Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  “Oh!” came a startled female voice.

  Bryony leapt away from Max. Her heart skipped madly in her chest. She turned to face a woman about her own age standing just inside Max’s open doorway with a key in her hand.

  Approximate age was the only thing Bryony seemed to have in common with the new arrival. This woman was beautiful. Femininity incarnate. High cheekbones, darkly-lashed eyes, thick ebony hair that curled into lustrous ringlets of its own accord. She did not look as though she had stepped in from the rain, but rather out of the pages of a magazine. Not a real woman, but an artist’s ideal come to life.

  “Frances,” Max growled in warning. “I instructed you not to visit today.”

  “Why do you think I came?” the gorgeous woman replied without the slightest repentance and thrust her hand toward Bryony. “You must be the evil siren. I’m Frances, Max’s sister.”

  Amid the avalanche of competing thoughts tumbling through her mind, Bryony managed to grasp the dainty fingers before her and give a firm shake as she’d seen her father do on occasion after a successful business dealing.

  Had she somehow engaged in a silent transaction with Max’s sister? She might have thought to curtsey rather than shake hands, had a regrettable spurt of envy not convinced her the unexpected visitor was a different type of woman entirely.

  She felt her cheeks redden. “I thought you were—”

  “—his twin,” Frances finished with a laugh. “We hear that all the time. I should be offended, since he is two years my elder. I am only six-and-twenty.”

  Bryony glanced from Max to Frances and back again. Mortification heated her neck.

  Of course. The same dark hair, the same dark eyelashes, the same high cheekbones. The same utter disregard for anyone else’s rules or expectations.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she stammered, catching a glimpse of her upside-down bonnet from the corner of her eye.

  It was probably too late to bother picking it up from its position on the floor across the room in a weak attempt toward propriety. There would be no explaining away what Frances had seen as anything other than what it was. With luck, she had only seen the kiss, and not Bryony’s passion-drunk desire to turn it into something more.

  “Max hasn’t said a word,” Frances whispered. “He must still be suffering your Medusa effect.”

  Bryony blinked in confusion, then felt her cheeks heat anew in sudden understanding. He did not see her as a hideous monster, but as a woman who could turn him hard as stone with a mere glance.

  Delighted, she shot him a saucy look over her shoulder. “Smart men like powerful women.”

  “Frances was just leaving,” Max said, scowling at his sister. “Goodbye, Frances. Thank you for the short visit. Leave your key on the table and don’t come back.”

  Frances ignored him and threw herself onto his sofa to grin up at them. “Don’t mind me. This has been most illuminating. I always wondered what your business meetings were like. No wonder you two spend so much time at the office.”

  Max stiffened in offense. “I have never before—”

  “He’s timid?” Frances gasped in mock horror.

  “Gentlemanly,” Bryony corrected primly.

  Frances snorted at the idea. “Of course.”

  “Off the couch,” Max said, voice tight. He pointed from his sister to the exit. “Out of the door.”

  Frances paid this no attention. Her focus was on Bryony. “He says you’re an evil genius. Something about turning a greater profit in a fortnight than any of the zanies he invests with could hope to turn in a year.”

  Bryony beamed with pride in Max’s direction.

  He glowered at them both.

  “One does what one can,” she demurred. Frances was a delight. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about you. Max has refused my requests for us to meet.”

  “He has refused mine as well,” Frances said, casting her brother a chastening glance. She turned back to Bryony. “Not much to say about me, I’m afraid. Humdrum by comparison. I’m a seamstress and haven’t time for anything else.”

  “She’s the most brilliant woman I know,” Max contradicted quickly.

  His sister widened her eyes in false innocence. “Hm. Cleverer than Bryony?”

  His face twisted in consternation when he realized there was no satisfactory reply that could cover both women.

  Bryony patted his arm. “It’s not your fault. Sisters always win.”

  “That’s what I tell him,” Frances whispered.

  “For the record,” Max said at last. “My sister is more than a seamstress. She’s a prodigy.”

  “I adore prodigies,” Bryony exclaimed with sincere admiration. “What is your specialty?”

  “Reading,” Frances said dryly. “Max should try it sometime.”

  “She has near-perfect recall,” he continued as if his sister hadn’t spoken. “Queen of esoteric facts. She has encyclopedic knowledge of the flora and fauna of most European countries. Fran can recite the members of every major world dynasty for as far back as there is written record.”

  “I’m primarily the queen of Gothic novels,” Bryony admitted, impressed. “When I’m not playing with numbers. It doesn’t seem nearly as useful. What do you do with all your knowledge?”

  “Nothing,” Frances said with a little shrug.

  “She gets it from our mother.” Max cast her a fond expression. “Mother not only taught Fran to sew, but also the joy of reading. When one of them would suffer cramps in their fingers too painful to go on, one would read aloud while the other sewed. It became a habit. They took turns with each book to keep it interesting, improving their minds during every rest period.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a rest,” Bryony admitted. “It sounds like a lot of hard work, interspersed with moments of slightly more enjoyable work. Do you enjoy sewing?”

  “I’m competent at it,” Frances replied noncommittally.

  “She’s an artist,” Max corrected. “She crafted the waistcoat I’m wearing right now.”

  “I sew all your clothes, if we’re adhering to technicalities,” Frances said with a grin. “Max is my best-paying client.”

  “And your most handsome one, I’ve no doubt.” Bryony raked her gaze down Max’s perfectly tailored form in appreciation. “He’s right. You are an artist.”

  “I would rather be doing almost anything else,” Frances admitted. “It is work. But I’ve sewn twenty of my six-and-twenty years, and if I am fortunate, will do so for forty more.”

  Max folded his arms over his chest. “Unnecessary. I’ve told you a hundred times—”

  “Go make tea,” Frances ordered. “You’re being a rude host.”

  “I didn’t invite you,” he pointed out.

  “But I’m here and I’m thirsty.” She waved him out of the room. “Tea. Please. I promise to be nice to Medusa. Someone ought to be. Have you read the tale?”

  The glare he sent her was highly skeptical. After a silent standoff, Max sighed and made his way to the kitchen.

  Bryony took the armchair opposite Frances. “I am intrigued to discover we share an unusual characteristic. I too have a talent I would rather not use. I thought I was the only one. I feel so... ungrateful.”

  “I’m very grateful.” Frances slid down the sofa to arrange herself directly across Bryony. “If it weren’t for my sewing, I would not be able to support myself. That’s why Max is so angry. He wants me to avail myself of his riches and never work a day again.”

  “Why don’t you?” Bryony asked.

  “Because they are his savings. He earned them, not me.” Frances’s expression was determined. “I am just as capable. I don’t wish to be kept by any man, not even my brother. I shall earn my own way if it kills me.”

  “Are you doing well?” Bryony asked in a softer voice. “Is Max right to worry?”

  Frances made a face. “I am doing better than the others who work for the same modiste. She is one of the most popular, and there is no sh
ortage of clients. Most of the profit, however, never leaves her accounts.”

  Bryony frowned. “Is there anything to be done about it?”

  “Max wants me to open my own shop.” Frances wrinkled her nose.

  Bryony nodded. “But that would require an even greater commitment to a career you do not enjoy.”

  “And a loan to get started,” Frances said with a grimace. “That’s part of the problem.”

  Bryony’s eyes widened in surprise. “Max won’t loan you money?”

  “Correct. He will only give it to me.” Frances’s eyes were fierce. “He won’t let me earn my own way.”

  Bryony thought this over.

  “If I had the money, I would loan it to you with interest,” she promised.

  Frances grinned. “And I would accept every penny, if I wished to deal with clients, manage a shop, settle accounts, and still sew all day.”

  Fair enough.

  “What would you rather do?” Bryony asked.

  Frances gave a crooked smile. “Be paid to read all day?”

  “We can wish,” Bryony agreed with feeling.

  “I have had one impossible wish come true,” Frances admitted. “I presume I have you to thank that Max owns colors again.”

  Bryony blinked. “He didn’t own any colors?”

  “He never came out of mourning after our mother died, because he felt he had failed a deathbed promise to keep me safe. It was not his fault.” Frances blinked rapidly. “An armband wasn’t enough. He swore never to wear colors again until he had a reason to, and that reason would be that he and I had made it. No longer dependent on or beholden to anyone else.”

  Bryony bit her lip. She was part of the reason that hadn’t happened. No wonder he was so desperate to procure the deed.

  “Whatever you’re thinking,” Frances said firmly, “you’re wrong. Max kept his word until this past month, when he met you. The only possible explanation for him to wear colors again after all this time, is that you’ve given him a reason to finally see beauty in the world again.”

  Bryony’s throat grew thick. She did not deserve compliments.

  Max strode into the room with a tea tray and a scowl. “You’re whispering. It’s troubling behavior. I presume I’m superfluous now.”

  “I am the one who is superfluous, and ought to be going.” Bryony rose on unsteady feet. “I do love your sister, Max. You are more fortunate than you realize.”

  “I can hear you,” Frances stage-whispered. “I’m still right here.”

  “I am treating you as my family treats me,” Bryony told her. “There is no greater pleasure than to be spoken about like an object when one is present in the same room.”

  “I preemptively dislike your family,” Frances said sorrowfully.

  “Just my parents,” Bryony said quickly. “The rest of my family is quite charming.”

  A wonderful idea sang through Bryony’s veins.

  As much as her mother frustrated her, she had also gifted Bryony with the key piece of clout that had afforded all the Grenville siblings not just a secure place in society, but also an achievement they could be proud of. Something that brought joy. Something they could share with others.

  “You should come to the family musicale,” she said in a rush, excitement causing her to trip over her words. “Both of you. I can secure your invitations. The festivities will be held in my parents’ home tomorrow night. The salon is often standing room only, so I advise you to come a little early. You’ll also have a chance to meet my—”

  “No,” Max said curtly, his tone bricking neither argument nor explanation. “We will not be anywhere your family might be found.”

  The unexpected rejection of her heartfelt offer stole Bryony’s breath. Her eyes pricked with heat.

  “Why?” she asked quietly. “You’ve no interest in meeting them?”

  “I’ve no interest in wasting time. You and I might have a moment here or there in the shadows, but that is all it will ever be. A diversion, nothing more. Certainly nothing that would require meeting families. Whatever you’re thinking might happen… you’re wrong.”

  Frances gasped.

  “I see,” Bryony said, her lips tight. She swept her bonnet up from the floor and marched out the door, into the cold, and out of their lives.

  She would not wait around to be hurt a second time.

  Chapter 14

  The secluded, soundproof office that had once been Max’s refuge from the outside world was now his private hell.

  Life wasn’t peaceful without Bryony. It was lonely. The journals she’d been studying were still stacked on the settee. The place he had started to consider hers, right where she had left it.

  Even if those volumes were the only item out of place in the entire office, he wouldn’t put them away.

  Putting them away would feel like admitting she was never coming back.

  His stomach clenched. He hadn’t seen her in days. Ninety-eight hours, if one were to be specific. It felt like a lifetime.

  If a few days without her were this hard, what would it feel like when the month was through and she was gone for good?

  He pushed the thought away. He couldn’t think about that. There were figures that needed to be summed. Plans that needed to be made.

  Bryony would be back.

  He hoped.

  Damn it all, there was no question that he had handled the situation with her family musicale badly.

  It wasn’t that he wished to keep their burgeoning attachment—or whatever it was—a secret. It was that they couldn’t have a relationship at all. Not as lovers; not as friends.

  He should never have kissed her. He was right to have turned down the invitation. Nevertheless, he felt like a monster. He was frustrated Bryony didn’t see that she was asking for something impossible. She had been thinking with her heart, instead of imagining what the reaction would have been if he had actually accepted.

  True, he was no longer a dock worker. He was now something better. Something worse.

  The same gentlemen who revered him in his club, who lined up to visit his dark throne deep in the bowels of the Cloven Hoof, would not treat him the same when bathed in the glittering candlelight of crystal chandeliers. Not where they were the kings.

  Max had fought hard to gain what respect he had, earn what money he had, garner what success he’d had. If transferring the Cloven Hoof and its property into his name would be visible proof that he’d achieved success... Being snubbed and ridiculed by Bryony’s peers right in front of her would be even more incontrovertible proof that he had gained nothing after all.

  Only a fool would put himself in such a position.

  The absolute worst possible person to fall in love with would be someone who made his many differences seem all the starker. Someone whose world would either cast him bodily from it or swallow his soul in darkness.

  His heart skipped, and he set down his plume with shaking fingers.

  Fall in love? Foolish notion. No matter how much he liked Bryony, he was in no danger of love. He knew their time was limited. Days, numbered.

  No matter how much he might wish otherwise.

  His throat tightened. The reason he felt so conflicted over turning down her invitation, the reason his gut cramped with each memory of the flash of hurt that had crumpled her hopeful face until she could disguise the pain, was because he held her happiness on par with his own.

  A faint knock sounded from outside the Cloven Hoof. Max frowned. The club had closed an hour ago.

  Was it Bryony? Had she lost her key?

  He leaped from his chair and dashed into the corridor just as the knock sounded a second time. He paused.

  The sound had not come from the rear exit leading to the alleyway, but from the primary entrance at the front.

  Frowning, he strode through the club to the main door and threw it open wide.

  A lad in ill-fitting clothing and a too-big top hat stared back at him.

  Not a lad.<
br />
  His sister.

  “What the devil?” Max spluttered.

  “So this is the Cloven Hoof,” Frances said as she brushed past him into the primary salon. “I can’t see a thing. Consider lighting a few candles for your guest.”

  “Why are you here?” he demanded. “How are you here?”

  “I received an invitation. And this outfit.” She gestured at her preposterous ensemble. “This is where the driver brought me.”

  Max buried his face in his hands. “Good Lord.”

  This had to be Bryony’s doing. But for what purpose? What could she mean by it?

  “I found a candle,” Frances called. “Shall I use this to light the others?”

  Max reached behind the bar for a tinderbox and then lit the spare taper closest to the door. Without a word, he set about lighting all the other candles until the interior of the Cloven Hoof was as bright as it ever managed to get.

  “No wonder you only wear black,” Frances said, impressed. “Can the players even read their cards?”

  “It’s not that dark,” he groused. “What exactly was in your invitation? When did you receive it? Did she say anything else?”

  “She?” Frances asked. “It was signed ‘Basil Q. Jones.’”

  “And you came?” Max thundered.

  “It did say ‘Bryony’ beneath that, in parentheses,” Frances mused, then turned toward the gaming tables. “I’m inside a den of iniquity! I never thought this day would come. Start the tour, dear brother.”

  Max clamped his teeth together. He wanted to be angry. He ought to be angry. But Bryony had managed a feat that he had not.

  Since the Cloven Hoof’s inception, Frances had wanted to visit. He hadn’t allowed her to do so, because he felt such a risk too dangerous.

  The last time the topic had come up, he had offered to bring Fran after hours, and she had turned him down. He didn’t blame her. Too little, too late.

  Basil Q. Jones to the rescue.

  Max gave up trying to fight Fate.

  “This is the bar,” he said, gesturing behind him. “It previously contained a disproportionate quantity of Bordeaux and Champagne, but once Bryony reframed our stock of French wine as ‘spoils of war,’ it became the only thing anyone will drink, no matter the price.”