Except for Bryony.
Excitement began to race through her veins. Now that her sister’s school was no longer in danger of closing without Bryony diverting her personal income to save it, she was free to save or invest her money as she saw fit. The price she’d been offered for the property would be a welcome windfall, indeed.
It was also a short-term gain. Bryony twisted her lips in thought. If Mr. Gideon had no intention of relocating, she—or her future husband—would earn far greater returns by collecting rent month after month, year after year. The Cloven Hoof was doing a brisk business. Rent could be priced accordingly.
Of course, following that plan would inhibit her ability to engage in other opportunities requiring ready cash. There would be no way to know which avenue offered the surer reward until—
“Cloven Hoof.” The driver pulled his horses to a stop. “Looks closed.”
“Rotten luck,” Bryony groused in a manly tone, and flipped the driver a coin as she bounded from the carriage.
She did not pause at the Cloven Hoof, but strolled off as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
The driver wasted no time in continuing on in search of his next fare. Only once he was out of sight did Bryony circle around to the rear of the club and place her ear to the door.
It was silent.
She slid her key into the lock and twisted. The door unlocked with ease. She held her breath as she opened the door.
Nothing.
The coast was clear.
Ever since she’d made the purchase, she’d studied the plans for the property, and could likely find her way about in the dark.
Nonetheless, she welcomed the moonlight streaking through a few high windows. It was impractical to bring a lit candle on a carriage ride, and she was glad to discover she could see—if dimly. She was standing at the rear of the long corridor that bisected the club’s interior.
She inched forward with caution.
Mr. Gideon’s office was to her left, a supply room to the right. Once she cleared these, she came to a small area with chairs and tables on either side. According to her monthly reports, this area was designated for conversation, not gambling. After this section was the primary salon, which contained a bar, dozens of gaming tables in a large open area, and a handful of smaller tables for spectators along the edges.
This last bit, she had to trust more to her research than her eyes. Very little light snuck into the front salon, likely to protect the gamblers’ privacy from passers-by on the street outside. As expected, the establishment was empty.
The reconnaissance mission could proceed as planned.
With a smile, she turned her back on the gaming tables and retraced her steps to the rear office.
Bryony unlocked the office and stepped inside. Despite the utter blackness within, she locked the door tight behind her.
Although the plans of the building failed to indicate the location of candles and sconces, logic dictated that there must be one near the entrance. She retrieved the tinderbox from her pocket and struck the flint to the metal.
There. Quickly, she lit a taper and lifted the candle from its holder. She stared about her in wonder.
This was the black heart of the ton’s most infamous den of iniquity?
A stately mahogany desk not dissimilar from her father’s stood just opposite. A decidedly non-devilish bookshelf covered the wall behind it. Then three comfortable chairs, one behind the desk and two in front for visitors. On the wall facing the alley, a small fireplace. Parallel to the other wall, a comfortable looking settee and an ornate folding curtain, presumably to hide a chamber pot from view.
Also absent from view: coal, brimstone, hellhounds, loose women, or gambling accoutrements of any type. Indeed, she could spy neither a decanter for port nor a tobacco pouch or snuffbox. Not even a token bit of clutter.
From this vantage point, one might be forgiven for believing that the Lord of Vice indulged in no vices whatsoever.
She edged closer to the pristine desk. Not only wasn’t a single paper out of place, there were no documents to rifle through at all. The desk was completely bare. She settled into Mr. Gideon’s chair and tried to imagine where he might hide secret information he didn’t wish for his landlord to see.
The desk drawer? Too obvious. But she jiggled the handle anyway.
“Locked,” she muttered under her breath.
Of course it was. Even if the drawer was empty, a man this slavishly organized would leave nothing to chance.
She let go of the drawer handle. Her keys only worked on doors, and forcing the drawer open would only leave proof of her presence. That was the last thing she needed.
Besides, who hid sensitive documents right where a spy would look for them? He was more likely to… carve a secret compartment inside a book.
She leapt to her feet and moved to inspect the bookshelf.
Samuel Johnson… Horace Walpole… Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft… Bryony blinked.
The idea of the powerful owner of an infamous vice den voluntarily reading female philosophies was so delightful that at first the distant voices down the corridor failed to register as anything more than background noise.
Voices.
Corridor.
Maxwell Gideon was here.
She leapt behind the folding screen just as strong footsteps reached the other side of the office door. Frantic, she blew out the candle and squeezed herself as tightly into the corner as possible.
As long as neither Mr. Gideon nor his guest peeked behind the screen, Bryony should be safe here in the shadows.
But if anyone did…
The door swung open and flickering candlelight filled the office with a dim orange glow.
Bryony held her breath.
From her position squeezed against the wainscoting at the opposite end of the room, her potential exposure was limited to the tiny sliver visible in the half-inch crack between the edge of the curtain and the wall. She could see a slice of the carpet, the desk, the chairs, but no glimpse of the man who had just unlocked the door.
Why wasn’t he crossing into the room? Why had their conversation suddenly stopped? Her hands shook so violently that she nearly dropped the spent taper gripped in her trembling fingers.
Her heart thudded in horrified realization.
The candle. Of course. Anyone’s first act upon entering a dark room would be to light the sconces therein, and she had pilfered the most convenient of those candles for her own purposes. She could still smell the faint odor of smoke emanating from the burnt wick.
Mr. Gideon must be wondering what became of the strangely absent candle. Perhaps he would assume his staff had removed a spent nub with the intention of replacing it with a fresh taper, before being distracted by some more pressing matter.
Or perhaps a man considered a devil in his own right would detect not only a faint whiff of smoke in the chill air, but also the panic emanating from Bryony’s very pores. There was nowhere else to hide. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to—
“Sit,” came a low, deep voice as rich and dark as warm chocolate. “It’ll be warmer in a moment.”
Bryony’s narrow line of sight was suddenly filled with a man of impressive height, broad shoulders, then unfashionably long black hair curling against a snowy white cravat as he knelt before the fireplace.
Before she could glimpse his face, orange flames leapt from the grate. He turned away from both the fire and the folding-screen to stride toward the desk.
“I appreciate you hearing me, Gideon,” said the other man, who had yet to take his seat as instructed. “I had nowhere else to turn.”
“No one who sees me ever does,” Mr. Gideon agreed as he settled into the large, imposing chair facing his guest…
Directly facing Bryony’s hiding spot.
She stared into the crack between the screen and the wall in fascination.
Glittering black eyes. Sharp, slashing cheekbones. Full, sensuous lips. Blindingly handsome and
breathtakingly dangerous.
A portly man with thinning brown hair minced into the seat opposite and blocked her view. She leaned away from the crack in the folding screen. All she could do for now was listen.
“Tell me everything,” Gideon commanded.
“I find myself balancing on the edge of ruin,” his guest began hesitantly. “Textiles are my family’s livelihood. The building that housed our looms burned down last Thursday, and my wife and daughter barely escaped with their lives.”
Bryony frowned. While she held a great deal of empathy for the man’s plight—indeed, this was precisely the sort of case she favored when determining her own investments—what on earth did this man expect Maxwell Gideon to do about it?
Given his disclosed balances, the Cloven Hoof’s total profit would barely cover the most recent offer Mr. Gideon had made for the property around them. There was nothing extra to donate to needy persons, no matter how noble the request.
“How much do you need, Schneider?” Mr. Gideon asked, his voice detached and dispassionate as if the emotional story he’d just heard was meaningless compared to cold, hard numbers.
“A thousand pounds?” Mr. Schneider replied hesitantly.
Bryony would have laughed, had his situation not been so dire.
She had commissioned an exhaustive investigation prior to agreeing to help fund the Cloven Hoof’s development.
Mr. Gideon did not come from money. That was the entire reason why he’d needed her help in the first place. Five years may have passed in the interim, but Bryony was well-versed in the club’s daily gains and losses. The Cloven Hoof was doing a brisk business, but not so brisk as to cover both the price of the property and a thousand pounds for a patron in need of alms.
“No.” Mr. Gideon’s harsh reply was cold and final. “You would need at least two thousand just to replace the machinery. We need to rebuild stronger and safer. If I choose to invest, I shall require ten percent of profits until you’ve repaid your debt at twenty percent interest.”
She blinked. That was exactly the sort of devil’s bargain she had first proposed to him. But how could he—
“Done,” Mr. Schneider answered quickly. “Whatever you require will be my privilege to provide, Mr. Gideon. You’ve helped so many of us. Without you, there would be no hope.”
He did have the blunt? That deliciously devious imp! Bryony’s mouth fell open.
Although his pockets had been markedly empty when the club first opened, he must have been using every halfpenny of profit he earned to invest in gradually increasing schemes in order to raise higher and higher returns.
By doing so under his personal name and after business hours, such private arrangements could theoretically be exempt from inclusion in the otherwise extremely detailed and candid financial reports sent to Bryony on the first of every month.
Not only must he have more than enough resources to purchase the deed from her… she no longer had any idea how much money was at his disposal, putting her in a very disadvantaged bargaining position indeed.
Moments ago, Bryony would have sworn that no man in England tempted her in the slightest.
Maxwell Gideon was far from naïve. He was resourceful, ruthless, and dangerously clever. A potent cocktail of characteristics that appealed far more than she preferred to admit.
She shivered in pleasure to realize the increased pounding of her heart had more to do with the intelligent, handsome scoundrel on the other side of the folding screen than the threat of discovery.
He was more than her intellectual equal. He was trouble in every possible sense.
She couldn’t wait to find out just how much trouble. Firsthand.
Chapter 2
Maxwell Gideon did not offer an encouraging smile to the nervous patron seated across from him. In part, because Max rarely offered smiles of any variety. More importantly, men like Schneider did not approach Max in his private chamber because they sought charm or politesse.
Men like Schneider were desperate. They sought riches. Or rescue.
Both were within Max’s power to give—or to withhold.
“Tell me about your wife and daughter,” he commanded. “Are they hurt?”
“No one was burned, but they spent days nursing wracking coughs. The smoke, you know,” Schneider said hoarsely, his eyes downcast. “Without an income, I cannot help my family. We need a miracle and I have nowhere else to turn.”
Of this, Max was certain.
While he had no firsthand experience of the sort of business transactions one might see transpire at gentlemen’s clubs like White’s or Brooks’s, the very fact that only the titled and the well-connected were allowed within their hallowed walls meant common tradesmen like Schneider could not avail himself of their innumerable advantages.
The Cloven Hoof was no such establishment.
Max had founded this venue not to ape his betters, but to spite them. He had no interest in pretending to be part of their exalted circles. He wanted to be their equal.
Were their fancy clubs so exclusive that one could only gain entry if approved by all the ruling members?
How precious.
Membership to Max’s club could be granted by one man and one man only.
Max.
At first, little attention had been paid to his shadowy gaming club just a few streets too far from the fashionable district. Once the dukes and earls and heirs and fops realized they must be approved, however, membership quickly became as sought-after as starched cravats.
He did not always extend his welcome to those born to privilege, and oh did that rankle them.
Max was happy to give their money to men like Schneider, however.
“We’ll start with a small outbuilding,” he began. “Once the first loom is in operation, we’ll work on expansion.”
Schneider sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Gideon. You’ve no idea how much your support means to me.”
Max had a very good idea indeed. That feeling of helplessness, of hopelessness, of scrabbling from nothing to scratch one’s way toward something of one’s own, to pure unadulterated freedom, was the impetus behind everything Max did.
The Cloven Hoof itself was the first and only tangible proof that he had finally achieved what had once seemed an impossible dream.
Or at least, it would be once he owned the property outright and was no longer answerable to any man but himself.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” was all he said aloud.
Schneider hesitated, glancing around the austere office as if it were the first time he truly registered his surroundings.
One desk. Three chairs. Many books. One settee.
No wine. No cards. No distractions of any kind. Max did not allow them. His life was carefully ordered, deliberate and precise, every aspect exactly how he intended it. He’d earned it.
“You do so much for others.” Schneider hesitated. “Oughtn’t you to do the same for yourself?”
Max blinked. “The Cloven Hoof is for me. Everything about it is mine.”
Almost everything.
Schneider shook his head. “You’re here every hour of every day. Don’t you deserve a life of your own?”
“The Cloven Hoof is my life.” Indeed, Max was just getting started. His plans went far deeper than what was visible to the casual eye. He intended to expand his empire. Create an even larger bridge between two worlds.
“You can’t marry a club or start a family with a stack of pound notes,” Schneider insisted. “A wife—”
“Good God.” Max reared back in horror. “You cannot be trying to matchmake me. Your daughter barely has sixteen years—”
Schneider blanched with an equal amount of obvious horror.
“Not to my Agnes,” he choked out. “I meant… some other woman. I dedicated my entire youth to textiles and nearly missed the opportunity for something more. I wouldn’t want to see you make the same mistake.”
“I don’t make mistakes,” Max
said simply.
The statement wasn’t a boast. It was a lifetime of dispassionate, coldly calculated decisions. Logic, not chance. Plans, not unpredictability. He enjoyed being the master of his ship.
Schneider cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Please forgive the intrusion. I meant no offense.”
“None taken.” Max rose from his chair. “If there’s nothing else…”
Schneider scrambled to his feet. “Just my abject gratitude. I’ll commission the plans as soon as it’s daylight. Thank you again. I’ll see myself out.”
Under normal circumstances, Max would not only have personally seen Schneider to the door, but also quit the Cloven Hoof himself.
This was the sole free day he allowed himself each week, and at this hour of the night he was running low on opportunity to do little more than catch a few hours’ sleep before beginning anew.
However, tonight something felt… wrong.
A missing candle, when his staff was trained too well and paid too handsomely to miss obvious necessities like candles. One of his books, not lined up perfectly with the others. His folding screen, butted up against the wall instead of how he normally angled it.
His carefully predictable world was different. Max hated inconsistencies, no matter how small. He would put things to rights and then he could return home in peace.
He drew out his key ring in order to retrieve a fresh candle from the supply cabinet across the corridor.
Once the taper was properly seated in the wall sconce, Max began to feel better. Things were almost back to normal. Back to how they should be.
He ran a careful finger along the spines of his books to nudge them into alignment, then stalked toward his folding screen in irritation.
Who the deuce would have placed it in the far corner, when his entire staff well knew that Max preferred—
He yanked the screen aside and froze in surprise.
Also frozen in surprise was the wide-eyed lad hiding on the other side.
After taking one look at whatever thunderous expression was currently storming through Max’s eyes, the lad blanched, flailed, and moved to flee.
Max was faster.
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 107