When morning came, Charlotte awoke to find Anthony kneeling before his open trunk in search of some item within.

She rubbed her eyes. They hadn’t unpacked their traveling bags the night before, in part because they had been too exhausted to do so… but primarily because the only furniture in the bedchamber was the bed.

At some point when times had been tough, Anthony’s parents had sold the wardrobe, the dressing table, even the shaving mirror. Charlotte pushed herself up on her elbows and gazed about the empty chamber in renewed astonishment. A small pitcher of water was the sole nod to luxury.

She had been so jealous of these people. Not the Fairfaxes specifically, but people like them. People less than the Fairfaxes. Hadn’t she dreamed of being a cobbler’s daughter, a blacksmith’s daughter, anything but what she was? If this was how poor fashionable people lived, what must home life have been like for the poor but respectable children who had spat at her in the streets?

Probably worse than her own. The revelation stunned her.

As a young girl, the weight of her mother prostituting herself had been all Charlotte could feel, all she could see. She’d been too hurt, too ashamed to consider that perhaps the reason her mother didn’t quit her profession was because she didn’t want Charlotte to grow up without food or clothing.

She couldn’t imagine the childhood Anthony must have had. Rich one moment, in abject poverty the next. Selling clothes, books, anything. It was clear that his mother loved him. It was equally clear that no one in his family could be trusted with so much as a farthing. Not if they were still making the same mistakes. Living on credit and wishful thinking.

Little wonder Anthony had reached the predicament he was in. He was too fashionable to pursue a trade, too poor to resist the allure of making a fortune with a simple wager. Caught in the middle.

She took another look at the bare walls, the carpetless floor. Posting houses were more luxurious. Even if Anthony had wished to pursue a trade or business management, with what capital would he have made his investment? She ran her fingers over the threadbare blanket. All possible paths had led him straight to the gaming tables… and to ruin.

“You’re awake.” Anthony pushed up from the floor with a smile. “How did you sleep?”

“Very well, thank you,” she lied. The tester and curtains were missing from the bed, and the draft from the window had given her gooseflesh every time the wind blew. She sat up. “I see you’re already dressed. Are you parents early risers, too?”

“Not unless midday is early.” His lips curved in self-deprecation. “I used to be even worse. All night in the vice parlors, all morning making up for lost sleep.” His amusement faded. “I suppose I’ll have plenty of time to sleep in Marshalsea.”

“No,” she said sharply. “The Duke of Courteland’s will remains to be read. Perhaps my sire made me sole heiress of all his riches.”

Anthony’s face twisted, but he made no comment.

He didn’t have to. Charlotte’s shoulders slumped. They both knew how improbable that was. Any man who couldn’t be bothered with her while he was alive could hardly be expected to care a whit once he was dead.

After she had washed and dressed, Charlotte upended the contents of their purses atop the bed. It had become something of an obsession to count their money every night. And every morning. But no matter how many times she sorted the bills and coins into small, short piles, they never added up to enough. What they needed was a miracle.

A knock sounded on the front door.

Anthony frowned. “It’s far too early for a social call.”

Her stomach dropped. “Maybe it’s the debt collectors.”

He headed to the door all the same. Scroggs would not be doing the honors. The maid had been given her pay last night, along with several glowing letters of recommendation. She had made her escape posthaste. There was no one left to answer the door.

Charlotte started to follow, then hung back just out of sight. This was London. She could not let her comfort at being with Anthony make her forget the harsh reality of the world outside. The last thing she wished was to be treated with contempt right here in his parents’ house.

But as mortifying as such an experience would be, it would be even more humiliating to know that she’d harmed his parents’ reputation by her mere presence.

Anthony opened the creaky door. “Yes?”

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you,” gushed a female voice, “but I am in a dreadful way. One of the ladies in my book club told me I simply must speak to Mrs. Fairfax, who will put everything to rights. Have I called at the correct address?”

“I’m afraid my mother is still abed. If you’d like to leave a calling card—”

“Your mother?” sputtered the female voice. “Oh, no. I’m looking for a young Mrs. Fairfax. Not a day over twenty, I’m told. Pretty face, yellow hair…”

Charlotte’s heart thumped. The caller was looking for her?

She stepped around the corner before she could lose her courage. “Good morning. I’m Mrs. Fairfax. How may I help you?”

A completely unfamiliar matron wearing an exquisite fur-lined pelisse and a breathtaking diamond necklace stood in the doorway. To Charlotte’s utter shock, not only did the woman’s face light up upon spotting her, but the lady also bobbed slightly, as if giving a hurried curtsey.

Charlotte’s mouth fell open in disbelief. She had never been curtsied to in all her life. Had never even dreamed of it.

And it had happened right here. In front of Anthony!

“It is you. I am certain of it.” The lady clasped her silk-gloved hands together. “You absolutely must come with me at once. That is, at your earliest convenience. I shall pay extra. The situation, you see, is dire. I am having an absolute crisis with the downstairs maids, and my housekeeper has threatened to find other employment. I cannot possibly lose her! Mrs. Trimble has worked at Roundtree Manor longer than I’ve been alive.”

Charlotte stared at her. A crisis with the downstairs maids? At Roundtree Manor?

“Lady Roundtree.” Anthony sketched a quick bow. “Forgive me for not immediately recognizing you.”

“Never mind niceties, young man. I am in positive jeopardy. A baronetcy may not compare to a duchy or an earldom, but it is my duty to see it run just as efficiently. Except the details have always been Mrs. Trimble’s responsibility. Heavens, I’ve never even spoken to the servants. I would be lost! My dear, you are my last hope. Mrs. Podmore said you sorted out her governess issues in a trice. Do say you’ll come to Roundtree Manor and sort out my housekeeper at once. You may name your price.”

“Your predicament does sound appalling,” Anthony said with a glance at his pocket watch. “Unfortunately, Mrs. Fairfax is booked solid the rest of the morning.”

Charlotte slanted a shocked stare in his direction.

“But if you would like to send a coach for her at six o’clock this evening,” he continued easily, “I am certain my wife can spare a moment to speak with your staff before they begin to prepare the evening meal. Provided you recompense her handsomely, of course.”

“Yes,” Lady Roundtree gushed. “This absolutely must be resolved before supper. It shall be as you say. A coach will be right on that corner, promptly at six. Thank you so very much.”

When the door closed behind Lady Roundtree, Charlotte launched herself at Anthony. “That was the wealthy old biddy we needed. Why would you tell her I’m booked solid? What if she had shrugged and walked away?”

“For one,” Anthony said as he swung her in celebratory circles, “proper ladies never shrug.”

She pulled out of his embrace. “I’m serious. What if she had left? We need this money. You need this money.”

“Not just this money—two thousand quid.” Anthony took her hand. “Trust me, darling. I live in this world. Never let them believe getting what they want will be easy. By appearing selective and exclusive, your price undoubtedly just tripled.” He grinned. “Whatever she offers to pay you, double it. And don’t blink an eye.”

“Double it?” Charlotte choked. She had no idea how much Lady Roundtree believed speaking to a housekeeper was worth, but the sum was no doubt far more exorbitant than the task merited. “Why would she pay it?”

He clasped his hands together and affected a pose of sweeping tragedy. “Because it is a crisis, darling. The lady is in positive jeopardy.”

Charlotte burst out laughing at his dramatic rendition. But more than humor, he had given her a measure of hope. If Anthony could not amass enough money to stay out of prison, she would offer every penny she owned to buy them even a few more weeks together.

He stroked the back of her hand. “Now that you have a day of freedom, how would you like to spend it?”

There was only one answer. She bit her lip. “If you would grant me permission, I am desperate to see my mother. She is the only thing I ever loved in this city—the only one who ever loved me—and I have missed her dreadfully these past few weeks.”

“Permission?” he repeated in surprise. “You don’t need my permission to see your family. I’d like your permission to accompany you. If you’ll have me, of course.”

At first, she couldn’t make sense of his words. Surely she had mistaken his meaning. “Accompany me?”

“Your mother,” he repeated, his gaze earnest. “I’d like to meet her.”

Charlotte’s heart beat faster. Did he understand what he was asking? What it would mean for him to pay a social call on a courtesan? What it would mean to Charlotte for someone to treat her mother like a woman worthy of respect? How it would kill her if, despite his best efforts, high society distaste still shone through?

“I don’t know,” she stammered. What would he think of her mother? What would her mother think of him? She didn’t want either to be hurt. She had done enough of that herself. The last time she’d spoken to her mother, they hadn’t parted company on the best of terms. “I swore I wouldn’t go back until I had changed my fortune. Until I could provide for her for a change. Until I could prove I was worth something.”

Anthony tilted his head in surprise. “You are worth everything.” He lifted her fingers to his lips. “I may not be as eloquent as Lady Roundtree, but I value you very, very much. That’s why I’d like to meet your mother. So I can get to know you even better. And the woman who made you.”

She gazed up at him doubtfully, then swallowed her objections. Before she could change her mind, she gave a short nod in acquiescence.

A smile bloomed over his face.

She gathered her courage and smiled back. Now that the plan was made, she couldn’t wait to be on her way.

“Do you mind if we leave posthaste?” She glanced over her shoulder at the silent, empty townhouse. There was certainly nothing requiring their immediate attention here. Not until Lady Roundtree came back. “We should take care to return by six. I seem to recall some sort of critical appointment on my agenda.”

“Life and death,” he agreed. “I promise you’ll be home in time to fleece that goosecap out of scads of money.”

Home. Pleasure spread through her at his choice of words. Not because she aspired to share a townhouse with his parents. But because he was right. Any place they were together felt like home.

But what would he think of her childhood home? The area she’d grown up in? Would he judge her or her mother for the activities that took place beneath that roof in order to keep them both clothed and fed?

She pushed her misgivings aside as he hailed a hackney cab. She continued to keep a brave face as she gave the direction to the jarvey, who raised his eyebrows at the address. Her neck heated. Either the driver recognized the neighborhood… or he’d made plenty of stops at Charlotte’s house.

She did her best to remain placid as the hack pulled to a stop before her mother’s townhouse.

“This the place?” the jarvey asked, giving them a speculative look.

In silence, Charlotte gave him an extra coin.

She stood on the edge of the cobbled road next to Anthony as the hack rolled away. The street looked the same. The houses. The people. Just coming this far made her feel as though she was slipping back into her old self. To the defiant little girl who loved her mother dearly but publicly denied any relation to the whore on the corner. To the despairing young woman who fled in search of a father who had never existed. To escape a world that had only brought shame. To bring home a better life.

Apprehension made the air feel like molasses. She took Anthony’s hand and led him up the walk to the front door. She wasn’t certain if she gripped his fingers for strength—or to keep him from running away when he realized what he had done.

This was her reality. She couldn’t rewrite the past. For better or for worse, this was where she had come from. Where part of her would always be.

The door swung open before her knuckles had even touched the knocker. Her mother stood before her wearing an expression of shock and pleasure.

Hesitant, Charlotte gazed back at her mother’s familiar countenance. With so few years between them, was it any wonder they were mirror images?

One had to look closely to find the differences in her mother’s face. Tiny lines crinkled at the edges of identical blue eyes. A few strands of gray blended with identical golden curls. They shared the same height, the same curves, the same smile.

Except neither of them was smiling now. Her mother’s surprised eyes were glassy with unshed tears.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” she gasped. “I thought you were never coming back.”

“You knew it was a fool’s mission. I thought I knew better,” Charlotte admitted with self-deprecation. “May I come in?”

Her mother pulled her forward and into her arms. “You can. Of course you can. You can stay as long as you like. This will always be your home.”

Mixed emotions assailed Charlotte as she returned her mother’s embrace. She didn’t want this to be her home. She abhorred every memory she held of this place.

And yet it contained her mother. Someone who Charlotte had never stopped loving. Who would always be an important part of her family.

She leaned back to pull Anthony across the threshold. “This is Mr. Anthony Fairfax.”

Her mother shot her a startled look out of the corner of her eye.

“No,” Charlotte choked out in embarrassment. “He’s not here for that. Anthony is my husband. Darling, this is my mother. Miss Judith Devon.”

He sketched a grandiose bow. “The pleasure is indeed mine.”

Her mother stared in disbelief, then dipped an equally elegant curtsey.

“The pleasure…” Scarlet flooded her cheeks as she turned toward Charlotte. “A husband. Does he—did you—”

“Yes. He knows.” Charlotte led them into the front salon, which was just as elegant as it always was, if a little worn at the edges. “That is partly why I’m here.”

Her mother frowned. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte pulled a ruby earring from her reticule. “Who gave these to you?”

Her mother’s eyes lowered. “That affair was so long ago. It doesn’t matter anymore. It never mattered.”

“It mattered to me,” Charlotte said softly. “It mattered to a little girl who longed for a father.”

Her mother’s shoulders crumpled. “I never meant for you to be born ruined. I wanted to be a good mother to my baby, but my only choices were to keep you or leave you on the steps of a church. And I couldn’t leave you. I loved you before you took your first breath.”

Charlotte’s throat tightened. As a small child, she had often fantasized about running away to an orphanage so that some other family could adopt her. A family respectable enough that, someday, Charlotte could marry well and come back to rescue her mother. So that they could both have a happy ending.

Her mother met her gaze. “You may think I made the wrong decision, and that’s your right. But being sold to a workhouse isn’t better than the life you had. I grew up in a workhouse. Many children don’t live long enough to leave. Some, like me, leave the only way they can.” Her eyes were haunted. “I didn’t want that for my daughter. I didn’t want you dead, and I didn’t want you wishing you were dead while you were on your back in some alley. So I did the best I could.”

“I don’t blame you for being a courtesan,” Charlotte admitted in a rush. “I always knew you were trying to give me the best life you could. But the harder you worked to raise money, the more infamous and disrespectable we became.”

“That wasn’t the plan.” Her mother’s sad smile didn’t meet her eyes. “I thought the life of a kept woman would turn out differently. I was quite sought after, once. For one whirlwind year, I wasn’t a mere strumpet, but a fashionable courtesan. I thought I had it all. Operas, fireworks, romance. I was toasted at every turn. It still seems like a dream.”

“What happened?” Anthony asked, his voice gentle.

“I got pregnant,” she replied bluntly. “No one wants a mistress who cannot control her own body.” Her chin lifted. “And then I committed the second worst sin. I kept my baby.” She cast Charlotte a rueful look. “Once I was no longer a desirable catch, I had to be much less choosy about who I accepted as clients.”

Charlotte swallowed. Of course, the “protectors” had become far less protective. Guilt snaked through her. A woman in her mother’s shoes was not elegant, but desperate.

Her mother’s gaze unfocused. “I didn’t want a four-year-old knowing words like ‘courtesan’ or ‘protector,’ so I spoke in code as best I could. Instead of sexual favors, I offered bedtime stories. Instead of paying clients, a dìonadair would visit.”

“Dìonadair,” Charlotte whispered. “I thought it was his name.”

Her mother laughed without humor. “It was everyone’s name. I picked each man’s best characteristics, and those were the stories I told you. One day, Dìonadair would be a gallant rake, who always invited the wallflowers to dance. Another day, Dìonadair would be a great scholar, with the finest scientific mind in all of England.”

“I meant… I meant my father,” Charlotte explained through her scratchy throat. “I thought the Duke of Courteland’s name was Dìonadair.”

“The Duke of—how do you know that?” Her mother shot up straight, eyes wild. “Who told you?”

“Not him.” Charlotte’s voice grew thick. “He’s dead.”

“Oh, love.” Her mother fell to her knees before Charlotte and took her hands. “You were so angry with me for not giving you a father. You thought I didn’t know who it was. But I always knew. It was better that you never met. He wouldn’t have been what you wanted.”

Not want a duke? Charlotte’s mouth flattened. She and her father should have been given the choice to decide that for themselves. But they’d never had a chance.

Her mother gazed up at her, eyes pleading. “I grew up without love. Without a mother or a father. When I left the workhouse, no one cared. No one missed me. I didn’t want that for you.” She gripped Charlotte’s hands. “I didn’t want to give you a father who didn’t care. I wanted to give you a mother who did. I never wanted you to doubt for a single moment that the one parent you do have loves you with all her soul.”

Charlotte’s anger began to dissipate. Would she really have been better off knowing who her father was, but that he didn’t care to meet her? Her shoulders slumped. She supposed sometimes there were no good choices.

Her mother sighed. “I would do anything for you, love. I have done. More than I care for you to know. When you left, I felt as if the sun had been ripped from the sky. I didn’t just miss you—I mourned. I knew you were never coming back. Who would want a whore for a mother?” Her mouth twisted in self-recrimination. “All I wanted to be was a good parent. All I ever was, was a disappointment. To us both.” Her eyes shimmered. “No matter how hard I tried, no matter how much I loved you, I failed you from the moment of your birth.”

Charlotte’s throat grew thick. Her mother’s only wish had been for her daughter to love her. To accept her. Her stomach twisted. The very things she herself had longed to receive, she had withheld from her own mother. Shame filled her for her years of blindness.

She slid off the couch and into her mother’s arms.

“I do love you,” she confessed as she buried her face in her mother’s hair and held on for dear life. “I always have. You’re the reason I wanted to find us a better life.”