by Goodman, Jo
Bloody hell.
Griffin glanced at the chaise longue situated at an angle between two walls of books. He never used it, but it filled the space nicely and served to hold the overflow of books that always seemed to be present in the room. He’d have to clear it before he could lie down.
He rubbed his eyes again. The mere thought of moving those books wearied him. When he considered that he would have to retrieve linens and blankets from the hall cupboard and nightclothes from his own bedchamber, he wondered if he might just be able to sleep in his chair.
It was the possibility that he might wake her that settled him on the matter. He could send Mason or even Truss to get what he needed, but the same end concerned him. He could not imagine that she would have no questions. Mason and Truss could not answer them, and he was of no mind to do so at this hour.
In truth, there was little enough to tell her, and Griffin allowed that perhaps his internal argument was simply in aid of avoiding her. That insight, if accurate, did not set particularly well with him as he’d always believed it was in his nature to go at a thing head on.
He’d done just that with his staff, gathering them in small groups at different times so the hell’s routine and service would not be interrupted and his own absence would not be remarked upon. He asked them about the keys—which were primarily in Truss’s care but not inaccessible to others—and had them account for their use throughout the evening. The most valuable keys—those to the wine cellar, liquor cabinets, meat locker, silver drawers, and linen cupboards—were all kept on a ring that Truss carried with him. The keys to other rooms were seldom used and hung on pegs in the servants’ hall. If it was determined that there was a need to lock a particular room, then Truss added that key to his ring or delegated responsibility for it.
It was no surprise to discover the key that turned Olivia’s lock was missing from its peg.
No single key opened everything, but there existed one key that opened many of the doors to the bedchambers. Truss held this key as well and was able to produce it when called upon to open Olivia’s door.
Sitting back in his chair, his eyes partially closed as he stared at the fire, Griffin could recall far too easily the emotion that had roiled through him as he’d tried to gain entry to her room: guilt, frustration, fear. He felt some measure of all those things now as a picture of Olivia Cole, her long, slim frame curled defensively against the fireplace, formed in his mind. Much of her braid had come undone and strands of fiery ginger hair close to her face were already dry and curling. It was not possible for a moment to distinguish those flickering tendrils from the flames mere inches from her. She’d seemed oblivious to her proximity to the fire, or perhaps it was merely that she craved its warmth, but Griffin remembered thinking that with a single spark she would ignite like a candlewick.
Her complexion had been as pale as salt. The effect was to make her eyes burn more brilliantly than was their usual cool green cast. It seemed to him that she weighed next to nothing when he lifted her, though part of him conceded it was the strength of his own fear that made carrying her feel effortless.
He’d made discreet inquiries of some of his better-known patrons, asking offhandedly about a gentleman who might have been among them earlier. He owed the young Corinthian two quid, he told them, but had neglected to make careful note of the man’s name. He moved among his guests, pausing to pose his question, offering the same brief description that Olivia had offered him, knowing all the while that it was unlikely to bear fruit. With the help of the footmen, he tried to create a list of patrons who had come on their own and those who had come as part of a larger party. It was a doomed exercise. There simply was no way of knowing with reasonable certainty who came and went. The order that he’d given to evacuate the building worked against him as it was impossible to know how many guests departed after being herded outside.
Foster thought he’d seen a gentleman such as Griffin described, but it turned out he was thinking of Mr. Penny-weather, whom another footman had seen gallantly escorting his lady friend from the hell when the alarm was called.
Wick had only seen the villain at the window. To the boy, the gentleman was more shadow than substance. He could confirm the presence of such a person in Olivia’s room, but he couldn’t offer a detail that might lead to identification.
Griffin was forced to admit he might never learn the name of Olivia’s attacker, and nothing about that outcome pleased him. It was yet another complication in his increasingly complicated life.
On impulse, he strode to the bookshelves, removed three particular volumes, and checked for the presence of his pistol case. Still not satisfied, he took it from the shelf, opened it, and examined the weapons. He’d been tempted to fire one tonight. The pistol ball would have made short work of Olivia’s lock, but the fear of firing into her gave him a long enough pause that Truss was able to appear with the key. He closed the lid and returned the case to its hiding place. He knew some hell owners kept their weapons close at hand, even carried them on their person like highwaymen were wont to do. Griffin had never seen the necessity of it.
Still, he thought, putting the books in their place, a bit of practice with them was not out of the question. Afternoons came to his mind as just the right time for that sort of activity.
When Griffin sat back at his desk, he opened the concealed drawer and drew out Alastair Cole’s marker. He read it again, wondering once more at the young man’s intention in offering his sister in place of a ring. A gem rarer than the one I wear… Did he value her so little, or so much?
…show her more care than the disdain you showed for my bauble.
Griffin could not help but think that it was Alastair who had shown disdain for his sister, yet there was no denying that Olivia had not railed against her fate. What was it she’d said to him? Oh, yes. I have no honor.
What was he to make of that?
She will reward you in ways you cannot imagine.
Griffin came close to crumpling the marker then. He’d seen to her comfort, her health, and the improvement of her mind. She’d rewarded him by setting his hell ablaze and forcing him to contemplate carrying a pistol.
Alastair Cole was right. It was an end he could not have imagined.
Mason entered Breckenridge’s study with a very light tread, loath to disturb his employer if he had finally found sleep. True, it was well past the time when Breckenridge would usually rise, but Mason was aware of how little rest the viscount had enjoyed since the attack on Olivia Cole. It was not simply that Breckenridge hadn’t been able to avail himself of his own bed, it was that he’d refused the comfort of one in any of the rooms on the floor above. He did not explain his reasoning, though Mason surmised it was because he did not want to be too far removed from Miss Cole. It seemed to the valet that even when Breckenridge was mingling with his patrons there was some part of him always alert to any disturbance above stairs. Last evening the viscount had been moved to investigate a thud that had turned out to be nothing more than a book dropping to the floor.
It was Mason’s opinion that his employer’s attentiveness was, if not quite unnatural, then extraordinary.
Griffin felt no compulsion to sit up or open his eyes as the door clicked into place behind his valet. He recognized the stealthy movement as the one Mason employed when he was reluctant to disturb, as though the consequence of every step must needs be weighed.
He managed not to sigh his annoyance. “What is it?”
“The seamstress just left.”
“And?”
“Miss Cole has asked if she might speak with you.”
“The garments do not suit her?”
“No, I believe they suit her admirably.”
“She finds them insufficient then.”
“I doubt that is the case.”
“I don’t care for her thanks, Mason. You may tell her that.”
The valet cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’m not certain that…” He did not cont
inue, his voice trailing off as Breckenridge deigned to open one eye and spear him with a disbelieving glance. “Never say she means to refuse the gift.”
Mason simply shifted his weight from one polished boot to the other.
Griffin cursed under his breath as he pushed his legs over the side of the chaise and sat up. He consulted his fob watch. “My frock coat, Mason. You may show Miss Cole in on the half hour.” That would allow him time enough to collect himself, though perhaps a more apt description would have been to prepare for battle.
Olivia demonstrated none of the cautious deliberation that marked Mason’s entry just twelve minutes earlier. She stepped up to his desk, planting herself opposite Breckenridge, and came directly to the point.
“I cannot accept the wardrobe,” she said. “You cannot insist that I should.”
“What a patently wrong-headed thing to say. I can, and I do.” He looked her up and down. She was wearing a heavy, blood red velvet robe that he recognized as one of the garments that had been delivered only this morning. The color did not flatter her complexion, but the sleeves and hem had already been let out to accommodate her long-limbed figure. He observed that she’d rather ruthlessly closed the robe all the way to her throat and tightly belted the braided cord at her waist, though whether this was in preservation of her modesty or an act of self-abuse he was not prepared to say.
“That robe was among the things that were sent to your room, was it not?”
“Yes.”
“And it seems you have accepted it, so how can you say otherwise?”
“I haven’t accepted it. It’s been forced upon me. All my clothes were removed.”
“I believe it was the consensus of Truss and Mason that they were hopelessly damaged by the smoke.”
“It doesn’t matter. They were my clothes. You had no right.” Willing herself not to cry, Olivia shook her head and bit hard into her lower lip. The pain did not keep her chin from quivering. “We will never be able to repay the debt if you mean to increase it at every turn.”
“Increase it? How? I wasn’t aware that I had.”
“Not aware?” He could not be so obtuse? “First it was the new outer garments so that I might take my daily walk. Mr. Mason refused to return my pelisse, bonnet, and gloves.”
“Did he?”
“You know he did. He would not do so unless instructed by you.”
Unperturbed, Griffin allowed, “You could be right.”
“There is also the matter of my meals.”
“Are they not satisfactory?”
“I am referring to their cost. And the books. I shouldn’t wonder that you mean to exact a lending fee.”
“I shouldn’t wonder.”
“And I must account for damage to my room. The fire was not my fault, but neither was it yours. I know repairs are already under way.”
“They certainly are.” He had good reason to know that the carpenters hammered while he tried to sleep. The hours for the craftsmen were not at all compatible with the hours he kept.
“The cost must be considerable,” she said.
Griffin pressed his steepled fingers under his chin. He knew himself to be both curious and amused, though was careful to let neither show. Carefully neutral, he said, “Let us say it is not inconsiderable.”
Olivia’s mouth flattened. He made a distinction so subtle as to be unimportant. She pressed on, determined to make him see reason. “And now you present me with a wardrobe that I did not ask for and do not want and include the services of a seamstress to made certain every garment fits.”
“There would be no point, don’t you agree, to present you with clothes that you cannot possibly wear.”
“The point is I cannot wear them at all.”
“Why? Was Mrs. McCutcheon unable to make the alterations? My sisters are not generally wrong about matters of fashion. They have all spoken favorably of her skills. Kate and Juliet in particular frequent her shop.”
“You know she is perfectly satisfactory.”
“Then did you fail to cooperate with her?”
“No, of course not. She was merely acting on your directive, and as you were not disposed to see me earlier to put a stop to the nonsense, I allowed myself to be pinned and poked and prodded.”
Griffin detected his valet’s fine hand in managing to bring the thing about. Mason had most certainly steered Olivia away from confronting him at the outset, giving Mrs. McCutcheon ample time to apply her talents to tailoring the wardrobe.
“Are the clothes in any way unsatisfactory?” asked Griffin.
“Only in that they are unwanted.”
Griffin’s hands dropped to the arms of his chair. “We are at something of an impasse, I believe. I have decided that you shall have them.”
“Did you not hear me say that we cannot afford them?”
“We? You’ve said that before. You do not owe me a farthing.”
Olivia was not deceived by his apparent largesse. “And if Alastair does not return?”
“Have you changed your mind? Do you think that’s likely now?” He held up one hand to stave off her reply. “Don’t trouble yourself to answer that. If you deny it, I don’t know that I would believe you. It is better that we just wait and see what tomorrow brings. And the day after that. And so on.”
“His debt is also mine,” she said softly. “That is the way of things between us.” She imagined it was precisely what her brother was counting on.
Griffin could find no reason to question her sincerity, only her wisdom. Accepting responsibility for her brother’s foibles was foolish beyond measure. He shook his head, a barely perceptible movement that he masked further by tunneling his fingers through his hair.
“The clothes are a gift,” he said at last. “There was never any intention on my part to add their cost to what is owed me. Rest easy and have joy of them.”
Realizing that she was being summarily dismissed, Olivia required a moment to collect herself, then a moment longer to collect her thoughts. “Is it a surfeit of arrogance that leaves you with no room for compassion?” She lifted one hand, palm out, in a gesture that mirrored his earlier one. “No, don’t favor me with a reply. If you deny it, I don’t know that I will believe you.”
She pivoted on slippered feet, giving him her very cold shoulder, and started toward the door. It occurred to her that he might be moved to call her back but before she could consider how she might respond to that entreaty he was blocking her path. She fairly vibrated in place as she drew up short to keep from stumbling into him. Pressure built in her chest until she realized she was holding her breath. She let it out slowly.
It was Griffin who took a step back, though not a step aside. He made no attempt to reach for her. “You are not easily intimidated,” he said.
“Do you think so? I am not at all certain that’s true.”
“You hold your ground.”
“I make a small footprint. It is little enough to hold on to.”
His faint smile was edged with regret. “I have bullied you. Forgive me.” Now he stepped aside. “Won’t you sit down?”
Olivia hesitated.
“Please?”
She shook her head, afraid that she might finally give in to tears.
“Very well,” he said. “Naturally you are free to go.”
She did not mistake his meaning. She was free to go as far as her room. Her feet, though, remained rooted to the floor.
Griffin took advantage of her immobility to press his argument regarding the wardrobe. “I would have you accept the clothes, Miss Cole, as a favor to me. Someone should have use of them.”
“It seems I cannot make you understand,” she said. “They are gowns and dresses made for another woman, one who is not little more than a prisoner here.”
Griffin’s dark eyes took on a vaguely bitter cast. “As it happens, Miss Cole, they were made for my wife, but you will not be surprised to learn that she shared some part of your opinion. She was fond of pointing o
ut that marriage to me was its own kind of prison.”
Chapter Five
The passage of the following sennight without any word from Alastair helped Olivia arrive at the realization that she would have to make her own way. She tried not to think of his absence in terms of its finality. Even the most fleeting thought that he might have met a very bad end had the power to bring her to her knees. It was the same when she considered that he meant to abandon her. She knew a depth of such despair that it incapacitated her, and the hollowness of that feeling added to her fear.
Alastair’s failure to present himself had other explanations that Olivia preferred to entertain. At the forefront of these was that Sir Hadrien had refused to advance Alastair’s allowance. Olivia reminded herself that this turn did not mean her brother would not return, but merely that she could expect he would be a very long time coming.
It would be as it had been. She’d managed to live on her wits—and not much else—once before. There had been no expectation then that she would be rescued; indeed, she had never thought of her life in terms of captivity. It was as it was. She managed each day as she had each yesterday, and if she allowed herself to think that something might be different on the morrow, it was just in those moments before she slept and only in the early days when she still believed she could order her dreams.
Olivia knelt on the cushioned window bench in Breckenridge’s bedroom with her palms pressed to the glass. Looking down her nose at Putnam Lane in only the most literal sense, she could easily count the number of pedestrians at this time of morning. A mere hour earlier, when Mason had escorted her to the park, there’d been almost no one about. She’d had occasion on some of her walks to spy late-night revelers finally stumble from the hells or glimpse gentlemen in the act of straightening their frock coats and flies as they departed the brothels. Mason invariably steered her away from these sights, although Olivia suspected it was done as much in aid of preserving his own dignity as it was in acknowledgment of her sensibilities.
She so appreciated the effort he made on her behalf that she did not disabuse him of the notion that she possessed any finer feelings. She simply accepted his direction and allowed him to lead on.
