by Erica Ridley
True, Dahlia and Simon weren’t quite as wealthy. Every spare crown went toward the school whenever possible. But she had been born a Grenville, and never failed to acquit herself prettily. Simon was born out of wedlock, but to a titled father. She granted even him a tight smile.
And then there was Bryony.
Tonight, she had dressed with extra care. Even though Max had claimed he would not be in attendance, her heart had not ceased to hope. She had even submitted to curling tongs in order to ensure she presented herself as attractively as possible. Mother had likely never seen her youngest child try so hard to make herself beautiful. The side-curls alone would win Bryony a spot in her mother’s good graces for at least the rest of the week.
But then, inevitably, dreadfully, Mother’s hawkish gaze alighted on Max.
Bryony’s heart sank.
It was obvious in an instant that his painstakingly shined boots, exquisitely tailored waistcoat, and carefully tied cravat did not signify in the least.
Mother’s eyes were focused with crystal sharpness on the stubble at his jaw, the too-long curl of his hair, the shocking bronze of his skin.
Before Bryony could say a word, Heath jumped in with the introductions. “Mr. Gideon, it is my honor to introduce my mother, Lady Grenville. Mother, this is my esteemed and invited guest, Mr. Maxwell Gideon.”
The gambit would not work.
Mother was no stranger to scandal columns. The name was immediately recognizable. A gambling den like the Cloven Hoof was not something she wished associated with any of her children.
She made no attempt to hide the horror in her voice or the disgusted wrinkle of her nose. “What is he doing here?”
Heath tried again. “Mr. Gideon is—”
But Mother had already analyzed the situation and determined the only probable reason a man like him would be present, and standing so close to Bryony.
“Get out,” she said coldly, advancing on him like a fishwife chasing off a stray dog. “This is a family gathering. Stay away from my daughter. You must know you are not worthy of speaking to her.”
The stoic blankness of Max’s expression broke Bryony’s heart.
He was wrapping himself in all the arrogance, and pride, and disinterest he could muster, to protect himself from hurt. But it was too late. The sword had already struck true.
“Mother, stop.” Bryony stepped between them, praying there was some way to diffuse the horrible situation before her fragile connection with Max was gone forever. “He is a good man. A guest in this home.”
“A mongrel,” Mother corrected, her hands shaking in anger. “I won’t allow such a creature near my daughter.”
“He’s not a thing,” Bryony burst out in fury. “He is the sweetest, smartest, most capable person I know, and I am proud to say that I—”
“Stop,” Max said quietly. “This is the only mother you’ll ever have, and she is right to want what is best for her daughter. We both know that’s not me.”
He made the prettiest bow Bryony had ever seen, and walked out into the night with his head held high, leaving only his memory behind.
Chapter 21
After a fitful night, Bryony awoke long before her parents and made her way out the front door with a package beneath her arm. She took not a hackney, but the family coach.
Her errands today would be performed as Bryony, not Basil Q. Jones. She was done hiding. Now and forever.
She allowed a footman to lift first her, then her package, into the coach and send her on her way.
No one asked where she was going. They never did.
She gave the driver a direction and settled back on the squab.
Her heart beat as ferociously as thunder. It had not calmed for even a moment since her mother’s cruel words had cut Max so deeply and ruined the bond that Bryony had come to cherish.
No doubt, the evening had gone exactly as he feared.
She could not blame him or his sister for despising the upper classes. Purists like her mother didn’t seem like “betters” at all.
Bryony clenched her fingers at the injustice. Max had allowed her into his club, invited her into his home. She would not allow anyone to shut him out now.
Not even her mother.
But the damage was done. If he had been uncertain before whether there could be any attachment between them, Mother had put such doubts to rest.
Her expectations for Bryony and her future could not have been clearer. Max was not a part of it. Bryony’s own wishes did not signify. She was a baron’s daughter and would do as instructed.
Not today.
Gooseflesh danced across her skin. If she never saw Max again, she could not blame him. Anyone could understand him never again wishing to step foot anywhere he might cross paths with a Grenville.
But the future was outside her control. What mattered most was what action she could take right now. If one witnessed a hurt, a lack, a need, it was one’s duty not to stand idle and allow cruelty to prevail. Bryony’s parents had the power to deny any suitor they wished. There was no need to humiliate Max in front of the entire family.
More than that, Max was now family. Frances was now family. Bryony intended to treat them like it.
Even if they would never know.
She could not undo Mother’s hurtful words to Max, and was still frantically running through hypotheses as to whether the bridge that had been broken could be rebuilt. She hoped so. Max was too important to lose.
The situation with Frances, however, was easier to resolve. If there was one thing Bryony understood even better than numbers, it was helping sisters. She’d had a lifetime of practice.
“This is it,” said the driver as he pulled the horses to a stop. “Shall I come in with you?”
“No need. Stay here with the horses.” Bryony accepted his hand to alight from the carriage and hefted her carefully wrapped parcel in her arms.
Today was the day.
It was a typical London morning. Cold and gray and rainy. Perfect for what she was about to do.
She made her way into the pawn shop and set her violin case upon the counter.
“Miss Grenville,” said the pawnbroker with a smile. “An age since I seen you last.”
Bryony nodded. This was where she had sold her prized possessions to fund that first nest egg that allowed the creation of Basil Q. Jones, and later led her to Max’s door. A lifetime ago.
For the past few years, she hadn’t needed to pawn anything of value. Her investments had been wildly profitable. Enough so to allow her to purchase outright the very property upon which the Cloven Hoof stood.
But every penny had gone to purchasing that deed. Last month’s rent, to the gown she’d worn to the masquerade. She needed more. A lot more. Enough to cover a year or two’s salary.
She unwrapped the linen and opened the case. “What will you give me?”
“Let’s see what we have.” He lifted his quizzing glass from the counter before inspecting Bryony’s violin.
The color drained from his face. He turned to her with eyes wide with shock.
“A Stradivarius?” he breathed in awe and disbelief. “You cannot be serious.”
She pulled a sheaf of papers from beneath her cloak and laid them on the counter. “Proof of provenance. You will have no trouble earning back every pound you give me, and I expect a fair amount.”
He was barely listening, so enraptured was he in inspecting every swirl and key, every string and hollow.
Mother would not forgive Bryony for this act of defiance.
Bryony pressed her lips together. The few compliments Mother had ever spoken were all related to Bryony’s prowess with an instrument. This instrument. Although Mother had not been the one to purchase the violin, she had been the brains and the impetus behind the Grenville family musicales.
Her throat pricked. Soon the violin would be gone.
Not only was her gift with music the primary reason for the acceptance of a misfit like Bryony i
n High Society, the runaway success of the family musicales was what had made a low-ranking baroness like her mother into a reigning queen of London.
The Grenvilles were famous because of their music.
Parliament might bring lords to London each Season, but the Grenville musicales brought everyone else. Seating was limited, invitations exclusive. A spectacle rumored not to be missed.
Without the musicales, Bryony was no one. And neither was her mother.
At last, the pawnbroker murmured a number.
“Double it,” she replied without hesitation.
He glanced up from the violin in pique. “Now, look here, miss. I’m a working man. Ye can’t possibly expect…”
Whatever was written on Bryony’s expression at that moment must have indicated she very much expected negotiations to go her way.
“One and a half,” he hedged.
“Double,” Bryony said again. The numbers were in her favor.
This was more than a couple years’ salary. It was food, it was clothes, it was lodging. It would mean freedom.
“I’m starting to dislike you,” the pawnbroker muttered as he scratched out an IOU.
“Everyone eventually does,” Bryony said cheerfully as she pocketed the slip of parchment. “When will the funds be in my account?”
“Dusk, if not sooner.” He ran a longing finger over the violin. “I believe I’ll close early today.”
“Enjoy.” Bryony turned and walked away.
Arms now empty, she made her way back to the family coach feeling like she’d left part of her soul behind. A hollowness carved from her heart where music once used to be.
She motioned to the driver.
This was it. The point of no return. By driving away and leaving her violin behind, she had changed her life forever.
No, not only her own.
As soon as her mother discovered this treachery, her disappointment would be all encompassing. Rather like how Bryony had felt watching vitriol spew from her mother’s mouth with the sole aim of hurting the man Bryony loved.
Her chest shuddered.
Selling her Stradivarius meant choosing between one family and another. It was a private decision. Neither Max nor his sister need learn of the sacrifice. Bryony had no expectation of glory. Only a desire to protect those she loved. Those she could.
Max’s business would be fine. She had seen to that. And now, she would see to Frances.
As soon as she was once again seated before her writing desk, she chose her finest stationery and began to pen instructions to her private bank.
As always, the money would arrive at the St. Giles School for Girls as a pseudonymous donation.
This time, however, the funds came with conditions. They could only be used for the hiring, salary, and well-being of a new teacher with a very specific set of expertise.
“Horace B. Puscat” might even name a suggestion.
Chapter 22
Max was at his dining room table leafing through an old journal when the knock came upon his door. He pretended not to hear it.
Frances would not have knocked, but barged right in. And he was not expecting any visitors. Even he shouldn’t have been at home. The Cloven Hoof needed him. But after last night’s disastrous attempt to attend Heath Grenville’s dinner party as some sort of equal, Max’s desire to be around people had waned significantly.
He would not soon forget Lady Grenville’s disgust at his presence. His gut clenched. Her rebuke had been harsh, but honest. She had said nothing that Max did not already know. He was not the one for Bryony. He never would be.
Which was exactly why he was in no mood for company.
The racket came again, banging harder this time.
He tried to ignore it. There were sums to… damn it, he had no idea what page he was on.
The knocking grew in volume and urgency.
Clenching his jaw, Max slammed his journal shut and stalked over to the entrance. He flung open the door in fury.
Bryony stood on the other side with a lumpy satchel cradled in one arm and a baking pan clutched in the other hand. “Hungry?”
He was indeed.
A hunger too deep and too visceral to name filled him every time he looked at her, even when she only lived in his memory.
But he did not move out of the way.
“Why are you here?” he asked coldly. No good could come of this for either of them. “Your mother’s wishes were clear enough.”
“And I am clearly not my mother,” Bryony rejoined. “She would forbid my hair from growing straight if she could.”
Perhaps so. Forbidding her daughter from seeing Max was far more practical than straight hair.
“Are you going to let me in?” Bryony asked.
He curled his lip. “No.”
She used the back of the heavy baking pan to nudge him aside and squeezed through anyway. “I must borrow your kitchen.”
He followed right behind her. “Is something wrong with yours?”
“Too much smoke,” she said. “I nearly burned it down.”
He choked. “Bryony—”
She swung the satchel and the baking pan atop the small table and glanced about for a tinderbox.
“Is there anything I should know about your oven before I begin?” she asked.
“Fire is hot?” he answered. “I only have one flat. Please don’t burn it down.”
“So noted.” She untied her satchel and placed its contents beside the pan. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs, currants.
“You’re baking biscuits?” he asked in disbelief.
“I’m attempting to,” she clarified. “I’ve been practicing all morning and the last batch didn’t break any teeth.”
She rummaged about for a bowl and began combining ingredients without any regard for proper order or quantity.
“Have you ever baked anything before?” he asked suspiciously.
“I just told you.” She stirred the contents of the bowl with a long wooden spoon. “I’ve been practicing all morning.”
He watched, speechless.
Once she managed to mash the ingredients together into somewhat cohesive lumps, she dropped spoonfuls of mixture onto her baking pan and placed it in his oven.
“There,” she said with pride. “It probably won’t burn down.”
It probably also wouldn’t be edible.
But that wasn’t the point. Max’s chest warmed. She could have purchased currant biscuits at a bakery or the market. Instead, she’d wanted to make them for him herself. Because he’d said he liked them. Because she wanted to please him.
“You don’t have to do this,” he said softly.
“Trust me,” she said. “You’ll wish I hadn’t. I’ll expect you to eat them anyway.”
His lips twitched. “They are already my favorite.”
Bryony ran an idle fingertip along the edge of the mixing bowl, then lifted her gaze to his. “I’m terrible at a lot of things. I’m terrible at sewing. I’m terrible at cooking.”
She seemed to be waiting for a reply.
“I am… better than you at both those things,” he admitted. “But I’m not looking for a tailor or a chef.”
She appeared to think this over.
“I come from a mostly perfect family. That is, my siblings and their spouses are the finest people I know.” She winced. “My parents, on the other hand…”
“…are parents,” he finished for her. “They want what is best for you.”
“Even if I don’t agree on what that might be,” Bryony said with a sigh. “But who can blame them? I’m stubborn and impulsive—”
“Smart and beautiful,” he interrupted.
“—independent and mannish—”
“Kindhearted and talented,” he said firmly.
“—more interested in numbers than fashion—”
He grabbed her wrists and pulled her to him. “You’re perfect exactly as you are. What is the point of this line of talk?”
�
��That I’m not better than you.” Her voice was urgent. “My mother is wrong. You are a person anyone would wish to be like. I’m not too good for you. You’re too good for me.”
His throat was suddenly tight. “Poppycock. You’re just trying to get me to kiss you.”
She peered up at him through her lashes. “Is it working?”
In reply, he slanted his mouth over hers.
She was indeed a brilliant, headstrong, fascinating, maddening creature. She was exactly what he needed.
Her mother’s bluntness might have dashed any foolish hopes for a future together, but she had done nothing to quench Max’s desire for having Bryony right now.
She was more than a desire. She was an addiction.
That was why he had to stop kissing her, no matter how sweet her lips. He couldn’t keep losing himself in the moment when this moment was all that they had. He knew better. And yet he could not tear his lips from hers.
She tasted like spun sugar and possibility. Rainbows after a summer storm.
Every kiss ripped another crack in the stone encasing his heart. If he did not stop soon, all his defenses would crumble away.
He did not dare take such a risk when he already knew the outcome.
Yet when he was with her, logic no longer prevailed. The rhythm of his pulse made him pull her ever closer. It was a dance. A melody. The yearning in his heart made him deepen every kiss. The throbbing of his—
Smoke. Something smelled like smoke.
Bryony tore her mouth from his with a horrified gasp. “The biscuits are on fire!”
Not yet, but they would be soon if Max did not take immediate action to rectify the situation.
He wrapped the closest washrag about his hand and pulled the baking pan from the fire.
Twelve generously toasted lumps greeted them.
Bryony’s eyes shimmered.
“I practiced all morning,” she whispered brokenly. “I wanted them to be perfect. For you. I wanted to be perfect, just this once.”
“You are.” He yanked her back into his embrace. “You always have been.”
This kiss was different. More savage. More vulnerable.
He loved that she’d baked him a dozen burnt biscuits. He loved her for being her. For coming to call when she should not. For breaking into his club when she should not. For being in his arms when she should not.
