of the wall. “If that featherwit is still out there chattering to his wife by the time I put my robe on, I’ll—”

Charlotte grabbed Mr. Fairfax by the wrist, yanked him into her bedchamber, and slammed the door.

“As I was saying,” he began after the briefest pause. “One fine evening, after wagering on races along Rotten Row—”

“Do. Not.” She held up a shaking finger and prayed her blush would fade by sunup. Splendid. As long as the other guests believed her married to Mr. Fairfax, her reputation was better off with him on the inside of the chamber rather than raising suspicion on the outside. “Don’t move an inch until I’ve had a chance to look about the chamber to see if anything is missing.”

His teasing expression faded and his eyes turned serious. “How do you feel?”

“Exasperated,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Angry at me.” He leaned against the doorframe in obvious relief. “Excellent. For a moment there, you looked so pale and terrified that I was afraid to take your arm, for fear you’d shatter.” His eyes softened. “You had every right to be alarmed. But the intruder is gone. You are safe. No one will harm you while I guard the door.”

Her mouth fell open. He had made outrageous comments in the corridor to distract her? Her fingers slowly unclenched as she stared at him. It had worked, blast him. She had gone from shaking with panic to blushing in embarrassment—but she had entered her bedchamber of her own free will. Because she no longer feared it.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Although she did not approve of his methods, he had been good to intervene. Her mind had leaped from invasion of privacy to thwarted robbery to attempted rape of her person in a matter of moments.

All of those things were everyday threats to a woman of her station traveling alone. It was a relief that, for one night at least, she would not have to lie at the edge of sleep, attuned to every creak of the floorboard and every scratch at her window.

To her surprise, she was glad to have Mr. Fairfax with her. He made her feel safe. He made her feel less alone. He made her feel…worth protecting.

The last thing she wanted was for him to know the truth.

She turned away to peruse the chamber in search of damage. It looked the same. Nice, but old. Shabby, but clean. The wardrobe was open, but she might have left it that way. Perhaps nothing more had occurred than staff forgetting to lock the door after emptying chamber pots and refreshing the water pitcher.

Or Mr. Fairfax might have just saved her from a terrible night, indeed.

She gathered her skirts and the dregs of her serenity. Now that they were stuck here for the night, what was she meant to do with him? Her mother was the one skilled at entertaining gentlemen, not Charlotte. She had always done her best not to call untoward attention to herself.

And now she had a man in her bedchamber.

She swallowed. The last thing she wanted was for him to guess her base upbringing. She would simply have to do as she always did, and pretend to be someone else. Someone better than who she really was.

She motioned Mr. Fairfax into the room and settled into a wingback chair near the fireplace with a demure shawl about her shoulders. The role of poor-but-respectable-miss came so readily by now, it was easy to forget she was playacting. She had spent her entire life pretending to be someone she was not. A few more hours wouldn’t matter.

Mr. Fairfax strolled close to the fireplace and paused next to the grate. He tossed her an arch look before lifting a poker. “Shall I clean the chimney? Or does the lady prefer I stoke her fire?”

She pursed her lips, determined not to let on how much she secretly enjoyed the silly flirtation. Back in London, men didn’t bother. They assumed they could have her for a word and tuppence, and even when she rebuked them, they never quite comprehended that she was saving her virginity for something important.

If she wanted any chance at being respectable one day, at a minimum she needed to keep her maidenhead intact.

It hadn’t been easy. Not when her mother earned her living as a prostitute.

Twenty years ago, Judith Devon had been one of the most infamous courtesans in all of London. Now, she was simply…old. Forgotten. Lonely. Just like her daughter. For two-and-twenty years, the only person either of them could count on was each other. Proper ladies and gentlemen simply treated them like rubbish.

Society never let Charlotte forget her base roots. From the time she was old enough to toddle, gentlemen callers would toss an extra coin her way, and tell her how blessed she was to be the image of her beautiful mother.

It wasn’t a blessing. It was a curse.

The mere fifteen-year age gap between them meant, as Charlotte grew older, they were often confused on the street. Pointed at. Spit at. There was no denying her heritage. No salvaging her reputation. She was a by-blow. A whore’s daughter.

Born ruined.

All those long, wretched years, her one chance at some level of respectability was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, she had a father. All she knew about him was his name, that he was a noble laird in Scotland, and that he had no idea he had a daughter.

Her mother had told her he was a wonderful man. Kind, compassionate, wise, thoughtful, gentle—everything a father should be. He hadn’t abandoned her. He hadn’t even known she existed.

But what if she could find him? A man even half as caring and honorable as her mother had painted him would not hesitate to take her in, to welcome her. She didn’t want his money. She simply wanted his time. His affection. A place in this world.

As a child, Charlotte had lain awake every night dreaming about the day he would discover her and whisk her away to a better life, far from London. She and her mother both.

He never had. So here she was. Closer to her dream than she’d ever been. She just had to find him. Convince him she was respectable enough to take in.

Then she would persuade him to send for her mother, or at least provide for her. Every new client she was forced to take added lines to her face and took years from her life. Charlotte was determined to marry well and rescue her mother herself, if her father could not. But to do so, she had to portray herself as honorable and proper.

Starting with never admitting to the truth.

“That should do it.” Mr. Fairfax slid the fire iron back into its stand and turned from the grate. “What is my next chore?”

Charlotte gazed up at him, startled. “You truly wish to be my slave for the night?”

“Of course I don’t wish to,” he assured her. “But I wouldn’t want it said that I reneged on our wager. Now, what shall it be? I likely oughtn’t to divulge a secret, but I am world renowned for a quite unparalleled foot massage.”

She hid a smile. “If it’s a secret, how are you world renowned?”

“I’m also not half bad at dressing hair and mending hems,” he continued without pause. “I have a younger sister and had to play maid-of-all-work when times were lean.” He lowered his voice. “Playing maid-of-all-work is not nearly as diverting as playing whist or Faro, but a boy of twelve does not sail his own ship.”

This time, Charlotte couldn’t keep a smile from forming. What must it be like to grow up so secure in one’s self-worth that one could admit to such poverty and have the confession sound charming? Either she truly did not understand ton life, or Mr. Fairfax wasn’t as well-connected as it had seemed in the common room.

Then again, he was welcome at fashionable gentlemen’s clubs like Boodle’s.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know any dukes and earls?”

“I know scads of dukes and earls,” he assured her. “However, most are married and the rest are scandalous, so I really cannot recommend them to a lady.”

“Name one,” she challenged.

“The Duke of Ravenwood,” he answered immediately. “First-rate fellow, married to an absolutely dreadful hoyden who I love quite dearly. Cannot recommend her, either. Bad for one’s reputation.”

Charlotte tilted her head, unsure whether to believe even half of his tales. “Name a scandalous lord.”

“Lord Wainwright,” he said without hesitation. He lowered his voice. “The majority of his interactions with Society are horizontal.”

She crossed her arms. “Are any of these rakes and do-gooders skilled at foot rubs or darning socks?”

“You know, I’ve never asked them,” he said with wide-eyed innocence. “I shall add it to my diary straightaway, so as not to forget the next time we meet.”

She harrumphed to hide her amusement. “How are you at pressing wrinkles from gowns?”

“Let me assure you,” he said with utter seriousness, “that I have never worn a wrinkled gown in all my life.”

“Very well. Mine are in the wardrobe, as is my traveling iron. See what you can do.”

“At your service.” He bowed and marched to the wardrobe like a soldier off to war.

She tried not to display her amusement. The man was incorrigible…but she couldn’t help but find his frankness humanizing and his silliness refreshing. “You’re certain you know what you’re about with those gowns?”

“You will think my valet pressed them,” he called back in a tone filled with such portent that Charlotte half expected her muslins to be dotted with burns in the shape of irons.

It would almost be worth it, just to have this one night. This memory of a man above her station treating her as if she were above his. Of being an equal, rather than an object incapable of feelings or rights of her own. Of feeling…happy. She hugged herself in astonishment. When was the last time she’d felt safe enough and carefree enough to be happy?

She gazed wistfully at his strong back as he placed the iron in the fire and smoothed out the first gown upon the chaise longue.

A man like this was even more dangerous than the sort who usually approached her, she realized in surprise. A man like this wouldn’t just take what he wanted. He’d make her want to give it to him of her own free will. Desire him. Long for his kisses. Plead for more.

She forced herself to look away.

She would not be like her mother. She had promised herself that the first time she’d seen her mother cry. Charlotte’s life would be different. She’d find a way to be respectable if it killed her.

Which meant keeping her distance from the tempting Mr. Fairfax.

She’d sworn to never so much as kiss a man, much less lie with him, until she was in love. She would only give herself once, to the right man. And the gentlemen she wed would be perfect. Some handsome, moneyed, landed, laird friend of her father’s.

Or at the very least, her husband would be above reproach. The rest was optional.

A knock sounded upon the door. “Miss Devon? It’s Mr. Garman.”

Frowning, she pushed herself out of the wingback chair. What could the innkeeper want at this hour?

When she opened the door, his expression was apologetic. “I’m so sorry to bother you, miss, but I have to inquire… Is Mr. Fairfax within this chamber?”

“I’m busy ironing my lady’s morning gown,” Mr. Fairfax called from somewhere behind Charlotte’s shoulder. “’Tis ever so relaxing!”

She pasted on a smile. “He’s here.”

“And, pardon me asking, miss, but it’s a matter of some importance. Is Mr. Fairfax your husband?”

Charlotte’s throat dried. It had been one thing to playact in the corridor, but now that the gentleman in question was otherwise unaccompanied inside her bedchamber… Scotland didn’t know her past. If she wanted to keep her reputation, there was only one possible answer. She just didn’t dare give it. One lie was enough. She wouldn’t involve Mr. Fairfax any more than she already had.

“Yes,” he called from somewhere near the fireplace. “Of course the lady is my wife. Do you think I extend my ironing services to all your guests?”

“Yes,” she echoed faintly, forcing herself not to clap her hands with relief. “I’m afraid Mr. Fairfax is indeed my husband.”

The innkeeper yanked a very expensive, very battered valise from the hallway to her doorway. He lifted his chin to project his voice over Charlotte’s shoulder. “In that case, these are the items we are certain your husband accidentally left behind in the bedchamber he forgot to pay for in the excitement of reuniting with his wife. I assume he’ll be down first thing in the morning to settle the bill?”

“Absolutely tomorrow,” her faux husband called back. “I have a whist appointment with Leviston after noon, and then I’ll settle everyone’s bills. I can feel my luck upon the wind!”

Several doors along the corridor cracked ajar, and various occupants peeked out, their gazes shamelessly curious.

The innkeeper cut Charlotte a flat look. “Given your husband’s reputation for forgetfulness in monetary matters, would you be so kind as to remind him tomorrow of his promise?”

“We’ll pay you right now,” she said quickly, lowering her voice to a whisper. “What’s the balance, including a full day’s meals?”

She counted out the sum from her winnings and sent the innkeeper on his way before every head under this roof was pointed in her direction. She despised being the subject of gossip.

Tomorrow morning, she would leave at dawn and put as much distance between herself and Mr. Fairfax as humanly possible. He was charming, but not as upper crust as she had presumed. She could not chance becoming an object of ridicule in Scotland, too.

Once the door was shut and locked, she stormed back toward the fireplace.

“You offered yourself as maid-of-all-work because you couldn’t afford to stay through the night,” she accused.

“I offered myself as a paramour to fulfill the lady’s every sordid desire,” he corrected with a playful wink. “You were the one who preferred I employ my talented fingers with an iron.”

She glared at him.

He blinked innocently. “I should mention that I am happy at any time to cease ironing and go back to the original plan of taking you to—”

“That was never my plan,” she groused. Undoubtedly it was her low upbringing that caused her to find his irreverence more charming than scandalous. But she could not let it show.

“Yes, my lady. Your indifference is quite clear.” He returned the iron to the fire and held up the first gown. “How am I doing with this one?”

She stalked forward, intending to yank it out of his hands—then stopped short when she realized the gown was absolutely impeccable. No wrinkles. No burn marks. Just soft, warm muslin.

“It’ll do,” she said grudgingly.

His smile was angelic. “Allow me to fold it and place it in your valise in such a way that when you arrive at your next destination, it will be just as perfect as it is at this moment.”

“I hope you’re not expecting to sleep, maid-of-all-work.” She returned to the wingback chair and rested her tired head against the side. “I have plans for you all night long.”

“Those are my favorite kinds of plans,” he assured her. “Ask anyone.”

She raised an eyebrow in silence.

“Normally the up-all-night activities are slightly different,” he acknowledged. “That’s your fault, I might point out. You should take this moment to think about your actions and the importance of better decision-making. I will be happy to meet you again tomorrow at the gaming table so you can attempt to correct this devastating mistake.”

She tried not to smile. “You can’t fool me. All you want is to win the money back.”

His eyes widened. “Not all I want. If an unfortunate turn of the cards were to force me to share your bed, I should have to do the gentlemanly thing and follow through. Luckily for both of us, rumor has it I’m even better at certain entertainments than I am at pressing gowns.”

Her cheeks heated at the idea of finding out just how talented he might be. She gave him a scolding look. “I’m afraid we shall not have an opportunity to find out. I’ll be leaving at first light.”

“Ah, such is fate.” His tone was light, but his eyes looked genuinely sorry to see her go. “At least we’ll always have… Where are we?”

She pursed her lips. “Oxkirk.”

“Oxkirk. Of course.” He tilted his head. “Thus far, you are definitely my favorite thing about Scotland.”

“Thus far?” She gave him a mock frown. “Will you have a new wife tomorrow?”

“You shall not be present,” he answered primly, “and thus you needn’t be jealous.”

Needn’t be, perhaps. But she liked the idea of him charming the chemise off of some proper debutante much less than she ought.

She pulled a blanket over her shoulders and curled against the oversized chair to watch him iron. Or perhaps to admire his shoulders. And the way the firelight lit his chestnut hair with glints of gold.

Her heavy eyelids were almost completely closed when he finished the last of her gowns.

Without bothering her, he sat down to tug off his boots and ready himself for sleep. Quickly, she scrambled out of the chair and onto the four poster bed so that she would not be in the same room as a gentleman in his stocking feet.

She closed the bed curtains as best she could, but a gap between the cloth panels gave her a clear view.

He blew out the last of the candles. “Go to sleep and dream about what might have been.”

She watched through her eyelashes as his silhouette stripped off its tailcoat and waistcoat and stretched out on the chaise longue before the low fire. Her heart pounded. He was now wearing merely breeches and a linen undershirt.

A proper young lady with a respectable upbringing would likely require smelling salts to recover from such a scandalous predicament. Charlotte, however, fought a traitorous thrill at being so close to forbidden fruit.

“Are you going to dream about what might have been?” she asked him softly, emboldened by the darkness.

His reply was almost too soft to hear. “Possibly forever.”