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

by Erica Ridley

  It sounded lovely. It sounded marvelous. It sounded exactly like Simon.

  “Marry me.” She pushed to her feet and circled round to his side of the table. “The biggest mistake I ever made was walking away from you. If you’re still willing to have me, there’s no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with.”

  He shook his head. “I think it’s a bad idea.”

  The words sliced through her gut like a sword.

  “I love you,” she said, her voice cracking in its urgency. “I loved you when we were nothing more than a dashing Bow Street inspector waltzing with a headmistress in trousers. I can’t help but keep on loving you for the rest of my life.”

  “I love you, too.” His blue eyes locked on hers. “But you’re not seeing the whole picture. You’re elated because you and Miss Digby will now own the abbey grounds free and clear. If we marry, the law grants me full ownership of everything that was once your property. Miss Digby and I will be co-owners of the boarding school. You…will have nothing.”

  The law. Everything always came down to the law.

  “You’re wrong,” she said, and reached for his hand. “I won’t have nothing. I will have you. I’ll have Faith. I’ll have the school, no matter what it says on the paper. I trust you as much as I trust my own heart.” She dropped down to one knee. “Won’t you make me the happiest of women?”

  Faith threw her documents across the table. “Hurry up and say yes, so that the rest of us can go vomit.”

  “Yes.” Simon pulled Dahlia up into his arms and gave her a half-spin about the solicitor’s office. “I would love to legally assume half-ownership of the St. Giles School for Girls from you against your desires.”

  She smacked him on the shoulder and laid her head to his chest in contentment.

  Together, they would be unstoppable.

  Epilogue

  Dahlia clapped her hands. “Silence, please! The Circus Minimus is about to begin.”

  The school’s shabby ballroom was stuffed fatter than a plum pudding. So many fashionable names had sent early donations to secure a reserved seat, they’d had to commission long wooden benches instead of fancy individual chairs just to shoehorn everyone into the same room.

  On the dais was the night’s three-person orchestra to accompany the performance: Mr. Heath Grenville at the pianoforte, Miss Bryony Grenville on the violin, and scandalous opera singer Lady Wainwright to provide soprano vocals.

  Dahlia grinned at her siblings, then quickly took her place squished up against the back wall between her business partner and her husband.

  Simon had managed to talk a judge and several magistrates into donating to the cause.

  Faith looked like she might faint from so much proximity to the people who had spurned her in her youth—her face had particularly drained of color when Lord Hawkridge had entered the room—but Faith was made of sterner stuff. The last place she’d ever swoon was somewhere Hawkridge might accidentally catch her.

  Dahlia slipped her hand into Simon’s and gave it a quick squeeze. Under normal circumstances, a turnout like this might only be expected at an exclusive event as fêted as the Grenville family musicales.

  This afternoon, however, all eyes were not on Dahlia’s talented siblings, but rather on Dahlia’s talented students. As the music began, so did the performance.

  The delighted-to-be-shocked gasps as twenty-four schoolgirls filed into the ballroom wearing trousers and boys’ shirts quickly gave way to stunned and utter silence as the girls began their routine.

  Somersaults, pyramids, leaps from one shoulder to another. Her girls might not be ready to take on the Royal Amphitheater, but they were pretty bloody good. Their enthusiasm alone brought a smile to every face in the crowd as they tumbled over and under each other across the worn carpet.

  When the music and the mayhem finally ended, the audience shot to its feet with thunderous applause.

  Faith’s idea to renovate a few of the rooms in order to accept paying students just might work out after all. The donations from this performance alone would cover the other expenses for several months.

  The first thing Dahlia planned to do with the money was to outfit a proper library, with at least one reading primer for every student. But the first thing she planned to do tonight…

  She grinned at Simon and tilted her head toward the exit. “Care to spend the evening in our marital bed, Mr. Spaulding?”

  “I intend to spend the rest of our lives in this abbey,” he replied as he waltzed her toward the door.

  * * *

  THE END

  What happened between Lord Hawkridge and Faith Digby? And what exactly does the marquess intend to do about it now?

  Find out in Lord of Temptation, the next full-length Rogues to Riches regency romance.

  Acknowledgments

  As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners. Huge thanks go out to Morgan Edens and Erica Monroe for their advice and encouragement. You are the best!

  Lastly, I want to thank the Dukes of War facebook group and my fabulous street team, the Light-Skirts Brigade. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen. I thought of you as I wrote this story.

  Thank you so much!

  Lord of Temptation

  Rogues to Riches #4

  Lord of Temptation

  (Rogues to Riches #4)

  When Lord Hawkridge inherits a penniless marquessate, he must abandon his courtship of the lowborn girl he loves. Years later, she rises from commoner to textiles heiress. Hawk has never banished her from his heart. Here’s their chance to share his home! But how can he convince a woman whose trust he destroyed that he desires her far more than her money?

  Faith Digby’s chaotic world is too full to bother with men. She controls half a boarding school, one life-endangering secret, and two recently gentrified parents. There’s no time for the old flame roaring back into her life. Not when admitting she still loves him would imperil everything and everyone she holds dear...

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  Chapter 1

  London, 1817

  In a gambling hell like the Cloven Hoof, most gentlemen were beggared by the cut of the cards or a roll of the dice. For an already beggared lord like Zachary Nash, Marquess of Hawkridge, his best chance for future wealth lay not in games of chance, but with the gamblers themselves. Hawk was not here to spend money, but to raise some.

  His current prospect, an idle gentleman named Mr. Leviston, motioned over one well-tailored shoulder for a barmaid to refill his glass.

  When she arrived with a fresh bottle, Leviston raised his brows in query. “Port, Hawkridge?”

  “No, thank you.” Hawk allowed the edges of his lips to curve. “As you recall, I’m building my own.”

  “Touché.” Leviston took a healthy swallow of the burgundy wine, then dabbed his upper lip with the edge of a white handkerchief. “When did you say your port would open?”

  If Hawk sold the last sticks of furniture and put every penny into the project… He had done these calculations many, many times.

  He leaned back. “Twelve months, in the worst of cases.”

  “One year.” Leviston swirled his glass. “And in the best scenario?”

  Hawk considered. That depended entirely on funding. On whether Leviston could be convinced to invest. On the size of his contribution compared to outstanding debts.

  Outstanding debts. How tired Hawk was of spending every waking moment fighting to undo the damage the previous marquess had caused. Ten years ago, when he had first inherited the title, financial recovery had seemed impossible. Now it was finally almost in his grasp.

  As long as Hawk’s port completed construction, launched on schedule, and became a commercial success.

  Which it could do—nay, which it
would do—if he could secure several thousand pounds of funding.

  “Six months,” he answered.

  Leviston wrinkled his nose. “That will be autumn. Almost winter. Inopportune time to open a port, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would not.” Hawk leaned forward. “The docks here in London are open year round. The Thames hasn’t frozen in three years, and before that, not since 1789. But my property isn’t on a river. We’re building forty miles south of Dover. The English Channel has never frozen over. Nor will it. And now that the war is over, the coast’s proximity to France makes my port’s location a strategic advantage for international trade.”

  Leviston nodded slowly. “How much are you seeking?”

  “Ten thousand pounds,” Hawk answered without hesitation.

  Leviston blinked.

  Hawk did not.

  Even half that much money would make a significant impact. Finishing construction in the summer months was the key to securing all necessary inspections and permits in order to open before the end of the year.

  But offering the exact pounds and shillings required to launch the port on time would be a mistake. Hawk had quickly realized that few individuals had any wish to underwrite the entirety of a project. Too much risk. Even those who did see the potential value were never willing to part with more than a fraction.

  “Bit rich for my blood.” Leviston swirled his wine. “Best I can offer is five hundred pounds.”

  Hawk lifted a shoulder. “Five hundred pounds earns five percent interest. One thousand pounds earns ten percent interest and a one percent stake in the venture.”

  Leviston’s jaw worked for a moment.

  Hawk waited.

  In order to tempt investors, he was forced to give high margins. The terms were in Leviston’s favor, and the man knew it.

  Hawk’s more intangible advantage was that he wasn’t his profligate father. Not only did Hawk personally pride himself on being the antithesis of that self-serving tyrant, his peers vocally welcomed the diametric change.

  Despite his lack of riches and fallen social status, Hawk had brought integrity to his title. He did not spend what he did not have. He worked religiously to pay the debts his father had accrued.

  Although he was by far the least eligible bachelor among the aristocracy, the marquessate was much closer to solvent now than when Hawk had first inherited the title.

  “One thousand,” Leviston said at last. “But not a penny more until the docks actually open.”

  “My solicitor will send over the contract.” Hawk rose to his feet. “Enjoy your wine.”

  He cut across the crowded room before Leviston could think up any last minute objections or renege on his commitment to invest. Hawk couldn’t risk Leviston changing his mind. One thousand pounds was more than Hawk had been able to raise in the past three months.

  How he despised the devil’s circle of being an impoverished lord. Hawk’s new ties to trade had blackballed him from high society venues like Almack’s and its ilk. The estate’s empty coffers prevented him from retaining memberships in exclusive gentlemen’s clubs like White’s and Boodles’s.

  Raising funds was remarkably tricky to accomplish when one had little to no access to wealthy marks.

  The Cloven Hoof was one of the few venues at Hawk’s disposal. The gaming hell was at the very edge of respectability, both geographically and societally. Exclusive enough to attract the more raffish viscounts and earls. Disreputable enough to allow in those who did not quite belong with the aristocracy.

  Hawk eased into the shadows and cast a practiced eye about the crowded interior in search of other potential investors. He did not find any.

  The problem with only being able to frequent a notorious establishment like the Cloven Hoof was that one quickly became familiar with the regular clientele.

  Every man within these walls had heard Hawk’s pitch for investing in his port. The vast majority preferred to risk their money on bouts of Faro and Piquet. The few Hawk had convinced to contribute, however, were the reason the launch date was finally within sight.

  A few more investors like Leviston, and Hawk’s port might actually open before he and his mother were forced to subsist solely on gruel and broth.

  Movement in one of the back corners of the vice salon caught Hawk’s eye. With a smile, he made his way to the shadowy recesses of the gaming hell and slid into a small dark table opposite Simon Spaulding. London’s most celebrated Bow Street Runner… and Hawk’s illegitimate half-brother.

  Simon moved a small bundle of primroses aside to make room at the table. “Hawkridge.”

  “Inspector.” Hawk nodded at the bouquet of flowers. “Never say you’re still unfashionably smitten with your beautiful wife.”

  Simon grinned back at him. “Incurably so. When are you tying the knot?”

  “Ask me next year,” Hawk said, rather than give a true reply.

  The truth was, he didn’t know.

  He’d been in love once. Might even confess to still being in love, if one were to catch him in the dead of night, jolting awake from the same feverish dream where he relived the best and worst moments of his life with the one woman he could never forget… and never have.

  It didn’t matter what Hawk wanted. What the title required was a wealthy heiress with a dowry capable of repaying the marquessate’s substantial financial debts as well as financing the new port’s construction, launch, and ongoing operation.

  A difficult task. On rare occasions when he did manage to rub thrice-darned shoulders with those of the elegant set, even the most mercenary of title-hungry debutantes had her sights set far higher than an impoverished lord who could scarce afford to pay his few servants.

  “Thirsty?” Simon asked.

  Hawk shook his head. “No.”

  “I’ll buy,” Simon offered.

  “No,” Hawk repeated, more forcefully than he meant.

  Simon had been the one swindled out of his birthright, such as it was. Hawk’s childhood had been filled with fireworks and pony rides and expensive boarding schools. Simon’s had been spent in a shabby corner of his courtesan mother’s townhouse, never knowing what they might have to do to buy bread for their next meal.

  Their sire had only been interested in the pleasure he could demand from his lover. Not in being a true father for his unwanted bastard child.

  Hawk would never ask Simon to part with so much as a hard-won farthing.

  Simon leaned back. “I hoped I might find you here.”

  “You’re a phenomenal investigator,” Hawk assured him. “Also I have nowhere else to go.”

  “Well, I do.” Simon gave a crooked smile. “I’m being reassigned across town for the foreseeable future. This is likely to be my last visit to the Cloven Hoof.”

  And to you, was the unspoken implication.

  The two places Hawk was still welcome were his crumbling ancestral home and the smoke-filled gambling rooms of the Cloven Hoof.

  Of the two venues, the Cloven Hoof was not only the more semi-respectable, it was also the sole place he could meet with his brother.

  Hawk’s home was out of the question. Not only did his nonexistent inheritance preclude him from entertaining guests, his dowager mother would rather throw herself from a balcony than allow the bastard child of her husband’s mistress beneath the same roof. Hawk would not make her suffer more than she already had.

  Yet he didn’t wish to lose contact with his brother. Not when they’d just spoken for the first time only a few months earlier and come so far toward establishing a brotherly relationship.

  Simon arched a brow. “Have plans for the evening?”

  “You know I do not.” Hawk couldn’t afford plans. Not until the port opened.

  “Come to the school.” Simon lifted his palms. “Have supper with us tonight.”

  Hawk’s spirits rose. “Dine with you and twenty orphans?”

  “Twenty-four,” Simon corrected. “And I’m afraid not. The Headmistress Dinn
er is limited to adults only, although the ‘servants’ are the students. What, is the occasion not fancy enough for you?”

  Hawk laughed. “I haven’t received a fancy invitation in years.”

  “Allow me to change that.” Simon lifted his nose and affected an imperious tone. “To the esteemed Lord Hawkridge. The honor of your presence is requested this evening at the St. Giles School for Girls, which you may recognize as the preeminent, most decorated boarding school in the entire rookery.” Simon dropped the false hauteur and grinned. “Do come. It’s primarily a family dinner. When is the last time you saw your sister-in-law?”

  Sister-in-law.

  Family.

  Zachary still wasn’t used to using these words to describe his half-brother. They had resented each other for decades. Simon, because Zachary had been the one to win their father’s surname...as well as the marquessate, status, and legitimacy that went with it. Zachary, because despite all that, Simon and his mother were the only ones to occasionally win his father’s attention.

  It wasn’t until after the marquess died—in the arms of his mistress, not his wife—that Zachary and Simon had confronted each other. Although they quickly realized that the enemy was not each other, but rather their late father’s irresponsible behavior toward the people who loved him most, the path toward a future resembling true brotherhood required effort on both sides. Trust. Forgiveness. Risk.

  “Of course I shall attend,” he said immediately. “Consider yourself added to tonight’s social calendar. But tell me, what is the occasion? Are congratulations in order?”

  Simon paled and coughed into his fist. “We have more than enough children at the moment. You are worse than Lady Grenville.”