“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. Evenheshouldn’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.”
