by Goodman, Jo
She actually smiled.
“There is no reason you should be so full of yourself. It was not a compliment.” He watched her school her expression but did not imagine for a moment that she was chastened. “You are Sir Hadrien Cole’s daughter. I have not forgotten that, even if you have.”
Olivia was quiet a long moment in which her stare did not waver. “You have it wrong, my lord. It is Sir Hadrien that has forgotten.”
It was rare that Griffin found himself at a loss, but he knew that feeling now. Her voice did not hint at sadness; her eyes did not hint at pain. It was in the stillness of her posture, in the way she seemed to draw into herself that he sensed her self-protective isolation. Lonely, perhaps, almost certainly alone, she imposed distance without retreating and effectively, eloquently, told him she would say no more on the subject.
“Why is it so important to you?” he asked at last. “I’ve told you that I will see to your house and your staff and your creditors. What is it that I don’t understand that makes you want to do this thing?”
Olivia responded with a question of her own. “Do you believe women can desire to act honorably, that they have a duty to account for their own debts?”
“You do not want to hear my opinion of women and honor and duty.”
“That is a kind of answer, isn’t it? You would not be looking for an explanation if I were a man; honoring a debt would be your expectation. You have satisfied yourself that I am no more than my brother’s marker, and it is not only you, but Alastair, too, who sees me in such a manner. If I go on as I have, it is how I will come to see myself.” She glanced at her hands, shook her head. “A marker. Can you imagine? Not flesh and blood, but currency. It is too lowering.”
Even for me. She did not add the words, but they flitted through her mind. Afraid they would make her sound pitiable, she held them back.
Griffin regarded her with a certain amount of skepticism. “I cannot decide if you are sincere or well rehearsed.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It is honest.”
“You are correct,” he said, inclining his head to salute her. “It doesn’t matter. My mind is unchanged.”
The hell was particularly crowded this evening, Griffin noted. He was aware that Mrs. Christie’s absence had led to some speculation among his regular patrons. There were wagers in the betting books as to when she would reappear. Griffin did not discourage the activity, though he suggested adding a column that permitted bettors to mark their wagers as when hell freezes. This led to further speculation that perhaps a blizzard was in the offing.
It was a harmless enough activity and aside from that one comment, he remained quiet on the matter of his former mistress. He’d learned that she was frequenting some of the competing clubs—Johnny Crocker’s most often—but this did not concern him. In spite of the acrimony of their parting, he wished her well, and if she did deign to visit his hell again, he knew it would happen only when she had captured the attention and the arm of someone she considered his rival.
It would not be enough for Alys Christie that she was doing well. She would want to know that he was not.
“Lady Rivendale,” Griffin said, lifting the hand she extended to him and bringing it to his lips. “You are looking particularly fine this evening. It occurs to me that you will be the very devil to beat at the tables.”
She smiled warmly and shed a decade off her fifty plus years. “I hope you are right, Breckenridge. I have it in my mind to win a perfectly vulgar sum of money tonight.”
Griffin chuckled. “What is your game so that I might show you to your table?”
“Conquian.” A gentleman some ten years her senior appeared at her side, a drink in either hand. She lifted the glass of wine meant for her. “Do you know Mr. Warner?”
“I have not had the pleasure.” He made a slight bow. “Welcome to my club.”
Before Mr. Warner could make a reply, Lady Rivendale offered a distinctly masculine snort. “Pray, Breckenridge, do not puff the thing up. It is a hell, a fine one to be sure, but still a hell. I shall be most disappointed to learn I’ve convinced Mr. Warner to provide escort to a respectable establishment. He has been to those. Tell me that you have not found religion. It would be too depressing.”
Griffin laughed heartily, as much at the hapless Mr. Warner’s expression of alarm as the countess’s eccentricity. “It is still very much a hell,” he assured her, and was rewarded by another of her merry smiles. She was in every way a beautiful woman, more so because of the energy with which she embraced life. He’d heard remark once that she’d earned the lines that fanned out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, so why would she hide them? Did a general hide his medals? Griffin had decided it was an excellent position from which to view one’s life, and he admired her for it.
“We had a bit of a dustup last week and a row between the punters at faro only two nights ago.”
“It has been a mannerly squeeze, then,” her ladyship said, disheartened.
“Do not fear. I promise, if no one begins a brawl this evening, I will start the thing myself. Shall I show Mr. Warner the rear exit in the event you have need of a hasty escape once the fists fly?”
“I can find it, not that I would. A brawl is just the sort of entertainment I crave.” She took Mr. Warner by the elbow. “Come along. Do not mind us. We are having you on a bit. Drink up and you will see that it is so or that it doesn’t matter. The conquian table is in the next room. I am quite certain they will make room for us.”
Griffin turned to watch her go, smiling encouragingly at Mr. Warner as the gentleman glanced back over his shoulder, uneasiness stamped on his countenance. If Mr. Warner proved himself a trepid escort, Griffin had no doubt he’d seen the last of the man. Lady Rivendale did not suffer the faint of heart.
Griffin moved among the patrons with an ease that belied the fact that his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He spoke to some, listened to few, and nodded politely when anyone caught his eye. He made a round of every table, caught tidbits of gossip, and showed a trio of high-stepping gentlemen to the door when he saw them produce their opium pipes. For a time after he’d bought the establishment he had tolerated the opium smokers while he was ridding the hell of its prostitutes. It was not unusual for someone to challenge his rule, and he did not employ his staff to purposely seek out the violators and eject them, but when it was blatantly done the guests were asked to leave or were removed.
No matter what aspect of the business engaged his attention, Griffin found he had gray matter enough to spare for the problem of Olivia Cole.
And she was a problem.
Until this morning her requests had been rather benign. He’d been very aware of the small ways in which she elicited the cooperation of his staff, and he’d made no move to interfere, but she hadn’t asked for the wardrobe he’d provided, and she hadn’t put the idea of a bath in anyone’s mind. If she remained in the hell much longer, they would all be tripping over themselves doing for her.
The fact that she was not at all helpless was no sort of deterrent. He…no, all of them…had been seized by an urge to protect her. He was fighting it. His staff, even the occasionally severe and skeptical Mason, had never thought to resist.
Olivia Cole was such a presence in his mind that when he turned to the faro table to watch the play, he immediately dismissed what his eyes revealed as a flight of fancy. It was not possible that it was she standing in the banker’s position at the table, smiling rather winsomely, slowly shuffling a new deck and monitoring the placement of the bets. Moreover, it was not possible that she had defied him.
“All wagers are down.”
It was the voice, her voice, that made the incomprehensible suddenly quite certain.
Chapter Six
Olivia had a book open in her lap but had given up trying to read it. Her attention kept wandering each time she heard the echo of a footfall from the hall and stairway. It was difficult to imagine that Breckenridge would allow her def
iance to pass without a confrontation. That he had not forcibly removed her from the faro table spoke to his ability to let a thing rest while he considered what course of action to take. It was not that he was patient, but that he was cunning. She was almost sick with the anticipation of his appearance at her door, though she could admit that it was no more than she deserved for disregarding his authority.
Olivia’s nerves grew more taut as the hell quieted. The diminished activity on the floor below her room was a sure sign that the servants were nearing the completion of their tasks. She had fled the faro table immediately after paying out the last of the winnings to the punters and passing the hell’s share to Breckenridge. Although he’d thanked her politely, she knew it was for the benefit of the patrons lingering around her table. There was naught but scorn in the dark, chilly glance he reserved exclusively for her.
When the knock at the door finally came, she still started with enough force to dislodge the book. She bent to pick it up only to have it slip from her nerveless fingers as Breckenridge entered.
“I thought we agreed you would keep the door locked,” he said, closing it behind him.
Olivia retrieved the book and placed it on a side table. As she made to rise, Breckenridge came to stand in front of her chair. She was forced by his proximity to lower herself once again and tilt her head back to look up at him. He was not going to be sympathetic to the crick in her neck as she had been to his.
“The patrons are gone,” she said. “There is no one here that means me harm.” She regarded him steadily. “Is there?”
He leaned forward and braced his arms on either side of her chair. The fact that she didn’t cower only served to incense him. “You are neither stupid nor naive. You know bloody well that I want to put my hands on you, and your apparent belief that I am, at my core, unwilling to do so is unwarranted. With very little more in the way of provocation I could be moved to turn you over my knee.”
Olivia’s breath hitched as her lips parted. Blood roared so loudly in her ears that she could not hear a single one of her scattered thoughts.
“Nothing to say?” he asked. “Good. I will assume that means I’ve persuaded you.” He straightened but did not give quarter. His gaze slid over her, registering for the first time that she had not readied for bed and was still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the gaming room. There was but one conclusion he could draw from that. “You were expecting me.”
“It seemed likely that you would want to discuss my decision to act in opposition to your wishes.”
“You do not even pretend it was something other than defiance.”
“I judged that it would make you angrier. Was I wrong?”
A muscle worked in Griffin’s cheek, briefly whitening his scar. “No,” he said finally. “You were not wrong.” He took a small step backward and jerked his chin at her. “Take off that ridiculous turban. What possessed you to wear it in the first place?”
“A desire for anonymity,” she said as she carefully unwound the pink silk shawl she’d fashioned into a headdress. “My hair is a rather singular color.”
It was, but Griffin did not support the observation. “So your reputation is more important to you than you would have me believe.”
“No, but I understand that preserving it seems to be important to you.” She folded the shawl and laid it on her lap. “I darkened my eyebrows and lashes also.”
He’d noticed. “And painted your cheeks and your mouth. Go wash it off.”
Flushing slightly, Olivia rose to her feet. She ducked her head slightly as she slipped sideways to get past him.
Griffin brought her up short, gripping her elbow. He put a finger under her chin, lifting it, and his eyes narrowed on her right cheek just beneath the corner of her eye. “The beauty patch as well.”
Olivia forced herself not to run. When she returned from scrubbing her face, Breckenridge was lounging comfortably in the chair she’d occupied. He merely pointed to the window bench, clearly expecting that she would comply. Recalling his threat, she did.
“You attracted a great deal of attention this evening,” Griffin said. “I don’t know that the faro table has ever had gentlemen three deep at every station.”
“It did seem they were eager to play.”
“They were eager to spend time in your company.”
“Then they are very foolish.”
“Perhaps.”
She had expected Breckenridge’s unequivocal agreement, so his less certain response surprised her. He was still studying her, though not as intently or coldly as he’d done earlier, but with more speculative interest. Not knowing what to make of that, she remained quiet, waiting for him to direct the conversation.
“I counted the winnings from the faro table,” he said. “Will you venture to guess what the house took in this evening?”
“I cannot speak for all of your profits. At my table I think it was just shy of six hundred quid.”
One of Griffin’s eyebrows kicked up. He did not imagine for a moment that her guess was lucky. “Five hundred ninety-three pounds exactly, but I think you knew that.”
She shrugged.
“Do you know what the punters won?”
“Some two percent less. Those are the odds in favor of the house in an honest game. It was an honest game, my lord. I did not employ sleight of hand or any trickery by distraction.”
Griffin had watched the players’ losses carefully and knew she hadn’t skewed the odds in his favor. “That was my observation also,” he said. “In regard to the sleight of hand, at least. Your presence was distraction enough for the players, I think, to support the fact the hell’s winnings were in excess of three percent.” He held up a hand to stay her protest. “I am not accusing you of cheating, merely of being a distraction. I don’t suppose that if I were to poll the gentlemen I would discover that any of them minded. Some of their lady friends, though, were made unhappy by the competition for their attention.”
When she seemed startled by this last, Griffin shook his head. “Come now. You were able to calculate the winnings within a hairsbreadth of dead-on accuracy, but failed to notice that more than one woman was cheerfully contemplating your demise? That is hard to credit.”
“You may believe what you like. I can only say that my own attention was all for the play at hand. You will perhaps understand that the wagers and winning were substantially more important to me than the petty dramas staged by some of your female guests. Pray, what did I have to fear from any of the women when your place at the head of the murder queue was already secured?”
Griffin’s smile became marginally less derisive. “And you should be glad of it, for I would do the thing quickly. Those women—all of them—would pluck out your heart with tweezers.”
She blanched, her hand coming up as if she could ward off such an attack.
“Just so,” he said, watching her narrowly. The urge was upon him to laugh, and he was hard-pressed not to give in to it. To make certain that he did not, he put another matter before her. “Did you see him tonight?”
The shift in subject was so abrupt that for a moment Olivia did not follow. When she realized what Breckenridge was asking, she let her hand fall to her lap. Her color did not return. “My attacker? No. I didn’t see him.”
“So your attention was not all for the wagers and winnings.” When she offered no contradiction, he went on. “It was dangerous, what you did. Had you given the least thought to what you might do if you saw him again?”
Olivia shook her head. “I didn’t, but it occurs to me now that I should arm myself with a pair of tweezers.”
Griffin was not amused. “He might return at any time. You have to consider that. A public accusation would harm you more than him, unless, of course, it is your intention to force me to call him out.”
“Put it from your mind. I will neither confront him publicly nor have blood drawn on my account.”
Curious now, Griffin asked, “Is there some doubt in your
mind as to the outcome of pistols at twenty paces?”
“There is always doubt, my lord, and you would be foolish to suppose that you could never be the loser of such a confrontation. You might slip as you turn to face him, or you might be possessed by a sneeze at the very moment you take aim. Your weapon might misfire. He might count off eight paces to your ten and shoot before you. His physician may be superior to your own. All things being equal, he may simply be luckier than you that morning. If your pride smarts because I entertain doubts that you would be the victor, then you are most desperately in need of a restraining hand.”
“A surfeit of pride makes one vulnerable, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” he said. His pride was not engaged, but he did not tell her this. What she had described were the risks, some more probable than others, that a dispassionate gentleman weighed before issuing a challenge. “Consider that you have duly restrained me. Now, what of your pride?”
“Mine?”
“Certainly yours. Is it not pride that prompted you to disobey me? You have determined that you must settle your own debts, attend to your household staff, and rescue your brother from his folly. What is pushing you toward those ends if it is not pride?”
“A finely honed sense of responsibility.”
“That you take pride in.”
Olivia pressed her lips together, not to bite back her reply but because she had none.
Griffin pushed his point home gently. “Can you not admit that you might benefit from a restraining hand?”
She had no liking for her own words being turned on her. “Your hand, my lord? I think not. It is not my best interests you have in mind, but your own.”
“You think I’m influenced only by the debt that’s owed me?”
“I think it cannot be discounted. I am nothing to you beyond it.”
But you could be. He did not say it aloud nor give any indication that the thought had been occurring to him with irritating frequency. “Then let us speak of my interests, shall we?”
