“Had he a phobia of needles?” she tried to jest.
At this, Max did look up. “Father had no time for phobias. He worked on the docks from the time he was born until the day he died. The only times I saw him were when he came home with each month’s salary, and when he was finally too weak to rise from his sickbed.”
Bryony’s chest pounded in sympathy. She hadn’t meant to dredge up painful memories. This one sounded awful. She might know what it was like never to see one’s father, but hers was still alive and hid himself away in a comfortable armchair in a comfortable office in his comfortable townhouse, well protected from the elements.
It was not the same at all.
Max had rarely seen his father out of necessity, not choice. That made it simultaneously more palatable and a thousand times worse. His father was the sort of man willing to work himself to death if it meant bringing home enough coin to live on for his wife and children. A man who valued his family more than himself.
And now he was gone.
She swallowed. “I...”
“I’m not ashamed of him,” Max’s proud gaze did not waver. “As soon as I was able, I did the same. I would do it again. I would be working the docks right now, if Basil Q. Jones hadn’t taken a risk on a dream no one else considered worth the investment.”
Her throat grew tight. How silly her struggles seemed in comparison.
She had lamented the diminutive seed money she had used to launch six fruitful years of pseudonymous investment, but she had been afforded a privileged starting point. Excess baubles to sell. Pin money she hadn’t bothered to spend.
All this time, she had considered her financial success something she had done with her hands, with her brain, solely on her own recognizance.
But it wasn’t true.
Her lowest rung had been a step on the ladder far above any that someone like Max could hope to reach.
And yet he had tried anyway.
“It wasn’t a risk,” she said softly. “Basil Q. Jones analyzed all pertinent details and determined that of all the schemes vying for his interest, one held more merit than the rest. Basil didn’t see ‘potential’ in you and your proposal. He recognized the certainty of success.”
The corner of Max’s mouth twitched, but his half-smile failed to reach his eyes. “Our friend Basil had more confidence than I did. All I had was desperation and a wild, foolish dream.”
“‘Foolish’ only describes those who didn’t believe in you.” She gestured about them. “We are sitting in your foolish dream right now. We met when I snuckinsideof it. Your dream now has hundreds of happy clients. Thousands. Your dream has employees. Your dream has allowedothersto dream. Your dream has changed reality.”
Max stared back at her without speaking. As if he did not dare to.
“Investing in you wasn’t a stroke of good fortune,” she said softly. “You deserved it. You deserve every good thing that has ever happened, and a thousand more. You and your dreams are as worthy as anyone else’s.”
His lips twisted. “Tell that to the gods ruling over all the other gentlemen’s clubs. The benevolent lords who blackballed me unanimously.”
“Which gentlemen’s clubs?” she demanded. Righteous anger on his behalf shot through her veins.
Amusement flickered across Max’s face. “All of them.”
“I’ll have Heath fix it,” she said immediately. “My brother—”
“Under no circumstances.” Max’s expression was hard and final. “If they don’t want me, I don’t want them. And be honest. You’re not surprised they don’t want me.”
Bryony grit her teeth together.
His smirk was answer enough.
Blast it all. There must be a way. She wanted to ask when he had applied. After his fame and fortune as ruler of the Cloven Hoof, or before it became the most sought-after gaming hell in London?
But he was right. It wouldn’t have mattered.
He had no title, no aristocratic blood. He had climbed as high as someone from his background could go. And it still fell short. Nothing he might do or achieve would make him good enough to move in her circles.
“They are opinionated, insular idiots,” she said at last. “It doesn’t matter what they think.”
