He allowed the screen to fall where it may in favor of grabbing the lad’s thin arm and jerking the intruder further from the exit. Off-balance, the lad tripped backward over Max’s feet and windmilled wildly in a desperate attempt to regain his balance.
Max reached out to intercept him before he cracked his foolish head against the edge of the mantel.
Before the interloper could make another attempt to flee, Max swung the wriggling lad away from the shadows and into the light.
Not a lad.
A woman.
Max nearly dropped her in shock.
In the space of a mere breath, his meticulously planned, carefully ordered world had spiraled far outside his wildest imaginings.
“Who are you?” he demanded without loosening his grip.
“Brian,” came the immediate gruff reply.
Max doubted that very much. “Miss Brian, is it?”
An impressively unladylike curse whispered from her lips. Her eyes did not flinch from his. She was still pale, but defiant, as if it were he who had disturbed her plans for the evening, rather than the other way about.
“Let’s try this again.” His voice was cold, authoritative. “Who are you?”
“Bryony,” she said at last. “Shall I address you as Maxwell or Mr. Gideon?”
Impertinent baggage. “Mr. Gideon. We are not going to be friends.”
“How do you know?”
Max stopped himself from pointing out that he knew everything that happened between these walls because, clearly, his streak of many years spent controlling and predicting every aspect of his life, his industry, and his surroundings had come to a shockingly abrupt standstill.
He tightened his hold. “Who are you?”
“Bryony,” she repeated.
But they both knew such an innocuous name did not come close to answering the question. All the questions.
Who the devil was this woman? Why was she in his office? Why was she in breeches? How did she get here? What the bloody hell was happening?
“You have yet to release me from your iron grip,” she mentioned casually, as if perhaps he had failed to notice that she was still trapped in his arms.
She was reckless. Fearless. Fascinating.
No, he did not like it one bit.
“How did you get in here?” he demanded.
She lifted a shoulder. “The door was unlocked.”
“Bollocks,” he said immediately.
She did not reply.
He glowered at her in consternation.
The door had not been unlocked. He was certain of it. His staff was far too competent for such careless behavior. They cared about the Cloven Hoof—and keeping their posts—just as passionately as Max did.
Yet what was the alternative? Some chit had happened to stumble across a compatible key in the back alleyway? She’d crawled through the coal chute? Slid down the chimney?
Very well. Someone had failed to lock the door. He would ensure the mistake never happened again.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
She graced him with an angelic smile. “I adore gambling, which of course led to becoming curious about gaming hells. I figured if one were to tour such an establishment in person, why not choose the best of the bunch?”
Tour a gaming hell? He blinked at her bizarre, completely improbable explanation. And yet, something made him suspect her answer was closer to the truth than she wished to let on.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Why not?” She peered up at him from beneath thick, dark lashes. “Because I’m a woman?”
“Because you’re—” Maddening. Unpredictable. Infuriating. Irresistible.
Max snapped his jaw closed and glared at her until he could settle on an appropriate set-down.
“—chaos incarnate,” he finished, infusing his voice with as much disgust and disdain as such anarchy deserved.
She immediately brightened, wide brown eyes sparkling in obvious pleasure. “That is the most delightful thing anyone has ever said to me!”
Max stared at her in disbelief. “I was trying to insult you.”
“That’s partly what made it so diverting! No one but my mother has ever insulted me to my face before.” She twinkled up at him unrepentantly. “Do it again. Tell me my eyes are dull as dirt, my hips horrendously mannish, my lips as boring as cucumber sandwiches.”
He was horrified to realize that the exact opposite was suddenly, appallingly true. Her limbs were as delicate as a dancer’s, her lips distractingly plump and kissable, her warm brown eyes perfectly framed by dark, coquettish lashes.
His traitorous body was far too aware of her in all the most dangerous ways.
He released his hold on her as if her flesh could scald. “I liked you better when I thought you were a lad.”
“You liked me!” She clapped her hands together in approval. “I told you we were meant to be friends. Although I must admit, you do look…”
Max folded his arms over his chest and glared at her in silence.
He looked what? Common? Like the son of a dockworker and an immigrant? He was proud of who he was and where he came from, and certainly did not need some moppet in men’s breeches with an upper-crust accent to worm her way into his private territory, only to—
“—less demonic than advertised,” she finished with an irritated sigh.
He found himself at a complete loss for words.
She dug a folded scrap of foolscap from her coat pocket and tossed it onto his desk in disappointment. “I was hoping for hooves.”
The caricature.
A few months earlier, he had become the object of an anonymous caricaturist’s pen. He had been depicted as the overlord of a hellish den of vice. Flames licked from the edges of the sketch, highlighting the manic faces of the gamblers surrounding him as well as a tell-tale pair of cloven hooves where his boots ought to be.
The symbolism was far from subtle, even without the biting caption: The road to me is paved with gold intentions. Thousands of damning prints had circulated London in a matter of hours.
Was that why she was here? To see for herself if he were man or demon?
He tilted his head and considered her.
As both the owner of a gaming hell and a man who had survived despite every obstacle thrown in his path, Max was well used to having to make quick judgments about those he came in contact with.
He could recognize both thieves and thief-takers at a hundred paces. Had avoided knives in the back both metaphorical and physical. Had become associates with the unlikeliest of individuals. The enemy of those who sought to destroy him.
Despite the ignominious circumstances of their meeting, the young lady before him seemed eccentric, but solid. His muscles relaxed. This woman’s motives were unclear, but she was neither a thief nor a knife-wielder. The impression she gave was of someone looking for a friend, not trouble.
None of which meant she was welcome in Max’s club.
She threw herself atop his overstuffed settee as if she belonged there. “Are you wondering who I am?”
“I’ll presume…a very confused and lost young lady,” he ground out.
“The trousers didn’t trip you up one bit,” she agreed approvingly. Her brow creased and her expression turned pensive. “I knew there was no point to wearing stays. Or bothering with side curls.”
“Is there ever a point to stays?” he asked sarcastically. “You look ravishing.”
She bolted upright. “Are you thinking of ravishing me?”
“I am not thinking of ravishing you,” he bit out in exasperation.
Her eyes widened. “You don’t ravish women?”
“I ravish plenty of women,” he assured her, no longer certain what exactly they were discussing.
She tilted her head. “Just not me?”
“Not you,” he said firmly. “I’m still leaning toward tossing you out on your ear.”
“It is the breeches,” she murmured to herself. “I shall wear th
em always.”
“A practical choice,” he agreed. “Particularly if you intend to make a habit of being tossed out on your ear.”
“It’s never happened,” she admitted with a bemused smile. “You cannot imagine how surprising this evening has become.”
Max nearly choked in reply.
She was the one who could not imagine the maelstrom in his mind. He was not used to not having the upper hand. Not used to dealing with a woman like her. Not certain he’d ever met anyone like her.
Or what to do about it, now that he had.
She was over-confident, over-familiar, unpredictable. She had disordered his orderly world from the moment she flailed into his arms. She was a distraction he absolutely could not afford.
And she was reclining on his settee.
Suddenly, she consulted a small pocketwatch and leapt to her feet.
“Late to the ball, Prince Brian?” he asked.
“Something like that.” She made her way toward the exit without a backward glance.
“Don’t come back,” he called behind her.
At that, she turned around with a knowing smile. “You’d miss me.”
As he watched her disappear, he feared her words were a curse.
Chapter 3
Max was normally not the sort of gentleman to waste any percentage of his time on an activity as frivolous as shopping for a new waistcoat.
Max was normally not a gentleman at all.
He did not read society papers or attend ton events. The only aristocratic faces he would recognize were of the individuals who visited his club. Any lordlings unwilling to mix with other clientele weren’t worth a second thought.
Finding himself striding through bustling St. James’s in the middle of the afternoon was as surprising to Max as it was to the fashionable set streaming past him.
To some, he was a ruler of the underworld, lord of a dark domain on the wrong side of respectability, a man who blossomed at night and belonged to the shadows.
To the others, he was no one.
An unrecognizable stranger not of their class, perhaps not worthy of notice at all. A certain swarthiness that bespoke time spent out in the elements. A certain burliness that came not from a gentlemen’s sparring club, but rather from manual labor of some kind.
An arrogance in his stride and pride in his carriage inexplicable to those borne from generation after generation of gentility and wealth.
“Mr. Gideon!” A gentleman in an impeccable suit much too fine for inclement weather clapped Max on the shoulder as he passed by. “Good to see you out and about for once!”
“Mr. Scott,” Max responded evenly. It was good to see the man sober for once.
Although known throughout London as the Lord of Vice, Max took great pains never to over-indulge. He preferred to rule vice, rather than be ruled by it. It was the only way to be master of his domain. And he needed to be the master.
But what had started out as a scheme to make easy money had become complicated when Max not only was good at and enjoyed his work, but also began to get to know his wealthier patrons. Many turned out to be decent men. Some even ended up becoming friends.
But then there were the others.
Despite the path he’d forged for himself, despite a lifetime of cunning and sacrifice that had culminated this close to success, his method of achieving financial security ensured his permanent position in the fringes well outside Polite society.
Even the endlessly mocked and pitied nouveau riche enjoyed a higher level of tolerance—if not acceptance—amongst the upper classes.
Max did not care. He had no wish to make a leg to the patronesses or bow and scrape before some blithering idiot eighth in line to an earldom.
He wasn’t even certain why the devil he was in the market for a new waistcoat all of a sudden.
Certainly it had nothing to do with yesterday’s chance encounter with a lad who had turned out to be female. He shook his head.
He’d had a long talk with his employees about checking twice before leaving to ensure all doors and windows were locked. There would be no more surprise visits from eccentric young women. No matter how intriguing she might be. They were now unlikely to cross paths again.
For now, all that mattered was the Cloven Hoof. Once he owned the property, he would be beholden to no one but himself, and finally in a position to consider new changes in other aspects of his life.
Until then, he would focus the entirety of his concentration on acquiring the deed.
“May I help you?” asked the shopkeeper.
The deed, and perhaps a new waistcoat.
Max glared at the endless rows of expensive cloth winding through the haberdashery like a blindingly gaudy serpent.
All of the jackets and trousers in his armoire were the same color: coal black. His shirts and cravats, white. His waistcoats, silver or gray. Practical, predictable, easy. Why turn the simple task of dressing oneself into some sort of stressful, nerve-wracking gauntlet?
“Are you searching for anything in particular?” the shopkeeper tried again.
Max frowned. Was he searching for something in particular? And if so, was the item he was searching for something that could be procured by way of a St. James’s haberdasher?
“I need a new waistcoat,” he announced. “Something fashionable.”
The shopkeeper brightened. “We’ve just received a new silk in the most dashing shade of puce—”
“No puce.”
“Perhaps a brighter shade? More of a mauve or a vermilion?”
“No.”
“Yes, I see. Let’s stay out of the reds, shall we? Over this way, we have a stunning turquoise and chartreuse blend—”
Before Max could open his mouth, the shopkeeper had already changed course.
“You’re absolutely right. With your… unique demeanor, you wouldn’t require loud colors to stand out from the crowd. Although you may find our selection of browns and grays here in the back to be significantly smaller in number, I assure you these selections are every bit as rich and tasteful as their colorful counterparts.”
Max sighed. Had he really come all this way to purchase an item of clothing completely indistinguishable from every other waistcoat in his wardrobe?
“Do you have… less colorful colors?” he asked hopefully.
“Of course,” gushed the shopkeeper without so much as blinking. He made an abrupt turn down the labyrinthine path and motioned for Max to follow. “A man like you naturally finds brown far too boring and chartreuse much too bright. Your particular coloring is best suited for jewel tones.”
Max followed skeptically.
With a flourish, the shopkeeper unveiled two hidden reams of fabric.
“Some customers feel the deep tones on the left too dark to be sapphire. The menacing blue of midnight, not midsummer. Its warring hues evoke storm clouds over the ocean, shadows beneath the sea. You seem the sort of man who would embody such a shade, rather than be overpowered by it.”
Max stepped forward, intrigued despite himself.
“The other option is what’s meant to be an emerald of royalty, of princes and kings, but as you can see, its complex character goes even further. This green is a dragon’s underbelly, powerful and vulnerable. The green of battlefields, not lucky clovers. A jade that wars would be waged over. The color of—”
“I’ll take both,” Max interrupted decisively.
He was fairly certain the shopkeeper invented his descriptions out of whole cloth depending on the client in question, but such clever improvisation only cemented Max’s respect further. Reading other people despite their best efforts to keep their thoughts private was a skill Max himself practiced every day.
And the shopkeeper was right. Max was not the sort of gentleman who desired to stand out in lime greens and spangled blues. His puppet-mastery was orchestrated from the shadows.
Storm clouds threatening the calm of the ocean, dragon scales protecting a fearless beast… Wh
at owner of an underworld gaming hell wouldn’t wish to associate himself with such imagery, even if it was all in his mind?
The shopkeeper gathered the reams into his arms. “Shall I send a few yards of each directly to your tailor or would you like to commission the final garments here?”
“I’ll take the fabric with me.”
“Of course.” If the shopkeeper found this request unusual, he showed no sign. “I’ll wrap up your order immediately.”
In moments, the fabric was cut and wrapped, the transaction completed, and Max was out of the shop and back out beneath the overcast sky. He took the first hack he could find straight to his sister’s door.
“Max!” Frances’s tired eyes lit with pleasure as she welcomed him into the humble apartment Max had finally procured for her after years of bitter arguments over who should pay for what.
“Mouse!” he replied with equal pleasure, as he threw himself onto the least-comfortable of the worn furniture in order to allow his sister the better cushion.
In actuality, Frances was nobody’s mouse, but as she was the strongest, most stubborn woman of Max’s acquaintance, it would not do at all to let on just how much sway she held over her elder brother.
He tossed his recent purchase to the threadbare rug at her feet. “I need a new waistcoat.”
“You already own six identical waistcoats,” she said without bothering to inspect the package. “I cannot possibly get to it in the next fortnight. Madame Drouart has me hemming an apparently endless trousseau for—”
“Green,” Max interrupted. “And blue.”
“Liar.” Frances shoved her seamstress-for-hire work aside and reached for the carefully wrapped package at her feet.
“I’ll pay twice as much as Madame Drouart’s trousseau.”
“The trousseau is for a Miss Rosenthal, and you won’t pay a penny more than the current rate.”
“What would Madame Drouart charge Prinney?”
“You aren’t Prinney,” Frances pointed out wryly. “Besides, I’ve no doubt hemming the Regent’s unmentionables is such a privilege, I should be expected to do so for free.”
“Then I shall pay whatever the prince’s rate should be.” Max gestured toward his purchase. “Open it.”
Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6) Page 108