by Goodman, Jo
“Will you take tea with me?” he asked when he returned to remove the tray.
“I couldn’t possibly.”
He did not insist. “Very well. You may remain there. It is a comfortable chair, is it not?”
It was, but the soft leather also held the faint scent of him. There was nothing comfortable about that. “I think I would prefer a turn about the room.”
“As you wish.” He set the tray on a side table and poured himself a cup while Olivia picked her way among the detritus that was the evidence of his work. “The servants dust and polish only. I don’t allow them to move anything.”
It was unnerving the way he seemed to respond to her thoughts as if she’d spoken them aloud. “It seemed that might be the case. There is some method, I expect, to your placement of papers and journals and accounts.”
“I begin a new pile and never move it.”
“I suppose that system has merit.”
“Do not tempt fate by shifting even so much as the quills on my desk. The one servant who disobeyed me was summarily discharged.”
“Then I beg of you, make me your servant.”
Her quick response reminded Griffin that Alastair had written that she was both clever and resourceful. She had given him ample proof of the former. He decided to accept her brother’s word on the latter.
He added a dram of whiskey to his tea before settling in the leather chair she’d given up. Observing her interest in the wall of books, he said idly, “In truth, I haven’t determined what use I might make of you, but you can be confident it will not be as my servant. I am a generous employer, still, you would have to give over the rest of your life to service if there were to be a prayer of repaying your brother’s debt.”
Olivia was not unaffected by his words. She adjusted the shawl about her shoulders to retain some semblance of warmth. “You have not told me where Alastair is.”
“You have not asked.”
She thought she could wait him out, but he was sipping contentedly from his toddy and appeared in no wise ready to offer information. “Where is my brother?”
“I haven’t a notion.”
“He’s not here?”
“I know everyone who is under my roof; if he was one, I would have a notion, wouldn’t I?”
Olivia frowned. “Then you don’t mean to exchange me for my brother?”
“Is that what you thought? I hadn’t realized. You’re here because your brother expressly said you should be. You don’t believe me? Come. Read this for yourself.”
Griffin set his cup down and opened the hidden cubby in his desk where he’d secreted Alastair Cole’s ring. What he drew out was not that piece of exquisite jewelry, but a slip of neatly creased tri-folded paper. He held it out to Olivia. Hesitation was evident in every one of her steps. “You don’t look particularly eager to read it. I can find no fault with that. Would you rather I summarize?”
Shaking her head, Olivia took the last few steps to the desk and removed the paper from his hand. To afford herself some small privacy, in spite of the fact that he knew the contents very well, she gave him her back as she read.
Dear Breckenridge,
I pray that you will understand that I could not abandon the ring. It is an heirloom entrusted to my care. When I learned that you were not wearing it, I knew what I must do. If there is to be the slightest hope that my allowance will be advanced, I must make the request in person, and I cannot do that without the ring in my possession.
In place of the ring, I suggest you seek out Olivia at my Jericho Mews residence. While the ring’s value can be measured, Olivia’s cannot. She is vastly clever and resourceful, a gem rarer than the one I bear once again on my finger. Take her to your hell, but show her more care than the disdain you showed for my bauble. She will reward you in ways you cannot imagine. You have my word that I will come for her with every shilling owed.
Your servant,
Alastair Clark Cole, Esq.
It was on Olivia’s second reading of her brother’s missive that her hands began to tremble. She dropped the paper, and when she stood up from retrieving it, she felt peculiarly light-headed. The floor listed, then the wall of books shifted in a like manner. The volumes lying on their sides suddenly stood upright. The mirror tilted at an angle that should have sent it crashing to the floor. The logs in the fireplace were vertical while the flames flickered on the horizontal.
The perspective that guided her steps, controlled her balance, and made it possible for her to know up from down failed her in every conceivable way.
Griffin acted quickly, reaching her side in time to prevent her from hitting the floor in the event she fainted. True to her word, though, Olivia Cole did not faint.
She surrendered the most recent contents of her stomach instead.
Chapter Two
Embarrassment flushed Olivia’s cheeks. She stared at the mess she’d made, some of it on the black wool waistcoat of his lordship, and thought she might be sick again. Apparently Breckenridge thought so too, because he quickly pushed her back into a chair, grabbed the silver dome used earlier to cover her plate of baked eggs and toast, and, turning it over, pressed it into her lap like a bowl.
She clutched it against her midriff, lowered her head, and was sick a second time. Breckenridge did not leave her side, though she wondered how he was able to stand there. Perhaps he’d closed his eyes. She risked a glance upward and saw that, no, he hadn’t. His concern seemed genuine, then she remembered she was worth £1,000 pounds to him, more in fact if he expected to collect interest. Olivia had a suspicion that he did.
She accepted the handkerchief he held out to her but retained her possession of Alastair’s marker. Although she’d memorized the contents, she was not eager to part with it.
Olivia pressed the handkerchief against her mouth, blotted her lips, then offered it back. The gesture was refused.
“You may keep it,” Griffin said.
When Olivia glanced up a second time, she saw he had already removed his frock coat and was carefully unbuttoning his ruined waistcoat. Once he’d shrugged out of it, he held it by the collar between his thumb and forefinger and carried it to the door. He released the waistcoat, allowing it to fall in a heap on the floor, then rang for assistance.
Olivia’s embarrassment grew as she watched Breckenridge remove his stained chitterling and discard it on top of the waistcoat. She found a soupçon of comfort in the fact that she had missed his boots and trousers. He might very well have stripped to his linen and stockings if she had not.
“You should not have insisted that I eat,” she said, her tone more defensive than accusatory.
“You neglected to mention that you are unwell.”
“I am not unwell.”
Griffin cast a dubious glance in her direction. “Then it was your intention to serve me breakfast, I take it.”
She flushed. “Do not be ridiculous.” Leaning forward, Olivia placed the overturned cover carefully on the floor. It tipped a bit to one side but its contents were not lost. She looked away and sat up slowly so that she would not be sick again. “It gives me no pleasure to admit it, but the room simply tilted on its axis and I had no bearings. That is what made me ill.”
“Perhaps.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“On the contrary. As an explanation, though, it begs the question of what caused the room to tilt. I could advance my theory, but I will wait to hear what my physician thinks.”
“Physician?” It required considerable effort for Olivia to remain seated. “I do not think a physician is at all necessary.”
“Then it is a good thing you have no say in the matter.” Griffin gave her his back as he opened the door for the approach of his valet. “Mason. Good man.” He stepped aside to permit his manservant’s entry. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a—” Griffin was not certain how he wanted to describe it, so he merely pointed to the discarded items of clothing and allowed Mason a moment to make his
own assessment.
“I see, sir. I’ll take care of it.” He made a sweep of the room with a glance that missed nothing, barely resting on either his lordship’s guest or the bits of vomitus on the Aubusson rug near her feet. The overturned dish cover gave him brief pause, then he quickly moved to see that all else was in order. “I’ll send one or two of the lads to make short work of the rest.” Stepping closer to Breckenridge, he made a discreet inquiry. “Is the lady still unwell?”
“All evidence to the contrary, she says she was never unwell in the first place.” Unlike his valet, Griffin did not set his voice at a pitch that could not be overheard. “She says the room tilted.”
“Foxed, then,” Mason said without inflection.
“I had not considered that.” Behind him, Griffin heard Olivia’s sharp intake of breath. He smiled, but it was for Mason alone. “Send for Pettibone anyway and have someone prepare a room for our guest. It is a certainty that she will be with us for at least a few days, possibly as long as a fortnight.”
Mason’s rounded features showed the first hint of discomfort. “I feel I must remind you that there are no females among the staff here. You said you didn’t want—”
“Yes, yes. I recall what I said. God’s truth, but this is an inconvenience I have no liking for.” He glanced back at Olivia and asked somewhat impatiently, “Do you require your maid?”
Surprised in equal parts by his question and his tone, Olivia’s lips parted around an indrawn breath even as her chin came up. Neither action served to provide an answer.
Griffin plowed a hand through his hair, deepening the furrows. “It’s a certainty that she will require clothes and sundries. You may as well arrange for her maid to be brought here along with whatever—”
Now Olivia did come to her feet. “No!”
Although it was Griffin’s tendency to arch one dark eyebrow, the effect of Olivia’s outburst was to cause him to raise both. If she continued in such a manner the effort required to restrain himself would likely exhaust him. His look pinned her back, and while she did not sink into the chair she’d vacated, neither did she step away from it or voice a second protest. Watching her still, he spoke to his valet. “The physician only for now. I will let you know about the other later.”
“Very good, my lord.” Mason stooped to pick up the clothing and backed out of the room, leaving a lingering impression that he was glad to do so.
Griffin waited until Mason’s steps receded before he advanced on Olivia. He pointed to the chair at her back. “Sit.” While his voice made it clear he would brook no argument, he noticed that she was slow in complying. He chose to believe it was the last vestige of her illness that made her so. The thought that she would prove to be difficult at every turn was not one he wanted to entertain.
“I do not want you to bring my maid here,” Olivia said, staring at her hands.
“No one has ever accused me of being a slow top. I gathered that was what you meant when you said no.”
Olivia did not have to look up to know that he was still out of patience with her. “She would not manage herself well in your establishment.”
“She only has to manage you,” said Griffin. “I don’t care—” He stopped because in point of fact he did care. “Not manage herself well how? Speak plainly, Miss Cole, else I will put my own construction upon it.”
“It pains me to speak ill of her, but she is a gossip and engages in flirtations.” She could have added that Molly Dillon was barely adequate as a lady’s maid, but it seemed a harsh judgment and Breckenridge was sure to inquire why she hadn’t been dismissed already. Olivia did not want to tell him that she simply hadn’t the heart for it. It did not bear thinking what he would make of that aspect of her character. “Dillon might prove to be an unsettling presence.”
That would make two of them, Griffin thought. Bloody hell. “Very well. I will ask Truss to inquire after a more circumspect female, though where he will find one in this part of London is a mystery to me. It is my good fortune that it will be his problem. As butler, it falls on him to make those choices.”
“How convenient for you.”
Nothing in her tone suggested sarcasm, and Griffin allowed that she was able to make her point without it. It was his unhappy observation that too often people were compelled to underscore their meaning with a certain heaviness of inflection, especially those of his acquaintance who mistook sarcasm for witticism. He made a point to avoid their company as the comments from those impoverished minds failed to amuse him.
The door rattled, drawing his attention to it. “Enter!” A pair of lads from the kitchen hurried into the room. “So it fell to the two of you to manage this bit of business. You have must have sorely displeased Cook.”
They ducked their heads in unison and mumbled something about a meat pie as they set about wiping the floor and carrying off the dish cover. The younger one, a boy of ten with a gap-toothed smile and a smudge of freckles and something else across his cheeks, politely asked Olivia to set her right foot forward. “It’s just that I’m noticing a bit of muck here, miss. Don’t want you bothered by it later.”
Olivia raised her hem just enough that she could see what he did. Cheeks flaming, she pushed the foot forward as he’d asked. It was quickly wiped clean.
“Thank you, miss.” The gap-toothed grin was gone as he made a last swipe at the floor and folded his large rag around the offending bits of egg and toast. He took a brush from the water pail he’d carried in and just as efficiently dealt with the stain on the carpet. “Like it never happened,” he said. “Once the water dries, that is.” He turned his shoulder so Breckenridge could cast a glance at the spot. “Is it all right by you, m’lord?”
“It is.” Griffin tipped his head toward the door. “Go on. Both of you. Leave the teapot, though. And both cups. Take the rest.”
The second lad pushed his tongue to the corner of his mouth as he carefully balanced the tray while removing the delicate teapot and china. That little pink tongue disappeared once he’d accomplished the task. He bobbed his flaxen head in acknowledgment of his dismissal and hurried to follow his compatriot into the hallway.
Olivia thought she spied a hint of amusement in the shape of Breckenridge’s mouth. She couldn’t be certain as she only caught it in profile as the boys were taking hasty leave of him. The speed of their retreat probably had something to do with the stolen meat pie, but whether they were hurrying away from his lordship’s discipline or racing for the pie while it was still warm was something Olivia did not expect that she would ever know.
Griffin returned to the chair behind his desk and lifted his teacup. “I would consider it a rare piece of luck in this morning’s work if we were not visited by another interruption until the physician arrives.”
It put Olivia in something of a bind to make any response at all. She would welcome a series of interruptions as long as none of them was the physician. She suspected he knew it well enough, so she forbade to comment.
“Will you take tea now?”
“I believe I will.”
“Whiskey?” Griffin rescinded the offer when he saw her blanch. “Perhaps not.” He poured her a cup without benefit of cream or sugar and slid it across the desk toward her.
Olivia reached for it, tempted to push her tongue to the corner of her mouth to aid in balancing the saucer and cup in the same way the kitchen lad had sought to balance the tray. “Thank you.” She was gratified to see the cup didn’t tremble as she lifted it to her lips. The taste of it was welcome, washing away the unpleasantness that lingered in her mouth and throat.
“I should like to discuss your brother’s marker,” Griffin said. “You realize that’s what it is, don’t you?”
She nodded. “I’m familiar with the term. I’m afraid I don’t understand the whole of what happened. He lost money at your games, that much is clear, though why you permitted him to amass such a debt is not. Did you not make a point earlier that you knew your patrons?”
“I wasn’t present, else it would not have occurred. I had to be away from town that evening. It was upon my return that Mrs. Christie informed me of what had transpired.”
“Mrs. Christie?”
“A friend,” he said shortly. “She is sometimes called upon to observe the play in my absence.”
Olivia thought she should refrain from advancing any observations regarding Mrs. Christie. Though she dearly wondered if the woman was a partner in Breckenridge’s business, she did not put the question to him either.
“She did not know the extent of Mr. Cole’s existing debt until she laid the whole of the evening’s play before me. I take responsibility for the oversight, but not responsibility for the debt. That is your brother’s.”
Olivia did not argue the point. He was right. “It is difficult to imagine that Alastair willingly parted with the ring. As he mentioned, it is an heirloom.”
“He told me it belonged to his father.”
“Yes. And his father before, and so on. That is what qualifies it as an heirloom.”
Griffin thought she delivered her darts with a gentle touch. He would check himself for wounds later. “Yes, well, he didn’t precisely offer,” he admitted. “He didn’t resist either.”
“Were you threatening to cut off his finger?”
“It didn’t come to that.”
But it might have. The thought came so strongly to her that Olivia wondered if she’d spoken it aloud. Breckenridge’s unapologetic, matter-of-fact expression told her that she may as well have. He’d plucked the thought just that easily from her head.
“As I recall,” Griffin said, “I admired the ring, he protested for form’s sake, I asked for it, and he held out his hand for me to take it. It was accomplished with a minimum of fuss. I wore it until he left the room, then I put it away.” He held up his hands to show they were bare. “I gave your brother four days to come up to snuff. He benefited by the fact that I was called away again so that I did not discover the ring had been exchanged for his marker until very late last night. You benefited because I waited until this morning to make you account for it.”
