“Fairfax ought to keep quiet, is what the rotter ought to keep!” bellowed a voice on the other side of the wall. “If that featherwit is still out there chattering to his wife by the time I put my robe on, I’ll—”

Charlotte grabbed Mr. Fairfax by the wrist, yanked him into her bedchamber, and slammed the door.

“As I was saying,” he began after the briefest pause. “One fine evening, after wagering on races along Rotten Row—”

“Do. Not.” She held up a shaking finger and prayed her blush would fade by sunup. Splendid. As long as the other guests believed her married to Mr. Fairfax, her reputation was better off with him on the inside of the chamber rather than raising suspicion on the outside. “Don’t move an inch until I’ve had a chance to look about the chamber to see if anything is missing.”

His teasing expression faded and his eyes turned serious. “How do you feel?”

“Exasperated,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Angry at me.” He leaned against the doorframe in obvious relief. “Excellent. For a moment there, you looked so pale and terrified that I was afraid to take your arm, for fear you’d shatter.” His eyes softened. “You had every right to be alarmed. But the intruder is gone. You are safe. No one will harm you while I guard the door.”

Her mouth fell open. He had made outrageous comments in the corridor to distract her? Her fingers slowly unclenched as she stared at him. It had worked, blast him. She had gone from shaking with panic to blushing in embarrassment—but she had entered her bedchamber of her own free will. Because she no longer feared it.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Although she did not approve of his methods, he had been good to intervene. Her mind had leaped from invasion of privacy to thwarted robbery to attempted rape of her person in a matter of moments.

All of those things were everyday threats to a woman of her station traveling alone. It was a relief that, for one night at least, she would not have to lie at the edge of sleep, attuned to every creak of the floorboard and every scratch at her window.

To her surprise, she was glad to have Mr. Fairfax with her. He made her feel safe. He made her feel less alone. He made her feel…worth protecting.

The last thing she wanted was for him to know the truth.

She turned away to peruse the chamber in search of damage. It looked the same. Nice, but old. Shabby, but clean. The wardrobe was open, but she might have left it that way. Perhaps nothing more had occurred than staff forgetting to lock the door after emptying chamber pots and refreshing the water pitcher.

Or Mr. Fairfax might have just saved her from a terrible night, indeed.

She gathered her skirts and the dregs of her serenity. Now that they were stuck here for the night, what was she meant to do with him? Her mother was the one skilled at entertaining gentlemen, not Charlotte. She had always done her best not to call untoward attention to herself.

And now she had a man in her bedchamber.

She swallowed. The last thing she wanted was for him to guess her base upbringing. She would simply have to do as she always did, and pretend to be someone else. Someone better than who she really was.

She motioned Mr. Fairfax into the room and settled into a wingback chair near the fireplace with a demure shawl about her shoulders. The role of poor-but-respectable-miss came so readily by now, it was easy to forget she was playacting. She had spent her entire life pretending to be someone she was not. A few more hours wouldn’t matter.

Mr. Fairfax strolled close to the fireplace and paused next to the grate. He tossed her an arch look before lifting a poker. “Shall I clean the chimney? Or does the lady prefer I stoke her fire?”

She pursed her lips, determined not to let on how much she secretly enjoyed the silly flirtation. Back in London, men didn’t bother. They assumed they could have her for a word and tuppence, and even when she rebuked them, they never quite comprehended that she was saving her virginity for something important.

If she wanted any chance at being respectable one day, at a minimum she needed to keep her maidenhead intact.

It hadn’t been easy. Not when her mother earned her living as a prostitute.

Twenty years ago, Judith Devon had been one of the most infamous courtesans in all of London. Now, she was simply…old. Forgotten. Lonely. Just like her daughter. For two-and-twenty years, the only person either of them could count on was each other. Proper ladies and gentlemen simply treated them like rubbish.

Society never let Charlotte forget her base roots. From the time she was old enough to toddle, gentlemen callers would toss an extra coin her way, and tell her how blessed she was to be the image of her beautiful mother.

It wasn’t a blessing. It was a curse.

The mere fifteen-year age gap between them meant, as Charlotte grew older, they were often confused on the street. Pointed at. Spit at. There was no denying her heritage. No salvaging her reputation. She was a by-blow. A whore’s daughter.

Born ruined.

All those long, wretched years, her one chance at some level of respectability was the knowledge that, somewhere out there, she had a father. All she knew about him was his name, that he was a noble laird in Scotland, and that he had no idea he had a daughter.

Her mother had told her he was a wonderful man. Kind, compassionate, wise, thoughtful, gentle—everything a father should be. He hadn’t abandoned her. He hadn’t even known she existed.

But what if she could find him? A man even half as caring and honorable as her mother had painted him would not hesitate to take her in, to welcome her. She didn’t want his money. She simply wanted his time. His affection. A place in this world.

As a child, Charlotte had lain awake every night dreaming about the day he would discover her and whisk her away to a better life, far from London. She and her mother both.

He never had. So here she was. Closer to her dream than she’d ever been. She just had to find him. Convince him she was respectable enough to take in.

Then she would persuade him to send for her mother, or at least provide for her. Every new client she was forced to take added lines to her face and took years from her life. Charlotte was determined to marry well and rescue her mother herself, if her father could not. But to do so, she had to portray herself as honorable and proper.

Starting with never admitting to the truth.

“That should do it.” Mr. Fairfax slid the fire iron back into its stand and turned from the grate. “What is my next chore?”

Charlotte gazed up at him, startled. “You truly wish to be my slave for the night?”

“Of course I don’t wish to,” he assured her. “But I wouldn’t want it said that I reneged on our wager. Now, what shall it be? I likely oughtn’t to divulge a secret, but I am world renowned for a quite unparalleled foot massage.”

She hid a smile. “If it’s a secret, how are you world renowned?”

“I’m also not half bad at dressing hair and mending hems,” he continued without pause. “I have a younger sister and had to play maid-of-all-work when times were lean.” He lowered his voice. “Playing maid-of-all-work is not nearly as diverting as playing whist or Faro, but a boy of twelve does not sail his own ship.”

This time, Charlotte couldn’t keep a smile from forming. What must it be like to grow up so secure in one’s self-worth that one could admit to such poverty and have the confession sound charming? Either she truly did not understand ton life, or Mr. Fairfax wasn’t as well-connected as it had seemed in the common room.

Then again, he was welcome at fashionable gentlemen’s clubs like Boodle’s.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know any dukes and earls?”

“I know scads of dukes and earls,” he assured her. “However, most are married and the rest are scandalous, so I really cannot recommend them to a lady.”

“Name one,” she challenged.

“The Duke of Ravenwood,” he answered immediately. “First-rate fellow, married to an absolutely dreadful hoyden who I love quite dearly. Cannot recommend her, either. Bad for one’s reputation.”

Charlotte tilted her head, unsure whether to believe even half of his tales. “Name a scandalous lord.”

“Lord Wainwright,” he said without hesitation. He lowered his voice. “The majority of his interactions with Society are horizontal.”

She crossed her arms. “Are any of these rakes and do-gooders skilled at foot rubs or darning socks?”

“You know, I’ve never asked them,” he said with wide-eyed innocence. “I shall add it to my diary straightaway, so as not to forget the next time we meet.”

She harrumphed to hide her amusement. “How are you at pressing wrinkles from gowns?”

“Let me assure you,” he said with utter seriousness, “that I have never worn a wrinkled gown in all my life.”

“Very well. Mine are in the wardrobe, as is my traveling iron. See what you can do.”

“At your service.” He bowed and marched to the wardrobe like a soldier off to war.

She tried not to display her amusement. The man was incorrigible…but she couldn’t help but find his frankness humanizing and his silliness refreshing. “You’re certain you know what you’re about with those gowns?”

“You will think my valet pressed them,” he called back in a tone filled with such portent that Charlotte half expected her muslins to be dotted with burns in the shape of irons.

It would almost be worth it, just to have this one night. This memory of a man above her station treating her as if she were above his. Of being an equal, rather than an object incapable of feelings or rights of her own. Of feeling…happy. She hugged herself in astonishment. When was the last time she’d felt safe enough and carefree enough to be happy?