Back aching from hours of hard work, Anthony crawled into bed and collapsed onto the now-familiar mattress with a sigh. This was his fourth morning at the Kitty and Cock 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 week or even 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 he was going to make their lives better.

The busy dairy farm 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 and then jerked her hands away. She should not touch him like that. “I have no doubt you’d be good at anything you set your mind to doing.”

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. Yet being active members of society was expensive. 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.

He frowned. 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.

Anthony’s sister Sarah flashed into his mind. One might think the Fairfaxes the last family on earth destined to become farmers, but look at his baby sister now. He had thought her and her husband mad when they had given up their fashionable townhouse to move out to the country and raise their boys on a hill by a river. His parents had certainly been horrified.

It didn’t sound like madness now. It sounded as though his sister was by far the brightest member of the Fairfax family.

He needed to be as strong as she was. He needed to think about the future, not just live in the moment. He needed to take even greater action.

“I’ll find a position,” he said aloud. “Reliable employment.”

Charlotte’s hand stilled over his chest. “More cows and chickens?”

“A trade,” he clarified. “Perhaps an apprenticeship.”

She jerked her hand from his chest. “You cannot be serious.”

He turned toward her. “Why not?”

“No trade on earth pays two thousand pounds per fortnight,” she pointed out. “Besides, gentlemen don’t work in trade. Your status… your reputation…”

Her rational logic dashed cold water on his plans. Yet it was the only plan they had.

“My societal standing shan’t increase much by contracting gaol fever in debtors’ prison,” he reminded her flatly. If she and the rest of society liked him less because he had worked as a farmer or a secretary, then so be it. “Where else am I to get money?”

“You can have my savings,” she insisted again. “It’s not much, but it’s legally yours. If it helps keep you out of prison—”

“It’s not your debt.” He averted his gaze. She was the innocent party. He would solve his problems by himself. “And it’s not enough money. Even if we sold your rubies.”

She gasped at the idea. “You can’t have my jewels. Not until I find my father. Th-they’re my only proof that I’m his daughter.”

“I’m not asking for them.” He stared up at the bed canopy. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Her voice shook. “Then what are we going to do?”

“We aren’t going to do anything. You must remain in the posting houses when I’m not here, in order to keep watch over our savings. After that break-in, I don’t trust leaving them unattended. Nor is it a wise idea to carry pound notes and gold coins to a dairy farm.”

“It doesn’t have to be a farm.” She bit her lip. “Perhaps I could find work as a maid or minding children. It would be better than—”

“No. Our money would still be at risk. You can’t chase children or scrub a scullery with two earrings, a necklace, and hundreds of pounds strapped to your chest. You’ll stay here, where our money’s safe and you’re safe.”

“Doing what? Making conversation in the common rooms while you kill yourself under the hot sun to earn a pittance? Why bother, if it won’t be enough?”

“It will be enough,” he said fiercely. “Not to pay off the entire debt at once, but to prove to Gideon I take the threat seriously. His enforcers refused to consider paying back the debt in installments, but Gideon is my friend. If I go to him next week with twenty or thirty percent in hand, he’ll give me more time.”

Possibly.

He hoped.

Hope filled Charlotte’s eyes. “Truly? You are certain?”

Anthony wasn’t certain of anything anymore. He rolled over into his pillow rather than lie to Charlotte.

Besides, what was left to say? He would return every penny, no matter how long it took him to earn them. Even if it meant sweating in a coal mine. Even if it took years.

Even if it meant having to annul their marriage to keep her safe.

When he awoke a few hours later, Charlotte was no longer at his side. He forced himself out of bed and over to the washbasin to splash cold water onto his face.

He didn’t have to wonder where Charlotte had gone. Unable to toil in fields or otherwise raise funds to put toward Anthony’s debt, she felt powerless to help him.

She was frustrated with him, he knew, for not accepting her meager savings to use toward his debts. But in the event that he was unable to save himself after all, he refused to leave her penniless. He well knew what it was like to go days between meals. He would never willfully consign another person to such misery. His wife least of all. Rather, his ex-wife. If there were no saving himself from gaol, the least he could do was save Charlotte from being shackled to him.

As soon as he was clean and dressed, Anthony headed downstairs to find her. He only had a few moments to spare before his appointment to trim the church’s hedgerows, but he disliked the idea of departing with so much unresolved between them. Charlotte was clearly afraid the situation was not under control.

He had to prove to her that it was.

As he reached the foot of the stairs, a wave of boos and laughter near the front door caught his attention. Curious, he stepped forward to see what the ruckus was about.

A handful of gentlemen crowded against the open window, pointing at a bashful female sheep who was deftly sidestepping the amorous advances of her would-be white-wooled lover.

“Ten quid says the ewe will outfox him,” shouted one of the men.

“Twenty quid says she’ll give in,” cried another. “That ram is a handsome one.”

“Fairfax!” exclaimed a third. “Come and look. Is your money on the tup or the cut direct?”

“Cut direct,” he replied without hesitation. “Females are mysterious creatures, and stronger than you think.”

“Fairfax put twenty on utter rejection?” crowed the first man. “I told you I was right!”

“I raise you to thirty,” said the second. “That ram is a force who will not be denied. Just look at the way he—”

“Ohhh,” the men exclaimed as the ewe abruptly submitted to temptation. “That beast cuts a swath through his flock, he does!”

An upside-down top hat tapped against Anthony’s chest. “Everyone who wagered on the ewe’s strength of character, put your money in the hat.”

Laughing at the ridiculous scene, Anthony reached into his pocket for his gambling purse… and caught sight of Charlotte staring at him in disbelief from just outside the dining room. The disappointment on her pale face hit him like a blow to the chest.

His hand froze on his purse. Shame washed over him.

He had made hundreds of such idle wagers. Thousands, perhaps. A spot of nonsense between gentlemen, meant as nothing more than a moment of thoughtless fun.

But he didn’t have the right to be thoughtless anymore. Or reckless or impulsive or any of his other previously defining characteristics. Not when he was ten days away from being tossed into Marshalsea. He needed to be hoarding every penny, not throwing twenty quid away on the whims of a sheep in heat.

Such wagers were how he had fallen into this mess. His only hope for climbing out of it was proving this was no longer who he had been. That he could be responsible with money. That Gideon could trust Anthony to repay his debt. That Charlotte could count on him not to leave her alone and destitute.

He broke eye contact with her long enough to count his sovereigns into the hat. His neck heated with shame. This was the last time, he ordered himself fiercely. He was better than that. Or should be. When had gambling become as natural to him as breathing, such that he no longer even noticed the risks he was taking?

Not anymore. Now he had Charlotte. And the very real risk of prison. A man in his position could not afford to gamble away so much as tuppence.

Not when his entire life was on the line.