Hawk charged into the Cloven Hoof, his blood racing as rapidly as it had when the long-awaited summons first arrived. His investment payout was finally here.

When Maxwell Gideon had first come to Hawk with the idea of investing in a fledgling gambling salon meant to somehow rival exclusive gentlemen’s clubs like White’s and Boodles’s someday, despite allowing less savory clientele through its doors, Hawk had been unconvinced of the Cloven Hoof’s potential appeal to the high-in-the-instep upper crust.

Hawk, however, had been desperate. He’d come up with the idea of creating a thriving port but, as yet, had been unable to secure enough financing to begin. Only he could see future fortune amidst the jungle of weeds covering the rocky coast.

That was to say, only Hawk and Maxwell Gideon.

So they’d struck a devil’s bargain. Hawk would invest in the gaming hell for a guaranteed two hundred percent profit, and when the money came due, Gideon would match the payout as an investment into developing Hawk’s port.

Today, the money was due.

He elbowed through the crowd of drunkards and gamblers, excusing his brusqueness by promising to stop and chat as soon as his meeting with Gideon was through. To Hawk’s delight, the Cloven Hoof appeared busier than ever.

His step lightened. If business was good for Gideon, that should mean the return on investment should be good for Hawk. Perhaps his return would be even greater than double the initial sum. If so, he would be able to move the development schedule up by months. Open the port well ahead of schedule. Finally put an end to years of wading against the riptide of crushing debt.

But no matter how much or little his investment in the Cloven Hoof had earned, his primary goal was to send a doctor to check on his mother’s health whether she admitted her symptoms or not.

Although days had gone by since the last of his mother’s coughing attacks—at least as far as he knew—Hawk still wanted to ensure a medical professional looked her over and assure him nothing was wrong.

The tall oak door to the Cloven Hoof’s back office was ajar by a few inches. Hawk rapped his knuckles on the thick doorjamb.

“What is it?” snarled a deep voice from within the depths of the office.

Hawk pushed open the door and stepped inside.

To call a man like Maxwell Gideon intractable or formidable was akin to claiming the sea to be somewhat damp. The Cloven Hoof and its infamous owner were both of deservedly questionable repute. Gideon was as impossible to predict as the turn of his cards, and just as likely to change the outlook of one’s fortunes overnight.

Or, in Hawk’s case, over an investment of five long years.

Gideon glanced up from a few small stacks of obsessively neat piles of paper and motioned for him to enter. “Lord Hawkridge. Do come in.”

Hawk closed the door behind him and blinked as a total and eerie stillness descended upon the shuttered office.

Gideon preferred to work in complete silence. To conduct business from within the eye of the storm.

Hawk would never get used to the drastic change. Or the irony of a vice merchant cloistering himself inside walls designed to combat the din of his own gamblers.

There was neither a decanting port nor a glass of chilled ale on Gideon’s desk, but rather a simple mug of black coffee. The walls of the office were bare of adornments. Every surface sparkled. Hawk imagined Gideon hired a team of employees to ensure every file was perfectly square, every seal perfectly centered. Everything within sight was relentlessly managed and in its place, just like Gideon ran his entire business, and likely, his life.

He seated himself on the other side of the wide desk.

“There is a new opportunity I believe could interest you,” Gideon began without preamble.

“I am not interested in a new opportunity.” Hawk leaned forward and said slowly and firmly, “I’m here to reap the rewards of the last opportunity…and to collect your portion as well.”

“Don’t be hasty,” Gideon said, his legendary calm in place. “Everything in its time. I would like to ask your opinion about—”

“You are not listening. I am truly out of time.” Hawk’s voice was hard. “Is the money here or not?”

Gideon leaned back in his chair and touched the tips of his fingers together, unperturbed by the frank coldness of Hawk’s question. One could be forgiven for almost believing him a completely different man than the laughing, dark-eyed rogue who had discussed the new Dulwich Picture Gallery over drinks with Zachary not a fortnight earlier.

But that was friendship. This was business. And Maxwell Gideon did not blur lines.

Neither did Hawk.

“I repeat,” he said quietly. “Do you have the money?”

Gideon’s cool gaze and hard features did not so much as twitch. Vauxhall Gardens boasted carved statues with greater range of emotion than the blackguard currently displayed.

Hawk stared back at him without backing down.

These walls had seen more secret deals brokered than he could even imagine. Gideon had his thumb in all of the pies. His office might be closed off to the noise of his clients, but Maxwell Gideon was well-informed about everything that happened under his roof. He spread the word about opportunities to the right ears, gathered speculative funds from the right investors, took an impressive percentage from every deal.

And now it was Hawk’s turn to benefit from the arrangement.

Gideon gazed back at him without blinking. “Yes, I have the money.”

“Good.” Even if all Hawk had earned was a measly shilling, he wasn’t walking out of this office without it. “Double, as promised?”

“Double,” Gideon agreed. “For now.”

Hawk frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Gideon said as he leaned back in his chair. “That I have another opportunity. You have an opportunity, that is. What I have is a counter offer.”

“I am not interested. Prepare the bank draft at once.”

Gideon shook his head. “Hear me out.”

“I don’t have time,” Hawk said simply. “My mother is ill. The port is nearly a year away from opening. And my father’s overdue accounts are still—”

“You’ll earn back six times your investment,” Gideon interrupted. “Six times the amount as it currently stands.”

Hawk’s teeth clacked shut.

Five years ago, he had invested one thousand pounds in the Cloven Hoof. It had been risky. Some might even say foolish. But it had been worth it. Today, those one thousand pounds were now worth two thousand pounds.

And Gideon was saying he could turn it into six times that amount?

Hawk only needed half that sum to finally wrangle the port into operational condition. The rest could be spent on a fleet of doctors. Servant salaries, overdue accounts, estate repairs. A bouquet for Faith. His throat went dry.

“When would the investment pay out?”

“Two years.” Gideon leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering. “Twelve thousand pounds. Think about what you’d do with the money.”

Hawk had already thought about it. In the split second since Gideon had made the offer, Hawk’s mind had already spent every penny. The port would be functional. Hawk’s life would be back on track. His bank account would be healthy, his estate would be healthy, his mother would be healthy.

But only if he had the money today.

“Two years is too long.” He pointed toward a pen in the standish on the desk. “Request the bank transfer.”

“One year,” Gideon said quickly. “Twelve months from today. Six hundred percent. You can’t beat this offer.”

“Why are you even making it?”

“To buy out my silent partner.” Gideon’s lip curled. “The jackanapes currently owns fifty percent of the Cloven Hoof and refuses to sell unless I can buy back every share. This club is mine. I want to prove it.”

“You don’t need me for that.” Hawk gestured toward the door. “Not when you have an entire gaming salon full of fools eager to toss their fortunes into the wind.”

“They’re happy to hand over money,” Gideon agreed. “In exchange for shares in the Cloven Hoof. Exactly the situation I wish to be rid of. You’re different. All you want is money. I’m willing to lose some in the deal as long as it gives me full ownership of the business I built with my own sweat and blood. You and I both come out ahead.”

Hawk’s pulse pounded at his temples.

Gideon was right. Hawk needed short-term funding far more than he needed ownership shares in a semi-reputable gambling den. This deal would be perfect for both of them…if he had the money today. Even a single year was too long to wait.

On the other hand, it was his best hope to secure the rest of the funding for his port. He could not afford to turn it down without careful consideration.

Hawk crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes at Gideon. “How long do I have to think it over?”

Gideon lifted a perfectly tailored shoulder. “You have twenty-four hours. I cannot wait a single minute more.”

Hawk nodded tightly.

The twenty-four hours were already dwindling. And there was no time to waste.

He had to get out of this club, out of this environment of risk and gambling in excess, and focus on what mattered most. His mother. His brother. Faith’s happiness. He had to get home and find somewhere quiet to think. For better or for worse, this decision might well affect the outcome of the rest of Hawk’s life.

“You will have your answer by tomorrow.” He rose stiffly and let himself out Gideon’s office lest he be persuaded to make a rash decision.

He knew what was at stake if he didn’t take the deal. And he knew what was at stake if he did. The question was which was the wiser choice, if indeed he had any wise choices left to him.

He glanced at his pocket watch. Five thirty. He could be home in less than an hour. Review the port’s ledgers, have supper with his mother. Return to trying to squeeze a penny out of a rock.

Chaos assailed him the moment he stepped outside Gideon’s office and into the corridor. Milling bodies covered every square inch of the Cloven Hoof. The din was overwhelming. He gripped the back of the closest chair and tried to block it all out. The clink of glasses, the slap playing cards, the rattle of dice, the crows of the scattered winners, the devastated groans of the many losers.

Hawk forced his way through the crowded salon toward the door, but escape was impossible. The more he tried to flee, the more familiar faces threw themselves in his path.

“Hawkridge!”

“What do you think of this hand?”

“When are you going to get rid of those horses and acquire a matched pair?”

“Should I hold or roll one more time?”

“What do you think of my cravat? Is there truly such a thing as too many folds?”

Normally, Hawk loved wasting a few minutes in inane conversation with his friends. Moments like these made him feel like the carefree young man he once was. No greater concern than the color of his horses or the starch in his cravat. But he was no longer that man and this was not one of those moments.

“Excuse me,” he said for what felt like the hundredth time. “I must get through.”

The warring smells in the gambling salon were as heady as its sea of colors and textures. Expensive port and cheap gin, perfume and desperation. Hawk did not belong here. He had to get out. He tried to wade toward the door.

Some of these men had long been lost to the allure of drink and easy fortune. Playing cards. Dice. Hawk no longer believed that anything came easy, but he did believe it possible to be in control of one’s own life. He intended to prove it.

It was more than wanting to be unlike his father, or wanting to be his own man. Hawk needed to be the kind of father he’d always dreamed of being, the kind of husband he’d always dreamed of being. It had to be possible. He could not let himself believe differently.

He was the master of his own ship, yet he could not help but feel badly in need of a compass.

“Hawkridge,” came a delighted voice. Hawk’s old friend Anthony Fairfax emerged from the shifting crowd. “How are you, old chap? Has it ever been an age.”

“You know what the bachelor life is like,” Hawk answered without saying anything at all. Talking about himself would only depress them both. “How is married life?”

Fairfax’s eyes shone. “I have never been happier. Life has turned out better than I had ever imagined. We’re even expecting our first child.”

“Congratulations,” Hawk forced from his lips. He was thrilled for his friend. So why did Fairfax’s news make Hawk feel as though he had taken a punch to the gut?

Shame prickled his skin. He hated how jealous he was that other men could marry for love, could start a family, could say unequivocally that they were happier now than they had ever imagined being.

But it was more than what they possessed and Hawk lacked. He envied how much easier their lives were in comparison. No unsurmountable debts, no weighty obligations, no heavy question marks pressing on their chests. His throat went dry with envy.

Men like Fairfax knew where they would be five, ten, twenty years from now—arm in arm with the woman he loved.

Hawk didn’t even know what answer he would be giving to Maxwell Gideon twenty-four hours from now. But he would have to figure it out soon.

“Have you seen these?” Fairfax pointed at a few faded caricatures nailed to one of the walls.

The errant drawings were remnants from a few months ago, when Gideon had all but wallpapered the gambling salon with drawings mocking the “Lord of Pleasure,” one of Gideon’s closest friends and a frequent visitor to the Cloven Hoof… Until he’d fallen in love, that was.

Now the earl was just another happily married man. Likely working on an heir or two of his own this very minute.

Hawk shoved down his envy and quickly finished his conversation with his friend.

The room was too loud, the drunken gamblers too rowdy. More than that, the sight of errant caricatures had brought to mind his mother’s recent admonition. Her concern about how she and her son were viewed by Society was more than valid. Hawk narrowed his eyes. He refused to allow her to become a laughingstock.

Which meant what? He pushed upstream toward the exit, determined to escape. Should he take Gideon’s investment opportunity or not? And what about the rest of his life? What could he do about Faith? Where did he really stand, and was there anything he could do to improve it? He had no answers.

But now that she was back in his life, he could not bear to let her slip away again.

Guilt tightened his throat. He was not proud of how he had treated Faith in the past. But he was a different person now. They both were. He would like nothing more than to start anew.

When his port launched, perhaps, he could finally court Faith the way he’d always longed to.

He reached the front door just as it opened from the outside and a prissy gentleman with a sour expression pranced into the salon. Hawk’s stomach sank at the sight.

Phineas Mapleton, London’s worst gossip.

Just his luck.

“Hawkridge, my friend!” Mapleton called out in a voice designed to carry. “I didn’t think you had enough ready blunt left to show your face in an establishment even as poor as this.”

“And I didn’t think you lacked the self-awareness to realize we are not friends,” Hawk responded with a disarming smile.

Mapleton blinked in confusion then slapped him on the shoulder. “What on earth are you doing here? If you’re looking for an heiress to marry, you won’t find any skirts within these walls.”

Hawk clenched his teeth. His mother was right. People were already talking. “Who I marry is none of your business.”

Mapleton chortled. “But your choices are so amusing! The only chit you truly seemed half sweet on was the daughter of that disgusting textiles fellow. I heard you visited that ridiculous boarding school. I suppose you went nosing back around her as soon as you realized her family now has more money than yours ever did.”

Hawk blinked. Her father’s ill-advised textile investments had borne fruit? The Digbys were richer now than the Hawkridge title had ever been? Then why on earth would Faith be working in a boarding school?

She wouldn’t. Mapleton was inventing gossip whole cloth.

Hawk returned a cold stare. “As usual, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know everything,” Mapleton corrected smugly. “I know you haven’t a ha’penny for day-old pies, and that the Digbys still think their filthy factory money can buy them entrée into the aristocracy.” He gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Why are commoners so deluded?”

Blood rushed in Hawk’s ears. Was it true? Could it be true?

He pushed past Mapleton and out into the relatively fresh air of the alleyway.

Mapleton was a loudmouth and a terrible person, but he had no reason to lie. He drew too much pleasure from wreaking havoc with the truth. He was right about Hawk, which meant he was probably right about Faith’s family, too.

Hawk leaned back against the rough brick of the façade and tried to quell his rising panic. This was wonderful news. And terrible news.

The last thing he wanted was for Faith to think that after all these years, he was only lowering himself to speak with her again because she now had money.

Whatever gossip she’d heard about him was probably true. He did need money. And he did want to marry. He had always wanted it to be her, but was a long way from making that happen—if he even could.

In the meantime, Hawk didn’t want to lose her. But that was precisely what would happen if she thought his interest was in her family coffers, rather than herself. How could he convince her of his sincerity?

He pushed away from the wall and strode toward his aging carriage. It was six o’clock. She wouldn’t be expecting him at the school until tomorrow, but perhaps that was for the best. She would know he came to call for her, not out of obligation.

His heart lightened. There was no time like the present to tell her she was still in his heart.

When he raced up the front steps of the boarding school to bang the brass knocker, Faith was just leaving. Hope fluttered within him.

She looked beautiful. Bonnet tied tight about flyaway golden-brown curls, woolen scarf looped twice about the high neck of a smart blue pelisse that complemented the green in her eyes.

If she was pleased to see him, she did not show it.

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was just short of long-suffering, as if the universe had conspired to throw him into her path as often as possible despite her best efforts to avoid him.

He deserved her disinterest. He’d lost any claim on her time when he’d failed to offer for her after strongly implying church bells would be in their very near future. Marrying Faith would have been the cruelest thing he could do. That selfish act would simply have ensured that they both starve.

And now look at them. She in the first stare of fashion, wealthy enough to afford to volunteer her time without hope of recouping her investment, and he almost as indigent as the orphaned girls in her school.

Not that he hadn’t tried. He had wrought miracles. The dwindling Hawkridge coffers had eked out not one year, but ten. Against all odds, he had paid off over half of the estate’s debts. He was still a far cry from being the catch of the Season, but at this rate… he’d be in a position to beg for Faith’s hand in no more than another decade or two.

Never had the dichotomy seemed so bleak.

“I wanted to see you,” he began. His heart beat so quickly he could barely think.

Faith did not bother to hide her displeasure. “I’m busy.”

“Ten minutes.” He would feel no shame at the plea in his voice. This was too important. She was too important. “If I cannot keep your interest for longer, then I deserve to watch you go.”

Her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms. “Five minutes. I’m running late.”

“Five minutes.” He nodded stupidly. Now that a ticking clock had been granted to him, all his carefully constructed conversation points vanished from his mind. He straightened his shoulders. At least they weren’t being spied upon by a gaggle of little girls. “I admire your loyalty and dedication to the school.”

Her brows arched. “You drove to a rookery after nightfall to compliment my work ethic?”

“No. I came to say…” Frustration pounded at his temples. This was impossible. He didn’t know how to say the things he came to say. Their roles had completely reversed. He was the one holding on to something he couldn’t have, and she was the one trying to walk away. “I’m sorry, Faith.”

“You already told me.”

“I mean it.” He took a deep breath. “I would apologize from now until eternity if it could change the past, and I’m willing to do so even though it can’t.”

“I don’t want your apologies.”

“You have them anyway.” His let’s try again speech was not going well. If he proposed a courtship of any kind, she would laugh in his face. “If you would rather leave the past behind us, I am happy to accommodate your wishes. I would rather talk about our future.”

Her eyes shuttered. “We don’t have one.”

“We could,” he insisted. “Not right away, of course. There is too much unresolved between us and I’m not yet in a position to offer—”

“Miss Digby?” came a small voice from inside the foyer.

Still blocking him from entering the doorway, Faith bent eye-level to greet one of the children. “What is it, Beatrice?”

The little girl held out a crumpled scrap of paper in a grubby hand. “I drawed a doggy for Chris.”

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Faith said solemnly. “I’ll see that it gets delivered.”

Hawk melted inside. His heart went out to little Beatrice and all other schoolchildren rescued from unspeakable lives on the streets. He truly did admire Faith and Dahlia both for the lives they were changing with their school for girls. They were miracle workers.

Because his own half-brother had been born a bastard, Hawk was painfully aware of the societal roadblocks and self-loathing and lifelong inequality that comes from being born on the wrong side of the blanket. He would never inflict such pain on an innocent child.

Faith kissed Beatrice on the crown and turned back to Hawk. “Three minutes.”

He glanced down at the indecipherable ink squiggles clutched in her hand. “That was kind of Beatrice.”

She slipped the parchment into her reticule. “They’re kind girls.”

“Who is ‘Chris?’” he blurted. His cheeks immediately heated. It wasn’t until the question had left his mouth that he realized it was borne of jealousy.

“Chris” could very well be the name of a suitor, and none of Hawk’s business at all. Any man in his right mind would be blessed to win Faith’s hand. There was no reason to think her heart wasn’t already promised elsewhere.

Faith’s lips tightened as if she had no intention of answering the impertinent question. Just when he could no longer hold his breath, she sighed and said simply, “My ward.”

Hawk was relieved beyond all reason. Having a ward did not preclude the possibility that Faith was also in possession of a fiancé, but at least he could pretend he still had a chance.

And then reality set in.

“You have a ward,” he repeated.

He was not surprised. Faith was goodhearted to a fault and had always loved children. If this boarding school was not proof enough, he would not be shocked to learn she spent her parents’ textiles fortune on an entire house full of wards.

“One minute,” she said. “Now you understand why I must get home.”

He nodded. Of course he could understand putting a dependent first. He had to do the same. Guilt assailed him as his mother’s frail countenance flashed in his mind.

Faith was the one woman he had always hoped to marry. If she truly was an heiress, life had finally given them the only circumstance in which Hawk’s responsibilities to his title and the desires of his heart both pointed in the same direction.

But it was far from easy. Or straightforward. Heiress or not, Faith’s blood was not of the proper pedigree a peer was meant to mix with. Even though Hawk had never given two figs about Faith’s lack of ties to the aristocracy, right now he was forced to consider any dowry with cold practicality.

As much as he hated the thought of squandering any woman’s fortune on his predecessor’s past mistakes, being noble had long since ceased to be an option.