Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  Hawk’s breath caught. A second chance with Faith in as many days.

  Which could only mean Grenville did not know about their sordid past. Right? Of course he would not. Why would Faith confess ruination to anyone, when she could simply find someone better than Hawk and carry on without him?

  Faith’s pool of potential suitors was not limited to peers of the realm. Perhaps the reason Mr. Grenville had not wished to speak of her was because she’d done exactly that. Found a beau that was not Hawk. Someone who would not disappoint her.

  Someone who could marry her.

  Hawk’s shoulders tightened. Even if the best he could hope for was another stolen hour in her company, he could think of no better way he’d rather spend an evening.

  He felt as though he had been bestowed a benediction. “Thank you.”

  “For what?” Mr. Grenville gave another false, mincing cough. “I find myself so out of sorts that I fear I have already forgotten our entire conversation. I must bid you good day.”

  Hawk nodded quickly, his heart soaring. His friend had given him a far better opening than he deserved, but it was still up to Hawk not to bollocks the opportunity.

  He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket for his battered timepiece. It was three o’clock in the afternoon.

  Barely enough time to go home and draw a bath, dress in the handsomest clothes he could find, and casually happen to be in the neighborhood of the St. Giles School for Girls at a quarter to six.

  And just happen to have his dancing slippers in his carriage.

  Chapter 5

  Just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the jagged, soot-covered horizon of the St. Giles rookery, Hawk alighted from his coach with more hope in his heart than he’d dared allow himself to feel in years. He tossed his driver one of the few remaining coins in his purse and squared his shoulders.

  He strode across the street with an air of relaxed confidence that was pure fiction.

  This would likely be his only opportunity to see Faith one more time. He was powerless to resist the pull. They had never belonged to the same circles. Back then, Faith had been too poor for his. Now he was too poor for his own circles, too. Ironic that they should cross paths again in a rookery.

  He rolled back his shoulders and made his way up the strikingly clean walkway. Why would she have sought employment here, of all places?

  Her father had been dabbling in some sort of textile manufacturing venture years ago. If it hadn’t worked out, perhaps that could explain why Faith would be working as a headmistress in one of London’s poorest districts.

  No matter what the others said, Hawk had never minded any of that. Faith didn’t require priceless jewels or a royal lineage to outshine every other debutante he had ever met. Their souls had been like two halves of a whole. She completed him in ways he hadn’t even known he was lacking. He’d been empty ever since he’d walked away from her.

  He raised his hand to the warm brass knocker and hesitated. For years, he had specifically not asked around about Faith because he’d already burnt that bridge and there was nothing he could do to mend things. To change things.

  Knowing little details about her just twisted the knife deeper. And yet here he was.

  Hawk straightened. Of course a professional secret-keeper had been the wrong man to beg from whom to beg scraps of intelligence. If he wished to know about Faith’s life, Hawk would have to talk to her himself.

  And it was past time he did so.

  Whether she would be willing to grant him a private audience, if only for a moment, was outside of his control. Yet he owed it to her to try. To both of them. He might be unworthy of forgiveness, but Faith very much deserved a more honest explanation than the letter he’d been forced to write all those years ago.

  Resolved, he banged the brass knocker once, twice, thrice.

  The door swung open and a pinafored butler of no more than twelve years peered up at him suspiciously. “You are not Mr. Grenville.”

  “I am not,” Hawk agreed. “I am Lord Hawkridge and I was hoping to speak with your headmistress.”

  “They’re both in the ballroom and dreadful busy. We are awaiting this evening’s dancing-master.”

  “If they’re both standing around waiting for a guest to arrive, then perhaps they are not dreadfully busy,” Hawk suggested with a smile.

  The freckled butler did not smile back. She crossed skinny arms over her chest and glared back at him with an air of cool self-confidence.

  Hawk tried a different tack. He had very few calling cards remaining—he hadn’t been in a position to pay calls or accept an invitation in so long that the expense of printing more could not be justified—but this gatekeeper would not be swayed with mere words.

  “Would you please do me the honor of informing Headmistress Digby of my presence on your front stoop?” He handed the girl his second-to-last card.

  Its embossed coat of arms failed to impress her.

  “Stay here.” She turned without another word, allowing the door to close in his face as she presumably presented his card to her headmistress.

  Hawk fought the urge to straighten his cravat. The starched linen was almost transparent from repeated washings, and he did not wish to risk jabbing a hole into its painstakingly creased folds.

  Moments later, the door swung back open. Hawk’s heart leapt until he recognized the angry eyes glaring out at him.

  He sent the pigtailed butler a reproachful glance. “I asked you to deliver my card to Miss Digby.”

  “And Molly will be given an extra biscuit for being wise enough not to take orders from the likes of you,” Dahlia snapped. She crossed her arms, mirroring her student’s stance. Or perhaps the other way around. “What do you want?”

  “To talk to Faith,” he said honestly. “It’s past time, don’t you think?”

  “It’s over and done,” Dahlia said flatly. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  He lifted his brows. “I think that is up to Faith and me, is it not?”

  “It is not.” Dahlia pointed across the road, where his battered and rusty carriage practically sparkled, so out of place was it in a rookery. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?”

  “Five minutes,” he said quickly. “Two, if that’s all she will give me. Even if you don’t think I deserve the opportunity to apologize, she deserves to receive one.”

  Dahlia did not waver. “What good would it do now?”

  Perhaps none. Perhaps she was right. But after finally glimpsing the opportunity for a second chance, Hawk was not willing to give up so easily.

  He was here not just in the hopes of seeing Faith, but to take Grenville’s place for the evening. Even if Hawk was not invited to join the dancing, he possessed strong muscles quite capable of helping in any other capacity the school might require.

  “An apology may not change anyone’s life,” he admitted. “But perhaps my hands might. I can wield a hammer, a broom, a fire iron. I am more than willing to trade an hour’s labor for the briefest moment of her time.”

  Dahlia’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t care about my school.”

  Hawk did not respond.

  “Which can only mean you truly do care about…” Dahlia’s antagonistic stance softened briefly before her gaze shuttered once more. “My girls are self-sufficient and do not require your pity.”

  A handful of little girls ranging from perhaps eight years old to fifteen bounded into the room behind her like a pack of puppies.

  “Is Mr. Grenville here yet?”

  “It’s late! I’m bored!”

  “When will the dancing start?”

  Some of the hardness melted off Dahlia’s edges. She sighed. “I suppose you can acquit yourself somewhat respectably on the dance floor?”

  A sudden rush of hope infused Hawk with warmth. “I am your servant.”

  “Just until my brother gets here,” Dahlia said quickly. “We shan’t need you for more than a few moments.”

  “But Mr. Grenvil
le never has time to dance anymore,” piped up one of the eavesdropping schoolgirls. “And Mr. Spaulding’s new schedule means he can’t anymore either. What if there is no one to teach us to dance?”

  Dahlia glared at Hawk as if the situation were his fault. “Very well. While I am desperate enough to allow even one such as you to perform dancing-master duties when no one else is available, do not mistake this concession as a blanket welcome into our home.”

  Hawk nodded. “I understand.”

  “Do you?” Dahlia glared down her nose at him. “This is not an opportunity for you to cozy up to Faith again. In fact, I shall ensure she has the option to stay completely out of your sight whilst you’re under our roof. Although I cannot turn away an offer of free help, your continued presence is contingent on our combined goodwill.”

  Her words were more than clear. They were fair. Perhaps more so than he deserved.

  This was his opportunity to prove to her and Faith both that he was not the lad they remembered, but a man they could trust. And if even that was too much, then hopefully one day Hawk would at least be able to apologize as Faith deserved.

  “Understood,” he repeated firmly. “I am at your disposal for as long as you need me.”

  “Dancing lessons are every Saturday at six o’clock,” one of the girls piped up. “Right, Headmistress?”

  Dahlia pressed her lips together. After a long silence, she gave a tight nod. “Saturdays at six. But only until we find a more appropriate replacement.”

  He inclined his head. “Until you find someone more suitable.”

  Dahlia’s eyes narrowed into slits. “If you hurt her again, I will kill you. They will never find your body.”

  Hawk’s throat thickened at the strength of her loyalty. She and Faith were practically sisters. He expected nothing less from her. His only hope was that someday they would expect more from him.

  “Then we understand each other.” Dahlia spun on her heel and strode through the gaggle of children toward an archway farther down the corridor.

  Hawk hurried forward, lest the door once again slam in his face.

  Light and laughter spilled out of the converted ballroom at the rear of the abbey. Two dozen gleeful schoolgirls danced a chaotic minuet as the sweet, soaring notes of a violin filled the candlelit air with music.

  Dahlia’s sister Bryony was the source of the rousing tune, and stood on a raised dais on the other end of the ballroom. She was a gifted musician, world-class by some standards, genius by others, but Hawk only had eyes for the green-eyed headmistress at her side.

  Faith turned as if she had felt him enter the room the same way he felt her presence from across the well-trod carpet.

  Dahlia leapt up on the dais to whisper into Faith’s ear.

  He flinched when her smile immediately fell.

  Faith turned to Dahlia in obvious anger and whispered back words Hawk could only imagine.

  Dahlia lifted up her palms in supplication and gestured at the two dozen bright-eyed schoolgirls waiting expectantly for their turn to dance.

  Faith rubbed a hand over her face as if hoping the entire situation would disappear. Or at least Hawk.

  He did not.

  His muscles tightened. This was torture. If Faith had rejected him, asked him never to return, he would have to respect her wishes.

  Dahlia’s face softened. She touched her fingertips to Faith’s arm and gestured toward the stairs.

  Faith shook her head and squared her shoulders as if preparing for battle.

  She was going to stay.

  She was going to stay.

  Hope rushed within him. He ached to speak with her, dance with her, hold her once again. But he’d settle for making an apology, if she would only let him.

  Perhaps tonight would be too soon to apologize, but at least she hadn’t run away. That in itself felt like a second chance. Not like forgiveness, of course—even when he could make his overdue apology, he had no expectation of being forgiven—but at least it meant another hour in the same room as Faith.

  After a far too insightful glance between the two of them, Dahlia clapped her hands for attention to silence the crowd. “Mr. Grenville unfortunately appears to be delayed, but Lord Hawkridge has graciously agreed to be our substitute dancing master in the interim.”

  The violin stopped. Every pair of eyes swung in Hawk’s direction.

  “Well, then.” Dahlia motioned for him to take center stage in the middle of the scuffed wooden floor. “Who will be the first to dance with Lord Hawkridge?”

  Hawk smiled at the wide-eyed orphans surrounding him.

  None of them smiled back.

  Even the girls who had helped coax their headmistress into accepting him as a temporary substitute were suddenly far more interested in plucking invisible lint from their pinafores than being the first to dance with Hawk.

  The moment stretched on to infinity.

  “Fine,” Dahlia said in exasperation at the same time Faith said softly, “I’ll do it.”

  Hawk’s heart stopped.

  “What?” Dahlia stared at Faith. “Did you say—”

  “You go ahead,” Faith stammered in haste. “I think you said it first. I don’t need to dance. I’ll just—”

  “You were totally first.” Dahlia stepped away from the dais. “In fact, I think I smell smoke in my office. It’s my duty to investigate. Bryony, some music?”

  Faith opened her mouth, but was drowned out by the suddenly deafening melody sailing from Bryony’s violin.

  Hawk glanced over his shoulder to help, but Dahlia was already disappearing upstairs.

  Very well, then. Time to dance.

  He made his way from the center of the salon to the dais where Faith stood rooted with bright pink cheeks. Heart racing, he lifted an outstretched hand and held his breath.

  Faith’s indecision was palpable. So were the thumping feet of the rowdy students, the fairylike sparkles of the mirrored candles, the intoxicating sweetness of the violin’s melody.

  It was not going to work. She was not going to take his hand. Hawk was being given the cut direct in front of two dozen indigent orphans and he had never felt a keener blow.

  Just as he started to lower his hand, she lifted hers.

  His breath caught. Faith’s eyes were not full of forgiveness but resignation. Yet it was more than he had hoped for. More than he deserved. It was a start.

  He helped her down from the dais and placed his other hand about her waist.

  The last time he had touched her, she’d had thin, coltish limbs in debutante pastels. Now, she was nothing but soft, womanly curves. Even more perfect than last he’d seen her. Even more perfect than last they touched.

  Faith’s gait was stiff, her muscles tense, but she allowed him to guide her into a waltz.

  He tried his best to look lordly and not like a mooning ninny. He wasn’t even certain how he’d been lucky enough to win this dance.

  “For the children’s sake. This is their favorite moment in the week.” She answered his unspoken question with surprising prescience. “I will throttle Dahlia the moment this ‘lesson’ is through.”

  In that case, he was glad for the children. He hoped they never quit this room. He would live in this moment, in this waltz, in this embrace for the rest of his life, if only Faith would let him.

  “I am so sorry,” he said without preamble. “For everything.”

  It was not how he meant to start, or the way he meant to say it, but it was true. It had always been true.

  “Don’t apologize,” she said, surprising him with her lack of rancor.

  He blinked. “You deserve it, and more. I’ve so much to apologize for.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t bother.”

  The hopefulness he’d felt earlier evaporated. Perhaps Faith had ceased caring about him to the point that nothing he said mattered to her at all. Hawk swallowed his hurt. Her disinterest was far worse than the righteous anger he’d expected. The anger he deserved.
r />   Anger would mean she still cared in some way. This…emptiness meant there was no hope at all.

  “I’m not looking for forgiveness,” he said quickly, lest she had misjudged the reason why he was here. “I’m not trying to ferret my way back into your life. I just want to apologize for my actions before. To explain why—”

  “I don’t care why.” She sighed. “Apologizing to each other can only lead to new hurts. It is best we leave the past in the past where it belongs. You may have this waltz, but we do not have a future.”

  “Apologize…to each other?” Hawk frowned in confusion. What had she to apologize for? “Surely, you don’t think you owe me anything. It is I who treated you unforgivably. The last thing I ever wished to do was hurt you—”

  “Then why did you?” she interrupted, a glassy sheen to her eyes. “Why did it have to be this way?”

  His cheeks burned. But he would not back down from the truth.

  “Because I was weak. Because I was young. Because I thought I had more freedom than I actually possessed. None of those reasons excuse my actions, but perhaps I can explain why it happened. You were not at fault. You were all that I wanted—”

  “You had me,” she said bitterly. “And the next morning, discarded me.”

  “I don’t deny it,” he said softly, hating that his apology was hurting her. “That is the truth, but it is not the whole truth. The marquessate was out of money. My guardian forbade the match—”

  “You had already despoiled me,” she hissed angrily. “You ruined me without a second thought.”

  “It didn’t feel like ‘ruining’ at the time,” he said quietly. “It felt like lovemaking. It felt like I’d finally found the other half of my soul.”