Find out in Lord of Vice, the next full-length Rogues to Riches regency romance.
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Keep turning for Lord of Vice!
Acknowledgments
As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partner and editor. Huge thanks go out to Erica Monroe and Shavonne Clarke. You are the best!
Lastly, I want to thank the Rogues to Riches facebook group, my Historical Romance Book Club, and my fabulous street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.
Thank you so much!
Lord of Vice
Rogues to Riches #6
Lord of Vice
(Rogues to Riches #6)
Vice merchant Maxwell Gideon is wickedly handsome, sinfully arrogant, and devilishly ruthless. Rumor has it, his gaming hell has the power to steal souls and grant miracles. Truth is, Max only owns half of The Cloven Hoof. He’d buy out his silent partner if he knew the man’s identity. But it’s hard to focus on business matters when a fallen angel tumbles right into one’s lap…
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Miss Bryony Grenville has a well-earned reputation as an unrepentant hoyden. But even the gossipiest of the pinch-faced matrons ruling High Society could never imagine the daughter of a baron secretly financing the ton’s most infamous gambling parlor. Its maddening, sexy proprietor doesn’t suspect a thing… and two can play at temptation!
Chapter 1
London, 1817
Miss Bryony Grenville was seated on the floor polishing a worn pair of lad’s boots when the door to her private drawing room flew open.
In a flash, she hid the boots behind her back—then scowled up at her grinning elder brother.
“Heath, you beast.” She brushed the wrinkles from her lap. “I thought you were Mother, here to scold me anew. Have you brought me more castoffs to wear?”
“I’ve brought you something better.” He flopped bonelessly onto the overstuffed settee just as he had always done. “First, tell me about Mother. Is she hounding you about marriage again?”
“There’s no one else left to hound,” she replied morosely. Bryony was the last unmarried Grenville. “I’m considering pursuing a career as a violinist just to make myself unmarriageable to society gentlemen.”
Heath grinned. “I’ve no doubt you could do it.”
Bryony perked up. “Really?”
“Not that I recommend such an action,” he amended. “While you are indeed the most talented violinist ever to grace London with your music, I seem to recall the tiny detail of you actually hating the instrument.”
“I don’t hate the violin,” she protested. “I don’t mind playing in our family musicales. And I willingly volunteer my time at Dahlia’s school with a minimal quantity of pouting.”
“Because you love your family and enjoy helping other people,” Heath pointed out. “But if it’s not your passion, trading some boring marriage for a grueling soloist career is exchanging one unhappy circumstance for another. Are you certain there are no suitable gentlemen on the horizon? Even a semi-suitable one that you like marginally better than the violin?”
“None I would make a good match with,” she admitted. “I wish there was a way I wouldn’t have to marry anyone at all.”
Nothing could curtail a woman’s freedom quite like a husband.
“Marriage doesn’t have to be terrible.” Warmth filled his eyes. “It’s a matter of finding the right person.”
“I’m not allowed to choose,” she reminded him sourly. “I’m not a future baron like you. I’m the youngest daughter. A barnacle to be bundled off to the first paragon willing to accept me.”
If only she possessed a large enough fortune to set herself up as an independent spinster!
Over the past two years, Bryony had sold all the unencumbered assets she’d earned from what felt like a lifetime of investing in order to make her anonymous donations to her sister’s struggling school. All that remained was one expiring investment contract and a single property deed.
And the obligation to marry a fine gentleman of suitable rank and excellent breeding so as not to bring scandal upon her beloved family.
The best she could hope for was to choose an appropriate gentleman from the flock herself before her father assigned a suitor for her. Someone acceptable to Bryony and her parents.
“Mother and Father are determined to marry me off before the end of the Season.” Bryony twisted her lips. “They’ve given me the same ultimatum they gave Camellia. I’ve one month to nab an eligible bachelor, or they’ll select one for me.”
Heath flinched. “The suitor they selected for Camellia was certainly not her best match.”
“They’re not hoping for a match of like minds,” Bryony reminded him. “According to Mother, as the daughter of a baron I am all but contractually required to wed a man with even loftier connections and nary the slightest hint of fun.”
“I can imagine how well that’s going,” Heath said wryly.
“Dreadful,” Bryony said with feeling. “I don’t want some gentleman twice my age who will take over my investments and my life and my—”
“What do you want?” he interrupted, laughing. “To take over his investments and his life and his—”
“Oh, you.” She tossed a pillow at his head. “I’ve come up with the perfect plan. I will find a man who meets all of Mother and Father’s technical requirements—rank, breeding, all that nonsense—but I will also ensure he meets all of my requirements.”
The corners of Heath’s mouth twitched. “Which are?”
“Pleasant, biddable, not particularly clever—”
“Don’t you want a husband whose mind matches yours?” Heath interrupted in surprise.
She shook her head. “A clever husband would inquire about the origins of my investment income. He would wish to oversee my every move, curtail my every freedom, in order to ensure my behavior never so much as skirts the line of propriety. A sweet-but-clueless husband will not entertain such notions.”
“Or any notions at all, save for the thoughts you provide him with?” her brother asked dryly.
She batted her eyes at him. “He’ll appreciate my help. He won’t have a fortune of his own or know how to mind one if he did. I can help on both points. He’ll be free to brag about my accomplishments as though they are his own, and I’ll be free to do as I please. A perfect union, you must admit. I need only to find the right candidate.”
“If anyone can do just that, it’s you.” Heath swung himself upright on the settee. “In the meantime, perhaps I come bearing good news. I’m to report that Max has doubled his offer.”
“Doubled?” That changed everything. Bryony hugged herself as she considered this new development.
Max was Maxwell Gideon, owner of the most infamous gambling den in all of London. Not only was his gaming hell named the Cloven Hoof, the scandal columns intimated the owner might be the devil himself. He was rumored to be tall, dark, and sinfully handsome. Rumor had it, the man had the power to steal souls and grant miracles.
Of course, few if any of the gossipy matrons had ever laid eyes on him.
He had no Almack’s voucher. No membership to high-in-the-instep gentlemen’s clubs like White’s or Brooks’s or even the slightly less distinguished Boodle’s. Had never received an invitation to any society ball or soirée or dinner party, or if so, had certainly never accepted it.
The “offer” Heath referred to was an increasingly desperate attempt to buy out Bryony’s portion of his vice establishment.
Not that he had any idea a woman was involved.
No one ever did.
Long before she was out of the schoolroom, Bryony would sneak into her father’s office whenever he was from home, and pore over his financial journals and the business reports he would receive on his investments.
With no one to guide her, at first it had been confusing. Quickly, however, she began to recognize patterns of risk and reward, of volatile markets and conservative investments
, of all the untapped potential of the opportunities Father did not take.
She hadn’t been able to resist trying her hand.
Heath had helped her pawn several possessions of value to create that first nest egg. Bejeweled tiaras she’d received as gifts, sumptuous gowns she’d grown out of, the monthly pin money she’d been saving for most of her life. The sum wasn’t as much as she would have liked, but a few high-risk, high-reward, short-term ventures later, it had begun to look mighty respectable.
She hadn’t been in a position to fund fleets of cargo ships or open textile factories. When the opportunity arose to cover the initial costs for a fledgling gambling hell, she’d have been foolish not to take it. The incentive was ten percent of the monthly income until it repaid the original debt at a twenty percent profit, with a one percent stake for the first five years.
In fact, Bryony was still baffled at having been given the chance at all. So many other investors could have easily taken her place, yet had overlooked the opportunity completely.
Featherwits, all of them.
The original contract had stated that if Maxwell Gideon did not settle the debt in full within five years, Bryony would receive fifty percent of the monthly profits instead of twenty. He had repaid the money within two years.
His only mistake was underestimating Bryony.
Gideon had been concentrating so hard on the goal of escaping a five-year contract as quickly as possible that he had failed to appreciate the value of the money his club was generating.
As the club did better and better, Bryony’s one percent stake became more and more lucrative. Yet time was against her. Only a few months remained on the contract and there was no reason for him to sign another. So she had used her earnings—and a pseudonym—to purchase the land and property that housed the Cloven Hoof. A brilliant maneuver.
Before, the club’s rent had been going to a third party.
Now, the money went directly to Bryony.
The moment Maxwell Gideon had realized his new landlord was none other than the silent investor he’d believed himself almost rid of, he had immediately offered to buy the deed from her at a rate ten percent higher than what Bryony had paid to procure it. Then twenty. Then thirty.
Now he had doubled the offer?
This was indeed an interesting turn of events.
“Well?” Heath asked with a droll lift of his brows. “Has that clever brain of yours calculated a decision?”
“Not yet,” she said softly, her mind still whirring with possibilities. “More information required.”
Her brother looked surprised. “Shall I request a report of some kind? I thought the terms of your contract required the Cloven Hoof to disclose details monthly.”
“It does,” she agreed. “Which is how I know the amount of profit it has earned. Given he’s also had to finance his own life, Mr. Gideon would be forced to deplete most if not all of his current savings in order to double the offer. He either has more money than he has disclosed, or he is exceedingly foolish.”
Heath shrugged. “Max wants to be full owner of the club.”
“Understandable. But willing to give up everything for total control?” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s suspicious, to say the least.”
Her brother frowned. “You think he’s hiding something?”
“Available facts would suggest that conclusion.” She hated missing an important part of the picture. Especially when it came to finances. She would have to investigate. “I require a fortnight to perform an analysis of my own.”
“Very well. I’ll have the appropriate response drawn up.” Her brother pulled a face when he glanced at the hour on the clock upon the mantel. “I must be off. But first, I brought you the morning paper. There is an advert in the back that might aid your calculations.”
He pulled the rolled paper from an inner pocket and tossed it carelessly upon the tea table before sailing out the door.
Bryony narrowed her eyes at the slowly unfurling curl of paper.
Heath was never careless. He knew she read the paper every single day. He also knew that in the interest of time, Bryony scanned the “important” bits: topics related to business, politics, new developments.
The mundane advertisements posted by ordinary citizens—the Thompson family requires a governess, Mr. Smith seeks a wife, Miss Jones lost her cat—such trivial matters had no bearing on the sorts of projects Bryony invested in.
What was Heath about?
She jumped up and snatched the curl of paper from the tea table. It was not the entire newspaper, but merely a single page of advertisements.
Quickly, she scanned the columns. Governess, governess, missing dog, maid, governess, wife, litter of kittens, dancing instructor, betrothal notice, apprenticeship, French tut—
Apprenticeship.
Bryony’s eyes widened. Her heart thumped faster as she read the advert once, twice, thrice over.
The infamous Cloven Hoof was in the market for an assistant. Not to mind the customers or preside over the gaming tables or manage the food and drinks, but to assist with accounts and reporting in the owner’s private office. A lad of quick wit and absolute discretion.
No doubt Heath expected her to calculate the cost of such a person’s wages, and what employing such an individual might mean for the future of the Cloven Hoof, with regard to retaining or selling her share of the establishment.
Bryony had a much better idea than applying mathematics to the situation. She would apply herself.
What better way to determine what exactly Maxwell Gideon was about than to be looking quite literally over his shoulder as he made his decisions?
She had been passing as a lad for years. Doing so in a private office far away from the eyes of customers would be child’s play.
The difficult part would be… actually winning the position.
Bryony frowned at the advert. She knew every number a third party could be expected to know about the Cloven Hoof: profits, expenses, staff, schedule, square footage. What she did not know was how a gaming hell worked.
If she wished to win the position, she would need to present herself as a clever lad with a reasonable understanding not only of gambling establishments in general, but the Cloven Hoof in specific.
She glanced at the clock on her mantel. The Cloven Hoof was closed. This was the perfect opportunity to slip inside and perform a wee bit of friendly espionage before waltzing through the front door during opening hours to present herself to the owner as a lad in need of honest work.
Or… questionably ethical work. Bryony would have no way to know what, precisely, Mr. Gideon and his gaming hell were about until she investigated for herself.
Starting now.
She hurried from the sitting room to her dressing chamber without summoning her lady’s maid. Although the staff had turned a blind eye to the siblings’ various antics for more than a decade, the fewer eyes upon her transformation, the better. With a few careful contortions, she managed to twist out of her gown.
After quitting her shift, she reached in the back of the armoire where she kept her well-worn collection of lad’s clothing, and a strip of cloth to bind her bosom. In no time at all, she was dressed in white small-clothes, gray waistcoat, dark trousers, black boots. It was all so much easier than lacing up stays and fastening a hundred tiny buttons.
And, if her mother’s rhetoric was to be believed, the disguise was completely unnecessary. All a woman had to do was step outside with un-curled hair, and the entire world could be forgiven for believing her to be a man.
Bryony sighed. If she had been born a man, none of her problems would exist. But that was not her lot, and the only choice was to make do.
Or go undercover.
If costumes and pseudonyms were the only way she ever achieved anything meaningful, then so be it.
She slipped into a sturdy black greatcoat that shrouded her from shoulders to shins and strode to the dressing table for some pins. Uncurled as her pl
ain brown hair might be, ’twas still best to keep it pinned safely inside her hat.
When she was through, she turned to the looking-glass to inspect her handiwork.
The greatcoat was a bit too long, the hat a bit too big, but together all of the garments served to hide her form and shadow her face. It would do, just like it had done many times before.
She shoved several coins, a tinderbox, a slip of paper, and a pair of bronze keys into her pocket. Then she hurried from her bedchamber to the servants’ staircase that led to the rear exit.
As soon as she reached the street, she flagged down a hack.
“Where to?” the driver asked without bothering to look over his shoulder.
“Cloven Hoof,” she replied gruffly. Out of long habit, she could now assume male tones and posture as easily as donning a hat.
The driver didn’t ask any more questions.
Bryony, however, was full of them. What was Maxwell Gideon hiding from her about the Cloven Hoof? Why was he so determined to own the lot? Why offer such an extravagant sum for a small rectangle barely brushing the border of the fashionable district? Only a fool would spend such a sum on an overpriced property merely out of pride.
She’d plotted the earnings trends time and again. At this rate, Mr. Gideon could afford to purchase a much better venue within a few more years. There was no reason to spend one’s last penny on the current locale.
Unless there was. In which case, she needed to know the reason.
She slid her hand into her pocket to touch the keys. Bryony possessed a copy because she owned the building.
Thanks to her monthly reports, she knew the Cloven Hoof was closed on Tuesdays. Mr. Gideon and the rest of his patrons had quit the premises at dawn this morning, and wouldn’t return until dusk tomorrow. All employees had the day off. The club would be empty.
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