“Did you want help?” She arched a brow. “I never thought you needed help.”
He ignored her. “Change the subject. Let me see the new waistcoat.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You say that as if there were some approval process through which your new garments must pass. I sewed them, you will wear them. Non-negotiable.”
“Let me see them,” he repeated.
“Why did you want them?” Frances asked instead.
“No reason,” Max said quickly. “Keep them. I don’t need them.”
“Ohhh, forher,” his sister sing-songed in the most irritating manner possible.
“Not for her,” Max insisted. “I just happened to be in the haberdasher—”
“As one does,” Frances interrupted. “Especially when one lives on the opposite side of town and possesses no affinity toward fashion.”
“—admiring the rows of fabric—”
“As one does,” Frances murmured again. “Especially when one is the owner of a gaming hell famous for being swathed in shadow and darkness.”
“—and the haberdasher talked me into it against my will,” Max concluded.
“No one has ever talked you into anything in all your life,” Frances pointed out with a knowing look. “You bought waistcoats because you meant to, and youletBryony into your life. You rolled the dice.”
Max shook his head. “I thought she was someone else.”
“False.” Frances sipped her tea. “You had absolutely no idea who she was.”
“I certainly didn’t think she owned the land and property housing my club.”
“Because she’s a woman?” Frances asked. “And women can’t own things?”
Max ignored this. “And I certainly didn’t think she would use the deed as leverage to manipulate me into dancing to her tune.”
“Because she’s a woman?” Frances asked again. “And women cannot be as merciless, cunning, and ruthless as men?”
“Ha! So you admit she is merciless, cunning, and ruthless.” Max crossed his arms in satisfaction. “You see why I cannot like her.”
She gave an unladylike shrug. “It seems like you have a lot in common.”
His heart thumped, aghast. “You are not trying to matchmake, are you? Why is everyone trying to matchmake me?”
Frances selected a biscuit. “Where there’s smoke, there’s hellfire. You did meet at the Cloven Hoof.”
“She’s mercenary,” he reminded her. “She tried to profit off of me.”
“She is successfully profiting off of you,” Frances pointed out. “And you, her. Your club would not exist if she had not taken a chance when no one else would.”
“And it will never be what I need it to be if I cannot own my property,” he said with a frustrated sigh.
His sister’s calculating expression turned serious. “You didn’t tell me it was personal.”
“The Cloven Hoof is our future, Fran.” He let out a deep breath. “At least, it was meant to be. Every shilling I’ve earned is now tied up in a connected investment that will only bear fruit if I can get my hands on the deed.”
Frances considered his words. “Can you steal it?”
“Out of the question,” he said flatly.
