by Erica Ridley
Probably. Allowing her to pen a letter would break protocols, not laws. Although he had no choice but to arrest Dahlia, Simon would do everything in his power to minimize the damage her arrest could inflict on her wards.
He slid from his horse and fished the keys from the saddle pocket.
Part of him still couldn’t quite believe the events that were unfolding. This was Dahlia. And he’d shackled her like a common thief.
She was a common thief, he reminded himself firmly as he slipped the key into the iron lock. An uncommon thief, perhaps, but still a thief. Nothing was happening tonight that she couldn’t have prevented herself. He was not the villain. This was not his fault.
When the iron cuffs fell away, white skin rubbed raw from constant contact with the heavy metal was visible even in the half-light of a crescent moon.
He was not the villain, Simon reminded himself. He was not.
“Why did you do this?” he asked her softly. “What made you think you could talk your way out of a conviction?”
She hesitated before answering. “I’m a baron and baroness’s daughter. I thought—”
He dropped her hands.
“You thought what?” he demanded, his laugh harsh and unmusical. “Having titled blood makes you exempt from the law? I’m the son of a marquess and roses have never flown out my arse. If I commit a crime, I fully expect to go to prison like I’d deserve.”
Even as he said the words, he realized the comparison was invalid. For all that a marquess outranked a mere baron, Simon was a bastard and Dahlia was legitimate.
Of course she was spoilt and self-indulgent. She’d been raised to be from birth.
“It doesn’t matter who your father is,” he bit out. “You are no lady. You’re nothing but a thief.”
She made no objection to this pronouncement.
He wished that made him feel better.
The truth was, she was far more than a thief. Far more than a baroness’s daughter, even if her peers didn’t notice. Simon did. He had witnessed the fierceness with which she protected her flock the very moment he’d met her. She’d brained a footpad with a broom, just to keep him away from a total stranger.
A total stranger who now looked up to Dahlia as if she’d hung the sun and moon.
The students worshiped her because she was their hero, their mentor, and their mother, all wrapped into one. They didn’t love her because her parents were titled. They didn’t even know.
Simon hadn’t known either.
She might have mentioned that tiny fact at any point during their short-lived courtship. If not over the dinner table, then at least in Lady Pettibone’s library. I should get away with it because of my noble birth had proven for centuries to be far more persuasive than I should get away with it due to my noble intentions.
The only logical reason she might have had for failing to mention her highborn connections at every turn…was that she hadn’t wished to use them. It seemed she had wished to make her own way. Just like Simon or anyone else. Dahlia wanted to be judged not by her father’s title, but rather by her own actions.
And now, unfortunately, she would.
Her parents might be titled, but Dahlia was not. And between the two of them, Simon was the one with the power. From the moment he filed his report, her life would be over.
He lifted her onto his horse. Her shoulders caved inward, and she remained as motionless and lifeless as a rag doll.
She didn’t look like the daughter of a baron. She looked like a defeated, heartbroken young woman being sent away from everything and everyone she ever loved.
He rubbed the back of his neck. There was one more possible reason why Dahlia might have neglected to mention her position in society.
Which was that Dahlia didn’t give two figs about her elevated position in society.
Why else would she be running a boarding school for indigent girls instead of a finishing school for debutantes? Come to think of it, why would she be performing philanthropic acts for those of a lower station at all?
Simon was the one who cared about class differences. He was the one obsessed with his younger brother, the marquess, and how Simon could never truly be a gentleman, thanks to his illegitimacy.
By reducing her to nothing more than the rank of her parents, he was discounting her over the details of her birth the same way people had always discounted by-blows like him for the circumstances of theirs. Who was this woman, really?
He forced himself to meet her eyes.
“Will it help if I promise never to do it again?” she asked, when he didn’t climb up behind her.
“No,” he said with tired honesty. “The past cannot be changed.”
But could it be forgiven?
Had she done anything that truly required his forgiveness? Would she want it anyway?
He swung himself up behind her and reached for the reins.
This was likely to be the last time he ever held her in his arms. Trapping her atop a horse bound for the Magistrates’ Court was perhaps not the most romantic act one might perform when caught alone beneath the moonlight but, well, here they were.
The fancy raiment she currently wore looked nothing like the simple garments he was used to seeing her in, but the scent of her hair beneath his nose was the same as he remembered.
She smelled like waltzing lessons and stolen kisses. Circus balconies and dinners with friends. Laughter and lovemaking.
And now the scent would remind him of betrayal.
Hers, and his.
Dahlia was willing to sacrifice herself to help those she loved at any cost. It was her greatest weakness and noblest strength. Those she loved, she loved completely and unconditionally. She would die to protect them. Love to her was worth far more than any personal gain.
As for Simon, what would he do? What did love mean to him?
He did have a choice, he realized. He would have to decide between the woman he loved and his very sense of self.
He’d become a Bow Street investigator to defend the weak. Avenge the forgotten. Protect the helpless.
Those were the same reasons why Dahlia had opened the St. Giles School for Girls. She had invested every penny she possessed, every hour in the day, every shred of her reputation into creating a better, safer world for those who could not.
She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t repent her crimes. If she discovered some way to smuggle crusts of stale bread from Newgate to St. Giles, he had no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
He covered the raw skin of her delicate wrists with his hand. Sometimes, doing the right thing caused a lot of wrong.
And sometimes, doing the wrong thing caused a lot of right.
The students at Dahlia’s school were desperate, poverty-stricken little girls just like his mother had been. When she’d made the leap from prostitute to courtesan, she’d believed fate was finally on her side. Instead, it had killed her.
How many times had he wondered what her life might have been like if she’d had the chance to follow a different path? Simon’s mother had never been given the opportunity to find out. It might be too late for women like Simon’s mother, but the twenty-four children at Dahlia’s school could still be saved.
He stopped the horse. “Never again?”
Dahlia stiffened. “What?”
He gripped her arms. “You would promise? Even if it meant putting your school and your girls in jeopardy?”
“I would put them more in jeopardy by refusing to promise,” she stammered. “I’ll swear anything you want.”
He slid off his horse so he could meet her eyes.
Her gaze was more wary than hopeful.
“It’s not just a promise,” he said softly. “It has to be true. If anyone finds out I’ve let a thief walk free, my career isn’t just over. I’ll be sent to Newgate, too.”
“Nothing on this earth would make me risk your life for mine,” she said without hesitation. “Losing you because of something I did… If you need to se
nd me to the gallows, send me.”
He lifted her hands. “Your girls need you more than I need a police commendation.”
Her eyes widened. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying no more risks,” he said firmly. “Not now. Not ever.”
She nodded. “I promise you, Simon. No more risks. I swear on my life.”
Well…perhaps one more risk, he realized with a sigh. He did trust her. And knew she loved him as much as he loved her.
He was going to have to let a thief walk.
Chapter 33
Simon tried to focus on the case files cluttering his home study.
It was useless.
His once-legendary concentration and focus was now constantly fractured by the one criminal he’d decided not to chase.
Miss Dahlia Grenville.
His angst didn’t solely stem from the dissonance of having committed the one act he’d sworn to never do. The world was gray, not black and white. She’d been right about that. Just like she was right that saving the lives of twenty-four children was more important than incarcerating for life the thief who had tried to rescue them.
Simon wasn’t sorry he’d let Dahlia go. He was sorry the culprit was Dahlia.
In his mind, she and her school had been a much-needed safe zone. The one place he didn’t have to worry about hunting felons. The one person he would never have to investigate. She was a soft-hearted headmistress with a penchant for exercising in men’s trousers. Quirky, not criminal. With her, he could breathe in peace.
Except none of it was real.
She was all those things, but she wasn’t only those things. Her Beau Monde parentage was the perfect disguise for her high society peers. Her benevolent employment in London’s worst rookery had done the same for everyone else. Including him.
A low-class St. Giles headmistress would never have been allowed inside the fancy townhouses he’d been sent to investigate. She’d seemed exactly like the persona she’d presented herself as being. It was even true, as long as she was within the boarding school walls. When she stepped outside, however…
The brass knocker sounded from the front of his flat.
Simon tossed his files across his desk. He wasn’t reading them anyway. He might as well torture himself with a long overdue conversation with the Thief of Mayfair.
Dahlia had sent a letter requesting an audience the very morning after the Pettibone debacle. For three days, Simon had ignored both her overture and her question. There was plenty to talk about, but first he’d needed to take the time to adjust.
He was unconvinced he’d succeeded.
With tight muscles, he opened his front door. “Dahlia.”
“Simon.” She hesitated at the threshold as if unsure he’d truly allow her in.
He still wasn’t certain of its wisdom.
This morning, he had finally sent a reply. His home address. One o’clock in the afternoon.
Given the subject matter, meeting her at his Bow Street office was out of the question. Meeting at the school brought up too many memories. Too many pairs of curious eyes. Too many schoolgirls he’d already begun to miss. Lamentably, Simon’s home was the most impersonal venue he could think of.
His flat would give them the privacy to finally be honest.
“Come in,” he said at last.
She took a cautious step forward.
He was not of a humor to brew her a pot of tea, so he led her to the small parlor he was never home to use, rather than the dining area next to the kitchen.
“Your flat is quite airy and spacious,” Dahlia commented in obvious surprise as she entered the sitting room. “Lots of windows. It’s rather pretty.”
Before, he might have wondered whether having a “rather pretty” home meant his townhouse was too fancy for someone of his class or not fine enough for someone of hers. Now he knew her better. Class disparity no longer mattered.
They had far more important differences to resolve.
“I didn’t invite you here to show off my flat,” he said without emotion.
Ironic, given that for weeks, it had been all he’d thought about. Dahlia sitting exactly where she was now. Belonging there. The two of them sharing meals, the marriage bed, their lives. He had imagined that with her present inside these walls, the house would finally feel like a home.
Instead, it felt like failure.
He took a seat a good distance across from her. “When did you start?”
“When I was in too deep not to,” she responded. She hadn’t asked for context or clarification for his question. They both knew why she was here. “I had less than forty-eight hours left to settle accounts, before the creditors removed us forcibly from the abbey. There wasn’t enough money for both rent and food. Yet I had sixteen hungry children counting on me for their next crust of bread.”
His voice was ice. “So you stole.”
“So I stole,” she agreed defiantly. “Someone had just ruined hundreds of pounds in donations that would have covered months of food and clothing. The charm I slipped into my reticule meant little to its owner. But it’s worth would mean everything to my wards. That was the first object I stole. And the owner had it back within a fortnight.”
“Because you pawned it.”
“Because I sent a note telling him where to find it.” She lifted her chin. “Feel how you like about my methods, but my intentions have never been to cause lasting harm to anyone. The opposite. He could more than afford the trifle it cost to repurchase his bauble, and I was able to buy cheese and fresh linen to sew replacement dresses for girls who had outgrown their only gown.”
“Who did you get to make the transactions at the pawnbrokers?”
“Whoever I could find.” She shrugged. “I never frequented the same one twice. And I made certain whoever I sent to make the exchange was as nameless and faceless as any other nobody off the streets. Someone who would be forgotten before he was even out the door.”
Simon raised a brow. “How could you be sure he wouldn’t run off with your money?”
“I couldn’t. But, as you’ve duly noted, it was never my money. I felt that if I were ever robbed of something I myself had robbed, then it would be no more than I deserved.” She met his eyes without blinking.
“And now?” he asked.
“Obviously I cannot continue to pilfer from the ton.”
“You could try,” he said in a tone that indicated what would happen if he caught her again.
“I promised you I wouldn’t.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’ll find another way.”
He frowned. “Is there another way?”
“I don’t know,” she answered miserably. “If I did, I would have tried it long ago. I have a partner now, which helps. I’m working on an event I hope will be far more successful than my past donation-raising attempts. But I still have creditors. Still have children who are often dressed as patchwork dolls because we haven’t funds for proper wardrobes. Still have a larder whose empty shelves somehow have to fill twenty-four bellies.”
“What will you do the next time you cannot afford your rent and the next meal?”
“I suppose I’ll have to decide,” she replied, her voice empty. “If I cannot provide for my wards, I will have to set them free.”
Free. Like releasing a dove into a den of foxes. Simon’s stomach churned.
He did not wish to think about what would happen if the boarding school closed doors. He already knew. They both knew.
The moment Dahlia failed to pay her creditors and the children were forced from the abbey, every one of those girls would be right back where she was before. Workhouses. Brothels. Surviving on the streets.
He could not accept such a horrid outcome for any of the girls. Molly, Beatrice, Louisa—every one of them had burrowed into his heart. They weren’t faceless charity cases. They were like family.
Much like he’d imagined Dahlia would one day be.
He pushed to his feet.
She leapt to hers, her gaze hollow. “Is this interview over?”
“For now.” He crossed to the sideboard and found a pencil to scribble an address onto the back of one of his calling cards. “Meet me at this address next week. I’ll send you a time.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked, alarm in her eyes.
He straightened his shoulders. “Change the future.”
Chapter 34
Dahlia stared across the long rosewood table at Simon’s solicitor. “How much money?”
“It’s not enough to provide complete financial security,” Mr. Gully cautioned her. “But it is enough to purchase the abbey outright.”
Her head was still spinning. “You had an investment account of this size all along, and couldn’t even be bothered to purchase so much as a carriage?”
“Actually, no,” the solicitor answered gently. “A significant portion of the balance came from Mr. Spaulding’s sale of his flat.”
She slanted a shocked look toward Simon. He was incredible. “You sold your house? For my school?”
“It’s not a pot of gold,” he reminded her with a self-deprecating expression. “My father didn’t leave me that much money. Once we make this purchase, every penny we own will be invested in a single piece of property. The school will still need to rely on donations for all other expenses.”
Faith glanced up from her copy of the documentation. “You refused to touch this money all these years because it came from the previous Marquess of Hawkridge?”
Simon’s cheeks flushed. “That’s right.”
“I would do the same.” Faith shivered. “I never did trust that family.”
Dahlia ignored her best friend. She was too busy floating on air at the prospect of owning the abbey.
Simon had gifted the entire property to her and Faith. He wouldn’t own so much as a broken tile. Then, as now, the boarding school would wholly belong to Dahlia and her best friend. A partnership split fifty-fifty.
“He’s right.” Faith pointed at a matrix of numbers on one of the documents. “There will be nothing left over for food or repairs, but at least there won’t be creditors banging on the door.”
