by Erica Ridley
And now there was nothing.
He propped his elbows atop his desk and buried his face in his hands. His temples pounded. He hated to lose her. His heart ached as though it had been squeezed by rough hands and wrung dry.
At least he still ran the Cloven Hoof. That was something, was it not? He lifted his head and stared at the empty settee across the room.
Frances was right. The club wasn’t Max’s anymore. In this, at least, he and Bryony had been partners. Every room, every table, every bottle of wine now reminded him of her.
He slapped open his diary and glared at the week’s entry.
Three more days before she was meant to decide what to do with the deed. Sell the property to him? Or keep it for herself?
He might be angry, and he might be hurt. Above all, frustrated that even if they hadn’t argued, they still couldn’t be together. Her mother was only echoing the thoughts of all their peers.
But when it came to business, he knew Bryony well.
This past month, she had worked as hard as he had to optimize and improve every aspect of the Cloven Hoof.
He did not want her to sell the property due to emotional manipulation. She had earned her stake. Bought the land out from under him before he’d been clever enough to do so himself.
She was the brightest person he had ever met. Her many feats weren’t impressive merely because she was a woman, or even in spite of it. She was competent and driven. She deserved everything she had achieved. Deserved every scrap of success she had earned for herself despite everyone telling her she could not.
Max knew what that was like. He would not perpetuate the problem. Not when it was in his power to be different.
He loved her too much.
Hands shaking, he slid a fresh sheet of parchment before him and dipped his quill in the ink. If he wished to argue that he and Frances deserved an opportunity to determine their own fates, so did Bryony.
He bent his head over the paper and began to write.
Even though it meant letting go of his own dreams for the future of the Cloven Hoof, even though this act did not change the future for himself and Bryony, Max quickly drafted a document formally retracting his offer to purchase the deed. What she chose to do with it was up to her.
As it should be.
He set down his plume and waited for the ink to dry. Perhaps he would see his landlord once in a while. Or perhaps she would wed sooner than expected and Max would find himself with a new landlord he’d rather not see at all.
It didn’t matter. He would stick to the plan. Come morning, he would send the letter and release her from obligation.
No matter how empty the Cloven Hoof felt without her.
He pushed to his feet. His chest ached. It was impossible to keep his mind on business tasks when all he could think about was Bryony. He crossed to the bookshelf on the other side of the room and stared up at a misshapen cushion with astonishingly abysmal craftsmanship.
The corner of his mouth curved. He could not hold Bryony, but he could curl up on the settee and snuggle her handmade pillow to his chest. Perhaps it would even smell of her.
He took it from the shelf and plopped down onto the sofa. If he squinted just right, he could make out the words “Cloven Hoof” and the devil horns embroidered on the linen. He would need to consult the legend to decipher the rest.
This time, he did smile.
Of course she had created a legend. She was extremely efficient and a worthy opponent in any game. But he had no wish for war. All he wanted was to be her partner. In life. In love.
He lay down on the sofa, legs dangling off the far end, and cuddled the ugly cushion to his chest.
It crinkled.
He frowned and squeezed it to his heart anew.
It crinkled again.
A chuckle escaped his throat. One would think stuffing a cushion with feathers a task even the least artistic hands would be capable of performing. But instead of being soft and comfortable, the cushion was sharp and crunchy instead.
He tried to fluff it.
It crinkled some more.
He turned it over. The backside was not hemmed shut, as one might suspect, but bisected with a row of buttons. A few stray quill feathers stuck out between the gaps. So did the corner of a piece of parchment.
The pillow case was meant to be opened.
He bolted upright.
In no time, the buttons were undone, the settee littered with feathers, and a stack of parchments trembled in Max’s hands.
It wasn’t art. It was the deed to his property. Bryony had surrendered it weeks ago. Winning it back from her had never been in question.
He’d had it all along.
Chapter 26
Max stared at the deed in his hands.
Was this just like the anonymous donation conscripting Frances to the boarding school? Was this as bad as marrying Bryony to get his hands on her business assets would have been?
Either way, he had wanted to pay for the property, not be handed it out of pity. He wanted it to be true when he said his blood and sweat, tears and sacrifice, had earned every brick of the Cloven Hoof.
Someone pounded on the door outside.
Not Bryony, of that Max was certain. She had a key. More importantly, she would not be coming back.
He slid the deed beneath a journal on his desk and made his way to the door.
When he swung it open, his sister gazed back at him. Not in a top hat and lad’s clothing, but in a sharp new gown he could only presume had been acquired with her new salary.
He glanced over her shoulder in case she had been spied. “What the devil are you doing here?”
“You stormed off when I told you about my new post teaching dressmaking at a girls’ school.” She pursed her lips. “I expected something else.”
“So did I,” he muttered. “You won’t take ‘charity’ from me, but you will from Bryony?”
“Bryony?” Frances repeated in confusion. Her eyes cleared. “The anonymous donation. I had no idea she was involved.”
“Very involved,” he said bitterly. “She placed you at that school.”
“Go to hell,” Frances spat, her face twisting in anger. “She didn’t place me anywhere.”
Max wished he hadn’t told her. “The donation—”
“—came with conditions, yes. To hire a teacher with certain capabilities. To offer a given salary. There was no stipulation that I be chosen. Only that the candidate meet expectations.” Her voice shook. “I have those capabilities. I do. With or without Bryony.”
His throat was tight. “Frances—”
“With or without you, either,” she added, dark eyes flashing. “I wasn’t employed to dump chamber pots. I met detailed characteristics. I fulfilled the requirements. I submitted to written and oral examination, and interviews with both headmistresses and the children.”
His heart clenched. “Fran—”
“I was given an opportunity, not a position. I earned the position. To the devil with you for suggesting otherwise.” She slammed the door in his face before he could say another word.
He blinked in shock for a few seconds before flinging the door back open and dashing outside in search of his sister.
The only movement was dust flying from the wheels of a hack as it tore off down the street.
Max leaned against the brick façade—a wall that he now owned—and closed his eyes.
Good Lord, had he bolloxed the situation.
From Frances’s perspective, there had been no dancing to hidden puppet strings. An opportunity had opened. She could choose to pursue it or not. Of her own volition, she had chosen to pursue it. On her own merit, she had won.
It was not a gift. It was a well-paid responsibility with stringent requirements in both temperament and ability. She met each requirement handily, Max had no doubt.
Frances was right. She had earned this herself. It hadn’t been given to her. She had qualified on her own.
A sh
adow blocked out the sun as Vigo, Max’s burly doorman, reported for duty.
“Why are you standing in the alley with the door wide open?” asked the doorman in curiosity.
“Because I’m an imbecile,” Max muttered. “It just took me this long to notice.”
Vigo laughed. “Don’t tell me you are caught up in the ‘musicale mystery.’”
Max blinked at him. “Musicale mystery?”
The doorman rolled his eyes. “All the fine gentlemen are positively a-flutter. The Grenvilles have called off all further musicales and no one knows why.”
Max furrowed his brow. The Grenville musicales were a London institution. Even after the eldest siblings had married, they continued to perform with the family once or twice a Season. They’d done so for years. A sudden turnabout made no sense.
“What happened?” he asked. Vigo would know. A doorman overheard everything.
“Pawnbroker just came into possession of a Stradivarius in pristine condition.” Vigo shook his head in wonder. “One would think a family like the Grenvilles wouldn’t need to pawn their most prized possessions for a bit of ready blunt.”
Max’s lungs tightened.
The heads of the Grenville family did not need to visit pawn shops in order to get their hands on any quantity of coin.
The youngest daughter, however, had no such limitless resources. The purchase of Max’s property must have cost Bryony every spare penny she had ever earned.
“A Stradivarius?” he repeated hoarsely. “He is certain?”
Of course the pawnbroker was certain. It was his job to be certain.
“Handed to him by a Grenville chit herself.” Vigo made his way toward his post at the front of the club. “Don’t be surprised if the end of the Grenville musicales is all anyone speaks of for the next fortnight.”
Max’s stomach twisted. How badly he had misjudged her. Bryony was not trying to be high-handed and imperious.
The opposite.
She had given up her own future in order to better theirs. Had given him her time, her brain, and her body. Sold her most priceless possession in order to give Frances an opportunity, with no guarantee the gesture would even be accepted.
Bryony had gambled. She had risked. She had placed everything she had earned and owned, from her investments to her heart, on the table. And then she had handed her highest trump cards to other players.
She was exactly the woman he had always thought she was. He was the one who had taken a beautiful thing and crumbled it to ash.
Max swung his gaze toward his open office door. At the deed lying upon his desk.
She had given it to him because she wished to. Bryony had not wanted the property to be forced from her. She wished to be able to choose for herself if and when to relinquish it. His heart beat so fast he feared it would burst from his chest. She had handed it over still hoping they might continue to manage the club together, if only from the shadows.
He owed his sister a heartfelt apology, and he owed Bryony so much more.
To continue on without her would be to live in a world without color or music. A dark hole he had finally climbed out of, thanks to her light.
And now she was gone.
Because her parents would forbid their marriage, because Bryony was no longer his landlord, because there was no longer any reason for her to share any part of Max’s life.
Unless he gave her one.
He took a deep breath.
The tangles of colored thread upon the cushion shone brightly in an office otherwise devoid of color. Everything came to life once Bryony touched it.
With a crooked smile, he remembered her teasing dream of burning down Almack’s assembly room and creating a copy of the Cloven Hoof that admitted both sexes in its place.
His heart skipped. Perhaps the answer had been in front of them all along.
If the Patronesses could run Almack’s however they wished, why couldn’t he and Bryony run the Cloven Hoof together… and open it to everyone? Why couldn’t they both win?
There would be outcry, of course. Just like when the club first opened, and a few high-in-the-instep lords publicly protested the Cloven Hoof for allowing entry to people they felt beneath them.
Women were not beneath men. Frances proved it. Bryony proved it. Her sisters proved it. Any gentleman who couldn’t handle the idea of men and women sharing a common space for gaming and good conversation could just keep walking.
Of course, such a fanciful idea hinged on Bryony wishing to have anything to do with Max at all.
He would not force her to associate with him. But he would do as she had done for Frances, and give her an opportunity. One she could choose to take or to leave. One she had earned.
He strode from the Cloven Hoof and hailed the first passing hack. There were two stops to make before heading to Bryony’s house and handing her the keys to her own future. Before she had given him the deed to the Cloven Hoof, he already owned the empty storefront next door.
Not for long.
She would soon be in possession of the deed.
It meant giving up on his dreams for the Cloven Hoof. For her.
He didn’t expect accolades. It didn’t even mean she would forgive him. He wanted to do the right thing. To surrender the possession he most cared about in all the world.
What Bryony would do with the property, he had no idea. She was certainly clever enough to establish an even better club and put him out of business. Or she could sell the deed to anyone but him if all she wanted was to purchase her Stradivarius back.
There was no way to know. It didn’t matter. Her life and her choices were up to her. As they should be.
Within the space of an hour, Max presented himself at the home of Lord and Lady Grenville.
A place he’d sworn he’d never go.
A place he knew he was not welcome.
He might well be turned away at the door. Thrown into the street like so much rubbish.
It didn’t matter.
All that mattered was Bryony. He would beg forgiveness from her, and her hand from her father.
No matter the odds, he needed to try.
He banged the gilt knocker.
An impassive butler answered the door. “Calling card?”
Damn it. Max stared back at him in consternation.
“Who is it, Prate?” came Bryony’s voice from just around the corner.
“Maxwell Gideon, here to deliver an apology,” Max announced in a voice loud enough to carry.
Silence reigned.
He would not yet tell her about the property next door to the Cloven Hoof. It was irrelevant.
She would get the deed whether she forgave him or not.
He needed her to know he loved her without conditions or expectations. Exactly who and how she was.
That was, if she allowed him to cross this threshold.
Chapter 27
Bryony’s fingers tightened on her book in disbelief.
She was alone in the family drawing room, an untouched pile of samplers at her side. Instead of embroidering, she was engrossed in The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole. She had filched the volume from Max’s office.
And now he was here. Why? What else could be left to say?
Bryony set the book aside and pushed to her feet. It would be churlish to refuse an apology. Her heart thumped. Nor was there any sense in avoiding him. Not when he already filled her every thought.
She walked toward the door and stopped short behind her butler. “Why are you here?”
Max cleared his throat. “May I come in?”
She crossed her arms. “No.”
“Very well.” He took a deep breath. “I’m in love with you, Bryony Grenville. I know I am not what your parents hoped. I’m not even what you had hoped. But I love you… and wanted you to know.”
Her heart cracked a little. “Anything else?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” His words were filled with self-loathing. “I was the o
ne who didn’t think before acting. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry.”
Her heart fluttered. They had both been rash. They had both been wrong. What mattered was that they were able to discuss their feelings. To forgive. To help each other be better.
“Is that all?” she asked, her voice softer this time.
“It is not all.” With a flourish, he thrust a kitten-sized blob of blindingly red fabric in her direction. “This is for you.”
Curiosity won out.
She uncrossed her arms and stepped forward to accept what deductive reasoning would have her believe was a cushion of some kind. An uncomfortable one. What with sharp quill ends sticking out through the fabric at every angle.
“Impressive,” she said. “You managed to make it worse than mine.”
“It’s heart-shaped,” he said helpfully.
She gave it a few skeptical turns. “Is it?”
He dropped to one knee in supplication. “I am forced to present you with a poor facsimile because you already possess the real thing. You are the keeper of my heart and the greatest partner a man could ever hope to find. I would like to be yours forever. Would you do me the honor of being my bride?”
Bryony’s eyes shone with tears. There was nothing she wanted more.
But before she could respond, the soft footfalls of her mother’s slippers hurried down the stairs.
“What is this?” Mother demanded shrilly. “Was I not clear?”
“You were cruel,” Bryony corrected, not bothering to hide the anger in her voice. “You publicly humiliated the man that I love for no reason at all.”
“You love me?” Max’s grin lit his eyes. “You love me.”
“Of course I love you.” Bryony set her fists on her hips in exasperation. “What other conclusion could be drawn from more than a month’s worth of behavioral observation?”
“I told you not to talk like that,” Mother interrupted fretfully. “People will hear you.”
Bryony did not respond. All her attention was focused on the long-haired rogue on one knee before her.
She knelt to join him.
“Yes.” She took his hands. “I will marry you. I’ve analyzed my calculations several times and come to the only conclusion that matters. Living together creates increased opportunities for biscuit-making. And biscuits lead to—”