by Goodman, Jo
Hearing his voice begin to rise, Griffin took a leveling breath. “The house. The clothing. The jewelry. All of it is yours, Mrs. Christie. I will see that your allowance continues throughout this quarter, but you will have to pay your household accounts and staff out of it. It is still a most liberal settlement, I believe.”
It was not enough, not nearly enough. What she said was, “It is nothing! What you offer is an insult!”
“Do not pretend that you haven’t been preparing for this day, Mrs. Christie. You may have allowed yourself to hope for a different end, but you are an intelligent woman who is well able to assess the risk of doing naught but hoping. I cannot help but think you have made some profitable investments. Certainly you asked for such advice as I was able to give on a number of occasions. If you but heeded half of it, you will have amassed a tidy sum. It also occurs that you will have already set your sights on another gentleman to take my place, and I do not fault you for it. If you can bring him up to snuff and put yourself in the society you crave, then I will be happy to dance at your wedding.”
Griffin picked up his coat and folded it over his arm, then retrieved his hat and gave it a tap against the side of his knee. “Our arrangement has never been more than what it is, Mrs. Christie. It was predicated on a mutual appreciation for what we can do for each other, not for what we can be to each other.”
There was no mockery in the slight bow he made her. He gave her this final respect as her due, then began walking toward the door.
“Bastard!” She flung the tumbler at his back and was angry when it missed him, angrier still that he must have anticipated she would do it and didn’t trouble himself to flinch. “You will regret putting me aside, Breckenridge.”
He paused on the point of leaving to glance back at her. “I know you believe that, but I am certain now of exactly the opposite.” His dark eyes narrowed briefly on her frozen attitude of outrage. “It was the ring, Mrs. Christie. Or did you think I didn’t know?”
He stepped over the fallen tumbler and puddle of whiskey and let himself out.
Olivia appreciated that her second and third day in the gaming hell proceeded uneventfully. Mason escorted her on a walk twice each day, making certain that she went unmolested. He was not given to many words and after she had exhausted the topics of weather, Malthus, and the butler’s frustrating, ultimately fruitless search for a suitable maid for her, there was nothing he cared to talk about.
The snow ceased to fall on the second afternoon. As much as she had appreciated it, she was concerned that it would delay Alastair’s return. If he meant to return at all. That niggling thought would not be permanently quelled. She hated that the viscount must be thinking it also. He had to have already calculated the length of the journey Alastair would make to reach Sir Hadrien as well as the time it would require. Sir Hadrien detested town and spent almost the whole of the year at his estate in Sussex. With no mishaps, she could expect Alastair to be gone at least five days. If their father proved difficult—and it was almost a given that he would—it seemed unlikely that her brother could return before a full sennight had passed.
She finished the essays by Malthus and began Brown’s. Soon after she mentioned to Mason that it might be pleasant to write down her own thoughts on the philosophy of the human mind, Foster appeared at her door bearing paper, quills, and a full bottle of ink. The small table he’d procured for her earlier so that she might take her meals in comfort also served well as a desk. She wasn’t sure what she might put to paper concerning philosophy, but she heard enough coming from the floor below each evening to venture some thoughts about the human mind.
On the evening of her fourth day, Olivia had a surprise waiting for her when she returned from her late outing with Mr. Mason. It had not occurred to her during the walk that the valet’s rather jovial mood—which regarding Mason meant that he tipped his hat and ventured a smile when he greeted her—had anything to do with his knowledge of what would be taking place during their brief absence.
Immediately upon her arrival at the threshold to her room, she knew something was different. She could quite literally smell it in the air. The breath she drew was changed by the scent of lavender and moist with steam from—could it truly be?—the water-filled hip bath.
Olivia had been so moved by this gift, knowing what pains had been taken to haul so much heated water to the tub, that she was possessed by the urge to throw her arms about Mr. Mason’s shoulders and plant a kiss on his cheek. Had she given into the impulse it would have been a novel experience for both of them, but her own natural restraint was reinforced when Mason, having some sense of how she might be moved to express her gratitude, cautiously stepped back out of arm’s reach.
As she thought about it later, a smile tugged at Olivia’s lips. She slipped lower in the tub. She doubted Breckenridge had ever known an urge to hug his valet.
In the end she had never properly thanked Mr. Mason. Although she felt as if she were dancing in place with excitement, she had in fact simply stood in the doorway unmoving. What she offered him was a watery smile, hardly an adequate demonstration of the gratitude that was in her heart.
The scent of lavender rose deliciously from the bath as Olivia stirred the water with her fingertips. She tried to imagine whose idea it had been to add bath salts. Similarly, someone had thought to line the copper tub with linens. Sitting almost shoulder deep in warm and fragrant water was as decadent a luxury as she had known.
Olivia picked up a sponge and sliver of soap and made a lather that she applied to her arms. She set her mind once again to wondering at the origin of the salts and linens. Owing to the fact that she was a curiosity, she’d had brief contact with most of the staff. It wasn’t that a woman had never stayed in the gaming hell that made her an unusual guest and the subject of speculation. It was the mystery surrounding her presence that created the stir.
Mrs. Christie, the woman whom Breckenridge had named as a friend, Olivia had learned was a frequent visitor to the hell but only occasionally remained there until morning. That she was his lordship’s mistress was understood, and the servants, Beetle most particularly, let such words drop that Olivia came to understand it as well.
Her own connection to the viscount was not a matter of easy comprehension for the household staff, especially as Breckenridge had nothing at all to do with her. Except for Mr. Mason, who knew the truth of it and wasn’t sharing, everyone else was left to wonder.
It amused her to think that the bath, the salts, and linens may all have been in aid of softening her own defenses so that she might answer their questions rather than have so many of her own. She had it from Wick that there was a small, friendly wager among the servants as to the nature of her presence in the gaming hell. The hypothesis that currently curried the most favor was that she was in fact a relation to his lordship, a distant cousin whose lack of marriage prospects and financial straits were an embarrassment to the family. Apparently she had been thrust upon Breckenridge as a punishment of sorts to both of them.
Olivia thought that if she’d had only one shilling to her name, she still would have been moved to place it in support of that particular theory. It seemed a more likely turn than what she knew the truth to be.
Olivia kept at the puzzle of the salts and linens while she washed and rinsed her hair, regretting for the first time that she did not have Dillon’s help with the task. The most likely candidate to have contributed the additional amenities was Beetle, she decided. The boy had informed her by way of making conversation that his mother was a whore at Mrs. Tittle’s fine house here in Putnam Lane. From the way he’d told her, she gathered it was an establishment of some renown, popular with a certain set of privileged gentlemen. Beetle had been wont to impress upon her the elegant fashion of the place. It was turned out as well, on the inside at least, as Breckenridge’s own establishment.
Although the salts and linens probably had been lifted by Beetle rather than willingly donated by Beetle’s mother,
they were the bath’s defining touch. She supposed that thanks were in order also to the proprietor of the house. Mrs. Tittle obviously saw advantages to creating the illusion of a fine lady’s boudoir for her patrons rather than reminding them in every way that they were naught but among whores.
Olivia allowed that it was probably a good strategy.
She closed her eyes and rested the damp twist of hair that she’d made at the back of her head against the tub’s lip. The water cooled, but even then she was reluctant to leave her bath. It was not until gooseflesh appeared on her arms that she made to stand.
Towels had been placed for her on a footstool at the side of the tub. She chose one to wrap around her hair and the other to dry herself with. She shivered, feeling the cold in earnest now and quickly pulled her nightshift over her head. Her robe added another layer of welcomed warmth. She padded barefoot into her bedchamber and found her slippers, stood in front of the fire for a few moments, then began to gently rub her hair dry.
“I have your dinner, Miss Cole.”
The voice from the other side of the door startled her. She hadn’t heard a knock, and Breckenridge’s staff was scrupulous about knocking. An ember popped loudly in the fireplace, forcing her to step back. “A moment,” she called, quickly plaiting her hair. “I just need a moment to—”
Olivia froze, her fingers still wound in the tail of her braid, as the door was pushed open. The entry of anyone into the room should have been preceded by a tray. The absence of one was the first thing she noticed.
The unfamiliarity of the face was the next detail to have impact.
In moments the whole of it registered. The intruder was elegantly attired in evening clothes, not the livery the footmen wore when they were at post in the gaming rooms. The gentleman’s expression was not one of surprise at making the discovery of her presence, but rather satisfaction that he had arrived at this end expecting it. And finally there was the step he took into the room, a step both assured and deliberate. Here was a man whose arrogance did not allow him to conceive that his entry would be unwelcome.
Olivia understood that he presented every sort of danger to her because of it.
Unable to move, she watched him close the door. He stood with his back to it, his hands disappearing behind him as he fiddled with the knob. She frowned. “What are you—”
The voice she’d found was silenced when he brought his fists to the forefront and turned them over, unfolding them slowly. The right one held a key.
Olivia’s hands dropped to her side. The towel that had been folded around her neck fell to the floor. She didn’t know why she did it, but she found herself stooping to pick it up. Perhaps it was because she needed something to clutch, she thought, just as Lord Breckenridge had pointed out. She straightened and twisted the towel in her hands.
“You should leave,” she said. And as if it would make any difference to him, she added, “If you leave now no one has to know you were here.” Her eyes darted to the bell cord that would bring Foster or someone else from the servants’ hall to her room if she could reach it.
The gentleman followed her glance, understood its import, and merely shook his head. He unbuttoned his frock coat and slipped the key into a crescent pocket in his waistcoat. “I suspect that who knows I am here is more your concern than mine.”
He had a sweet, almost shy smile that Olivia found perfectly incongruous to the import of his words and the intention she could see in his eyes. He was of an age with her and handsome enough that young ladies of little experience were probably desirous of his attention. Whether his pockets were deep enough to attract the notice of their mothers and make him a truly desirable connection was not immediately apparent to Olivia. The cut and detail of his clothing suggested a living that was more than sufficient to set a standard in fashion, but she recalled that Alastair often went about similarly turned out, even as she was struggling to settle their account with the greengrocer.
“Please leave,” she said.
“You say it prettily.” He smiled. “Say it again.”
Olivia inched away as he approached. She felt the coal scuttle pressing against her leg and realized she could not go farther in that direction. She wondered if she could speak the words he wanted loudly enough to be heard above the noise below them. He’d apparently thought the same and dismissed it because he was shaking his head.
“You haven’t asked what I want,” he said pleasantly.
Olivia didn’t answer. To say that she already knew was to give something of herself away. He did not deserve even so little as that from her.
He beckoned her with a finger. “Come. Come closer. Would you make me pursue you into the corner?”
His question reminded her of the direction in which she was going. She changed course and sidled toward the bed. He could make what he liked of it but there was some avenue of escape by choosing that heading.
Olivia continued to twist the towel between her fingers.
“So you are for the bed after all,” he said, noting her move to the side. “That is agreeable.”
“You must leave.” Olivia’s voice was firmer now. “Lord Breckenridge will—”
“Not mind,” he said.
It was his mistake to suppose that she believed him, and Olivia did nothing to correct his assumption. She was judging the distance remaining between them instead. She required something a bit shorter than what existed now. With that in mind, she held her ground when he took one more step toward her.
Like a mongoose to his cobra, Olivia struck with feral speed. With a flick of her wrist she snapped the damp towel at his head, catching him at the corner of his eye. He roared in pain and clamped one hand over the injured eye and used his other hand to flail at her. Olivia reared back, avoiding his half-blind groping, and twisted the towel in midair. She snapped it again, this time at the bulge in his trousers that he had taken no pains to hide.
This second application of the linen made him yowl. It also angered him beyond reason. Olivia had a glimpse of his red and watering eye as he dropped his hand away from it and lunged for her. She threw herself sideways across the bed. The flanking tables were knocked about, but only one teetered enough to fall. Unfortunately, it was the one that held the lighted candelabra. Two of the candles were extinguished as they fell, but the third landed on the bed where the flame immediately began licking at a lace pillow sham.
Neither Olivia nor her attacker noticed.
Still holding the towel, Olivia came to her feet on the opposite side of the bed. She feinted toward the door and when he did the same, she ran to the window. She had just time enough to throw it open and make a cry for help before she was caught by the waist and roughly hauled back inside. The back of her head collided hard with the sash and for a moment her vision was filled with bright light.
Griffin’s glance was drawn to the ceiling of the card room by a distinctive thud. He shook his head, permitting himself a moment to wonder what Olivia was about before returning his attention to the play at the table. He’d made it a rule not to join any games in his own establishment. Suspicion of his play would invariably become a factor if he won and his pockets would suffer if he did not. The better course was to oversee the games and make certain they were fairly played. He had no desire for his hell to secure a reputation for supporting cardsharps and their marks.
It was not quite six months ago that the Allworthy cousins had taken liberties with the cards at this very table and nearly begat an incident with the French ambassador’s son. On that occasion Mr. Restell Gardner had been present to manage the situation and keep it from spilling over into scandal.
The thought of Gardner set Griffin to wondering what had become of him. He hadn’t seen him for some time, though he supposed that was to be expected given his relatively newly married state. One edge of Griffin’s mouth lifted in a mildly amused smile. It wasn’t as if Gardner could ask his wife to accompany him to the hell. Again.
Griffin schooled his features
as he moved around the table slowly, taking in the hands that he was allowed to see without giving away what he thought of them. When he caught sight of a furtive movement just outside the entrance to the card room, he was careful not to frown and send some signal that had nothing at all to do with the game. He nodded politely to the players and excused himself just as Wick came into view again. The lad was not trying to attract his attention but appeared to be wanting Foster’s eye. The footman was staring straight ahead, unaware of the gyrations that were being employed to garner his notice.
Bloody hell.
Griffin stepped into the hallway, snatched Wick by his collar, and carried the boy away from the patrons mingling outside the card room to servants’ stairs at the end of the corridor. The boy did not struggle, but he did keep his hands tightly over his ears as if he expected Griffin to give them a good boxing.
“Explain,” Griffin said, setting him down.
Wick, still with his hands over his ears, launched into an explanation that was delivered so hurriedly that Griffin could not follow it. At the conclusion, the lad tried to make a run around him and dash up the stairs. Griffin hauled him back and kept him in place with one hand on each of the boy’s bony shoulders. It was the child’s distress that kept Griffin from launching into a lecture that included all of the reasons why Wick was not permitted to move among the patrons. “Again, if you please. This time with some respect for the cadence of proper speech.”
On the second telling Griffin caught words like help and Miss Cole and gentleman villain. There was no making sense of it, but at the end Griffin gave Wick his head and let him charge up the stairs.
Unlike the floor below, this short hall was deserted, and Griffin could hear sounds coming from Olivia Cole’s bedchamber that had been undetectable in the card room.
