by Goodman, Jo
The thought of Sir Hadrien darkened her mood. She flattened her lips, suppressing the small moan that would have otherwise escaped. She hoped that one day she would be able to think of him without this bitterness in her heart, for it afforded him too much influence over her, but apparently this morning was not the start of that day.
Drawing in a bracing breath, Olivia lifted the covers and made herself leave the warmth of her bed. She thrust her feet into her slippers and put on her robe, then dealt with the tinder and logs to build a modest fire in the fireplace. It was impossible to stay still for long—the cold was simply too penetrating. She hurried on tiptoes into the bathing room and prepared herself for the day.
Olivia did not miss her maid’s services until it came to dressing her hair. No elaborate knots were possible, so she simply wove a dark green ribbon into her hair as she refashioned her braid. She liked the weight of the plait at her back and decided then that it would be acceptable to wear her hair in such a manner until she was returned home. The likelihood that Truss would be able to secure the services of a maid for her seemed small. Olivia also deemed it unnecessary. She had many more years of experience doing for herself than she did having anyone do for her.
She had returned to warming herself at the fire when her door rattled gently at a knock from the hallway. She opened it cautiously, needing to assure herself it was not some late-night reveler still stumbling about Breckenridge’s hell looking for an exit. It wasn’t. Olivia recognized the footman as the one who’d carried the tea service into the viscount’s study yesterday morning. She nodded a greeting and bid him enter.
“It’s tea and a few points of toast, miss, just as the doctor bid us prepare for you. Cook allowed that you might be feeling more the thing this morning and added a bowl of porridge. You can eat it or not as you wish.”
“Thank you.”
He set the tray down on the bedside table nearest him. “It seems you should have a proper table in here, miss, and another chair to sit at it. I’ll see what I can find.” His face reddened as he was unable to stifle a yawn. He ducked his head. “Pardon me.”
“Of course. I feel quite certain this service falls outside the hours you typically keep.”
“It does that.”
“Then I’m the one who should beg your pardon. I have no liking for being a bother to others.”
“I didn’t mean it was a bother, miss.”
“I know.” And she did. “What is your name?”
“Foster.”
“And what are the names of those young lads I saw yesterday?”
“They’d be Wick and Beetle. Wick, because he cleans the lamps and sees after the candles, and Beetle…Well, that is because he scurries about like one.”
Wick and Beetle. Hardly the names their mothers would have given them. “Thank you, Foster. Will you come to take the tray or should I ring?”
“I’ll come back directly but ring if you require something. Mr. Truss informed us that we’d hardly know you were here, and he had that from his lordship. I don’t mind, though, if you come to realize there is a service I can do for you. Pulling on the cord will bring me here.”
“That is very generous, Foster, but I shouldn’t like to make trouble for you. I will manage, I’m sure.”
“Just the same,” he said, backing out of the room. “Truss says I’m to look after you and one pull will do it.”
“One,” she repeated, smiling gently. “That is good to know.”
Once she was alone, Olivia sat on the bed and ate. She was actually quite hungry and had to restrain herself from eating too quickly. The tea, toast, and milky porridge all settled reasonably well in her stomach. Had the cook provided a more generous serving of the last, she still could have eaten all of it.
She had removed herself to the chair and was reading from the Malthus when the door rattled again. Thinking it was Foster come to take away the tray, she bid him enter. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw it was Breckenridge’s valet.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, setting her book on the floor. “I did not expect that it would be you.”
“I had not meant it to be a test, Miss Cole, but it is just as well that it happened in this fashion. I feel strongly that his lordship would want me to caution you to see who it is at the door before allowing anyone to enter.”
“That is good advice, Mr. Mason. I was careful earlier, but you have seen for yourself that I lowered my guard.” She offered a small, slightly perplexed smile. “Do you suppose his lordship has considered the benefits of a key?”
“If he has, it would be to lock you in, I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” That wasn’t what Olivia had in mind. “Then I hope you will not mention it.”
“No, Miss Cole, I won’t.”
Had his eyes danced? Olivia thought they might have. His mouth, though, remained flat. “Why are you here, Mr. Mason, if not simply to caution me?”
“Dr. Pettibone’s instructions are that you should take a daily constitutional. It’s his lordship’s wish that I accompany you on your walk.”
“Really?” It was difficult not to be skeptical. “Lord Breckenridge wishes that?”
“He does. Are you agreeable?”
“Yes! Oh, yes! Allow me to get my pelisse.” She stopped suddenly, remembering that her outdoor garments were not in the armoire. They had been taken away yesterday after her arrival and not been returned to her.
“I have your things, Miss Cole. This way.”
The things Mason had for her were not precisely her things. Instead of her pelisse, a hunter green cloak was held out to her. The attached hood was trimmed in red fox fur, a color that very nearly matched her own hair. Mason also showed her a red fox muff to replace her worn kid gloves.
“I can’t accept these,” she said, trying to push them back. “Where are my garments?”
Mason gave no quarter. “They’re not fit for walking in this weather. You must have noticed that it snowed overnight.” He glanced toward the nearest window. “It’s snowing yet. Lightly, to be sure, but enough that heed must be paid.”
“I’ve walked in my things many times.”
“Yes, miss. It looked as if you had.”
Olivia flushed. She was aware that her garments were gently worn and no longer of the latest fashion, but that Mr. Mason should be moved to comment, however carefully, stung.
“I meant no offense, Miss Cole. His lordship thought that you—”
“Pray, do not trouble yourself to explain, Mr. Mason. I will accept them, now that I know their full cost.”
“I don’t think you under—”
Olivia turned her back on him, effectively cutting him off. She allowed him to place the cloak on her shoulders, but she fastened the silk frogs herself. The wait by the door seemed interminable as Mason put on his own coat, scarf, and hat.
The bracing air did not do as much to improve Olivia’s mood as the walk itself. By the time she and Mr. Mason reached the end of Putnam Lane she was regretting her churlish behavior and prepared to apologize for it. While the valet most kindly assured her that no apology was necessary, Olivia made him listen to the whole of it anyway.
“It must be entirely confessed,” she told him, “else it will always weigh on my mind.”
When she finished, his grave acceptance brought a smile to her lips. “How is it that you became my escort this morning?” she asked as they crossed Moorhead Street. “The truth, Mr. Mason. I am glad of this opportunity so I will not be put out if you came to it with all the enthusiasm of a young man confronting a press gang.”
Mason’s prominently rounded chin puckered a bit as he chuckled. “It was with rather more willingness than that. His lordship could not escort you, of course. He has that much concern for your reputation, and he is known by sight in this part of London.”
Olivia was unsure what that meant precisely, but she was loath to ask for an explanation. Was Mason saying that she would be seen in a poor light if the viscount accompanied her?
It was difficult to fathom. He had rank, after all, and much was forgiven because of it. As she tried to work it out she was aware that Mason was continuing his explanation.
“There was naturally a concern for your safety. Even if there was no question that you would return, he would not have allowed you to walk the streets alone.”
Olivia freed one hand and lifted it to indicate the street ahead of them and the small park beyond. “It cannot have escaped your notice that there is almost no one about.”
“It is not a risk worth taking, Miss Cole. There are footpads alert to opportunity at any hour of the day.”
“And I am worth £1,000.” She looked at him sideways, wondering if she had misspoken. “You were aware of that, weren’t you?”
“I was. His lordship told me. You needn’t be concerned that it is common knowledge among the staff. It is yet another reason why I was chosen to act as your escort. You will find that Lord Breckenridge values discretion.”
“I see.” Olivia stepped over a mound of snow that had been pushed street side. Ahead of her an eddy of snow was lifted into the air. “How long have you been in his employ?”
“He was still in short pants.”
“Long ago as that?”
“I was his father’s man then.”
“His father’s dead?”
“Almost ten years now.”
She felt oddly dismayed to hear of it, though why that should be so she couldn’t say. “So young.”
“For both of them,” Mason said. “One too young to die; the other too young to take the mantle.”
When Olivia looked askance at Mr. Mason, she saw that he seemed surprised that he’d spoken so openly. She watched him press his lips together and knew there would be little else forthcoming. She ducked her head against the wind while he clamped one hand on his hat and used the other to raise his scarf to the level of his nose. With his mouth so effectively covered, they continued on just as if no words had ever passed between them.
Griffin waited until afternoon before he called upon Mrs. Christie. Nothing had been settled between them last evening. She had thwarted his every effort to end the affair. Because their confrontation had taken place at such a late hour, Griffin had not pressed his argument forcefully. Rather than utter sentiments that he still hoped might be left unsaid, he’d allowed her to believe she had won the day and his affections for that much longer.
He entertained no doubts that Mrs. Christie thought she had secured as much as another month under his protection. She set that much stock in her persuasive powers. To be fair, she had not tried to seduce him, though whether she thought she was punishing him or had correctly divined that his ardor for her had cooled he had no way of knowing. What she had done was to put forth the notion that she was his partner in business, that their association transcended the mere physical, and that her presence each night in his establishment was critical to his continued success.
He’d been struck by the complete conviction with which she set forth her argument and could think of no response save for those he would regret. Now, mounting the steps to her home, he wondered if he had done right by her, for it was in his silence that she perceived herself the victor.
Griffin had purposely chosen the afternoon hour to call upon her because he knew she would no longer be abed. The mantel of snow aided his cause, making it unlikely that she would have yet stepped out. Still, after she’d been informed of his arrival, she sent down the message that she was late in rising and would not be quick to join him. He supposed that he was meant to infer that he was free to go. Although he had every right to join her in her bedchamber—and had done so on many occasions when she thought to tease him in such a fashion—he allowed the housekeeper to show him to the drawing room where he knew he could expect to wait above an hour for her.
“So you are still here,” Alys Christie said when she finally saw fit to seek him out. She managed to infuse a note of surprise in her greeting. “I was not at all certain you would be. You have a tendency toward impatience of late.” She walked directly to him and gave him a kiss full on the mouth.
Griffin did not pull away but neither did he respond. If she noticed, she was not allowing him to see it.
“Will you take tea?”
He shook his head.
“A whiskey, then.”
“No, nothing for me.”
Her pale eyebrows lifted slightly. “Very well, but you would not deny me, would you?” Not waiting for an answer, Alys went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself two fingers of whiskey.
Griffin smiled slightly. He’d always been amused that she preferred hard liquor to sherry. In the beginning she’d tried to hide it from him, concerned that he would judge her as not being as refined in her tastes as she ought to have been. To Griffin’s way of thinking it made her more interesting rather than the opposite, and he’d told her so. That he was prepared to end their association did not change his thinking about her tastes. It was just that there was so little else that he found in any way attractive.
There would be those among his acquaintances who would wonder at this perception. By every standard of fashion, manners, and beauty, Mrs. Christie was acknowledged to be a diamond. At thirty years of age, she had the experience of being so well admired as to give her a surfeit of confidence. She exhibited the heritage of her Viking forbears in her pale coloring and smooth complexion, and while her hair was very fine, she had it in abundance. Even plainly arranged it called attention to itself. When she wore it adorned with flowers and beads it resembled nothing so much as a crown. Her figure was womanly in every regard: rounded arms, hips, and bosom. She knew what fashions and fabrics accentuated the features that made men shift their glances in her direction. The turn of her ankle was delicate; the curve of her waist pronounced. With shoulders held back and her chin lifted at an angle that suggested condescension, her manner of carrying herself was often referred to as regal.
Her standing in polite society, though, would never put her in the same circle as the royals. Griffin could not imagine that she would ever admit it, but she stood poised on the edge of the ton like a beggar at a baker’s window. And like that poor soul, she longed for entry, not mere crumbs.
Griffin had no illusions as to why she agreed to leave her former protector and accept his offer. She had observed that his own standing in society possessed a certain fluidity. He had rank, which gave him entry and a reputation that kept him closer to the periphery than the center. He enjoyed the freedom to step outside the ton altogether as he did when he took up the gaming hell, but he also was greeted by his peers as a prodigal son on any occasion that he returned to their fold.
Some of rank and privilege envied him for shrugging off the strictures that set their life on such a narrow path. Others, like Alys Christie, envied him his access to that path.
“We are done, Mrs. Christie,” Griffin said. He had not anticipated putting it before her quite so baldly, but once said he did not try to soften it. He watched twin sovereigns of pink appear in her cheeks. Her fine china-blue eyes, arguably her best feature, brightened with a sheen of tears. At one time he would have mistaken them as an expression of disappointment or sadness. What he had learned was that they appeared out of deep frustration and were the precursor to a fit of temper that few young children could match for ferocity and duration.
Griffin decided a warning was in order. “I will not suffer one of your rages, Alys, so think before you fly into the boughs.”
Taking a deep breath, she held herself in check for the moment. The note of caution in his voice meant little to her, and the threat less than nothing, but the fact that he had called her Alys was enough to give her hope. “We can discuss it, can we not, Breckenridge? I thought we had reached an understanding last evening.”
“There was no understanding. You made your argument, and I did not gainsay you. It is not the same as reaching an accord. We are done.”
Alys pursed her lips. Her fingertips tightened on the t
umbler in her hand. “I don’t see how that can be. You need me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Christie, do not make me say otherwise. Let us at least agree that we might remain on friendly terms.”
“Is it because there was no good word from Paris? Have you now given up hope on everyone?”
Griffin was aware he was being drawn in and still could not hold his tongue. “You told Pettibone. That was not your place.”
“It is my place. Your wife—”
“My wife is nothing to you.”
“But if she’s dead—If you can prove that she’s—”
“It changes nothing.” In contrast to his eyes, which were hard, his voice was dangerously soft. “She is already dead to me, and it makes no difference. I will not marry you, Mrs. Christie.”
“Have I spoken of marriage?”
“Even you have moments of restraint.”
Alys’s nostrils flared. He’d raised the point of restraint at the very moment she was rearing back her hand to throw her glass at him. She caught herself and drank half of what she’d poured instead. Above the rim of the tumbler her pale blue eyes glittered. It was rare that there was heat in her anger. What she invariably felt was ice cold, and this was no exception. The whiskey did not warm her.
“What of your business?” she asked. “Have you considered at all what I said last night? We are partners, Breckenridge. You cannot deny that I have been an asset to you in the operation of the hell.”
“I do not deny it. It does not make us partners. Your contribution was not financial, and it was not asked for.”
“God’s truth, but it was not refused,” she snapped. “You appreciated my presence in your place. You even were moved to remark that your patrons wagered in a most excellent fashion when I was in the room. That was more of the ready in your pockets, Breckenridge.”
“And you were recompensed handsomely for it. Never say to me that you did not benefit from our arrangement. You have a house for which you owe nothing. Fine clothes. Jewelry that you may keep or sell at your pleasure. Your staff receives their wages from me and your allowance defines the very word generous.”
