Scandal's Daughters

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.”

“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 the necklace and ear bobs, but also a matching bracelet and tiara. The latter two pieces remain at the Courteland country estate.”

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte stammered. “Perhaps the rubies were once part of a set, but I cannot possibly be related to a duke.”

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.

“Then 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. 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.”

She might still be a whore’s offspring, 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. “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 her heart, ripping away every trace of the joy she should have known better than to believe in. 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. Had known that he had sired her. As a member of the House of Lords, he’d lived at least half the year in London. Every year. An hour’s journey at the most from where a scared, lonely little girl rocked herself every night on her bedchamber floor or stared out the window, dreaming of a different life. Of a father who could whisk her away.

He 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.

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. “He’s dead. Nothing matters anymore.”

The solicitor coughed. “Actually, ma’am…”

“Do his real children want the jewels back?” Of course they did. They were the important ones. The children who mattered.

She tore open her reticule, shoved the necklace at Anthony, and the ear bobs. “Sell them back and keep the money,” she gasped. “Those stones mean nothing. I can’t bear for them to touch my skin.”

Anthony put his arm around her and held her close.

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Ma’am, your presence is required at the Courteland house in Mayfair one week from today for the reading of his will. Next Tuesday, at one o’clock sharp.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “For the…what?”

“Until the bequests are read, I have no way to know if he’s settled a sum upon you, or a bit of land, or perhaps the other ruby pieces to complete the set. But I’d like to offer my services to help you manage any windfall you might receive.” He touched his lapel. “For a fee, of course.”

She was too drained of all humor to laugh even halfheartedly at his blatant mercenariness. The man had shown up out of nowhere, had given her more joy, more tangible reasons to believe in her future, than she’d ever had in her life—then immediately destroyed every hope he’d just helped to sow. And now he wanted part of whatever her father had left her?

She didn’t even want whatever her father had left her. The only reason she was still listening was in case she could help Anthony. They would have to go to London.

“Here’s the address.” The solicitor handed her an array of papers. “And a contract, should you desire my services.”

“That will do,” Anthony said coldly. He wrapped his arm about Charlotte’s shoulders. “I believe you’ve helped enough for one day.”

She stumbled when she tried to walk away. Her mind was too full of regret and yearning. Too focused on the father she could have had…if she had but known his name years ago.

The solicitor tipped his hat and turned away, then paused to glance back over his shoulder at Charlotte. “Oh, and ma’am…I’m sorry for your loss.”

A half laugh, half sob ripped up from her heart and tangled in her throat. No one was sorrier for her loss than Charlotte. The loss of her father. The loss of opportunity. The loss of her dreams.

The loss of her belief that, if her father had only known she existed, he might have loved her enough to save her.