“Tell me about your wife and daughter,” he commanded. “Are they hurt?”
“No one was burned, but they spent days nursing wracking coughs. The smoke, you know,” Schneider said hoarsely, his eyes downcast. “Without an income, I cannot help my family. We need a miracle and I have nowhere else to turn.”
Of this, Max was certain.
While he had no firsthand experience of the sort of business transactions one might see transpire at gentlemen’s clubs like White’s or Brooks’s, the very fact that only the titled and the well-connected were allowed within their hallowed walls meant common tradesmen like Schneider could not avail himself of their innumerable advantages.
The Cloven Hoof was no such establishment.
Max had founded this venue not to ape his betters, but to spite them. He had no interest in pretending to be part of their exalted circles. He wanted to be their equal.
Were their fancy clubs so exclusive that one could only gain entry if approved by all the ruling members?
How precious.
Membership to Max’s club could be granted by one man and one man only.
Max.
At first, little attention had been paid to his shadowy gaming club just a few streets too far from the fashionable district. Once the dukes and earls and heirs and fops realized they must beapproved, however, membership quickly became as sought-after as starched cravats.
He did not always extend his welcome to those born to privilege, andohdid that rankle them.
Max was happy to give their money to men like Schneider, however.
“We’ll start with a small outbuilding,” he began. “Once the first loom is in operation, we’ll work on expansion.”
Schneider sagged with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Gideon. You’ve no idea how much your support means to me.”
Max had a very good idea indeed. That feeling of helplessness, of hopelessness, of scrabbling from nothing to scratch one’s way toward something of one’s own, to pure unadulteratedfreedom, was the impetus behind everything Max did.
The Cloven Hoof itself was the first and only tangible proof that he had finally achieved what had once seemed an impossible dream.
Or at least, it would be once he owned the property outright and was no longer answerable to any man but himself.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” was all he said aloud.
Schneider hesitated, glancing around the austere office as if it were the first time he truly registered his surroundings.
One desk. Three chairs. Many books. One settee.
No wine. No cards. No distractions of any kind. Max did not allow them. His life was carefully ordered, deliberate and precise, every aspect exactly how he intended it. He’d earned it.
“You do so much for others.” Schneider hesitated. “Oughtn’t you to do the same for yourself?”
Max blinked. “The Cloven Hoofisfor me. Everything about it is mine.”
Almosteverything.
Schneider shook his head. “You’re here every hour of every day. Don’t you deserve a life of your own?”
“The Cloven Hoofismy life.” Indeed, Max was just getting started. His plans went far deeper than what was visible to the casual eye. He intended to expand his empire. Create an even larger bridge between two worlds.
“You can’t marry a club or start a family with a stack of pound notes,” Schneider insisted. “A wife—”
“Good God.” Max reared back in horror. “You cannot be trying tomatchmakeme. Your daughter barely has sixteen years—”
Schneider blanched with an equal amount of obvious horror.
