Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6)

by Ridley, Erica

  Unlike proper debutantes, Miss Dahlia Grenville is secretly Robin Hood in a bonnet. Her home for wayward girls has too many dependents and not enough donations. But just as she's about to pull off the heist of the Season, she tumbles straight into the arms of the handsome detective who has sworn to deliver Mayfair's mysterious thief straight to the gallows…

  Chapter 1

  London, 1817

  Miss Dahlia Grenville hunched in the shadowed entryway of the St. Giles School for Girls. Her once-pristine white silk gloves were marred with splinters from the well-worn broom in her hands. Ash from this evening’s hearth made their fineness almost undetectable.

  The old abbey that housed the boarding school had also once been very fine. Long before centuries of footfalls had warped its marble staircase dangerously uneven, before decades of vagabonds and ruffians had managed to crack every pane of the colored glass windows, before the neighborhood surrounding the walls had become home to gaming dens and workhouses and indigent children who had seen far more of London’s underbelly than any person ever should, the abbey had once been a symbol of hope. A sanctuary from the secular world. A place of love and peace.

  Dahlia’s goal was to bring back that lost security, even in those dark rookeries. To once again make these walls a shelter from the past and a bridge to a better future. She couldn’t guarantee her girls heaven.

  But she’d die trying to give them a better life here on Earth.

  Unfortunately, being the second daughter to highborn parents had not exactly prepared Dahlia for becoming a headmistress. An outside observer might opine that her parents hadn’t prepared her for anything at all, apart from making her come-out curtsey as a debutante and reasonably acquitting herself on the dance floor at Almack’s.

  None of that mattered. Dahlia ignored the cramping muscles in her back and shoulders and forced herself to keep sweeping today’s accumulation of soot and dirt back out onto the street. Although it was no glamorous task, it allowed her to end each day with an accomplishment. Make her girls’ world a little cleaner. Sweep the darkness back outside where it belonged.

  Yet she knew they needed more. A lot more.

  Her dowry, while not inconsequential, was not of the caliber to attract fortune hunters. More importantly, those funds went to the husband, not the bride—should that unhappy day ever occur. Which meant pursuing this dream had required her to call in every favor she could, beg every charity-minded soul from Bond Street to Grosvenor Square for donation after donation, until at last she’d secured enough funds to open her school.

  To open it. Not to keep it running.

  The plan to fill the six habitable bedchambers with one worthy young lady apiece had flown right out the drafty windows. Not one but four desperate girls now filled nearly every tiny room, each of the now twenty-three children more grateful than the last.

  Some came from the streets. Orphaned, abandoned, homeless. Others had run away from dark places that could never be homes. Brothels. Workhouses. Drunken stepfathers.

  Dahlia had promised them all a better future. Was determined never to send a single girl back to the horror they’d narrowly escaped.

  These children were counting on her with their lives.

  But there was rent to pay. Clothes to purchase. Mouths to feed. Dahlia had just finished serving the evening stew, and all she could think about was where to find tomorrow’s. There was enough bread for breakfast, and even a hunk of cheese left over for lunch, but when the bell tolled the supper hour once again…

  A scream rent the dank air, cutting through the smog-filled streets with piercing desperation before being just as hair-raisingly muffled by some unseen source.

  Not again.

  Broom in hand, Dahlia flew out of the entryway and onto the dark street.

  Even a neighborhood as poor as theirs was supposed to have a night watchman, armed with a bright lantern and a sturdy cane. The only light came from the sliver of moon overhead, and the orange flicker of tallow rushlights in the windows of residents with enough money to afford a few candles.

  She glanced to her left, toward the intersection of seven well-trafficked streets, where a large pillar rose up from the darkness toward the moon. By day, its six sundials told the time from every angle. Tonight, not even a watchman dared call the hour, as was his duty.

  St. Giles was on its own.

  A telltale rustle jerked Dahlia’s gaze to the right, just in time to see two kicking feet dragged about the corner and into an alley. Fury billowed through her veins. She gave chase before it was too late.

  “Help! Fire!” she yelled as her boots smacked against the foul cobblestone.

  There was little chance the villain intended to set any fires, but yelling Despoiler of young girls! was unlikely to garner aid. From bawdy-house madams to fashionable courtesans, a fair portion of London’s economy thrived on the exploitation of sexual favors… and a disinclination to meddle into others’ business.

  On the other hand, every resident in the St. Giles rookery lived in mortal fear of fire. No matter how much or little its residents possessed, an unchecked fire could burn entire blocks to cinders.

  A few windows opened overhead as she rounded the corner into the alley. Dahlia didn’t slow. In some neighborhoods, the mere presence of witnesses could stop a crime. Not this one.

  No one would be coming to help. If Dahlia wished to save the young girl flailing in the arms of her assailant, she would have to do the rescuing herself.

  “Stop!” she commanded in the booming voice she used as headmistress.

  Startled, the ruffian paused to glance her way. The brim of his scuffed hat cast all but his scarred chin into shadow.

  “Step away from my daughter at once,” she demanded in the same implacable tones. “The watchman is on his way.”

  The ruffian hesitated, although it was hard to say whether it was due to the implicit threat of gaol or the mystifying improbability of four-and-twenty-year-old Dahlia giving birth to what she could now see was a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl.

  “Ain’t no watchmen in the rookery. Not tonight.” The ruffian spit into the alley with contempt. “Come any closer, and I’ll treat myself to both of you.”

  “You shall not.” Rather than step closer, Dahlia lifted her heavy broom and swung at the villain’s head with all her might.

  There was no chance of the impact causing him any permanent harm, but the surprise of the attack and the noxious cloud of dirt and soot that exploded in his face were enough to cause him to release his grip on the girl’s wrists.

  With a frightened sob, the child leapt away from her attacker and toward the relative safety of Dahlia’s side.

  As much as Dahlia would have liked to envelop the terrified girl in her arms for a reassuring embrace, there was no time to spare. The blow from the broom had dislodged the villain’s hat from his head, but it hadn’t knocked him out.

  Fists drawn, he launched himself away from the brick wall and toward the two young ladies.

  The broom clattered to the broken cobblestones as Dahlia grabbed the girl’s hand and hauled her out of the alley and back onto the main street. The abbey was less than a block away. If they could just make it to the front door—

  Horse hooves clopped up from the direction of Seven Dials so swiftly that Dahlia nearly stepped into the path of the rider in her haste to get the terrified girl away from the ruffian in the alley.

  They weren’t going to make it. The villain’s footsteps were right behind them. Both directions were blocked.

  With the moon at his back, the man on the horse was bathed in darkness, his face obscured from view. From his perch atop his black steed, the man seemed impossibly tall and improbably strong. He was probably lost, and would be on his way soon. The biggest miracle was that he’d paused at all.

  The ruffian’s feet pulled up short a careful distance behind them. Dahlia’s shoulders tensed. The moment the gentleman rode away, the girl’s attacker would punish them both.<
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  “Help,” she gasped, knowing it was useless. Everyone knew that the wisest path through any rookery was as fast as one’s horse could run. “There’s a man trying to hurt us. He tried to…violate…”

  Before she could get the rest of the explanation out of her mouth, the rider had already turned his horse’s nose toward the alley. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”

  “The St. Giles School for Girls,” she answered automatically. “But the man—”

  “I’ll take care of him. You get to safety.” He eased the horse off the street and into the alley. “I’ll be back.”

  Sure he would. Dahlia’s teeth clenched. He didn’t even know what he was looking for.

  “Big hands, scarred chin, lost his hat in the struggle—” Dahlia shouted after the rider, but it was too late.

  The gentleman was already racing down the alley in search of a ruffian who no doubt would never be found. Nor would the rider. A few blocks away, the good samaritan would tire of the fruitless search. He’d push the scared countenances of two unfortunate young ladies from his mind, and settle down before a cozy fire in his safe, warm home several miles from here, never to return.

  Dahlia took a deep breath. This was exactly why her school was so important. Everyone deserved someone they could count on. Especially children with nowhere else to go.

  “Thank you. For everything.” The girl lowered her head, shoulders shaking.

  Dahlia retrieved her fallen broom and scooped up the ruffian’s hat. Knowing it would not be here when he returned to fetch it was a hollow, petty victory, but sometimes that was the only victory one could have.

  She turned to the girl. “What is your name?”

  “Molly,” the child stammered.

  Dahlia nodded. “Shall I walk you home?”

  Molly lowered her gaze. “I sleep behind the bakery. Ain’t all bad. The bricks behind the oven stay warm well into the night. Needn’t worry about me.”

  “I know I shan’t worry about you.” Dahlia sighed. She was about to make a terrible financial decision…which was the only way she could face herself in the looking-glass. “Because you’re coming with me. I am Miss Grenville, headmistress of the St. Giles School for Girls. You are our newest student.”

  “I’m…what?” Molly’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know you ain’t a madam?”

  “I cannot prove it,” Dahlia admitted. “I can only be honest. If you’d like to come with me, you are welcome to. If you would rather not, that is also your prerogative. I shan’t chase you down either way.”

  Molly frowned in hesitation. “A madam woulda promised she weren’t a madam.”

  “Your choice.” Dahlia brushed off her dress. “Come or stay. What will it be?”

  Molly’s face brightened and she lowered her eyes. “I never been a student before.”

  “Then come along,” Dahlia said briskly, herding the girl away from the alley and toward the street. “We’re both out after dusk, which you can see is not a wise choice at all. From this day forward, I expect you to be in the dining room for supper, face and hands washed, at precisely eight o’clock every evening, along with the rest of the students.”

  “I… That is… I…” Molly stared at Dahlia speechlessly. Her face flushed. “Don’t have any money.”

  “The St. Giles School for Girls does not require its students’ money.” Dahlia smiled as warmly as she could to hide the fiscal disaster of having yet another mouth to feed. “Don’t worry. You are not in any debt. We do require a strong work ethic, adherence to the house rules, and strict attendance at every meal and every lecture. Are these terms acceptable?”

  “I… I… Yes!” Unshed tears glistened in Molly’s eyes. “I’d love to be a student at your school. I can be the best student your school ever seen.”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Dahlia agreed without the slightest surprise. Mostly because every other student at the school had joined under similarly desperate circumstances and had instantly made heartbreakingly similar promises of obedience in all things in exchange for a morsel of food and a place to sleep. “Come along, then. I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  “Thank you,” Molly said quietly. “Thought I was about to have the worst night of my life. Mighta turned out to be the best.”

  Dahlia fervently hoped her boarding school would indeed be the answer to many prayers. Two dozen girls with nowhere else to go were counting on Dahlia to keep them safe. She swallowed the lump of worry in her throat. Tomorrow, she would come up with a plan.

  No matter what, she had to find a way to keep the school afloat.

  Chapter 2

  Inspector Simon Spaulding raced his horse through the crumbling alleyways in search of the villain who had assaulted the two ladies.

  Surely his Bow Street companions would shake their heads if they could see him now. Simon worked at least six days a week, taking the shift through the night, and this was how he chose to spend his off-duty hours?

  But Simon had never been interested in helping some people. He was committed to serving and protecting all people. Especially the young lady who had begged for his help, even though the bleakness in her eyes that indicated she had learned never to expect anyone’s help at all.

  That was the sort of person who needed it most. The sort who was most unfairly preyed upon by people like…what had she called after him? Big hands, scarred chin, lost his hat in the struggle.

  Simon smiled despite the circumstances. That was the sort of information one investigator might provide another to aid in a case. Not the sort of details one would expect a young girl to note in the midst of a struggle, nor to have the presence of mind to convey to a Runner before he gave chase.

  Especially since Simon hadn’t even mentioned his occupation. There hadn’t been time to do more than—

  “Halt!” he shouted as he glimpsed a large man trying to sneak into the crevice between two buildings.

  “Ain’t done nothing!” When the man turned to snarl up at Simon, moonlight fell upon a gnarled scar on his chin. He wore no hat, and kept his burly hands curled into fists at his sides.

  Simon pulled his horse alongside. “A pair of young ladies a few hundred yards back beg to differ.”

  “Then they’re liars. Can’t prove anything.”

  “What about the marks on her?” Simon asked coldly. Neither woman had mentioned any marks, but there were bound to be bruises in any struggle.

  “Marks on her?” the man repeated in disbelief. “What about the marks on me? The older one came at me with a broom. Bloody near knocked out half of my teeth!”

  “Then you admit it.” Simon reached for his iron handcuffs. “Come with me. You are fortunate it was a broom to the head, and not a brick.”

  “She’s the lucky one. If you hadn’t stuck your nose in our business, I’d a—”

  “You’d have done what, exactly?” The ice in Simon’s voice more than sharp enough to kill.

  Rather than answer, the man turned and sprinted toward the next alley.

  Simon leapt from his horse and gave chase, tackling the man into the closest brick wall. “My name is Mr. Spaulding. I am an investigator at Bow Street. You are coming with me.”

  “Bloody hell,” the man muttered.

  Simon secured his wrists in iron shackles, then walked him back to Simon’s horse, where a pouch contained a rope for leading criminals to the closest watchtower.

  The watchtower, however, was empty. The night watchman was nowhere in sight.

  With a sigh, Simon headed back toward the Magistrates’ Court.

  Luckily for the handcuffed man swearing under his breath as he stumbled beside the horse, Bow Street was less than a mile from where they’d begun.

  Too bad. Anyone who accosted a woman deserved far worse than an uncomfortable twenty-minute walk.

  When they arrived at Bow Street, the daytime inspectors had long since gone home to their wives or to the closest alehouse. Simon locked the malefactor in a cell with
a tin of water, and sat down to write up his notes for the first officer to arrive in the morning.

  He liked being thorough. Performing his duties the way they were supposed to be done was what he did best. Some might say, it was the only thing Simon did.

  When they called him “lone wolf,” he took no offense. They were right. He was wed not to his job, but to this city.

  Idle and disorderly, Simon wrote at the top of the paper. It was a catch-all crime that encompassed everything from prostitution to public drunkenness. Although its punishment didn’t come close to atoning for the innumerable assaults this villain had likely perpetrated on countless young women over the years, the law could only prosecute what it could prove.

  At the very least, this man had not gone free. A month in prison may not cause him to mend his ways, but it would keep him off the streets for now. Small consolation, perhaps, to the women who would have liked to see him rot in gaol forever.

  Simon frowned and put down his pen. No one should believe their city had forgotten them. Not the young or the women or the poor or anyone at all. Everyone shared the basic human right to feel safe.

  Starting with having an active night watchman on duty. Simon made another note to look into the missing guard, although it wasn’t much of a mystery. Even though recent reforms meant that watchmen were now paid, in the poorer areas of town this often meant a coin was passed to some elderly gentleman to mind the post while the watchman on duty spent the rest of his pay on Blue Ruin.

  Anger skated along Simon’s skin. Everything about that situation infuriated. Leaving innocents unprotected. Shirking duties. Cheating the system. Visiting the public house instead of attending to one’s responsibilities.

  He would see to it that the watchman on duty was immediately sacked, and an alternate appointed. There would be no second chances. Simon had no pity for a man who left his post.

  Just like he had no pity for the would-be debaucher rattling the iron bars of his cell. The rules applied to everyone. The world was black and white. Simon stayed on the good side and did his part to rid London of the bad.