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Anthony Bridgerton is a man of many titles.
The Ninth Viscount Bridgerton, perhaps most notably, though he would tell you that the monickers of Brother, Son and Pseudo-Father weigh far heavier upon his shoulders.
Rake is another, capital R. Not one he is proud of, per se, but he acknowledges that he earned it quite thoroughly and enjoyed almost every moment of doing so.
Lady Danbury calls him a scoundrel, but with a smirk on her lips and a twinkle at the corner of her wrinkled eye that makes it easy to pay little mind to her disapproving tone, especially when she is calling him ‘charming’ in the same breath. The ton adore and revere him not in spite of but because he is both.
There is another hat he wears - literal and metaphorical - but opposed to the public nature of his other roles, this one he plays only in the deepest of shadows, away from the prying eyes of London society, nosey siblings and a well meaning but impossibly overbearing mother.
This hat - the literal one - is a tweed flat cap that itches along his hairline and over the tips of his ears, pulled down as tightly as it is. It’s paired with a simple cotton shirt with a pale orange waistcoat over top and a long, grey coat on top of that. His trousers are grey, too, but several shades lighter, and somehow even scratchier than his hat.
Truly, the only saving grace of the whole get up is the footwear. Boots. Brown, leather, sturdy. Scuffed enough to look like the favoured pair of a common working man but comfortable and ideal for winding walks through the back alleys of Bloomsbury.
With the coat’s collar turned up and his chin tilted to the ground, Anthony looks every bit the part he has cast for himself, and he plays it remarkably well.
He gives two performances a week - three if something particularly interesting has come to light - with the stage set upon the stained wood floors of a nondescript printers shop.
“How’d you end up doin’ this anyway?” The man behind the counter asks him one night, “Tha’ Irish maid was doin’ a fine enough job, weren’t she? Nicer to look at an’ all.”
“Well, it’s comments like that that had our mistress decide to stop sending her on late night runs,” Anthony replies cooly, dropping coins onto the counter with more force than necessary as he counts them out of the bag he’s just been handed. “I handle this side of things now. If that’s a problem for you, I’d be happy to suggest to the good Lady that I deliver her drafts elsewhere.”
“No problem at all,” he responds wisely, likely understanding the consequences that will befall his current state of employment should the shop’s owner discover that he had lost him his most lucrative client.
“Good.” Anthony says, swiping the coins from the counter top back into their bag, taking a moment to balance it in his hands and be impressed by its considerable weight before turning for the door without a second glance. “Lady Whistledown sends her regards.”
And so, in a most unlikely, most unforeseen, most improbable turn of events, Errand Boy for Lady Whistledown has become a title he wears with silent pride. And the damned itchy hat, too.
The distance between Chancery Lane - home of Lady Whistledown’s favoured printing shop - and the discreet, Bridgerton owned apartment in Bloomsbury (bought at least three generations prior and forgotten about since) isn’t particularly great, though Anthony would usually forgo a half hour’s walk in favour of a ride by horse or carriage. It’s easier, however, to slip down lesser used paths and stay just beyond the lamplight’s reach on foot, and discretion is his prime objective each time he makes the trip.
He would walk a thousand miles in splintered clogs before he led any ill meaning sort of character, foolish enough to follow his disjointed path, home to the lady awaiting his delivery.
When he does get there Anthony raps his knuckles thrice against the locked door, then waits six seconds - he counts them every time - and then knocks twice more.
His hand barely leaves the wood before he hears the jingle of keys, the click of the lock and the creak of the old door swinging inwards.
It's a routine he knows well by now, and so, the moment his feet cross the threshold and the door slams shut behind him, Anthony drops the sack of coins to the floor and spreads his arms to catch the blur of blue fabric and soft red curls that come flying towards him.
“My Protector,” she calls him, between urgent presses of her lips against his.
“Most noble of all men,” she breathes into his skin.
“Sole inhabitant of my weary heart.”
Anthony Bridgerton is a man of many titles.
And when he looks at her - lips kiss bitten by his own teeth, cheeks flushed from his caress, smile wide and eyes shining in answer to his softly spoken words - he sends a rare and silent prayer out into the universe, that soon he will gain a few more.
Husband.
Father.
Love of Penelope Featherington’s Life.