A smile tugged at Dahlia’s lips. She was fortunate to be surrounded by so many strong, smart women. With luck, Faith might even have time to help with the school. The trick would be convincing her to try.
The sitting room door banged open and a whirlwind spun into the room, violin in hand.
Bryony squealed in disbelief. “Dahlia?”
At the sight of her youngest sister, Dahlia’s melancholy vanished. She sprang to her feet.
Bryony tossed her violin case onto the closest chaise as if the Stradivarius inside hadn’t cost as much as their townhouse and enveloped Dahlia in a breath-stealing embrace. “How are you? How’s your school? What are you doing here?”
“I’m fine,” Dahlia said, laughing as her sister danced her about the room. “The school is about the same. I came to ask Father for money.”
Bryony stopped dancing, her eyes huge. “Did he give it to you?”
“I didn’t even get to ask,” Dahlia said with a sigh. “A two-hour tea with Mother and the closest I got was, ‘Your father is frightfully busy.’”
Bryony rolled her eyes. “Did she give you the ‘Barons are important people’ speech, too?”
Dahlia laughed humorlessly. “Why else would we be asking to speak to him?”
“I don’t know how you stand it.” Bryony flung herself onto the chaise opposite her violin. “I’ve never lasted for more than twenty minutes at one of Mother’s insufferable teas. Too much speechifying.”
“She means well. Or at least, she thinks she does.” Dahlia sat on the floor and wrapped her arms about her knees. “Her arguments drive me positively mad, but as long as they mirror the views of half her friends…”
Bryony lifted a shoulder in commiseration. “Mother is Mother.”
Dahlia nodded. “Mother is Mother. How about you? What were you out doing?”
“Lessons.” Bryony grinned. “Now that Camellia’s on her way to being a household name, I cannot bear to be thought of as the least talented Grenville offspring.”
“No,” Dahlia reminded her. “That would be me. The only unmusical Grenville. You’ve got your violin, Cam has her voice, Heath acquits himself well at the pianoforte, and I… What do I have to offer? I don’t even have good enough handwriting to pen the invitations to the family musicales.”
“It’s because you’re left-handed,” Bryony said, reaching out to pat Dahlia on the shoulder. “You smear the ink as fast as you write it. I can see bits on your sleeve even now.”
Dahlia inspected her ink-splattered sleeve and grinned. Aha. That was how Mr. Spaulding had guessed her terrible penmanship.
“What did you learn at your lesson?” she asked.
Bryony bolted upright with a smile. “Do you want me to play it for you?”
“More than anything.”
Bryony sprang up from the chaise and readied her violin. In minutes, the sitting room was filled with a soaring, haunting melody that rose to a crescendo before dashing itself into minor chords and back again.
Of course it was incredible. Bryony was incredible. Dahlia’s entire family was comprised of individuals who stood out from the crowd in meaningful ways.
As Mother had pointed out, barons were indeed important people. As were baronesses. And operatic sopranos. And phenomenal violinists, who could play an entire piece from memory after listening to it one time. Her brother Heath’s skills weren’t limited to the pianoforte.
And then there was Dahlia. A headmistress who couldn’t write her own name without smearing it. Whose school was on the brink of financial disaster. Whose own mother believed her best hope for the future was to wed any man willing to take her.
Dahlia didn’t just want her school to succeed. She needed it to. She knew what it felt like to feel talentless and useless and dependent only on the whims of others, and she never wanted her students to have to feel that way ever again.
When the music ended, Bryony lowered her bow. “Well? What did you think?”
“It was hideous,” Dahlia lied, earning a pillow cushion to the face. “Positively undanceable.”
Bryony bounced in delight. “Speaking of dancing… Are Heath and I coming back this Saturday?”
“Absolutely. I promised the girls an hour of lessons every week. Don’t you dare make a liar of me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Bryony slid her violin back into its case. “It’s too bad there’s no pianoforte. Heath is splendid with minuets.”
“I need him to be splendid on the dance floor,” Dahlia reminded her. “He’s the only gentleman I trust to stand up with them. If I could afford a real dance-master…”
Bryony’s face fell. “I spoke to my solicitor. You know I would give you every single penny I could, but the terms of my current long-term investment are immutable.”
Dahlia had no idea what any of Bryony’s mysterious investments were, but it was a relief that she couldn’t get her hands on the money. Unlike Camellia, Bryony wasn’t married to an earl who would take care of her, even if she donated all her money to her sister’s barmy project.
Bryony would hand over every penny out of love for her sister, but Dahlia didn’t need a loan. She couldn’t pay anyone back. The donations weren’t financial investments—they were personal investments. Into the futures of two dozen little girls who, without the school, would either die on the streets…or wish they were dead.
Dahlia would never have started her school if she’d thought her wards’ futures would be in jeopardy. Before the school first opened, she’d had a full year’s expenses in her account, plus hundreds of pounds of promised donations on the way.
Unfortunately, the careless words of a fashionable earl made her project suddenly unfashionable. What had once seemed like a more than adequate financial buffer had slowly drained through her fingers until there was nothing left. Her outrage at the earl’s casual destruction was the only emotion that outweighed her panic.
In desperation, she had pilfered one of his meaningless baubles during a dinner party and pawned it to buy food for her wards.
Was stealing right? It was not. But she wasn’t sorry. He had nearly cost two dozen girls their homes. If nicking a cufflink here and there stopped that from happening while she frantically worked to come up with a better plan… Well, Dahlia would have to do what she had to do.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll find a way.”
“I could sell my shoes,” Bryony suggested. “And my fur muff. You’re welcome to anything in my wardrobe you could exchange for a shilling.”
Dahlia shook her head. She had already raided her siblings’ wardrobes. And their old nursery. And the rag bin. If she sold much else, the entire family would be barefoot. And Dahlia’s mother would cut her off for good.
Years ago, it had been Bryony who had begged for an audience with their father. She wanted to invest. To buy and sell stocks.
Mother had all but slapped her face for such an appalling suggestion. Bryony’s talent for mathematics was both a curse and an embarrassment to the family.
Rather than lose her temper as Dahlia would likely have done, Bryony had simply begun pawning anything she owned of value. The jewelry went first, followed by any number of “useless baubles” that came her way for her birthday and other holidays.
At one point, Bryony had claimed to have “riches.” Both Cam and Dahlia had doubted that very much—what were “riches” to a young girl who had no expenses?—but shortly thereafter, Bryony’s investments became large enough that they could not be performed without a solicitor. Months later, the entirety of her funds was tied up in a project so mysterious she refused to breathe a word to her own sisters.
Worst case scenario, Bryony was being taken advantage of. Best case scenario, there was no project, and Bryony had fallen in love. Dahlia would be not at all surprised if Bryony were to announce she intended to run away with her solicitor or some East India magnate.
She would just be sad to say goodbye to another sister so quickly after losing Cam
.
A knock sounded on the sitting room door.
Dahlia frowned.
A servant would have entered. A guest would have been announced.
She stood and made her way to the door. “Who is it?”
No one answered.
She narrowed her eyes. Ha. There was only one person who could have come to call. In one fluid movement, she flung open the door and leapt out of reach.
Her brother Heath barreled into the room, shoulder forward in a tackle that would have taken her down—if she’d been foolish enough to be standing in the way.
Instead, Dahlia hooked her foot under his ankle and gave him a sharp push to skew his forward trajectory sideways.
Rather than splat to the floor, Heath dropped in a single smooth somersault, springing to his feet with his palms facing her direction. She had less than a second to adjust her stance before his arms caught her right in the midsection, spinning her up and over his shoulder like pirate claiming his prize.
Quickly, she hooked her arms about his neck in a headlock and let herself fall backward, deadweight, until he was forced to his knees.
“Good one,” Heath choked out with obvious pride. “It’s been months since I’ve bested you.”
Dahlia loosened her hold on her brother’s neck in exchange for a heartfelt embrace. “Years, puppy. I should be giving you lessons in self-defense.”
Bryony glanced up from buffing her fingernails. “Why can’t you ever just shake hands? Normal people shake hands.”
“Nobody shakes hands,” Heath protested in mock offense. “Smart people bow or curtsey. Shaking hands is the quickest way to getting flipped arse over teakettle.”
“Normal people don’t flip other normal people arse over teakettle,” Bryony pointed out. “Why don’t you two join the circus where you belong?”
“Actually,” Dahlia interrupted, taking her brother’s hands. “I was hoping you could stay after dance class on Saturday and show the girls better self-defense techniques. I’ve been teaching them all that I can, but it’s hard to illustrate proper moves without two people to demonstrate.”
Heath’s smile faded. “Unfortunately, that’s why I’m here. Something has come up. I’m no longer free on Saturdays.”
“What about Sundays?” Dahlia asked. “There really isn’t a set schedule. Any time you can squeeze in a few hours at the school, the girls will be more than happy to—”
“I can’t,” he said firmly. “Not right now. I promise to let you know if that changes.”
Dahlia’s spirits fell. Her brother always had time for her. Whatever had come up must be important, indeed. She forced herself to nod her acceptance.
Perhaps this was good news. Only a churlish wretch would worry she was about to lose her brother so soon after losing a sister.
“It’s fine,” she assured him. “I’ll figure something out.”
Bryony frowned. “Do you still want me to drop by the school?”
“Please,” Dahlia said. “The girls deserve a little music in their lives. They love it when you play for them.”
But it wouldn’t last forever, she realized suddenly. Bryony had dreams of her own. And the day she stopped coming…
The music would be gone.
Chapter 7
Simon secured his horse outside the St. Giles School for Girls and strode confidently to the door. He was not some errant knight bringing flowers to his lady. He was a paid inspector doing his job. Nothing more.
After the attack in the alley, he had promised Miss Grenville to pass by the school every day for a week. He had done so. All was well. There was no reason to keep coming ’round. He was merely calling one final time to let her know.
He rapped sharply on the front door.
It swung open to reveal not the woman he had expected, but rather a familiar child with freckled cheeks and plaited hair. “Molly?”
“I can’t curtsey,” she whispered. “Today I ain’t a maid, but a butler.”
“A butler,” Simon repeated, thoroughly confused. “Here I thought you were a pupil.”
“Sometimes,” Molly agreed. “But is anyone ever only one thing? Don’t yet have ’nough experience to take my turn as head housekeeper, but I want to help Miss Grenville as much I can. Up ’til now, she’s the one who’s been headmistress and butler. See no reason why we can’t take shifts, d’you?”
“I…” Simon cleared his throat and began anew. “Is your previous butler at home? I’ve come to speak with her.”
“She’s in the back salon finishing up lessons. This way.”
Although he hadn’t intended to cross the threshold at all, Simon found himself following the pinafored underbutler past the entryway and the warped marble stairs to a large open chamber at the rear.
A score of panting, giggling schoolgirls lay in sweaty heaps on the scuffed wooden floor, as if they had just finished running the most amusing mile of their lives.
Miss Grenville stood up on a dais at the far end of the open salon.
Wearing trousers.
“I…” He meant to announce himself. Truly, he did. But his throat would not make sounds, and his eyes could not tear away from the sight
“Mr. Spaulding!” she said warmly, as if there was nothing at all unusual about a headmistress standing on a dais in trousers whilst surrounded by a sea of exhausted schoolgirls. “What a marvelous surprise. Just one moment, if you please.”
Simon could do nothing but watch helplessly as she unlooped a belt from a clump of fabric at her hips, sending the extra material clumped about her waist billowing down to her ankles. It was a day dress.
No sign of the trousers remained.
Nonetheless, Miss Grenville slipped behind a folding screen off to one side of the dais, leaving Simon to wonder—nay, agonize—over the enticing possibility that she was even now unbuttoning the fall of her shocking trousers, easing the fabric down over her bare hips, over the curve of her arse, over black lace garters circling her thighs, over her smooth, silk-stockinged calves to her shapely ankles… His breath quickened.
“There.” Miss Grenville stepped back into view, looking as fresh and normal as any pretty young woman who under absolutely no circumstances would even consider wearing trousers. “Girls, did you curtsey to Mr. Spaulding?”
A few straggled to their feet, whilst the others moaned variations of, “I’m tiiiired…”
“Up, up, up,” Miss Grenville said briskly. “Exercise is good for the soul. Especially since our Saturday dance lessons have been suspended until further notice.”
“What?” All the previously too-exhausted-to-curtsey schoolgirls sprang to their feet in protest. “But I love dance lessons! Why did you cancel them?”
“I haven’t canceled them. Your dancing-master has simply gone on holiday. Lessons will be resumed as soon as he returns, or we find a suitable replacement. Mr. Spaulding, I don’t suppose you can dance?”
“I…” Simon stammered, too intoxicated by his vision of Miss Grenville sensuously removing her trousers to process anything else that was happening. “Of course I can dance.”
“Prove it.” She strode through the sea of wide-eyed schoolgirls, stopping an arm’s reach away to consult an imaginary object on her wrist. “Let’s see, if I could just make out the next name on my dance card…”
She was in his arms before Simon even realized he was stepping forward. He swung her out in a dramatic arc, then back into his embrace, such that her back was flush to his chest with her arms crossed about her waist.
“It doesn’t matter whose name is on the card,” he murmured into her ear. “This is my dance.”
The pulse point jumped at the base of her throat and her beautiful lips parted. “I’m yours. Show me.”
He twirled her so that she faced him, and positioned himself at a far more respectable distance than he would have preferred. “Can you waltz?”
“Can you?” She arched a brow as she placed her hand in his.
He curved his hand a
bout her waist and led her in sweeping, dramatic circles, keeping time to the orchestra thundering solely in his mind. The steps, he knew by heart. The dance, he’d performed a thousand times.
But never like this. Never with her. His pulse thudded.
“Are you still wearing your trousers?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“You’re an inspector.” Her eyes twinkled at him. “Inspect.”
He slid his hand ever so slightly lower down the small of her back. Beneath his fingers was the silk of her dress, the thin cotton of the shift beneath…and no sign of the thick waistband that would have been holding up her trousers.
She’d taken them off. His imagination was right. Now, underneath her gown…she wore nothing.
“Have you concluded your investigation?” she asked with a teasing smile.
“I prefer to keep it wide open,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “There are always secrets to unveil.”
A flash of pink, as her tongue peeked out to lick her lips.
Before he could do something so foolish as haul her to his chest and kiss her in front of an entire salon of tittering schoolgirls, Simon spun Miss Grenville out of his arms and took a dramatic bow.
“I believe that’s enough dancing,” he said firmly.
Thunderous applause from their delighted audience drowned out most of his words.
“Dance lessons are Saturday evenings at eight,” Miss Grenville said. “Will we see you then?”
“I’m very busy on Saturday evenings at eight,” he said with growing desperation. “I’m very busy…detecting.”
She waved this objection away. “It’s only for an hour.”
“We can’t. It’s improper.” Not dancing itself, but the unrestrained hunger he felt when he held her in his arms. If they had been anywhere but a school salon…
“We’ll be chaperoned by none other than my sister, who provides the music for the lesson. The previous dancing-master was my brother. The girls are quite used to the routine.”
“What, precisely, is the routine?”
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 44