The following day, the Duke of Courteland’s sprawling London residence loomed before Charlotte like a forbidden palace. Trepidation skittered along her skin. She hesitated before allowing the jarvey to hand her out of the hackney.

Anthony hadn’t been allowed to join her for the reading of the will. The meeting was only for named parties and their solicitors. Charlotte’s limbs were heavy with worry. After never having been important enough to attract the duke’s interest during his lifetime, she still could not believe she’d been mentioned at all.

The duke’s true family must have been disgusted to see her name on the list. They would not want someone like her to step one foot into their respectable midst, much less possess any part of their inheritance. Her stomach roiled at the impending debacle. How they must hate her. She needed to steel herself for anything.

She took several deep, calming breaths and stepped away from the hackney cab. By concentrating on nothing more than holding her head high and taking one determined step at a time, she managed to narrow the distance to the duke’s imposing front door. Everything about the ornate trim, the spotless windows, the endless garden, reminded her she didn’t belong.

And yet here she was.

As she neared the door, a short man with a scuffed beaver hat and a slight limp leaped onto the path beside her.

She froze in place, her heart hammering, and tried to catch her breath. He must have been leaning against one of the many trees, just out of sight—especially to a woman so focused on keeping her feet in motion that she had blocked out the rest of the world.

“Miss Devon,” he said with a bow. “That is, Mrs. Fairfax. How do you do this lovely afternoon?”

“I am well, thank you.” She did not offer her hand. Now that her heart had calmed, she recognized the man as Mr. Underwood, the solicitor who had followed her from Scotland to Nottingham to inform her that her dead father had named her in his will.

He stepped closer. “Have you given any thought to my proposition?”

She hadn’t given any thought to him at all. Nor would she. “What proposition?”

“To manage your funds, should you receive any. To represent you at the reading of the will, and argue on your behalf, should the family cause trouble.” His lip curled. “You can be assured they will. The duke’s elder sister is an implacable harridan. Believes herself queen. The whole of London trembles before that harpy. They even call her ‘the old dragon’ when she’s not close enough to overhear.”

Charlotte shivered. How was she to keep her defenses intact in the presence of someone even her betters feared?

“You’ll be present for the reading of the will?” she asked.

He lowered his hat. “As your personal solicitor, I wouldn’t miss a single word.”

“Are you not the personal solicitor to the new duke?” she asked in confusion. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Is there a new duke?”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “There is, indeed. He is still being fetched from overseas.”

“Then why should you wish to help me? Won’t the new duke be your employer?”

Mr. Underwood’s lip twisted. “My employment was with the duke himself, not his estate. He wasn’t even cold before the old dragon sacked me.”

Ah. Charlotte curled her hands into fists. Only those with an ulterior motive ever showed kindness to one such as her. He had offered to help solely as a means to regain access to the dukedom and its masters.

She moved closer to the door. “You have wasted your time. I am not in the market for a solicitor at this moment.”

“Then who shall manage your funds?” he asked quickly. A crafty smile twisted his lips. “Your husband? I’m sure he’d enjoy losing every penny at the gaming tables.”

She paused with her hand on the knocker.

What if she did inherit money today? It would not be hers for long. Not when a wife’s husband was sole owner and administrator of all property. Her inheritance wouldn’t belong to her, but to Anthony. The solicitor was partially right—any coins in Anthony’s pockets hadn’t stayed there for long. But Anthony had changed. That senseless wager with the rutting sheep had made him realize how foolish he had been. Since that moment, he hadn’t bet so much as a ha’penny.

Yet a cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Her husband’s lack of control with money had nearly ruined both their lives, and was not yet over. Until he repaid the Duke of Lambley, the specter of debtors’ prison continued to cast its shadow over their future and their marriage. An unexpected windfall could send him straight back to the gaming tables—and to ruin.

She couldn’t let that happen.

Anthony was unquestionably the last person who should control a single farthing of their money—yet, legally, he was the only person who could.

Unless a solicitor managed some portion of the process. Who did she trust more?

In a gaming hell, there was no fortune too big to be lost forever on the turn of a card. London was full of a thousand such opportunities. To a man who loved to wager, temptation would be everywhere. She could not swallow her dread. Had she come this far only to lose it all? To lose Anthony… If not today, then tomorrow or the next day? And all their money with him?

She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Underwood.

He placed his hat against his chest. “It would be an honor to protect your interests.”

An honor. She laughed without humor. This man would not protect anyone but himself. No one cared about her interests other than Charlotte herself… and Anthony. She would simply have to trust him. And hope for the best.

She turned back to the door and rapped the knocker against its base.

The door swung open to reveal an impassive butler in impeccable attire. “May I help you?”

“I am expected,” she stammered. Her neck heated. “My name is Mrs. Fairfax now, but it should be on the list as Charlotte Devon.”

The butler held out his hand expectantly.

She stared at him blankly, then colored in humiliation. “I—I don’t have a calling card. It’s just… Charlotte Devon. It should be on the list.”

“See?” whispered Mr. Underwood from behind her. “You need an advocate. These heights are far above your station.”

She ground her teeth. He probably was just trying to help. Despite his methods, he hadn’t had to track her all the way to Scotland just to let her know she’d been named in a will. She doubted the Courtelands thanked him for his interference. She was definitely overreaching her station.

The butler motioned her inside. “One moment.”

She took a deep breath and stepped into the manor. The door silently swung closed behind her.

“Wait here.” The butler crossed the hall and entered what Charlotte presumed to be a parlor. She could not see within, but the hum of voices was unmistakable.

“Who?” shrilled a voice. “Over my dead body. We cannot possibly entertain admittance to my uncle’s bastard. Toss the rubbish out at once. We shall not compound his mistakes with our own.”

Charlotte’s cheeks burned with shame. This was what she had expected. Only a fool would let it hurt. She wrapped her arms about herself and wished Anthony could be with her. Perhaps she did need an advocate. Or a hackney cab, to flee while she still could.

“Her name is on the will, Mabel,” snapped a cold female voice. “Your disgust with the association does not signify. This is a legal matter, not a family one. Show her in, Teagle.”

Charlotte winced. She was not surprised that an illegitimate daughter would not be considered family.

“As you wish, madam.”

Within moments, the butler reappeared in the entryway. “If you’ll come this way, please.”

Humiliation hunching her shoulders, Charlotte concentrated on her breathing and forced her heavy feet to carry her toward the parlor.

“But a by-blow isn’t legal. It’s an outrage!” The shrill voice climbed even higher. “You cannot be serious, Aunt. It’s a humiliation to us all. This Devon creature is nothing more than the spawn of a—” The voice choked off as Charlotte stepped into the room. “You?” She flung a shocked gaze toward the solicitor. “Charlotte Devon is Mrs. Fairfax?”

Charlotte’s limbs stopped working. Her face flooded with renewed embarrassment. The outspoken family member so offended at the thought of a whore’s daughter in their midst was none other the baroness who had sought her advice not five days prior.

“Lady Roundtree,” she said weakly. “How lovely to see you again.”

The baroness stared at her openmouthed, then harrumphed and lifted her nose in the air.

“Mabel, that will do,” snapped a majestic older lady who sat in an ornate chair. “You will hold your tongue if you wish to attend this meeting. I shall deal with your impertinence later.”

The old dragon, Charlotte realized. This was the “dragon lady” Mr. Underwood had warned struck fear into all of London. No wonder Charlotte’s entire body trembled. She was about to be eaten alive.

“Sit,” the dragon lady commanded. “Mr. Gully will commence with the reading of the will.”

Charlotte stumbled over to the empty chair closest to the doorway and forced herself to sit.

Besides Mr. Gully, the only other person in the room was an elegant older lady who fanned her narrow face impatiently, as if both Charlotte and Lady Roundtree were wasting her time.

Dismissing them all, the dragon lady turned her attention to the executor. “Gully, you may begin.”

The solicitor cleared his throat. “Thank you all for coming today. While we had anticipated the new duke’s presence for the reading of the bequests, he has not yet reached England. However, as his name is not mentioned in the late duke’s will, we may continue without worry.”

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “The new duke won’t inherit anything?” she blurted.

“Besides the dukedom…?” the elegant lady drawled from behind her painted fan.

The back of Charlotte’s neck prickled. Once again she had embarrassed herself. How much proof did she need that their world was not hers?

“The majority of the estate is entailed.” The dragon lady’s sharp voice carried as she gave the curt explanation. “Courteland was therefore reduced to providing a few monetary disbursements from his private funds.”

Charlotte nodded dumbly. Entailed property was so foreign to her experience, it hadn’t even crossed her mind. She shrank back in her chair. The thought of being “reduced” to mere pots of money was equally ludicrous. These circles were far above her station indeed. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She didn’t belong here at all.

The solicitor lifted a sheaf of parchment. “To the duke’s elder sister, Lady Dorothea Pettibone, His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves all monies not otherwise specified in this document, and grants her the power to oversee all of the following bequests.”

The other two ladies gasped. The dragon lady merely inclined her regal head. Clearly this turn of events was nothing less than what she’d expected. A tithe to appease her.

Not the “dragon lady,” Charlotte reminded herself. Lady Pettibone had a name. Charlotte would be wise to remember it.

“To the duke’s younger sister, Lady Adelia Upchurch, His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves an annuity of four thousand pounds for the remainder of her life.”

Four… thousand… Charlotte’s jaw dropped at the exorbitant sum. Annually.

“To the duke’s niece,” the solicitor went on, “the Honorable Lady Mabel Baroness Roundtree, His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves a single payment of five thousand pounds.”

“Not an annuity?” Lady Roundtree choked out in affront. “What did I ever do to deserve such shabby treatment?”

“You’ve a wealthy husband,” Lady Upchurch pointed out dryly. “Isn’t your current portion far greater than five thousand pounds?”

Lady Roundtree sniffed. “One can never have too much money.”

“To the duke’s daughter, Miss Charlotte Devon,” the solicitor continued, “His Grace the Duke of Courteland leaves an annuity of one thousand pounds for the rest of her life.”

Charlotte’s jaw dropped in disbelief. A thousand pounds. For the rest of her life. Her heart thudded. The sum was unthinkable.

“Mrs. Fairfax,” she stammered inanely. “I’m Mrs. Fairfax now.”

“Mrs… Fairfax?” Lady Upchurch repeated, as if tasting the name on her tongue. She turned to Lady Roundtree with surprise. “Is this the woman you claimed was an angel sent to earth because she performed nothing short of a miracle organizing your downstairs staff?”

Lady Roundtree glared back stonily.

Lady Upchurch arched a disbelieving eyebrow toward Charlotte.

“The very one,” Charlotte admitted, peering up through her lashes with an embarrassed smile.

“There,” Lady Pettibone said briskly, her impatience clear. “Surely no Courteland has hubris enough to blame an angel for the sins of her father. Do you disagree, Mabel? Are you qualified to cast the first stone?”

Lady Roundtree shook her head mutely. The apples of her cheeks turned pink.

Charlotte could not gloat over witnessing a baroness being put squarely in her place. Her head was still spinning at the sum she had just received. One thousand pounds was enough for a non-society family to live quite comfortably. More than enough. She tried to catch her breath. How would she ever spend so much money? Her mother had no debts, or Charlotte would pay them off without blinking an eye. Anthony—

Anthony! This would shorten his contract with the Duke of Lambley. Next year, perhaps, they could rent a small cottage in the country. Such simple accommodation would not be the life Anthony had hoped for, but it would have to do.

She let out a shallow breath. ’Twas actually far better than she had dared to dream.

“How did the duke learn of my existence?” she asked in a small voice.

“He always knew,” Lady Pettibone replied flatly.

Charlotte’s heart fell. Her father hadn’t been ignorant of her existence. He simply hadn’t cared.

Lady Pettibone’s tone was imperious. And angry. “I, however, only learned of the matter after my brother took ill.”

Charlotte glanced up.

“I came to his bedside to oversee the final draft of his will,” Lady Pettibone’s expression was implacable. “Because I saw no mention of Mother’s ruby necklace or earrings, I inquired as to their whereabouts. When Courteland confessed he had given them to the mother of his illegitimate daughter, I was shocked not to have learned of his indiscretion earlier.”

Charlotte flinched at the description. She had spent her life fighting to be seen as someone of value. Even now, after inheriting a stunning annuity, she was still nothing more than a mere indiscretion.

She lifted her chin. The devil could take the lot of them! She didn’t care about their high-flown opinions or their world-weary lack of interest. She was a person whether the Courteland clan cared to acknowledge her or not. If her esteemed “betters” had no use for her, well, the feeling was mutual. She didn’t need their approval.

“And we were all humiliated to learn he’d been careless enough to let an indiscretion bear fruit,” Lady Roundtree muttered.

Lady Pettibone cast a cold eye at her niece. “While a by-blow is not in fact a legal relation, a family such as ours must meet our obligations.” She looked down her nose. “I handed Courteland that quill, and informed him that he would fulfill his responsibility, by God, even if it was on his deathbed.”

Charlotte’s chin jutted defiantly. “Thank you, my lady. No one appreciates your attention to obligations more than I do.”

“You were Courteland’s responsibility,” Lady Pettibone corrected. Her hard eyes softened. “You’re my niece. You may not have known your father while he was alive, but now that he’s gone… in my home, you will always be welcome to call. I hope you do.”

Shock stole the breath from Charlotte’s lungs as she stared at Lady Pettibone in amazement. And in hope.

Of all the fashionable people who had disdained and belittled her, these were the individuals who should despise her the most. She was an embarrassment. She had no legal claim to the duke, yet had been bequeathed money that would otherwise have gone to them. She was a bastard. A whore’s worthless mistake.

And yet the most feared dragon in all of London was willing to welcome her into her home. To Lady Pettibone, a by-blow wasn’t an unfortunate responsibility—she was her niece.

Charlotte’s throat stung at the unexpected kindness. Perhaps she wasn’t worthless after all.

Perhaps she was family.