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

by Erica Ridley

  And if he did learn the truth… He wouldn’t marry her.

  Her stalwart, ethical Simon held no tolerance whatsoever for crime of any kind, regardless of motive. His calling was that of inspector. He meted justice. He upheld the law. And he’d be the most celebrated lead inspector in all of London just as soon as he locked Dahlia up for her crimes.

  She wished being “good” for him was a choice. If only it were as simple as that! But no matter how carefully she minded her Ps, Qs, and petty larceny in the future, she could not undo the hard choices she’d had to make in the past.

  Worse, the unvarnished truth was that she had no idea what the future held. While she certainly hoped she would never be sent to the gallows for a public execution of the Thief of Mayfair… Could she truly swear that she wouldn’t steal another broach or nick a pair of cufflinks, if pawning such items meant the safe return to their owners and a speck of nutrition in the bellies of hungry children?

  Starving girls and boys died in London’s rookeries every single day. Dahlia refused to let her students be one of them. She couldn’t save every six-year-old chimneysweep or the pretty orphans “adopted” by brothel madams. But she could bloody well make certain the two dozen pupils in the St. Giles School for Girls never again had to contemplate such a fate.

  Molly, Louisa, Beatrice… every one of the children counted on Dahlia to keep them safe. She was more than a headmistress. She was a mother figure. She was family.

  And, if need be, she was Robin Hood.

  She knew the risks. But the needs of one never outweighed the needs of many. If risking her future meant securing twenty-four others, then she was not sorry for having done so. Not when it was the only way to give these girls their best chance. Dahlia possessed many faults, but she believed her greatest strength was her willingness to sacrifice everything for those she loved.

  Simon, on the other hand, felt differently. This was not a character defect on his part so much as a difference in philosophy. While Dahlia believed in creating the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people, Simon…believed in the law.

  The law wasn’t bad. Dahlia liked the law. In fact, if it were upheld a little more frequently in the rookeries, none of her girls would have been in the horrible situations she’d rescued them from.

  The problem with the law was the lawlessness of it. If one had a title, one could worry significantly less about the law. If one had money, the same privilege applied. If one lived in a rookery or in abject poverty, the law was unlikely to show its face. If one lived far enough away from a magistrate or a watchman, it was as if those things had never existed at all.

  Simon was not blind to these failings. His belief in the law was because he needed it to start working. He knew firsthand what it was like to be beneath the law’s notice, had witnessed titles and gold bend rules past the breaking point. Those things hadn’t disillusioned him. They’d made him stronger. He’d chosen to be the change he wished to see in the world.

  He was a good man. An honest inspector. A force of nature and a source of positive change in Bow Street and everywhere his horse took him. The world was very much the richer for having a man like Inspector Spaulding looking after it.

  She could never tell him what she’d done. Nor could she promise to stop doing it.

  Which meant they could never be together.

  A knock sounded on the bedchamber door. “Dahlia? Are you ready for dance lessons?”

  Faith. It was past time to tell her.

  Dahlia shoved the tearstained cravat beneath her pillow and cracked open the door.

  “No lessons.” She pushed her damp hair from her face. “Mr. Spaulding has resigned his position.”

  Faith’s mouth fell open in shock. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” Dahlia said quickly, forcing a wobbly smile. “We wanted different things.”

  “That. Contemptible. Pig.” Understanding flashed across Faith’s face. She pulled Dahlia into a fierce hug.

  “I’m the pig,” Dahlia mumbled into her best friend’s shoulder. “It’s not like your situation at all. He wanted to marry me. I had to say no.” The school was most important, she reminded herself to beat back the stinging in her eyes and the breaking of her heart. “He’s a good man. He’ll find someone better.”

  “No one is a better person than you,” Faith said through clenched teeth. “I have never met anyone as kindhearted or loyal. I can’t imagine him finding a better match than you.”

  That was likely because Faith didn’t quite realize the lines that had been crossed in order to keep the school afloat.

  It might not change her assessment of Dahlia being kindhearted and loyal, but as to Simon never finding a better match… Well. Surely there was a young lady out there whose hanging wouldn’t give him a promotion.

  Faith leaned back, her hands still on Dahlia’s shoulders. “Do you want me to tell the students?”

  Dahlia shook her head. “I’ll go with you.”

  “Not like that.” Faith’s expression contorted. “You look terrible.”

  “You’re a true friend,” Dahlia muttered as she turned to look for the washbasin.

  “I’ll just tell them,” Faith offered. “Your face will be splotchy for a while.”

  Dahlia set down her washrag with a sigh. Faith was probably right. “Are they already in the ballroom?”

  Faith’s eyes lit up. “The schoolroom. You should see how excited they get when they realize they can sound out words! What we really need are enough primers so that every girl can have her own.”

  “I know.” Dahlia splashed water onto her face to hide her sigh of failure.

  “Didn’t you say you were going to bring a few old books from your childhood nursery?” Faith asked. “It’s not the same as every student with the same primer, but having more than three dilapidated books in our schoolroom would make a huge difference for the girls.”

  “I did say that,” Dahlia agreed without turning around. “Something came up.”

  Something like rent being due and no way to pay it. She’d had to pawn every book in her childhood library along with her pearl combs and her umbrella, but she had managed to settle every one of their overdue accounts.

  Until next month, anyway.

  Faith patted her shoulder. “Just let me know if you find a book or two for the girls. I’ll be happy to add it to the curriculum.”

  Dahlia nodded. “You’ll be the first one I tell.”

  As soon as Faith left, Dahlia closed the door and slumped her shoulders against the nearest wall.

  This was why she couldn’t have Simon. What she wanted was not as important as what she could do for others.

  No matter how her heart might break.

  Chapter 28

  The last thing Dahlia was in the mood for was an evening of husband-hunting, perpetrated by her mother.

  However, this, much like many things lately, was not up to Dahlia. She could not afford to pass up any opportunity to raise money for her school—and this time, she had an offer the love-to-be-scandalized ton could not refuse.

  “It’s called Circus Minimus,” she explained at the fourth soirée that evening. This one was hosted by Lady Pettibone, although the Old Dragon was fortunately nowhere to be seen. “You’ve all been to Astley’s and seen the professional acrobats and horse-masters. What you haven’t seen is a performance by two dozen schoolgirls whose tumbling feats will cause just as much awe.”

  Lady Upchurch raised a skeptical brow. “How can anyone perform tumbling feats in stays and a day dress?”

  “They can’t,” Dahlia said simply, delighted at how easily bored society wives continued to walk into her trap. “They’ll be wearing cambric shirts and boys’ trousers, of course.”

  “Trousers!” Lady Upchurch gasped, sending a shocked glance over her shoulder at the other fashionable ladies. “I couldn’t possibly condone such a scandalous event.”

  “But when is it?” asked Mrs. Epworth with a sparkle i
n her eyes. “Just in case a few of us feel like…temporarily condoning.”

  Dahlia tried to hide her grin. “Circus Minimus will be performed one week from Saturday at the St. Giles School for Girls. Seats are not cheap, and will be first come, first served. Two p.m. sharp, mind you.”

  “First come, first served!” Lady Roundtree harrumphed in privileged disdain. “Surely there is some way to reserve one’s place in advance. I know you cannot expect viscounts and earls to queue outside a schoolhouse as if they were back at Eton.”

  Lady Roundtree’s husband was neither a viscount nor an earl, but rather a humble baron, just like Dahlia’s father. And as such, Dahlia had been counting on precisely this response.

  “Well,” she drew out slowly, as if the idea were only just now occurring to her. “I really oughtn’t to play favorites, as it isn’t at all fair to the other ladies. But I suppose I could reserve the front row for whichever patrons make the highest donation to the school. We could even put plaques in the library bearing those patrons’ names. I do imagine the society pages will be quite lively, come Sunday morning. Especially since the audience will be so exclusive.”

  Lady Roundtree snapped open her reticule. “How much?”

  “She said highest donation, Mabel, not ‘pin money under your handkerchief,” Lady Upchurch snapped. “If I were to speak to my solicitor, when would the school need to receive the donation?”

  “Next Friday, at the latest.” Dahlia widened her eyes innocently. “It would be far too embarrassing to leave it a surprise, and have some poor souls discover they haven’t a seat waiting for them after all.”

  “Indeed.” Lady Roundtree shivered. “Can you imagine such horror?”

  Pride warmed Dahlia’s chest. Thanks to Faith, she had been able to come up with a brilliant idea to raise funds for the school—and extort the highest amount of donations possible in the process—but it was her girls who would be putting on the actual performance.

  They had spent the past month dedicated to their tumbling practice. Some were better than others at turning somersaults, and a few were more suited to playing “horse” than leaping riding-master, but every one of them had spent countless hours drilling acrobatic routines on the ballroom rug until they could perform their roles in their sleep.

  She had every reason to be proud of her girls. With luck, a quarterly showing would generate enough funds to keep the school afloat.

  Until the performance, however… Dahlia would have to come up with something to keep the creditors at bay. Their knocks had become more insistent. She needed to come up with money soon. Perhaps there would be more charitable ladies at the next soiree.

  If not… Dahlia wasn’t sure what she would do.

  She excused herself from the group of ladies and headed toward the refreshment table in search of her mother. Grenville ladies never strayed far from the closest ratafia pitcher.

  Blocking her way, however, was none other than Lady Pettibone. Almack’s patroness. Sister to a duke. Hostess of tonight’s soirée.

  Dahlia pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you for a lovely party.”

  The cold fire in Lady Pettibone’s eyes could have smote an entire village.

  “Are you blind?” she asked, her voice high and brittle. “Do you not see that I am speaking with my friends?”

  “I-I was just asking a question,” Mrs. Kingsley stammered. “We don’t need to keep talking about your library.”

  The infamous Pettibone library. Dahlia resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Books are for looks was Lady Pettibone’s alleged motto, although no one of Dahlia’s acquaintance could actually corroborate the existence of the famed Pettibone library. Spines that had never been broken. Pages that had never been cut. Words that would never be read, because extensive libraries were for symbolizing one’s social status, not for personal improvement.

  “As I was saying,” Lady Pettibone enunciated pointedly. “I have never so much as touched the illustrated etchings. I am morally against such salacious content. Unfortunately, my dear, such a vast collection is simply too expensive to destroy. One must be practical above all things, I always say. Practical and humble.”

  The irony…it burned. Books are for boasting might as well have been the motto. Dahlia wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to stop herself from rolling her eyes.

  “Is your library here in this townhouse?” Miss Willoughby asked.

  “A small selection.” Lady Pettibone sniffed. “It takes up the entire next floor. I must walk up two flights to my retiring quarters, but we all must make sacrifices.”

  Dahlia wouldn’t mind showing her what sacrifice truly meant. If she wasn’t going to allow anyone to read her books, she might as well set them on fire.

  “Have you any children’s primers?” she found herself asking.

  “Oh, have I.” Lady Pettibone laughed. “I have an uncut collection of every set in existence. Two, in some cases. They give one such nostalgic pleasure, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Have you gifted any to nieces or nephews?” asked Mrs. Kingsley. “I have loved books since I was a child.”

  “My copies are uncut,” Lady Pettibone enunciated pointedly, “and expensive. They would be neither of those things if I allowed children to put their grubby hands on them.”

  Dahlia heroically refrained from drowning Lady Pettibone in the ratafia bowl.

  She couldn’t afford allowing a smart retort to alienate future donations from the other ladies in attendance. But it sounded like she could afford almost anything if she could get her hands on just one of the picture-perfect books turning to dust in Lady Pettibone’s library.

  Chapter 29

  If Dahlia had learned anything after her near-disaster at Phineas Mapleton’s house, it was that sneaking back inside after the guests had gone home erased all hope of deniability. As well as opened up an entire host of new complications.

  Being caught on the wrong floor while the festivities were still underway, however, left more options open. She might have a bad sense of direction. She might have a wicked megrim and need to lie down. Actually, yes. That was the perfect excuse. Especially now that she knew the bedchambers—including the guest quarters—were on the floor above the library.

  If she just happened to pass through on her way to an emergency lie-down, one could hardly find evil in that, could they?

  The first trick had been convincing her mother to go on ahead to the next party. This had been accomplished by Dahlia insisting she needed to ride with an old friend in order to catch up on past news in the carriage. And by promising to consider some gentleman her mother had dug up, who professed a willingness to entertain the idea of allowing his wife to run a charity from afar…so long as it benefitted the right kind of people. Obviously a school for indigents wouldn’t do.

  Dahlia would rather stab herself in the eye than be trapped in a thirty-minute waltz with a paragon like that.

  The second step had been actually going to the second floor and spending an hour writhing on a fainting couch until one of the maids chanced upon her.

  Dahlia hadn’t given her name, but she’d mentioned the phantom megrim and heavily implied that Lady Pettibone had kindly offered the use of her guest chambers to any soul in need.

  Plan A was not getting caught. Plan B was setting up her innocence.

  After the maid left, Dahlia waited another hour before sneaking back down to the library. The twilight hour between when a party was winding down and when the guests had actually left was the perfect time to be somewhere one wasn’t expected. The carriages would be queueing out front. Lady Pettibone would be bidding her adieus.

  Dahlia would be nicking an expensive reading primer.

  She tiptoed down the marble staircase and slipped through the library door. Her mouth fell open at the sea of shelves that awaited her.

  Row after row of books covered every surface from floor to vaulted ceiling. Twin balconies flanked each side of the long hall, ac
cessible only via a mahogany ladder with thick black wheels at the base of one balcony.

  Dahlia stared up at those mouthwatering, out-of-reach shelves. She knew she should grab the closest book and go. Of course she knew it. But those out of reach books could only be one thing: Lady Pettibone’s collection of too-shocking-to-glimpse illustrated etching.

  Not only was Dahlia filled with a sudden urge to flip through every one of those pages, those tomes were inherently far more valuable.

  Even if the one she grabbed didn’t turn out to be one-of-a-kind or of unique literary merit, it would still be a salacious etching. Any pawnbroker in London would be more than happy to take an item like that off her hands. No matter what price she set, the pawnbroker would double his investment by teatime.

  How many boxes of cheap used books might she purchase with the sale of a single such tome? How many pinafores, and pairs of shoes, and tallow candles, and bars of soap, and loaves of bread?

  She was up the ladder before her mind could finish calculating sums.

  The top row of books was mildly titillating. Depicted therein were more than a few acts she’d imagined performing with her favorite inspector. The bottom row, however, contained scenes so shocking that the first book she opened fell from her fingers to the floor.

  She froze. The book had only fallen a few inches. No harm had come. The balcony’s carpeted landing had both muffled the sound and protected the book from injury. She herself was hidden from view, crouched as she was between the balcony’s twin shelves.

  And yet something didn’t feel quite right.

  A creak in one of the center floorboards indicated she was no longer alone in the library.

  Her heart skipped, then doubled its furious pace.

  Who could be down there? A servant? Another guest? Lady Pettibone? Nothing more than Dahlia’s overactive imagination?