Frances’s eyes widened. “Bryony did that?”
He smirked. “I believe her exact words were something like, ‘We beat Boney and we’ll drink his land dry. Every bubbly drop of it.’”
Frances grinned in satisfaction. “I do like her.”
So did Max.
He crossed to the gaming tables and explained each one in turn. Its number, according to the new index he and Bryony had devised. Its game and number of players. Whether there was a schedule change on certain days. Which ones were more profitable than others, and what steps Bryony had invented to exploit existing opportunities for higher gains.
Frances nodded, rapt.
Max was waxing poetic on the last of the tables when he realized he had spent the past quarter hour deep in a monologue about all the ways Bryony had not only made his life easier, but personally changed his club for the better.
“So... she makes herself useful?” Frances asked with a knowing smile. “It sounds like this club belongs to both of you.”
Max’s smile died.
His sister’s insightful comment had hit a bit too close to home.
The Cloven Hoof did not belong to both him and Bryony. The property currently belonged to Bryony alone. If she wished, she could shut it down at any time.
He didn’t think she would, mostly because such a counter-intuitive action would be an irresponsible financial decision not supported by available facts. When it came to business, Bryony could be trusted to take the most logical path.
However, it did not require an analytical genius to realize selling Max such a lucrative property made absolutely no business sense at all. Bryony would be foolish to give up her best advantage.
And Bryony was far from foolish.
Frances crossed from the gaming salon to the seating area. “What is the purpose of this room? Are these tables numbered, too?”
Before Max could answer, the rear exit opened. Bryony struggled inside with a slender wooden crate.
Her hair was tucked inside a top hat not unlike the one his sister wore. Her greatcoat fit just as badly, her nankeen trousers a little too long, her smile just as wide.
She looked more beautiful every time he saw her.
He crossed his arms and scowled at her. “I knew you were behind this.”
“Of course I was behind this,” she said cheerfully as she placed an oblong case wrapped in linen down on the floor.
He would make his inquiries into this new mystery in a moment.
“How the devil did you determine my sister’s address?” he demanded.
Bryony hooked her top hat on the wall and raised her brows. “Have you met my brother?”
“Thank you so much for sending for me.” Frances bounded over to Bryony with the excitement of a newborn kitten. “I love everything I’ve seen so far, but Max gives a dreadful tour. Won’t you show me about?”
“I’ll do my best.” Self-consciously, Bryony gave a crooked smile. “It’s not my club. Everything you see here, Max built. He is the brains behind every detail.”
Frances shot a knowing look over her shoulder at Max. “Is that so? Have you not been helping with the wine and the tables?”
Bryony shrugged out of her greatcoat and draped it over her arm. Max watched her lead Fran back down the corridor toward the entrance, not realizing she had just come from there.
“I might tune where I can, but the foundation was already here.” Bryony frowned and corrected herself. “More than a foundation. The Cloven Hoof was blossoming before I ever stepped through the door. Do you see this bar?”
Frances nodded innocently. “Seems the sort of venue that would only sell French wine.”
Bryony waved this away. “We did have a few extra cases by mistake, but that was solved in a trice. As is everything. Max quite brilliantly keeps a few bottles on hand from every part of the world. Whether your taste runs to ales brewed here in London, wine or whiskey smuggled from the darkest corners of Europe, he can meet your every desire. This is not just a gambling den, but a place where wishes come true.”
Max’s chest warmed.
“And these tables?” Frances asked. “Were you involved in determining their function?”
“I shared ideas,” Bryony admitted grudgingly. “But your brother had already nearly maximized every bit of potential.”
Frances arched her brows. “How so?”
“He purchased the perfect tables for every kind of game, and is meticulous about their upkeep and condition,” Bryony explained. “In other gambling dens, warped surfaces and rickety chairs lead to an unpleasant gaming experience. Not here in the Cloven Hoof. Your brother has ensured his players enjoy every comfort. They have no reason to leave, which increases their satisfaction as well as the club’s profits.”
Max tried not to grin.
“And this room?” Frances asked as they crossed to the more secluded conversation nook.
Bryony’s eyes brightened. “That is yet another stroke of your brother’s genius. He—”
Max did not follow. He no longer could.
Her unscripted responses to his sister’s queries had rooted him in place.
Bryony didn’t see his gaming hell solely as some investment opportunity. She saw it as the achievement it was. Recognized details he hadn’t even shared with her.
Of course she would know what other gambling clubs were like. She must have seen a dozen similar proposals before choosing to finance his. She had held him to a higher standard before their contract had even been signed. He ran a hand through his hair.
She thought he was brilliant. Successful. She was proud of the Cloven Hoof. Proud of him. His throat tightened.
When they were alone in his office, she had always made him feel like he could be himself. No denials or apologies required. That was part of her magic. This was something else. Something more.
This was how she always thought of him. He didn’t need to prove himself to her. She already thought him worthy.
Max was the one who kept pushing Bryony away. He gazed at her from across the room. His fixation on all the ways in which he and his sister were outsiders had caused him to make Bryony an outsider as well.
He had kept her on the fringes of his small circle for long enough.
It was past time to let her in.
As he watched her chatter animatedly with his sister, the stone surrounding his heart gave a little crack. No matter what happened with Bryony, no matter what happened with the property, he feared he was a changed man. He clamped his teeth together.
Of course, he would still stop at nothing to get his hands on the deed.
He would not be able to rest until the Cloven Hoof was fully his. Only then could he begin to meet Bryony as an equal. As a man who had made his own way and had something to show for it. Who didn’t need anyone else because he already had it all.
Once he achieved that goal, he would finally respect himself, and deserve the respect of others. He could relax. And perhaps spend more time with Bryony.
“What’s in the case?” he asked suspiciously.
Bryony stopped talking to Frances and turned to grin at him. “Your musicale.”
He blinked. “My what?”
She motioned for them to join her in the office, where she laid the case on his desk and opened it to reveal a stringed instrument of exquisite craftsmanship.
“Your violin,” he said in awe.
Frances’s mouth fell open.
Bryony placed the delicate instrument to her chin and motioned for him and his sister to take their seats on the settee.
No sooner had they done so, then Bryony touched her bow to the strings.
Max barely registered his sister’s audible gasp at the beauty that burst into the air.
He was lost inside Bryony’s soaring melody. Her music filled the room. Vibrated up the walls and through the furniture. Sent shivers down the back of his spine.
Her violin was not a separate entity, but an extension of her soul. Both deli
cate and strong. Gentle and loud. Powerful enough to bring tears to one’s eyes. He could not look away.
No wonder the Grenville musicales were the most celebrated event of the ton. Max had heard when Bryony’s eldest sister joined an opera house. Rumor had it that her voice was unlike any other. Her fame as a soprano had already reached far beyond London’s borders.
He hadn’t realized Bryony was every bit as gifted. That she hadn’t been inviting Frances and him to some dull aristocratic get-together, but to witness her tearing open her chest and letting her heart fly out through the strings.
Never before had he heard such music. Nor would he. Bryony was unparalleled, her style as unique as she was. That was what elevated her above all the rest.
When the melody finally faded away, it took the air from his lungs with it.
Silence filled the room.
“Was it all right?” Bryony asked after a long moment.
Frances threw herself at Bryony’s knees. “Marry me!”
Bryony’s shoulders shook with laughter as she pulled Frances to her feet. “I shall consider your request, my lady. In the meantime, I hope you are not offended if I ask you to settle for being my honorary sister instead.”
“Accepted,” Frances said instantly and hopped onto the desk at Bryony’s side. “May I see it? How does it work?”
Bryony immediately allowed her to touch the violin’s intricate wooden curves.
Max finally found his breath. This was why she had invited his sister here tonight. To prove that the Cloven Hoof wouldn’t crumble if another woman stepped inside its doors, yes. But more than that, her extraordinary gift with music was something she wanted to share with both of them. Not just with Max.
To Bryony, Frances was part of the package, too.
Max’s heart beat so fast he feared the women might hear it from across the room.
Two women in lad’s clothing, cooing over an expensive violin in the back of an infamous gaming hell.
When had his life turned so upside-down?
Bryony’s eyes met his. It was impossible to keep a smile from curving his lips.
She was the reason. The tinderbox who had burst into his darkness and lit the first spark.
With her, there was more than light. There was music.
She gave him a crooked grin. “Are you wishing you came to the musicale?”
“Yes,” he answered honestly. “Wishing it were possible. I would have loved to share it with you, now that I know what I’m missing.”
“There will be other soirées,” she said, her voice hesitant.
After a moment, he shook his head. “You know as well as I do that I don’t belong there. All my presence could do is cause you scandal.”
“I know.”
To his surprise, the flash of sorrow in her eyes indicated she truly had realized what she was asking. That accepting such an invitation would be a one-time possibility. Never to be repeated.
Her smile wobbled. “But having you there would have been worth it.”
Max was not so sure. If he used up his one chance, there would be no more sneaking away to be together. No more Bryony. He was not ready to give her up just yet.
“Now that your musicale is over, I suppose your nights have returned to a busy schedule of husband-hunting?” he heard himself ask.
Frances’s head jerked up with interest.
“Something like that,” Bryony admitted, as she slid from the desk. “Mother has me in ringlets and pastels nearly every day of the week.”
Each word sliced through his heart. Soon enough, some other man would have the sort of life with her that part of Max wished he were in a position to offer. He might not be a suitor, but he could give her something else. A reminder of their connection. The reason she was here.
He took a step in her direction. “A dreadful week indeed. Are you certain there’s been nothing diverting at all to break up the monotony?”
“Lambley did remind me I have a standing invitation to attend his masquerades. I’ve never been.” She took another step closer until the toes of her boots brushed his. She licked her lips. “I would rather be here at the Cloven Hoof with you.”
A wild ray of hope wriggled into his brain.
Lambley’s masquerades.
Open invitation.
Max, too, had never been. Never previously had a reason to attend. That reason might be standing right in front of them right now. His heart sped faster at the thought.
He took her hands. “What if neither of us were here? What if we were masked revelers on a candlelit dance floor instead?”
Bryony gazed back at him, speechless.
Frances backed away toward the door. “And... what if I found a hackney to remove me as far as possible from this intimate moment?”
Bryony laughed and let go of Max’s hands. “I have to get my Stradivarius home, anyway. Not only is it the most expensive item I own, I half expect it’s the only reason my mother still keeps me at home.”
She slipped on her greatcoat and top hat, then wrapped up her case and moved toward the door.
He stared after her in disbelief. Was she going to leave him once more without so much as goodbye?
She was.
Max dashed outside to stop her, not bothering with a coat or hat. Wet weather didn’t matter. Only she did.
He caught her between the silver moon and the falling raindrops. This might be his last chance to change her mind. He pressed his lips to hers in a kiss so desperate and so deep he hoped she would remember the taste forevermore, whenever she thought of this night.
“The masquerade is a week from tonight,” he said between kisses. “Please think about joining me.”
She rescued her fallen top hat and rose to give him another kiss. “The only thing I ever think about is... joining you.”
When she sauntered off, it was Max who was left to remember her parting words again and again for the rest of the night.
Chapter 15
For the first time in her life, Bryony was having difficulty focusing on numbers.
Possibly because she was sharing the desk with Max, and no matter how hard she squinted at the neat columns of numbers in the journal, all of her senses were tuned to him.
The way his dark hair fell over his forehead as he bent over some piece of documentation in concentration. The way his lips tightened in concentration. The quiet strength in his hands, whose familiar fingers had once been in her hair, and stroking her cheek.
“You are a terrible influence on my sister,” he said presently.
She grinned. “Frances needed a fault.”
Bryony was not at all surprised to discover his sister just as competent, confident, and marvelous as Max. Their parents must have been extraordinary individuals. She wished she could have known them. The seamstress mother, who instilled her daughter with a love of books and learning. The father who...
She swung her head toward Max. She had no idea who or how his father had been. Max had never said.
“Your mother was a seamstress,” she began, leaning toward him in interest.
“Mm,” he responded without glancing up from his document.
She pressed on, undaunted. “And your father?”
“Not a seamstress.”
No further explanation.
She should not have asked. The air between them had filled with awkwardness.
“Had he a phobia of needles?” she tried to jest.
At this, Max did look up. “Father had no time for phobias. He worked on the docks from the time he was born until the day he died. The only times I saw him were when he came home with each month’s salary, and when he was finally too weak to rise from his sickbed.”
Bryony’s chest pounded in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to dredge up painful memories. This one sounded awful. She might know what it was like never to see one’s father, but hers was still alive and hid himself away in a comfortable armchair in a comfortable office in his comfortable townhouse, well prote
cted from the elements.
It was not the same at all.
Max had rarely seen his father out of necessity, not choice. That made it simultaneously more palatable and a thousand times worse. His father was the sort of man willing to work himself to death if it meant bringing home enough coin to live on for his wife and children. A man who valued his family more than himself.
And now he was gone.
She swallowed. “I...”
“I’m not ashamed of him,” Max’s proud gaze did not waver. “As soon as I was able, I did the same. I would do it again. I would be working the docks right now, if Basil Q. Jones hadn’t taken a risk on a dream no one else considered worth the investment.”
Her throat grew tight. How silly her struggles seemed in comparison.
She had lamented the diminutive seed money she had used to launch six fruitful years of pseudonymous investment, but she had been afforded a privileged starting point. Excess baubles to sell. Pin money she hadn’t bothered to spend.
All this time, she had considered her financial success something she had done with her hands, with her brain, solely on her own recognizance.
But it wasn’t true.
Her lowest rung had been a step on the ladder far above any that someone like Max could hope to reach.
And yet he had tried anyway.
“It wasn’t a risk,” she said softly. “Basil Q. Jones analyzed all pertinent details and determined that of all the schemes vying for his interest, one held more merit than the rest. Basil didn’t see ‘potential’ in you and your proposal. He recognized the certainty of success.”
The corner of Max’s mouth twitched, but his half-smile failed to reach his eyes. “Our friend Basil had more confidence than I did. All I had was desperation and a wild, foolish dream.”
“‘Foolish’ only describes those who didn’t believe in you.” She gestured about them. “We are sitting in your foolish dream right now. We met when I sneaked inside of it. Your dream now has hundreds of happy clients. Thousands. Your dream has employees. Your dream has allowed others to dream. Your dream has changed reality.”
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