His throat went dry. What if that day never happened? What if he managed to pay off his creditors and be the best man he’d ever been in his life, and it still wasn’t enough?
In his heart of hearts, he’d always dreamed his future wife would be a paragon. Not full of herself or high in the instep, but someone who was…complete without him. Someone who chose him because she wanted him, not because she was enamored by the baubles he bestowed upon her when he was flush.
Of course, beggars could not be choosers. He had no particularly redeemable qualities, which left spoiling his loved ones when his pockets were flush his only option.
So what was he meant to do with Charlotte? What could he possibly give her?
He drummed his fingers against the carriage squab in frustration. Besides having a father, the thing she wanted most was societal approbation—and he couldn’t give it to her. No one could. She would never be accepted at high society gatherings, much less be granted an Almack’s voucher to mingle with the crème de la crème.
She could probably be accepted into the societal fast set—rakes and gamblers and courtesans—but although Charlotte could move in those circles more freely, scandalous company wasn’t what she desired. The gossiped-about set wasn’t where she wished to belong, or who she wanted to be.
But she had no other choice.
He lightly stroked her forearm. Having grown up with both parents and along the fringes of the beau monde, he could not imagine what it must be like to have been born a bastard. A man in such a position could still become a dapper dandy or a famous poet or a respected officer in the army, but what was a woman to do? Especially when her face was recognizable as the very mirror of her mother, a known courtesan.
Charlotte had never had a chance.
Anthony set his jaw. He, on the other hand, did have a chance. This was his opportunity not only to make something of himself—ideally something other than a Marshalsea prisoner—and, in doing so, give Charlotte a chance at an alternate future. A better one.
Once he paid off his debt, they could go anywhere. Perhaps move to the country, as his sister had done. Close enough to London to still remain in contact with his friends and parents, but not so close to the city that Charlotte was in danger of being recognized.
A flutter of hope stirred in his belly. For the first time, it occurred to him that perhaps he might have something to offer besides money. To Charlotte, happiness stemmed from other sources. Peace. Safety. Love. He couldn’t change society to fit her dreams, but he could give her respect and worth in the sanctity of their home. Wherever that might be.
Starting here. Starting now.
He pressed his lips to her hair. Going forward, his new goal wasn’t to collect the purses of every man at the betting table. It was to be dependable. Reliable. To be a good husband and provider. To be someone even he could be proud of.
The only question was how.
Chapter 11
When they reached Newcastle upon Tyne, Anthony found a comfortable inn in which to settle his exhausted wife, whilst he took a turn about the common areas in search of a moment’s entertainment.
As anticipated, there was plenty to distract him.
A handful of couples were just setting out for some sort of local assembly with drink and dancing. A few younger bachelors joined the party in the hopes of encountering a nice young lady…or a naughty one, as the case might be.
The rest of the unattached gentlemen gathered in the inn’s main salon. In moments, drinks were in every hand and the cozy chairs were rearranged into gaming areas.
Anthony’s blood raced at the sight. There was nothing he liked better than the thrill of a good wager. The risk of losing it all followed by a dizzying rush of euphoria when an improbable card won it all. This was where he thrived.
A few nights of exceptional hands, and he could come close to paying his debts back. It was unlikely, perhaps, but certainly not impossible. He’d almost done it in Scotland, had he not?
Before Charlotte joined the table, he’d been well on his way to winning back at least a tenth of what he owed. If he could have a run like that every day for a fortnight, he’d not only pay off his debts, but he’d also have plenty left over to whisk Charlotte wherever she wished. How happy she would be then!
“Fairfax?” exclaimed a surprised voice from the other side of the room.
Anthony whirled to see a familiar London face. “Thomas Quinton!”
“As I live and breathe.” Quinton stared in disbelief. “Daresay I’ve never seen you anywhere but St. James. What on earth brings you to Newcastle upon Tyne?”
Fleeing creditors seemed the wrong response if Anthony sought an opportunity to rid his friend of his purse at the tables. Instead he offered, “My wife wanted to visit family.”
“Your what?” Quinton’s jaw dropped. “Now you must be bamming me. Sit, sit. Allow me to buy you a drink while you regale me with lies about some poor debutante silly enough to tie the knot with a man who’s never home at night.” He laughed.
Anthony did not. The humor was lacking. Not because it was an inaccurate description of him—what single gentleman spent his evenings at home?—but because of the unflattering implication that Anthony was unlikely to change, even for a wife. Guilt assailed him.
Given that Charlotte was dozing in a guest chamber whilst Anthony had gone carousing, perhaps Quinton’s teasing assessment wasn’t so far afield.
“All that’s over,” Anthony said firmly. “At the moment, she’s recovering from a long journey. I don’t see any harm in taking a stroll about in the meantime, do you?”
“Oh, perambulate all you like—be my guest! Just make sure you end up at my table, so you can tell me all about the bewitching creature you’ve hidden away upstairs. What’s her name? Do I know her?”
“You don’t,” Anthony said quickly. “And the bewitching creature is Mrs. Fairfax to you.”
“My, you’re prickly,” Quinton teased. “Don’t be the jealous sort. Every man enjoys a pretty face.”
Anthony’s shoulders stiffened. What if Quinton recognized Charlotte? Anthony curled his fingers. He didn’t think Quinton would insult her, at least not purposefully, but a jokester like him could make just the right comment in front of just the wrong person, and even the briefest of stays at this inn would feel like a lifetime of misery to Charlotte. Anthony’s palms went clammy.
If it was happening already, this far north, what would it be like the closer they got to London? How could he protect her from that?
“Well?” Quinton took a seat at a gambling table and motioned toward the last empty chair. “Will you not join us?”
Anthony paused. God knew he needed a win. Quinton’s pockets weren’t too light, and if Anthony managed to sweep the table… He shook his head. His dwindling purse was upstairs in Charlotte’s valise. He wouldn’t wake her. She needed to rest.
And Anthony needed to not lose what little they still had.
“What?” Quinton gasped, clutching his chest melodramatically. “Anthony Fairfax not wager? There can be only one reason. Sit, man. If you’re at Point Non Plus, I’ll give you ten quid to get you started.” He turned to the other gentlemen. “Mind your purses. Fairfax can turn ten quid into two hundred faster than you can blink.”
Anthony hesitated. The empty chair beckoned him. Quinton was right. With a few quid—even with a mere sovereign—Anthony had been known to turn a table to his advantage with devastating ease.
He’d also been known to lose the whole lot on the turn of a card.
He stared at the inviting stacks of ivory betting fish next to each fat purse. At the seductive fan of cards just waiting for him to pick them up and turn the table into a battleground. The pull was overwhelming.