by Erica Ridley
With painstaking care so as not to damage any part of the paper, Frances unwrapped the parcel to reveal twin pools of dragon-scale-green and ocean-storm-blue within.
“Oh, Max,” she breathed, as she pressed the rich softness to her chest. “These are beautiful. You are truly going to wear colors again?”
He waved away this line of questioning before it could turn to the past. These days, he made it a point to focus on nothing but the future.
“I suppose I shall wear them a fortnight or two from now,” he said instead. “Depending on your agenda.”
“I’ll start tonight,” Frances said immediately.
“If you start a single moment ahead of schedule, you must charge me an additional premium,” Max reminded her. “If there is no time for new projects, then there is no time for new projects. I will never speak to you again if I catch you destroying your fingers or your eyesight staying up all night hunched over a single candle to sew without cease.”
He did not add the word again, because neither of them had forgotten her chapped, engorged fingers or the terror of having to bind her eyes for a week in the hopes of restoring her ruined vision.
That was when he had plucked her from the hellish textile dungeon where she traded her health for a worn cot and a few pennies, and installed her in the safest, most comfortable lodgings he could afford.
Frances had only allowed such highhandedness because she had been both medically blindfolded and drowsy on laudanum at the time. She’d refused to accept anything that remotely smacked of charity ever since.
He supposed they were far more alike than either wished to admit.
“I will start this very night,” Frances said again, her voice firm. “Do not worry, brother dear. I have learned not to take on more than I can handle.”
Max hoped that was true. Nonetheless, he would be sure to drop in as often as possible. Seeing family was good for both of them.
“Where did you find such exquisite fabric?” his sister asked.
Frances worked with equally beautiful fabric every single day. She did not want to know who had sold it to him. She wanted to know if Max himself had managed to escape his cave long enough to see the sunlight.
“St. James’s Street.”
Frances nodded. “Of course. That’s where all fine underworld gentlemen do their shopping.”
Max lifted his shoulder. Before he’d opened the Cloven Hoof, he would not have been able to afford such an expenditure. Not without giving up something even more dear, like candles or food.
But those days were done, or nearly so. He had money, he had fame—or at least infamy—and once he owned his property outright, he would achieve a level of success that had once seemed impossibly out of reach.
“St. James’s Street,” his sister murmured, her gaze far away. “When you’re out there amongst them, does it still feel like looking through a window at another world? As if scant inches separate you, but your nose and fingers can only press against a pane of unbreakable glass?”
It was a rhetorical question. The world had always felt like that for both of them. But he was so close. As soon as Max broke free from his chains, he would find a way to do the same for his sister. She deserved it.
Frances wasn’t lesser or unworthy or a poor little dear. She was a fighter. Stubborn. Indefatigable. Her faith in him had never wavered, not even in the darkest times. He would find a way to lift them both into the light.
“You should ask for more money,” he said.
“You already pay far more than the market—”
“Not from me. From your patroness. You are more than a seamstress. You are an artist, and she knows it. She cannot afford to lose you. Your wages should reflect that.”
Frances let out a low breath. “I do earn more than any other.”
Making more than the others was a bittersweet accomplishment when one’s employer would be just as happy to pay her employees in gruel. Frances’ salary was barely enough to live on. Likely by design.
Both their parents had fought that war. Hard workers, dedicated, loyal, clever, punctual, exhausted. He was far too late to save their parents, but he would not allow his sister to follow them into an early grave.
“You shouldn’t be anyone’s assistant,” he told Frances for the hundredth time. “You should be a modiste. You should have your own shop, your own clients.”
“I don’t want my own shop. I would like to sew less, not to be responsible for more.”
Max’s jaw tightened. “If you would just let me—”
“No.” She pushed him away. “I will earn my own freedom just as you have earned yours.”
“Frances,” he began.
She folded up the fabric. “Come to think of it, I sit at peace in my home far more often than you are in yours. Weren’t you going to hire a manager or two? Let someone else wrangle the club from time to time so that you do not have to spend every waking moment within its walls.”
“I will,” he promised. “Just as soon as I have the deed. Then my budget will be mine to do with as I wish. I have everything planned.”
It wasn’t just a matter of Max needing to own the property outright. If the current owner should choose not to sell, Max would be beholden to him forever. Or worse, the owner could decide not to rent the space at all. Tear it down, perhaps.
Max needed this location. Everything hinged on it. This street, this exact block, marked the border between the haves and the have-nots. This unassuming section of road and brick was the dividing wall that kept everyone in their place. Once Max had his way, the Cloven Hoof would become the gateway to allow passage between. A physical crossroads where all minds and backgrounds could blend.
But so far, the owner had ignored every single request to meet.
No doubt Max’s livelihood mattered little to whomever owned the deed. Some aristocrat, most likely. A titled lord who couldn’t be bothered to attend to the goings-on of a gaming hell. Perhaps some second or third son, whose idle hours were too filled with fashion and women and spending the bottomless family purse to bother reading the missives and meticulous reports Max compiled every month.
Frances wiped a strand of hair from her forehead. “I wish I could see your club.”
“Women aren’t allowed in gentlemen’s clubs,” Max said automatically. Except, he had just discovered a loophole to that rule, had he not? “That is, I could bring you by some morning before we open, if you like.”
Frances shook her head. “I’ve seen my share of empty tables and silent rooms. I wish I could see it when full to capacity. Do earls truly sit at the same whist table as those who work in trade?”
“Every time.” Max grinned with subversive pride.
He could have opened any kind of establishment, but he’d chosen the sort most likely to bring together people who would not otherwise be in contact with each other.
His shadowy nook was the great equalizer. Inside the Cloven Hoof, the men with power were not just dukes and viscounts, but rather to whomever Max had granted entrée. Worth depended on the turn of a card, not the title of one’s ancestors.
Anyone who did not abide by Max’s rules would be shown the door and told never to return.
Outside those walls, however…
No. He would not think about things he could not control. All that mattered was securing the Cloven Hoof’s future. Once he possessed the deed, it would have roots. It would belong. And so would he.
And then he could find a way to help Frances.
He gazed over her shoulder at the narrow line of books above her mantel. His sister might refuse charity out of hand, but Frances had never in her life refused a book.
“Read that boring tome about botany yet?” he asked.
Her eyes lit up. “Twice. You seem more atropa belladonna than conium maculatum to me.”
“You do have a way with words.”
As talented as Frances was with needle and thread, her quick and clever mind was her true gift. She would make
an excellent governess… if only she had been born into a high enough class to qualify.
She had no references. She’d never even had a governess of her own. No one but Max knew how bright she was, how valuable, how wasted her untapped potential.
He gazed over at his sister. Women like Frances never got the credit they deserve. The opportunities they deserved.
But neither of them would ever stop fighting.
Her eyes brightened. “When your club becomes self-sufficient, are you finally going to settle down and take a wife?”
“If I find the right woman,” he replied noncommittally.
The true answer was No. He would not indulge a flirtation of any kind—much less take on the responsibility of a wife—until the Cloven Hoof was fully in his control. Only then would Max allow himself to pursue other goals.
Frances shook her head. “How will you meet any women at all if you never leave your gaming hell?”
Bryony’s image flashed into his mind. He pushed it away, as he had every time since yesterday.
She was exactly the wrong sort of woman. Direct. Challenging. Invigorating. Big brown eyes and lips that begged to be kissed. A woman like that would—
“Who are you thinking of?” Frances demanded. “Right now. I can see it in your face.”
“No one,” Max said quickly.
Trespassing and eavesdropping were unforgivable offenses. No matter how intriguing and comely the woman.
Max rose to his feet before his sister could ask any more impertinent questions.
“Almost dusk,” he said and reached for his hat. “I’ve a gaming hell to attend to. I shall leave you to your sewing. Try to get some rest.”
As she returned her handiwork to her lap, Frances’s shrewd gaze did not waver.
“Whoever you’re running from,” she intoned as if it were a curse, “I hope she finds you.”
Chapter 4
Another day, another soirée. Another six hours before Bryony could escape the monotony and go back out in search of adventure.
Her mother’s elbow jabbed into her ribs. “There’s the Duke of Courteland. Go speak to him.”
“We haven’t been introduced,” Bryony hissed back.
“Then find someone who can make the introductions.” Mother rapped Bryony on the shoulder with her painted fan. “Hurry, before someone else nabs him.”
Teeth clamped together, Bryony pushed her way through the milling crowd. Not because she had any wish for a duke. They were too powerful, too arrogant, too demanding. She needed to find a nice baronet, perhaps. A man with exceptional lineage, yet not in any danger of inheriting any of the greater titles his good blood connected him to.
Or perhaps a younger son, whose fancy title was a courtesy only. Saying “viscount” or “earl” to her parents would please them enough to sign a betrothal contract posthaste. There, now she had a plan and an alternate plan. Someone at one of these parties would be her perfect suitor. She should focus on finding him.
And yet, the only man she could think about was Max.
He was so deliciously overwhelming. Tall, strong, dark, powerful. She could imagine just what sort of vices one might get up to in his company. A man that intense had a way of melting one’s knees, so that one all but swooned into his arms without any provocation on his part.
She would have to keep reminding herself that her investigation was into his business, not his pleasures.
“Miss Grenville,” came a breathless voice from over Bryony’s shoulder. “I heard the invitations to your upcoming family musicale had been sent, but neither I nor my daughters have received one. Could you please speak with your mother for me, at once?”
Bryony smiled and nodded, but there was no way she would be able to change her mother’s mind about who would be allowed into their home. Now that she’d been given a finite date by which to procure Bryony a husband, Mother attempted to limit the amount of competition at any gathering under her control in which Bryony and an unmarried gentleman might share the same roof.
The fact that Bryony would be on stage with her violin and not in the audience rubbing shoulders with the eligible gentlemen did not seem to enter the equation. Mother wanted all male eyes on Bryony and Bryony alone.
“Miss Grenville,” came another female voice from Bryony’s other side. “What a lovely gown. Did I see that pattern in Le Follet?”
Perhaps. Mother’s modiste kept Bryony’s measurements on hand in order to send over whatever items her mother felt she should be cloaked in when forced to interact with society.
“Who cares about my gown,” Bryony deflected, “when yours is by far the loveliest in the room. Where on earth did you find such a becoming shade of violet?”
As expected, the delighted recipient of this compliment immediately launched into a detailed explanation of the origin of the fabric, the dye, and the fashion plate the confection had been modeled after.
Bryony smiled and cooed in all the right places. Although she didn’t know an Ackermann fashion plate from a Godey’s, she had been playing this game for as long as she could remember, and could make High Society small talk in her sleep. Sometimes she feared she might nod off in the middle.
She’d been lucky enough to be born the youngest sister of the brightest, kindest, most talented siblings in England. Conversation with them had never been boring. She’d despaired of ever finding such a connection outside of her family.
And then she’d met Max.
He was clever and prickly. Antagonistic. Rough about the edges. He could not have intrigued her more. He did not scrape and fawn to her or anyone. He didn’t have to.
His overpowering presence was capable of cowering others. He exuded danger. And yet he used his power and influence to aid those who lacked resources. Secretly. From deep within the shadows.
He was a handsome, arrogant contradiction. ’Twas no wonder he fascinated her so.
He was also completely unsuitable in every possible sense. Her parents would not only disapprove—they’d be horrified. Maxwell Gideon did not fit any of her their exacting criteria… or meet any of Bryony’s own. When in his company, she could look all she pleased, but she would not entertain anything more. No matter how sinfully tempting she found him.
“There you are,” came a jovial voice from right behind her.
She spun around and grinned to see her brother Heath and his wife Nora.
“We are heading to the cardroom to partner Camellia and Wainwright,” her brother informed her. “Care to join us?”
Did she ever! Bryony’s shoulders relaxed. Not only had it been ages since she’d seen her eldest sister Camellia and her husband, playing cards was the Grenville siblings’ favorite pastime. And an activity Bryony missed very much.
She reached for Heath’s free elbow. “Absolutely.”
A folded fan rapped down onto her spine.
“Absolutely not,” Mother interrupted, stepping between them. “You promised to dance every set.”
“I promised to dance every set for which I had a partner,” Bryony pointed out, and lifted the dance card dangling from her wrist. “This is the first chance I’ve had to catch my breath all evening, and the set is already half through. Certainly I could at least say good evening to my sister—”
“Invite her over for tea.” Mother sniffed. “She and the earl don’t visit us enough.”
Bryony gritted her teeth and turned back to her brother. “Give Camellia a kiss from me.”
Heath gave her a commiserating grin, but escaped with his wife before he too could fall victim to their mother’s machinations.
Bryony stared at their retreating forms longingly. The cardroom was overflowing with laughing faces, the dull roar of their chatter audible despite the orchestra in the other room. It seemed like heaven.
Even if it couldn’t hold a candle to how she imagined the Cloven Hoof.
“Why are gentlemen’s clubs only for gentlemen?” she murmured under her breath. “Someone should start a g
ambling hell for women.”
Mother stared back at her in horror. “Never make such distasteful jests again. Bear in mind that your public comportment reflects upon the entire family. If you lack for entertainment, focus on feminine skills like embroidery and get yourself married. That will cure you of too much time on your hands.”
“Sounds marvelous,” Bryony muttered.
Her mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Here comes the Duke of Lambley. Straighten your shoulders at once. Smile. Don’t show your teeth. Don’t talk to him at all. Impress him enough to marry you.”
Mother scrambled away from Bryony’s side with all the discretion of a stampeding elephant.
“Miss Grenville,” the duke said, as he offered an impressive show of leg.
Bryony dipped an equally deep curtsy. “Your Grace.”
He affected a stern expression. “I was disappointed to learn you still have not accepted any of the invitations to my masquerades.”
“I may have given one of the invitations to my sister,” she admitted with a grin.
“Very naughty of you,” he said approvingly.
Bryony’s smile widened. Very naughty of Camellia. She had met her future husband at that masquerade. Perhaps Bryony could, too. A sweet, not-too-clever baronet who wasn’t opposed to a bit of scandal. Who could ask for more? She grinned at the duke. “May I have another chance?”
“Your name is always on the list,” he reminded her. “I’m still hoping to win back my money.”
“Some hopes will never be realized,” Bryony informed him sorrowfully.
He laughed and shook his head. “We shall have to see, won’t we?”
She and Lambley had been friends ever since they’d first met several years earlier in a cardroom not unlike the one on the other side of this ballroom. Heath had made the introductions in order for Bryony to join him against the duke and his partner.
Lambley had nearly tumbled from his seat with laughter at the thought of a seventeen-year-old girl being any sort of competition in a game of cards.
Twenty minutes later, when every penny on his person had found its way into Bryony’s reticule, the duke had been forced to change his mind.