Rogues to Riches (Books 1-6): Box Set Collection

by Erica Ridley

  Simon tilted his head. “Why?”

  “Oh, you know why.” Hawkridge sighed. “I was beastly to you the other day and you didn’t deserve it. In my defense, you could not have possibly had worse timing. But in your defense… I doubt much would have changed. After all, I’ve been jealous of you since the day I learned of your existence.”

  A marquess jealous of Simon. The idea still boggled. “When did you learn of me?”

  Hawkridge leaned forward, his smile humorless. “I don’t even know. I can’t remember not knowing. Perhaps I heard my parents arguing, or perhaps it was never a secret at all. How about you? When did you find out?”

  “I never didn’t know,” Simon admitted. “I suppose it was the same. You were a fact, just like two shillings in a florin or two ten bobs in a pound.”

  Hawkridge lifted his brows. “You are like a maths tutor. I thought I was jesting.”

  “Is it more fun if I’m a Latin tutor?” Simon asked innocently. “I can have you decline a few verbs.”

  Hawkridge shuddered. “At least figures are useful. I haven’t conjugated Latin since Oxford, and I aspire to keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

  Simon grinned despite himself…and suddenly realized he was bantering with a marquess in the middle of an exclusive gentlemen’s club as if they were equals.

  Something they could never be.

  “You deserve an apology from me as well,” he said, before he lost sight of the reason he’d approached the table.

  “Do I?” Hawkridge’s smile was crooked. “I thought so, when I was younger. When it felt like you got everything.”

  “What ‘everything?’” Simon burst out in disbelief. “You got his name. His title.”

  “But you got him,” Hawkridge said simply. “We weren’t his real family. You were.”

  “It doesn’t get realer than inheriting a marquessate.”

  “Doesn’t it? We had him for stolen moments here and there, when he wasn’t busy with the House of Lords…or whisking you and your mother off to the countryside.”

  “Holidays like that were rare.” And, ultimately, fatal. Simon pushed away the memory. “He took you riding every day.”

  “I took daily rides with a horse he purchased me,” Hawkridge corrected. “It’s not quite the same as having company on the ride.”

  “I was so jealous of you.” Simon raked his fingers through his hair as he stared at the marquess. “So jealous.”

  “You’ll probably think I’m lying if I say I used to dream of switching places with you.” Hawkridge scoffed self-deprecatingly. “Poor little rich lad, and all that.”

  “Except you aren’t rich,” Simon said softly.

  Hawkridge inclined his head. “I am not.”

  Simon leaned back. What if the line that had always separated them was as much their own fault as society’s?

  “Our births were so close, we were practically born twins.” He hesitated. “Why do I feel like we’ve wasted every moment of the two-and-thirty years since that day?”

  “Not every moment.” Hawkridge lifted a palm. “We’re here now, aren’t we?”

  “At a questionably legal gaming establishment,” Simon said, deadpan.

  “Where neither of us is gambling,” Hawkridge agreed, neither denying nor confirming the questionable legal status of the venue. “Next to a bar possessing some of the finest wines in London.”

  “Which neither of us is drinking,” Simon finished. He motioned to the barmaid. “I can fix that, at least.”

  Hawkridge snapped up straight in obvious offense. “I hope you’re buying yourself a drink.”

  “I don’t drink on duty. That would be irresponsible.” Simon glanced up at the approaching barmaid. “Please bring this prickly sot your finest glass of whatever he’s having.”

  “Nothing,” Hawkridge bit out. “I’m having nothing. I won’t accept charity from my friends and I won’t accept it from you.”

  “That’s right. I’m not your friend. And this isn’t charity.” Simon slammed his palm to the table. “I’ll buy you all the bloody drinks I want. You’re my little brother. What else is family for?”

  Hawkridge stared back at him for a long moment without blinking.

  “By accepting a drink, I’m either accepting charity…or a brother.” The marquess lifted his nose. “I refuse to accept charity.”

  Simon shrugged a shoulder. “Stay thirsty, then. Have it your way.”

  “I will.” Hawkridge smiled up at the barmaid. “Two cups of tea if you would, Jemima. My brother doesn’t drink when he’s on duty.” The marquess lowered his voice to an exaggerated whisper. “He thinks it’s irresponsible.”

  Jemima winked and set off in search of a teapot.

  “Next time, it’s wine,” Hawkridge warned Simon. “Sipping tea in the middle of a gentlemen’s club is bound to hurt my image.”

  “It’s not hurting your image,” Simon protested. “I’m helping you. Now the heiresses will think you can afford tea.”

  Hawkridge stroked his chin. “That’s a fair point. Ladies do like tea. Perhaps Jemima is a secret heiress.”

  “She also knows you can’t afford tea,” Simon reminded him. “To her, I look like the better deal.”

  Jemima returned with a steaming tea service. “Anything else, gentlemen?”

  “Just one thing.” Hawkridge raised his china teacup and grinned at Simon. “To the next thirty years?”

  “To the next thirty,” Simon agreed as he clinked the painted rim of his cup with his brother’s.

  Chapter 24

  Despite the riotous sounds, smells, and colors of the Covent Garden Market, Simon strolled through the chaotic maze of donkeys, fruit stands, and costermongers as if he’d never experienced a more peaceful afternoon walk. Life felt like it was finally on the perfect track.

  After sharing a pot of tea at the Cloven Hoof, he and his brother had not exchanged locks of hair or anything so romantic, but an important corner had clearly been turned.

  He and his brother were speaking.

  They might never be the sort of friends who went riding together or retired for a week or two at a hunting box in the country, but Simon didn’t care about any of that. He didn’t have time for any of that. Sharing a table now and again for an hour’s chat free of rancor or animosity, on the other hand… Well, that was a gift he’d long ago stopped believing in.

  And he owed it all to Dahlia.

  A smile teased Simon’s lips as her image filled his mind. Since the day he’d been orphaned, Simon had believed himself alone in the world. Dahlia had proved him wrong time and again.

  First, there was her. He wasn’t quite certain at what point he’d stopped being able to imagine a future without her in it, but, well, there it was. She was a part of him now.

  As were the students at her boarding school. The weekly dancing lessons had taught him as much as it had taught the girls. By dancing with each one of them, week after week, he’d not only learned their names, their histories, their fears, their dreams… He’d become part of their family.

  Nor was the St. Giles School for Girls his only family. His colleagues at Bow Street were another, even if he’d been too blind to see it until now. Having an after-work drink with the others wasn’t about imbibing gin, but about sharing a sense of brotherhood. The officers weren’t in competition. They were a team. Fighting to achieve the same goal: a safer London. If they ended up making friends in the process, what was the harm in that?

  Simon now looked forward to work as much for the updates in their various lives as in their cases. Rarely did a day pass by without one of the inspectors regaling the others with tales of a misadventure, or the wise and pithy comments of a wife who was more than obviously his equal.

  That he could blend both worlds had seemed a miracle in its own right. Having Dahlia and the Webbs seated around the same table had heralded one of the most delightful evenings of his life. The thought of continuing to enjoy their company for the rest of h
is life would make any man feel like the most fortunate soul on earth.

  To have a brother on top of it all… It was positively dizzying, this good fortune. Each day better than the one before! Simon could scarcely wait to see Dahlia and tell her all about it.

  Initially, he’d had a conversation of another sort in mind. As much as he loved their heated kisses, such liberties were far from proper. He respected Dahlia too much to offer her anything short of what she deserved. Not just because society dictated that courtship precede any physicality. It was his duty as a gentleman. No—it was his pleasure.

  Which was why he’d bought a ring. Had been carrying it around for days, waiting for the right time. Waiting for the right words.

  The decision, the moment, was too important to spoil.

  Simon had always known that if he ever found the right woman, he would marry her. It wasn’t so much the legalities of the matter, as the emotional toll. Because his father had never recognized him as his son, not even as an accidental by-blow, Simon had always believed the old marquess to be ashamed of him. Not just him—of both him and his mother.

  By stringing his mother along all those years, the marquess had not only withheld any sense of belonging from his illegitimate son, he had also prevented Simon’s mother from moving on. His constant, inconstant presence had blocked Simon and his mother both from ever having the opportunity to find a real family. A step-father who would have acknowledged Simon’s existence, loved Simon’s mother, and possibly even been proud of them both.

  But all of that was about Simon. He had never considered himself to be a particularly romantic man, but he was wise enough to realize that “I’m marrying you to legitimize any accidental offspring” lacked a certain je ne sais quoi when it came to compelling proposals.

  Dahlia wasn’t going to marry him because of his childhood. She was going to marry him because… Because…

  His hands went clammy. This was why he had not yet asked the question. He knew why he wanted to marry her—he loved her mind, her heart, her fearlessness, her kisses—but why in heaven’s name would she want to marry him?

  He worked far too much with no intention of stopping, he had a past that still haunted him, complicated feelings about the people in his present, the only thing he knew about his future was that he couldn’t imagine a moment of it without the woman he loved right beside… Right…

  Simon’s throat convulsed. The woman he loved. He was in love with her. That was all he had to say, the entire bloody proposal wrapped up in three little words, and yet he could think of nothing more terrifying to say. It would be like slicing open his heart and presenting her with the ceremonial dagger, then waiting to see whether she would heal him or keep slicing.

  She would say yes, wouldn’t she? Of course she would say yes. What woman didn’t wish to be loved?

  Then again, there was always the possibility that she didn’t love him. That while she did indeed long to receive just such a passionate proposal from a smitten suitor, she’d rather hoped some other chap would be the one doing the asking. Perhaps a nice vicar, with plenty of time to help at the school and a passel of philanthropic parishioners.

  Or a tutor. Wouldn’t a tutor be better than an inspector? Some angel-faced genius who conjugated verbs in his sleep and painted stunning portraits with his eyes closed. The sort of fellow who could give every one of Dahlia’s indigent schoolgirls an education to rival the daughters of dukes and earls.

  Flowers. Simon should start with flowers. He would ask Dahlia for her hand in marriage—he’d bought the ring, hadn’t he?—but there was no reason to rush headlong into something as serious as a proposal. He needed her to say yes. He needed her, blast it all.

  As soon as he could determine exactly how to bare his heart to best advantage, he would do so straight away. Simon wasn’t a dillydallying sort of man. He certainly wasn’t afraid of a simple question. He was simply cautious, that’s all. And until the right moment came along…

  “Primroses, two bundles for a penny!” came the plaintive cry of one of the many flower girls snaking through Covent Garden. She couldn’t be taller than his elbow, yet hefted a basket almost as big as she was.

  Simon planted himself in her path. “I’ll take them.”

  She smiled in delight. “How many flowers would you like, sir?”

  “A dozen,” he said decisively. “No—two dozen. They’re fresh, aren’t they?”

  “Cut them this very morn,” the flower girl assured him as she counted off the stems.

  Simon doubted that very much, but what did it matter? He was in the market for flowers, and these were stunningly beautiful. White, heart-shaped petals. Warm, golden-yellow centers. A sweet, subtle scent.

  A far less subtle message.

  A single primrose was romantic. A dozen was very romantic. Two dozen pristine primroses said I probably have a ring in my pocket. Depending on Dahlia’s response to the flowers, perhaps today would be the day she made him the happiest man alive.

  He bought a scrap of cloth to keep the primroses safe from the wind, then raced from the market to St. Giles as fast as his horse could carry him.

  With his heart beating so hard it was likely shaking his cravat, Simon slid off his horse, made his way to the boarding school door, and banged the knocker.

  No one came.

  After an interminable wait, Simon banged the knocker a second time. Harder. The dreaded “inspector knock.”

  Still nothing.

  Perhaps they weren’t at home. Perhaps he had worked his horse and himself into a lather only to have to return to his empty house with two dozen primroses that would wilt by morning because he hadn’t the least idea how to take care of them.

  He reached out and tried the door handle. It was unlocked.

  With the gentlest of pushes, the door swung open with nary a creak. Simon quickly stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Now what?

  Soft thuds and excited voices emanated from the rear chamber where the students gathered for their weekly dance lessons. Tonight wasn’t dance night, but clearly some other exercise-based activity was currently underway. He crept forward, pausing just outside the open doorway.

  The good news was that Dahlia led the school’s exercise program, which meant the object of his affection was right on the other side of the wall.

  The bad news was that so was a crowded ballroom full of pinafored witnesses.

  He took a deep breath, lifted the flowers, and strode through the doorway. Every pair of eyes swung to face him in shock.

  To be fair, Simon was doing the same thing.

  Not only was the woman he hoped would become his future bride turning somersaults across the frayed center carpet in a pair of men’s trousers…

  So were all of her students.

  Trousers. Somersaults. Definitely not dance lessons. Simon forced a smile. “Er… Good evening, ladies.”

  Dahlia was the first to bounce to her feet. “Mr. Spaulding! Always a lovely surprise. What brings you here tonight?”

  Given the ostentatious waterfall of spring primroses blossoming from his fist, Simon reckoned he’d lost any element of surprise. Nothing left to do but continue the mission as planned.

  He cleared his throat. Onward, then. “You must know that my heart has been stolen…”

  The elder half of the trousered schoolgirls clapped a hand to their mouth or their chest in disbelief and anticipation. The younger half of the female tumblers simply stared at him in wide-eyed bafflement.

  Simon swallowed. Some of these children believed they were about to witness the most romantic spectacle of their lives. The others hadn’t witnessed enough gallantry to even recognize it unfold before them. Before being welcomed into Dahlia’s school, most of the children had never previously been shown kindness. He straightened.

  Flowers weren’t the way to Dahlia’s heart. Nor was this moment about the two of them.

  He swept into the room with renewed purpose. “Miss Grenville, would you ple
ase hold out your hand?”

  She did so with a bemused smile.

  “Thank you.” He handed her his hat. “As I was saying, my heart has been stolen by a cadre of shameless young ladies. I am here to give a flower to every woman in possession of a bit of my heart, to let her know that I see what she has done…and that she may keep it. I find myself love-struck by the entire trouser-wearing lot of them.”

  He turned to Molly, who stared up at him with shocked blue eyes.

  “You, above all, must have the first primrose. If it were not for you, I would never have been introduced to the St. Giles School for Girls in the first place. I owe you far more than my heart.” He handed her a flower.

  She clutched it to her chest without a word.

  He turned to the next girl. “Louisa, it was the greatest honor of my life to loan you my greatcoat when you required its warmth. Even though you have rudely failed to see to its safe return, I remain quite smitten by your smile. This primrose is for you.”

  She accepted it with jittery fingers.

  Child by child, Simon made his way about the large chamber. Each flower was given along with a compliment by name and a personal comment, ensuring each girl realized her flower was for her. They were not invisible. They were important. They mattered to him. They mattered in their own right.

  Only when he was down to the last few primroses did Simon realize he had made a slight miscalculation at the time of his purchase. He had enough flowers for every girl in the ballroom… but there wouldn’t be any left for Dahlia.

  After the final primrose had been given away, he slowly turned to face her.

  Her beautiful dark eyes glistened with unshed tears.

  “Just because I don’t have any flowers left,” he stammered, “doesn’t mean the biggest part of my heart belongs to anyone but y—”

  She tossed his hat to the carpet and threw herself into his arms.

  “You daft man,” she said as she pressed a damp cheek to his neck. “Everyone’s hearts belong to you.”

  “Kiss him!” shouted one of the girls, to much whooping from the others.