“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.

Chapter 14

Anthony ushered Charlotte into the inn and away from Courteland’s solicitor. Keeping a close eye on his wife, Anthony commissioned a room and coordinated the delivery of their luggage in order to get her into the privacy of a bedchamber as quickly as possible.

Charlotte stood woodenly by his side throughout. Not speaking, not making eye contact, not even changing expression. Walking where he led her. Remaining motionless when he did not. An empty shell.

Someone who didn’t know her might assume her to be blind, deaf, and mute, so completely oblivious was she to everything around her.

Anthony made no such assumptions. He knew it was true. Her mother’s so-called relaxation technique had become not just a defense mechanism, but Charlotte’s best weapon against the outside world.

She had spent her life believing others didn’t think she mattered. Shutting them out was her way to show them they didn’t matter to her, either. She didn’t need their superiority, their insults, or their disgust. She didn’t need the blackguard father who couldn’t be bothered to spend a penny or even a spare moment on a child he well knew he’d sired. She didn’t need the world at all.

The problem was, Anthony was part of that world. By shutting out the grief and the pain and the longing, she closed herself off from him, too. He wished he could be there with her, wherever she was. He wanted to help protect her. She didn’t have to do it all alone. She could count on him, too. At least for this moment.

She just had to let him in.

He stoked the fire in the grate, then crossed to kneel before his wife. “Charlotte.”

She didn’t answer.

He took her hands. “I know it hurts. I shan’t tell you not to let some egotistic jackanapes wound your feelings from beyond the grave, because I have never been in your position and I might well feel the same pain you do. But do not give him more importance than he deserves. He’s gone, Charlotte. I’m right here. He cannot hurt you anymore.”

At least, Anthony hoped Courteland couldn’t hurt her anymore. There was no telling what the will-reading might bring. What if the other family members were cruel to her? He couldn’t recall the duke having an heir apparent, but that wasn’t necessarily a boon. Distant cousins fighting for scraps could be even more vicious than a half-sibling might be.

And while Anthony was here right now, holding her slender cold hands in his, would he still be there a week from now when she needed him? Dread washed over him. And fear. By then, he might already be in Marshalsea.

Hands shaking, he helped her into her night rail and carried her to bed. After taking off his heavy boots and greatcoat, he curled in beside her, determined never to let her go.

Gently, he stroked her hair. He wasn’t certain whether being named in Courteland’s will would prove to be a blessing or a curse. After all this time, after never taking an interest in his daughter while he was still alive to do so, what the deuce would the blackguard have left her in his will? More jewels? Land? A pittance?

Money, as always, would solve all their problems. But even if it were enough money to right his wrongs, he yearned to be as dependable as Charlotte needed him to be. To be responsible for a change. To provide for her, to clean up his own scrapes, to fix his life without ruining hers.

Trepidation snaked down his spine. What if the old duke did leave Charlotte something worth money and the creditors took it—and it still wasn’t enough to keep Anthony out of prison? He could never forgive himself if his past actions robbed her of her inheritance, after everything she’d already lost.

He doubted Charlotte would ever forgive him either.

Chapter 15

Anthony awoke the following morning with Charlotte still cradled in his arms.

He kissed her forehead. He was glad that he could do at least this much for her. To be there when she needed someone. More than that—to be the one that she needed.

Even if he wasn’t yet certain he would always be there, he could swear to never let her down for as long as he was able. He hoped it was forever.

It might be less than a week.

“Good morning.” She opened her eyes and smiled up at him shyly. “Thank you for calming me last night. I feel much better.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “Good morning, yourself. Did you sleep well?”

“How could I not?” Her cheeks turned pink. “I was in your arms.”

He grinned. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Every time,” she whispered. A shadow flickered across her face as if she too had just remembered they might not have much time left. “Today we head toward London?”

“Toward, yes. We should rest for the night near Northampton.”

She sighed. “I feel like all we do is ride in carriages and rest for the night.”

“That is all we do.” He stroked her cheek. “That, and I earn a bob or two sowing a few fields while you make twenty quid sipping tea with some wealthy old biddy.”

She laughed and cuffed his chest. “Mrs. Rowden was a sweet lady.”

“So sweet her own son didn’t want to speak to her?”

“Do you speak to your parents?” she shot back archly.

“Not as often as I should,” he admitted with a twinge. “I drop by every time the tables leave me flush, but Lady Fortune is not something is capable of planning around.”

“How delightful—blame the woman,” she murmured. “Lady Fortune isn’t even real and she’s responsible for everything.”

“Lady Fortune,” he informed her, “is right here in my arms.”

“And much prefers being here over being in a carriage,” she assured him.

He batted his eyelashes at her. “Your words…they’re like poetry.”

She nodded. “‘Romantic poetess’ shall be my reserve profession, should the current stream of wealthy old biddies come to an end.”

He clutched his heart dramatically. “Let us pray for indecisive old biddies to fall from the sky like…wealthy drops of rain.”

“You…should perchance not become a poet, either.” She gave him a consoling pat. “I hope this does not crush your dreams.”