He nodded gravely. “I often forget affixing multiple heavy purses to my ribcage.”
“And a necklace,” she added after a moment. “That might have been the lumpiest bit.”
He inclined his head. “Lumpy, but iconic. Something to tie the pieces together. Underneath your petticoat.”
“As one does,” she agreed.
He considered asking her why she would hide ornamentation beneath her clothes, but changed his mind. A man with grass stains on his arse was in no position to criticize the fashion quirks of a lady.
Not for the first time, however, he wondered how much money Charlotte did have. Her dazzling jewelry indicated her wealth wasn’t unsubstantial. And her willingness to wager an entire purse within moments of joining the table either indicated a complete lack of concern about her finances…or that she was a much better judge of cards and faces than he could ever pretend to be.
He didn’t ask, because he didn’t need to know. His debt had nothing to do with her. Legalities be damned. Besides, the money a pawnbroker would give them for her jewelry was only a fraction of what he owed. It would be surrendering her most cherished possessions for nothing.
Anthony couldn’t let that happen. His top priority was keeping Charlotte safe while he got things sorted.
And then he’d buy her thousands of jewels. All the necklaces and tiaras her heart desired.
Even if she wore them all strapped to her ribcage.
“Your ear bobs are quite pretty,” he said. “What made you decide to wear them on the outside of your petticoat?”
She touched her fingertips to her ear. “They belonged to my father. These, and the matching necklace, had been in his family for generations. He gave them to my mother before they lost contact.”
He tried not to groan. The jewelry wasn’t even hers. They were family heirlooms. He couldn’t possibly let the debt collectors confiscate them. She would never get them back and he would still go to prison. “Why don’t we return them to your mother? Just until my current situation smooths out.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. These jewels aren’t just my legacy. They’re the key to reuniting me with my father.”
Splendid.
He let out his breath, completely at a loss for a glib rejoinder. Asking her to part with such an heirloom would be like asking her to part with a child. If those rubies were the one item that made her journey to Scotland worth the risk, only the worst of husbands would endanger his bride’s opportunity to be reunited with her father.
It was Anthony’s duty to ensure her safety, and the safety of her legacy. Under no circumstances could he allow her to be forced to relinquish such treasure.
Except, his creditors had not only found him… The Gideon’s ruffians knew about Charlotte, too.
Chapter 7
His back aching, Anthony crawled into bed and collapsed onto the now-familiar mattress with a sigh. This was his fourth morning at the Cock and Kitty Inn. His third as a married man. And his second day of farm labor before the crack of dawn.
In other words, he had come up with a plan.
Short of a series of extraordinary windfalls at the gaming tables every night, a fortnight was not enough time for any reasonable gentleman to raise two thousand pounds.
Anthony knew it. Maxwell Gideon had to know it as well.
The fact that Gideon had permitted a two-week period of grace indicated that, despite being the powerful lord of a vice parlor, their past friendship prevented him from throwing Anthony to the wolves without a fighting chance.
This was good news. This meant there was a chance, however slight it might be. Anthony’s luck at the gaming tables the previous night had been miserable at best, but that was immaterial. Gideon would not be impressed by sob stories. The only thing that ever impressed him was money.
So Anthony would bring it to him.
Not two thousand pounds, of course. That was impossible. But he would take every job he could and save every penny he earned in order to prove his sincerity. He wouldn’t be able to repay Gideon this month, but he could do so eventually.
Surely that would do. Gideon’s enforcers had not been sent to shake the shillings out of Anthony’s pockets, but to scare him into taking his debts seriously.
It was as simple as that. Anthony hoped.
His freedom depended on it.
“What time is it?” Charlotte mumbled.
He rubbed his tired face. “Half nine. Go back to sleep.”
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s late. I should wake up.”
Anthony couldn’t argue. He couldn’t even stay awake. He’d risen before dawn to collect eggs, milk cows, herd sheep—anything any soul in this town was willing to pay for. After luncheon, he had promised to trim hedges around the church. The property wasn’t huge, but the hedgerows soared. He’d be lucky to return home before Charlotte was already back in bed.
Home. He covered his face with his hands. Had he just equated the elegant Kitty and Cock Inn with home?
“I miss London,” he murmured. “Milking cows and trimming hedgerows is exhausting.”
She opened her eyes. “Then why do it?”
Originally, because it was his only hope to buy more time from Gideon. But that was not the only reason. Not anymore. A smile tugged at his lips as he let his arms fall back to his sides.
He did it because the villagers were so thankful. At first, their honest appreciation was confusing. Flattering. But it had become addictive.
For the first time in his life, people looked forward to his visits, not because they expected him to arrive bearing monetary gifts for them, but because they fully intended to pay him.
The busy dairy with far more cows than milkmaids. The arthritic old farmer who couldn’t keep his sheep on his property. The grandmother whose hands were too gnarled to collect eggs without dropping them.
In coin, each could only pay a pittance. But what they paid in smiles and happiness… The rush of answering pleasure in Anthony’s veins was second only to the rush of excitement at winning at the gaming tables.
Yet this thrill was different. This wasn’t the vagaries of luck, or Lady Fortune. This exquisite high could be counted upon every single time he trimmed a perfect hedge, combed a basket of wool, or delivered a basket of intact eggs.
He felt…he felt…in control of his life, rather than subject to the whims of Fate.
He felt valued.
“I’m good at milking cows,” he answered at last.
Charlotte smoothed the blanket up over his chest. “I have no doubt you’d be good at anything you set your mind to.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The thought of being good at something—as opposed to occasionally being lucky—had simply never crossed his mind before. No one had ever expected it of him. Much less assumed he had natural aptitude.
His father had never had a trade, or even a hobby. Nor had his mother. Or his sister. Ever since Anthony had entered his first gaming parlor as a young lad, the majority of the family fortune had come from gambling.
As had the majority of their misfortune.
If they’d had a cow, or a few chickens, the efforts of their own hands might have alleviated the periods of hunger. There was no room for cows or chickens in Mayfair townhouses, of course, but what the devil was a family like his doing living in a Mayfair townhouse to begin with?
When fortune blessed Anthony at the gaming tables, he and his family lived like royalty for months, or even years, at a time. But when luck was absent, they could not pay their servants or their rent. Long periods of poverty plagued them between months of riches.
Such extremes of plethora and paucity could have been avoided. Rather than bounce from lease to lease, from abundance to beggared, never knowing what the morrow might bring, they might have chosen to live more simply. Somewhere in the middle.
That was, if anyone in his family had an ounce of sense when it came to minding the purse strings.