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.”

Chapter 3

Anthony was just finishing his morning shave when a creak of the mattress indicated that Miss Devon had awakened as well.

“Good morning, love,” he called out as he rinsed his straight razor in a small basin. “You’ll be appalled to know this chaise longue isn’t fit for a pig to sleep upon. I never quite got used to my legs dangling off the end, and my neck is so stiff I won’t be able to turn my head to the left for days.”

“Why would there be a pig in my bedchamber?” She swung her legs off the mattress and rubbed her face. “And what ungodly hour is it?”

“Six,” he answered brightly.

“Six?” She groaned in dismay. “I would’ve thought a prodigal rake might be counted upon to sleep until at least ten.”

“And that is what you get for assuming all prodigal rakes act precisely the same. Let that be a lesson to you.” He shook a finger at her.

She fell back against the mattress with a moan. “Why on earth are you awake?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” he said. “Did you miss the part about my legs dangling into the abyss all night or the bit about my neck bones being fused together at an odd angle? The next time we share a room, I’m taking the bed.”

“Then where do I sleep?” she asked tartly.

“Also the bed.” He turned back to the looking-glass. “Do try to pay attention.”

“Do try to stop dreaming.” Although she was still lying back with her eyes facing the tester, a telltale smile played at the edges of her lips.

Pleasure warmed him. He slipped his razor into his valise and curled his fingers about the handle. “I’m afraid I’m utterly presentable, and cannot elongate my morning toilette a moment longer without putting shame to Brummell himself. If you like, however, I could stay just long enough to accompany you to breakfast?”

“To my surprise, I would like that very much.” She sat up, her expression now serious. “But I’ve dallied longer than I should, and must be off immediately.”

He bowed and picked up his valise. “Perhaps I’ll see you in London.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid that’s the last place you’d find me. Perhaps we’ll cross paths someday in Scotland.” A smile tugged at her lips. “So far, you’ve been my favorite husband.”

“So far?” he teased, echoing her earlier mock outrage. “Shall you replace me so easily?”

She grinned back at him. “You needn’t be jealous. We’ll always have…where are we again?”

“The Kitty and Cock Inn,” he said, straight-faced. If he were to be honest, he’d chosen the inn largely because of its name.

She clutched her hands to her heart as if tempted to swoon. “The Kitty and Cock Inn.”

“Farewell, my lady.” He strode out of the chamber and into the corridor, and shut the door smartly behind him before he could do anything so foolish as kiss her goodbye.

She might have let him.

He might not have wished to stop.

She might not have wished to, either.

Anthony hurried toward the stairs before he could continue this line of thought. Much as he liked Miss Devon, a man as penniless as he was in no position to take on a flirtation. Much less a wife.

He shook his head as he entered the stairwell. Thank God no one who knew him would ever believe the rumors, should gossip about their Scottish fib ever reach London.

If he’d had the blunt, he would have loved to have at least been able to treat Miss Devon to a fancy, romantic evening out. A grander hotel. A luxurious suite of her own. Which she would perhaps invite him to share…

Enough mooning. He rolled his shoulders. He had games to play and money to win. Someone would surely seed him a shilling, and by this time tonight his troubles might be nearly over.

He strode out into the corridor. Unlike last night, at this hour few guests milled about the inn’s common areas. But the kitchen would undoubtedly be open. And his temporary wife had prepaid for the day’s meals.

A pang of self-loathing made his muscles tense. He should be the one paying for meals.

How he wished he hadn’t been blown up at Point Non Plus. Money was happiness. When he was flush, life was perfect. He could make all his friends and family happy. Buy them anything they wished. Be wanted. When times were tight, the only doors that opened to him were those of the debtors’ prison.

He pushed the negative thoughts away as he set down his valise by the entrance to the dining room.

Enough. His luck always managed to turn around. No matter how dire things became, if he believed in himself and kept wagering ever higher, fortune eventually found him. Had he not recovered from similar losses dozens of times before?

 Today would be more profitable. He would even have breakfast! More importantly, he’d spent the entire night in the presence of Lady Fortune herself. How could he possibly lose?

“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Fairfax,” came a rough voice from behind his shoulder.

Anthony whirled about.

Two burly, hulking ruffians with cold eyes and scarred faces had him cornered against the wall. One had mean fists and bloodshot eyes. The other had a hard smile and pockmarks covering his face.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Anthony asked as if their presence incited no concern whatsoever. Charm, he reminded himself. ’Twas the one currency he couldn’t lose at a gaming table. “Care to join me for eggs and kippers?”

“Care to pay your vowels?” snarled the one covered in pockmarks.

Anthony gave a carefree grin. His IOUs had been legendary but scattered, until the owner of a vice parlor had purchased them. Previously, Anthony and the tempestuous Maxwell Gideon had been friends. He was unsurprised to learn now they were not. That was how money worked.

“Tell Gideon I’ll have part of it tonight. I’ve an appointment at the tables and I—”

“Won’t tell him nothing.” Pockmarks cracked his knuckles. “You’ll give us the goods directly, or you come with us straight to Marshalsea.”

Anthony swallowed. Gideon didn’t just possess Anthony’s IOUs. To keep what was left of their friendship—and to buy more time—Anthony had signed an actual contract promising to repay the debt. A promise he had yet to keep, despite his continual efforts. These were no longer mere debts of honor, but legally actionable. A chill shivered down his spine.

Once he was locked in debtors’ prison, he would never be set free. There was no money.

His shoulders straightened in determination. He needed to try a different tack. Appeal to the ruffians’ logic.

“If I rot in Marshalsea, how will Gideon ever get his blunt?” he asked.

“From your wife,” Pockmarks replied instantly.

“My what?” Anthony almost burst out laughing. “I’m afraid I don’t have a wife.”

“Of course you do.” Pockmarks smirked. “We heard you say so.”

“Everyone did, by the sound of it.” Anthony shook his head. “I swear it meant nothing. Just a bit of playacting.”

The other ruffian’s smile showed broken teeth. “This is Scotland. Once you say it, it’s true.”

“Like…legally?” Anthony stammered in disbelief at such an absurd practice. His stomach bottomed.

God’s teeth. He’d known Scots law allowed for irregular marriages, but one would think they’d at least require a priest or witnesses. His blood ran cold. There had been plenty of witnesses. If saying he was married made it true, there would be no way to deny it.

“Can I annul just by saying so?” Desperation clawed through him. “I am no longer married. Leave her out of this.”

“You can’t undo anything without involving the courts.” Pockmarks stepped closer.

Broken Tooth licked his lips. “Did you consummate?”

“No,” Anthony blurted in relief, never so happy to have behaved like a gentleman.

“Doesn’t matter.” Broken Tooth smirked. “She’s yours.”

Pockmarks flexed his fingers. “Which means them jewels she was wearing…are ours.”

No. Anthony’s heart raced in horror. He could not let his past debts involve Miss Devon, much less strip her of her possessions. This disaster was Anthony’s, and his alone.

But was it? His breath grew shallow. By marriage, anything a wife possessed became her husband’s property. And anything Anthony possessed…belonged to Maxwell Gideon.

The ruffians were right. Either he surrendered items that he had no business touching, or these blackguards had every right to drag him bodily to prison. At the very least, he needed time to undo his inadvertent marriage.

“I need three months,” he said as authoritatively as he could. They might be hired muscle for a vice den, but Anthony moved in Society. Perhaps their class difference could buy him a little time. “Her jewelry isn’t worth a fraction of what I owe. In three months, I’ll hand Gideon the entirety. In person.”

“You don’t get three months.” Broken Tooth crossed his arms over his large chest. “We’ll give you a fortnight.”

Pockmarks flicked a speck of dust from Anthony’s waistcoat. “And not a minute more.”

His breath hitched in panic. Two weeks wasn’t long enough to win back what he’d lost. His limbs shook. “I need to pay in installments. Ten percent a fortnight from now, then ten percent every week until the debt is paid in full.”

“No installments,” Pockmarks snarled. “If you don’t want gaol fever, you’ll settle your debts two weeks from today.”

“And if you don’t pay in full…” Broken Tooth’s smile was terrifying. “You’ll hand over everything you and your wife own, and still go to prison.”

“Don’t forget…” Pockmarks tipped his hat. “We’ll be watching.”

Chapter 4

Charlotte washed and dressed in haste. As surprisingly wistful as she’d felt upon realizing she’d never see Mr. Fairfax again, her life balanced on the precipice of a huge, positive change. With luck, today was the day she’d meet Laird Dìonadair, her father.

Or at least find out where he lived.

She fastened her jeweled ear bobs to her ears, then concealed the necklace in one of the pouches strapped beneath her bound breasts.

Years ago, she’d started hiding her curves to disguise her resemblance to her mother, but the tight band of linen had quickly become a convenient place to hide objects of value that she didn’t wish to be stolen. Particularly along the weather-beaten cobblestone alley where Charlotte had grown up, or on the crowded mail coach she’d taken to leave London forever.

The ear bobs, however, were a necessary risk. Her father would recognize them as the family jewels he’d gifted to Charlotte’s mother. By which he would recognize Charlotte herself, and immediately invite her to be part of his family.

He was not just a laird. Everything her mother had ever told her indicated he was a kind and honorable man who would do the right thing. It wasn’t his fault he was never told of Charlotte’s birth. Once they met, he would embrace her and exclaim over her and proclaim himself proud to have a daughter. She bounced on her toes.

She was mere days away from meeting her respectable father. From being welcomed somewhere. From being launched as a valued member of a real society. She would be someone else at last. Someone accepted without question. Perhaps even loved. The thought made her dizzy with joy. Her childhood dreams were finally close enough to touch.

Thanks to Mr. Fairfax, her gowns were perfectly ironed and already tucked neatly away in her trunk. Charlotte placed a few final toiletries on top and closed the lid with determination. The day was beautiful. She would find a maid, find a coach, and then find her father.

A sudden knock rattled the chamber door.

She frowned. The innkeeper’s knock hadn’t sounded that frantic last night, when he didn’t even know if his debts would be paid. What on earth could he want now? She opened the door.

To her surprise, the wild-eyed man in the corridor was not the innkeeper at all, but Mr. Fairfax.

“Apologies,” he said as he swung his valise into the chamber and secured the lock. “You must let me in.”

She blinked in confusion. “I was just leaving, I’m afraid. If you’ll be so kind as to help me with my trunk, you may stay in the room until noon. The account is paid.” She smiled up at him. “How was breakfast?”

“Miss Devon.” He rubbed his face with his hands, then grabbed her shoulders. “No. Not Miss Devon. Mrs. Fairfax.”