Max glanced down at her in question.
She placed her hand in his. “Waltz with me, my lord.”
“I’m no lord,” he growled.
“That’s what I like best about you,” she said with a wicked smile. “That, and your forked tail.”
He whirled her into his arms, likely to stop her from talking.
Bryony didn’t mind. All she cared about was staying in Max’s embrace, now and forever.
His eyes hooded. “Do you have plans after the wedding?”
She gave him a saucy grin. “Do I ever. Unfortunately, the wedding breakfast comes first. Unless you have something else in mind?”
“A grand opening.” His eyes glittered. “It seems only fitting that the Cloven Hoof’s sister club should share our anniversary. After all, we are building it together.”
A thrill ran through her.Their grand opening.
At last.
“Is anyone watching us?” she whispered.
He glanced over her shoulder. “No one.”
She pulled him out of the drawing room and into the shadows, where nothing could keep her lips from finding his.
Epilogue
Four months later
Max darted across freshly-swept cobblestones to admire a view of the twin clubs from across the street. It had been three weeks since the grand opening and he still couldn’t get enough.
On the left was the Cloven Hoof. Austere, dark, mysterious. Dedicated wholly to gambling. As always, the windows were darkened so as to block out both sunlight and the curious gazes of passersby. Unlike before, the games inside were now open to both men and women.
Standing beside the closed door with his thick arms folded over his barrel chest was Vigo. He was lost in conversation. Talking animatedly at his side stood a French poet in champagne-shined Hessians, a spangled waistcoat, and a pair of gold rimmed spectacles.
There was plenty of time for them to talk. The doors wouldn’t open for another hour.
The façade to the right boasted large glass windows, welcoming in both the light and anyone who chanced to pass by, man or woman. Bryony perched on a stool by the door, Vigo’s unlikely counterpart in a satin evening gown and scuffed top hat.
Her sister-in-law had not only designed the signage for the new addition, but painted the door herself.THECROOKED HALO, declared the bold text, curving above a winged cherub with a wicked grin, a pair of almost imperceptible horns, and yes, a crooked halo. It was perfect.
Max’s life couldn’t be happier. His wife was stupendous. Together, they accomplished more than either possibly could alone.
In the weeks since the Crooked Halo’s grand opening, they had already seen positive impact. The front salon was primarily used as conversation nooks where poets, intellectuals, book clubs, and the like could gather for an exchange of ideas and opinions.
The public’s response had been tremendous. Especially after a certain caricature had made the rounds, featuring the Cloven Hoof’s infamous Lord of Vice reading love sonnets to his wife in front of their peers. Everyone had come to see.
Last week, Bryony had set up a small stage to be used at the twilight hour, by those who wished to share music, poetry, or other art with fellow patrons. Max was still shocked at the number and variety of talented people who flocked to the salon to see and be seen.
The rear chamber of the new annex was reserved for individuals who preferred not to gamble real money. Bryony had stocked the room with an overabundance of playing-cards, and overnight the Grenville family game had become household knowledge. It was now known as “playing Crooked Halo.”
They had even installed a swinging door between the Cloven Hoof and the Crooked Halo, for patrons who wished to wander back and forth between them.
This had proven to be a stroke of brilliance, increasing profits and curiosity on both sides. The passageway allowed for more opportunities to please mixed crowds, in which some guests fancied a game of loo whilst others in their party preferred to debate the merits of iambic pentameter or Gothic symbolism.
Or the joy of tossing a handful of playing cards in each other’s faces.
