Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  Heath grinned to himself as his muscles tensed in anticipation.

  Years earlier, when he had taught Dahlia self-defense, they had quickly developed the habit of ambushing one another to keep their skills sharp.

  Although they were no longer adolescents, they had kept up the game. Heath was proud of his fearless sister, and glad he could help keep her safe even when he was not present to watch over her.

  No doubt she would wish to prove herself as nimble and capable as ever.

  Rather than edge closer and expose himself to a potential attack, he lowered his head and rushed into the room at full speed.

  Dahlia was ready. Instead of lying in wait, she somersaulted in front of him the moment he crossed the threshold, catching him at the knees and quickly rolling out of the way as he tumbled forward off-balance.

  Rather than land on his face, Heath turned his rapid fall into a somersault and sprang fluidly to his feet before she could attack again.

  Dahlia was already standing upright with her fists in the air.

  “A tie!” Bryony exclaimed in delight. “How long has it been since you’ve had a tie?”

  “It’s not a tie,” Dahlia protested. “Heath wasn’t ready. He went down!”

  “Down into a somersault, which he quickly leapt out of. He didn’t stay down.” Bryony pointed out, to her sister’s exasperation.

  Camellia’s eyes twinkled. “If we’re being picky, you were the first to go down. You were flying boots over bonnet before Heath even entered the room.”

  “My somersault was tactical,” Dahlia said with high offense. “His was reactionary!”

  “Do I have a voice in this discussion?” Heath asked drolly.

  “No,” all three sisters chorused at once.

  Laughing, he threw himself onto one of the chaise longues. “Mother would like to know why you three unmarriageable wretches are still spinsters.”

  “Mother would never say such a thing,” Bryony replied primly. “She knows precisely why we’re all unmarriageable spinsters.”

  Camellia threw a pillow at her sister’s head. “Speak for yourself. Mother has said that if I fail to bring some sap up to scratch before the end of the Season, Father will select my future husband.”

  “Poppycock.” Dahlia settled herself on the floor next to Heath’s chaise. “Father is too busy to wish us well on our birthdays. He’ll never take the time to comb through eligible bachelors in search of a perfect match for his daughter.”

  “Exactly.” Bryony’s voice was dark. “He’ll pack her off with the first wily roué who asks. Cam, you cannot let him do it. You must find a husband first.”

  Heath suddenly realized he had hoped all his sisters would find love matches. They deserved happiness. One person in the family taking a bride for the barony rather than for love was more than enough. He would do his duty so that his sisters could follow their hearts.

  Duty meant choosing a chit based on bloodlines and good stock and impeccable comportment. Selecting from a limited pool of debutantes the way one might deliberate horseflesh at Tattersall’s. One didn’t expect to speak with the horse, to experience some sort of otherworldly connection with the horse. One simply did one’s best to procure a creature that would not embarrass him in front of his peers.

  Just because Heath knew these things did not mean he must like them. If he was shocked to discover he had always taken such strict protocol for granted, he was even more shocked at the tiny part of him that wished exceptions could be made. Not forever; he was heir to a barony that he would one day pass down to his own son, and could not in good faith do anything to tarnish that gift.

  No, not forever… but perhaps for a single moment. If he could freeze everyone else in time for a single, reckless hour, he really could ask a woman like Miss Winfield to dance. They would be the only two whirling amongst the frozen dance floor. They would not require an orchestra to find the rhythm to waltz.

  For that hour, he would not be Mr. Grenville, first in line to a title, upholder of all that is proper and good ton. For that hour, Miss Winfield would not be a sheep maid or a paid companion or off-limits at all. They would simply be a gentleman enjoying a waltz with a pretty woman.

  And perhaps a kiss or three, if the lady were amenable. No need for promises, or apologies, or regrets. Just two people without a care or worry, finally allowing the spark between them full rein before the wheels of time came crashing down again to separate them for good.

  “Pay close attention, Dahlia.” Bryony stabbed a plume in her sister’s direction. “As soon as Cam’s married, then it’ll be your turn.”

  Dahlia blanched at the realization. “I refuse. There’s no time for such nonsense when I’ve a demanding schedule as headmistress of a school. How can Mother expect me to waltz through every dinner party in Town and still manage an overcrowded, underfunded boarding school?”

  “She does not wish for you to do both,” Bryony pointed out dryly. “You would make her the happiest of creatures if you would stop caring about other people and focus your talents on flirting with painted fans.”

  “Mother isn’t evil,” Heath reminded them all. “She’s this way because she loves all of you. In the world we live in, a daughter’s duty is to be wed, and a successful mother ensures that happens. She doesn’t view you as unworthy. She views herself as a failure.”

  “To be fair, she also views us as failures,” Camellia said with a sigh. “I’m likely the worst of the lot. Unlike my hoyden sisters, I’m not ‘on the shelf’ on purpose.”

  “I’m not against husbands,” Dahlia protested. “If I could find a man who didn’t mind that his wife’s priority was taking care of—”

  “Stop right there,” Heath interrupted, miming taking written notes on the conversation. “If I report back to Mother that you are open to the idea of marriage, that will settle her nerves considerably.”

  “What about you?” Camellia asked. “Are you truly going to find a bride this Season?”

  “I promised Mother I would,” he replied. For better or for worse.

  “One couldn’t ask for a firmer ‘yes.’” Bryony shook her head. “Heath has never broken his word in his life.”

  “True.” Dahlia tossed him a saucy grin over her shoulder. “That’s how I tricked him into giving me self-defense lessons all those years ago.”

  “You didn’t trick me,” he protested. “You said you wanted to know how to defend yourself if you encountered a situation that required it, and I found that a quite reasonable request.”

  She leaned her head against his arm. “And I thank you, dear brother. You’re my favorite for a reason.”

  Camellia’s mouth dropped open in mock offense. “No favorites allowed!”

  She and Bryony showered him and Dahlia with every pillow cushion within arm’s reach.

  Heath let the pillows fall where they may. He couldn’t have been more content.

  He’d often wished that instead of the stodgy portrait Mother had commissioned of the four siblings when they were young, that they’d opted for an irreverent moment-in-time painting instead.

  Days like today. Camellia and Bryony showering the room with bright satin cushions. Heath, sprawled on an elegant chaise. Dahlia, her prim coiffure resting against his shoulder while the telltale cuffs of boys’ breeches poked out from beneath the hem of her day dress.

  A niggle of doubt cracked his happiness. He had taught Dahlia to defend herself because he never wanted any woman to feel helpless. And those were his castoff trousers that allowed her to tumble across the floor without fear of indecent exposure.

  Dear Lord. Why would Mother believe he was in any way the right person to talk “sense” into Dahlia? Heath was the one to blame for her turning out strong and capable and stubborn.

  For all intents and purposes, he’d been the only male figure present for most of his siblings’ lives. What if he’d conveyed the wrong message?

  He sat up abruptly. “Listen, all of you.”

 
Three pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly.

  Camellia did not require his impending words of wisdom. She had never once gone against Society’s expectations or their parents’ wishes. Bryony and Dahlia, however…

  He took a deep breath. As their elder brother, it was important to do and say the right thing.

  “I love all of you. I love who you are, I love how you are, and I cannot wait to see what you’ll become.”

  Bryony narrowed one eye. “But?”

  “But I’m just me,” he said simply. “One man. Your big brother. And much as I wish I could control how you’re treated by the rest of Society, I cannot change their views, or their rules, or their expectations. In this room, you can be whoever and however you want. But for the rest of the world, what others think about who and how you are carries more weight than how and who you actually are. Do you understand?”

  Bryony scoffed. “No.”

  “I understand.” Dahlia leaned away from him and crossed her arms. “But I disagree. It isn’t the rest of the world that cares more about appearances than souls. It’s the peerage. Do you think the girls at my school gave a fig when I lost my subscription to Almack’s?”

  “Your girls might not know what Almack’s is,” Camellia said, her voice soft. “But it’s naïve to say they don’t care about what others think. Why else would they be in a boarding school?”

  “To prevent their fathers from beating them? If indeed they are ‘lucky’ enough to have one?” Dahlia’s face darkened with anger. “To finally end night after night of shame and agony when some drunken toff catches them in the street and decides to—”

  “You’re both right,” Bryony interrupted quickly. “Almost everyone is driven more by how others perceive them than by their own passions. But we can choose to be the same or to be different. I, for one, choose not to give a button what anyone thinks.”

  Heath groaned. This conversation had taken a sharp detour. “What I’m trying to say is—”

  “They know what you’re trying to say,” Camellia said gently. “You’ve made a career of helping Society keep up appearances. People pay you to stop them from becoming other people’s gossip fodder. The impact of one’s reputation is an indisputable, obvious fact.”

  It was his turn to narrow his eyes. “…but?”

  “But it’s not the whole story. I happen to agree with you. Bryony does not. And Dahlia…” Camellia gazed sympathetically at their sister. “Dahlia knows you’re right, and has chosen to follow her heart anyway.”

  “What Cam means,” Bryony began with a toss of her head, “is that we received your message. Just don’t expect us to change a thing. We are not your paying customers.”

  No, they were not. Heath gazed at his sisters. They had become his responsibilities the moment of their births. Nor would he have it any other way.

  When Camellia had been too shy to attract dance partners, Heath had made it fashionable to ensure no wallflower’s dance card went empty. When Dahlia had opened her boarding school, Heath had personally assuaged the concerns of Society matrons suddenly unsure about extending their invitations to all members of the Grenville clan.

  His sisters had always been Heath’s top priority clients.

  They just never realized it.

  “While you’re here…” Camellia rustled some papers atop her writing desk in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “Can we discuss the score for the next musicale?”

  Dahlia lay back, resting her head against the plush carpet. “What’s to discuss? The songs haven’t changed since Mother created the first arrangement. You all sound perfectly lovely each time, and everyone returns home deservedly astonished by your talent.”

  “By Camellia’s and Bryony’s talent,” Heath corrected. “Mother is far more accomplished at the pianoforte than I am.”

  Bryony glanced over at him in alarm. “You cannot let her replace you. It would no longer be the Grenville sibling musicale!”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he assured her. “My semi-competent fingers are yours for as long as they can be of middling service.”

  Dahlia turned toward him. “You don’t have to, you know. I don’t go on stage, and lightning hasn’t struck me yet.”

  “Yet,” Heath teased back.

  He didn’t participate in the musicales because he loved the pianoforte, but because he loved his family. Camellia’s voice was unparalleled; her passion for singing was present in every note. He was awestruck of her.

  Bryony might not feel passionate toward the violin, but she found the exercise amusing. Watching his sister have fun with four strings and a bow was just as much fun for Heath as it was for her. That Bryony had been a child prodigy with the violin and had only grown more skillful as she matured made sharing the stage with her an honor, not a duty.

  He was just as proud of “unmusical” Dahlia, who never missed a performance and still managed to find the time to manage a growing boarding school that required round-the-clock administration. Family came first to Dahlia, which now meant the Grenville clan and two dozen indigent dependents who looked up to her like a mother.

  Of the four, Heath was the only one not following his true passion. Not that he was meant to have any passions. From the moment of his conception, he had been destined to inherit the barony one day. That was to be his sole and defining duty: become as competent and successful a baron as his father.

  Perhaps it was foolish of him to dream of making a name for himself in his own right. No one else expected him to be anything more than heir to his father’s title. That was enough for his mother. Enough for Society. So why wasn’t it enough for Heath?

  More importantly, why should his sisters feel any different? He rubbed his pounding temples. Shouldn’t he and his mother “let” Dahlia ruin her standing if that was what she chose to do? Were lifelong passions not worth the risk?

  A footman entered the sitting room with the morning post.

  Dahlia and Bryony pounced upon the pile of folded missives as if awaiting a personal note from the Prince Regent himself. Camellia never glanced up from her sheets of music.

  “Eighty pounds.” Dahlia rifled through her post with a happy sigh. “Not as much as I’d hoped, but any donation is better than no donation.”

  Camellia nodded approvingly. “Excellent work. The post will come again this afternoon. Bry, how did you do with your correspondence?”

  “My investment report still hasn’t arrived,” Bryony answered with obvious disappointment. She slid Heath a frustrated look.

  “Something I can help with?” he inquired in a low voice.

  Bryony sighed and shook her head. “It’ll come eventually.”

  Because most men balked at the idea of doing business with a female, Heath had helped his sister invest anonymously. It had begun on a dare. Bryony had thought it would be great fun to purchase shares in projects owned by men who would never open their books to a woman.

  To Heath’s surprise and Bryony’s delight, she had been brilliant at it. She quickly got out of the three percents and into the riskier but far more lucrative business of funding private ventures.

  Because of his fame as a secret-keeper, her marks never bothered to ask where the money came from. They already knew Heath would never betray a confidence, and besides, the business owners and project managers needed the money too much to concern themselves with minor details.

  Bryony had tried to pull out of all her investments some months ago in order to divert her capital gains toward her sister’s school. When Dahlia had refused to siphon money from her sister’s dream to fund her own, Bryony had gone through Heath to make as many small, anonymous donations as she could.

  The majority of her earnings, however, were contractually tied up in fixed-timeline investments. The letter she was waiting on was likely a quarterly report detailing the progress-to-date of one of her speculative ventures. Bryony’s gift with numbers enabled her to draw accurate conclusions from such reports that even the financiers
who wrote them had been unable to anticipate.

  His mouth twitched. If she’d been born a different gender, she’d own half of London by now. She was probably still on that path anyway, one pseudonymous investment at a time.

  And if Heath had been born a second son, or a third, or a fourth, there would be little chance of him inheriting the title. He could not wish away the barony, but nor could he shake his longing for a freedom he could never have. To make decisions for himself, rather than duty.

  What would he do with freedom such as that? Would he give into his desire to sweep Miss Winfield into his arms? Lower his mouth to hers and plunder—

  “What are you smiling at so wolfishly?” Camellia asked.

  He glanced over at her with a guilty start, then realized her words were not directed at him, but to Bryony.

  “Gossip columns.” Bryony held up a sketch with a caption beneath. “Have you seen today’s caricature?”

  “Ugh, I despise them.” Camellia pulled a face. “Why do you insist on having them delivered?”

  Bryony grinned back. “To see if I’m in them.”

  Heath’s heart stopped. Bryony’s flippant words might be in jest, but he wasn’t so certain the idea was far-fetched.

  Having a beloved family member appear in some mocking caricature was his worst nightmare. Not just as the problem-solver famed for quieting ton scandals, but as elder brother to three unwed sisters. How was he supposed to protect them from the damage a printing press could do?

  He reached out a palm. “Give it to me.”

  Bryony handed it over without comment and turned her attention to the rest of her mail.

  Good God. Heath could not look away from the ghastly caricature. That this rubbish was sketched with a deft hand did not signify. Every visage was instantly recognizable. Not just the poor saps being mocked in the foreground. All the faces. The footman in the background was just as familiar as the salon in the sketch.

  His breath caught. This wasn’t some outsider’s biting commentary on the perceived iniquities of aristocratic life. This was Lady Carlisle’s ballroom. A real place. A real moment in time. Real quotes emanating from jauntily drawn mouths.