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.
Olivia smiled as she watched a pair of women emerge from the townhouse opposite her. Linking arms, they lightly descended the steps. They both wore wide-brimmed bonnets that hid their faces, one decorated with an assortment of plump fruit and the other with colorfully dyed ostrich feathers. These adornments bounced and swayed in lively accompaniment to their movements. In tandem, the women seemed to sense they were being watched. Uncertain of how well they could see her, Olivia nevertheless retained her smile as they looked up. It was difficult to know whether they were startled by her presence at the window. Their faces were so brightly painted that their expressions were lost to her. She ventured a wave and knew herself to be ridiculously pleased when they responded in kind.
The communication was brief. The women were about other business that encouraged them not to tarry. Olivia watched them hurry away and entertained herself wondering where they were going. It seemed likely that with their particular tastes and devotion to fashion, they were leaving Putnam Lane to frequent the shops of their favorite dressmakers and milliners.
She envied them their freedom, though not their destination. This last week she had spent interminable hours being fitted for all the clothes she had never wanted. There had been no easy surrender on her part, but she didn’t suppose that mattered. In the end, she’d given in, and that’s what she imagined that Breckenridge would remember.
It was of no consequence to her that the clothes were castoffs. Discovering that they had belonged to his lordship’s wife was of less account to her than discovering he had a wife. Still, her refusal to accept them was predicated on the fact that she’d had her own clothes but apparently no rights regarding their retention or disposal.
Breckenridge had ordered all of her garments—with the exception of her outerwear—returned to her. Her initial pleasure faded when she realized that although every article had been laundered, the acrid scent of smoke lingered on all of them. The odor could not be masked with soap or fragrance. It had worked its way into the warp and weft of the fabric and would not be removed.
Olivia might have stubbornly insisted on wearing them anyway if not for the fact that the mere act of breathing in the presence of the clothes prompted an unpleasant visceral response. Coupled with the memories that flooded her, she finally admitted that keeping them might soothe her wounded pride, but would give her no peace.
She offered no explanation to Mason when she told him that she’d reconsidered her decision not to accept Breckenridge’s offering. The valet ventured no comment nor gave any hint of his own feelings on the matter. He simply nodded and went about the business of making it so.
It was a bit galling that Mrs. McCutcheon arrived that very afternoon with several pieces nearly completed in their alterations. Olivia surmised from this that Breckenridge had never believed there would be any other outcome than that she would fall in with his wishes. She could no longer even accuse him of high-handedness, not when he’d put the choice before her. How difficult, she wondered, had it been for him to do that?
Olivia shifted on the bench so that she was no longer kneeling. She pushed an embroidered pillow behind her back and leaned against the alcove wall. The fullness of her gown fell over her legs. Folds of pink India muslin slipped over the side of the bench and left her ankles and feet exposed. She wiggled her toes and felt her pale pink silk stockings stretch with the movement. She wished that she might not take pleasure from wearing anything so fine, but it was like asking her not to appreciate sunshine on her face or the sound of a child’s laughter.
Mrs. McCutcheon had transformed Lady Breckenridge’s wardrobe by repositioning the waistline to its natural level, adding fullness to the sleeves, rounding the bodices, and moving the ornamentation to the hemline. The fabrics she had to work with were of the best quality: Chinese silk, satin, cambric, soft muslin, brushed velvet, and tulle. There were cloth-covered and mother-of-pearl buttons instead of flat copper hooks and eyes. There were dresses for day, for evening, for walking, and for taking a turn in a carriage. Every gown was lined in cotton or sarcenet or silesia. She had undergarments of the finest batiste: chemises, petticoats, drawers, and shifts. There were slippers and hose to match her gowns, half-boots to be worn on walks, ribbons for her hair, and cashmere shawls with fringe that brushed her skin with such delicacy that she’d heard herself sigh with the contentment of it.
If she could believe Breckenridge, she was not beholden to him for any of it. Still, her own conscience was not so easily cleared of its sense of obligation. It made her vaguely uneasy that he had asked for nothing in exchange, and she could not shake the notion that he kept a mental ledger of every favor he extended her, whether or not she was pleased to accept it.
She lifted the book she’d been reading from the narrow sill but did not open it. Breckenridge had passed on to her a Gothic novel that she was almost certain could not have come from his own library. It had kept her up well past midnight so that now she used the back of her hand to stifle a yawn.
The hell was quiet if one discounted the occasional banging and rumble of deep male voices coming from the carpenters and painters working in her former room. She had yet to be invited to see their progress, but she believed they must be nearing the end of their work and that very soon she would be permitted to return. It was not that Breckenridge’s bedchamber was inherently uncomfortable, only that she was made uncomfortable because she had displaced him.
Listening between hammer blows and the barking of orders, Olivia strained to hear the sounds of stirring from Breckenridge’s study. Sometimes she could hear him moving about, especially if he was in what she thought of as one of his dark moods. On those occasions she could make out his heavier tread in the hall and feel the shudder of his door when he closed it. If he drank there might follow the sound of breaking glass or a series of thumps as stacks of books were toppled to the floor. She imagined that neither was caused by carelessness.
Griffin Wright-Jones, the honorable Viscount Breckenridge, would have taken deliberate aim.
Olivia knew him to be far quieter in the morning. If he rose before Mason arrived, which he did more often than not, she heard him throw open the window to his study and call down to the street urchins that had gathered below to fetch him a paper. He tossed coins for the purchase and later, once he had the Gazette in hand, he tossed a few extra for their trouble. She suspected more than one family had a bit of meat for their stew because of Breckenridge’s charity. After the completion of this ritual, she heard very little until a footman delivered his breakfast and Mason came to assist with the routines of preparing for the day. By then it was almost always the beginning of the afternoon.
He often left then, though Olivia could only suppose where he went. The case that was frequently secured under his arm made her think he was depositing the hell’s income, though going it alone seemed fraught with risk. If the weather was clear and not too cold, he walked. Sometimes Foster or Truss would leave the hell to wave a hack to the doorstep. She had never seen him take a carriage, although she knew from Beetle that he had one at his disposal. “A most splendid equipage,” the kitchen lad had named it, and Olivia was inclined to believe him.
As often as she was discomfited by the knowledge that she spent each day and night almost entirely in Breckenridge’s suite, she also knew that she would miss this view of Putnam Lane and her proximity to his lordship’s study once she was removed from it.
Wanting to embrace the view now, Olivia turned to glance out the window again. None of the street children had arrived to mark their territory at the front of the hell. It seemed they knew better than to come upon the place too soon of a morning and risk waking Breckenridge earlier than was his habit. No doubt there were unpleasant consequences to be had for that.
Olivia did not know what they were, but the time had come to find out.
Griffin threw a forearm across his eyes and groaned softly as the series of sharp raps at the doors penetrated his consciousness. It seemed to him that he had fallen asleep only a few short hours ago. With his free hand he groped for the watch he’d placed on the floor beside the chaise. He flicked his wrist to swing the gold chain so the watch landed in his palm. There was nothing wrong with the timekeeper in his head, he realized. He had fallen asleep only a few short hours ago.
Mason would have already let himself in, so Griffin knew it was not his valet on the other side of the door. Similarly, any of his staff believing they had a message so urgent that they must wake him would also have entered by now. Griffin was very much afraid that he knew who was demanding entry.
He sat up and rolled his neck from side to side. His robe was lying at the foot of the chaise. He shrugged into it as he stood and loosely fastened the belt while he crossed the room.
Olivia Cole was indeed on the other side of the door. He made a brief study of her rather defiant posture, standing as she was with her fist raised at the level of her angled chin, and decided that not even she could manage to hold the high ground wearing a muslin day dress the color of a blush.
“You did not bring coffee.” He closed the door in her face.
Olivia blinked. She let her fist drop to her side and for a moment did nothing save for stare at the door. You did not bring coffee. That curt observation might easily be construed as an invitation, at least to her way of thinking. He could have ordered her away, and he hadn’t done so. That meant she might gain admission if she traded in the correct currency.
The second time she announced herself at the door she was brusquely given permission to enter.
“It took you considerable time to return,” Griffin said. He pointed to the space beside him on the chaise and indicated she should set the tray there. One eyebrow lifted when he saw she’d only brought a single cup and saucer. “You don’t care for coffee?”
“It seemed presumptuous of me to assume you meant for me to join you.”
He snorted. “You would do well not to speak of presumption when you’ve taken the liberty to wake me at this unholy hour.”
Olivia accepted the chastisement without comment. She watched him pour the coffee, add cream but ignore the sugar, then lift the cup to his lips. He paused, breathing in the fragrance of the brew before he sipped. There was something oddly intimate about witnessing his unguarded pleasure. She found herself discomfited and looked away.
“The kitchen staff must have been surprised to see you,” he said idly between sips. “Please. Sit. I have no wish to advance this crick in my neck by staring up at you.”
Olivia glanced around and chose the chair closest to the fireplace. She looked at him for permission to turn it in his direction. At his slight nod, she used her knee against the arm to nudge it around before she perched on the edge of the cushion. To keep her hands from fidgeting in the folds of her dress, she clasped them together in her lap.
She did not fail to notice that Breckenridge hadn’t taken advantage of her absence to dress. Extending him the benefit of the doubt, she supposed he couldn’t have been certain that she would return. Perhaps he had even tried to go back to sleep. He was still wearing his nightshirt, robe, and leather slippers. His chestnut hair was disheveled, his eyes heavily lidded, and there was a pillow crease in his right cheek that was a near perfect match to the scar in his left. She tried to imagine the circumstances in which she would not find him to be inordinately beautiful, and could not.
“I hope you do not mean for me to carry the conversation,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “My opening gambit was to ask you about your foray to the kitchen. You have yet to answer.”
Olivia squeezed her hands together. “The kitchen. Yes. I remember. Actually, no one was there when I arrived. I supposed Cook had returned to bed after preparing my breakfast, and I was reminded how much my presence disrupts the routine you’ve established here. It’s why I’ve come actually. I believe I can put that to rights.”
“I cannot permit you to leave.”
“You are too suspicious. I was not going to suggest it.”
He was suspicious, but also more than a little intrigued. “Go on, though I should tell you that while your coffee is as excellent as any served in the clubs, I am not in favor of you regularly going to the kitchen.”
“Then you would not permit me to work there.”
“Good Lord, no.”
“I confess that is a relief.” She’d had her fill of kitchens and as a rule avoided the one in her own home unless called there by Mrs. Beck to settle a dispute. “My excellent coffee aside, it’s not the kitchen where I can be most useful to you.”
“Really?”
“Do not mistake my meaning, Lord Breckenridge. You would not find me an agreeable companion in bed, either.”
“You are too straightforward in your speech, I think, but don’t assume you know the bent of my mind, Miss Cole. I recently relieved myself of a mistress. I am not looking for another.”
She flushed. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”
He waved aside her apology. “In what way useful, then?”
“It would be better if I might demonstrate.”
“By all means.”
Olivia stood. Her eyes darted about the room in search of a particular item she’d seen in his study. It seemed it either had been buried under something else or actually put away. It was difficult to believe the latter, so she began a more thorough search, carefully picking her way among the stacks of ledgers and papers and occasionally turning something over to examine what lay beneath.
Wary, Griffin followed her movements over the rim of his cup as he drank his coffee. “Has the demonstration begun?” In response to her slightly annoyed, over-the-shoulder glance, Griffin shrugged. “It is a perfectly sensible question.”
He chose a triangle of buttered toast from the tray she’d brought and bit into it. There was no good reason that this piece of toast should taste better than what Cook prepared of a morning, yet it was undeniably true. Griffin brushed a crumb from the lapel of his velvet robe and chose another triangle.
“Perhaps if you were to tell me what you are looking for,” he said. “I can freely admit you are making me uneasy with your poking around.”
It was when she turned to respond that she spied the object of her search on the floor just under the head of the chaise. “Of course,” she said, more to herself than him. “You were playing with them. I did not think of that.”
She skirted a table and dropped to her knees beside the chaise, ignoring the exaggerated lift of his dark eyebrows. Careful not to brush his leg as she patted the floor just behind him, her fingers finally curled around the deck of cards. Smiling beatifically, she held them up.
Griffin felt his insides twist. He found the radiance of her expression was actually difficult to look upon. Ignoring most of what he saw and all of what he felt, he offered a wry observation, “Triumph such as you are now wont to show is generally reserved for coming upon the source of the Nile or being carried on a litter into the city you’ve just conquered.”
He saw her smile falter and was both regretful and glad of it. “Card tricks?” he asked. “Is that what you mean to show me?”
Still stinging from his comment, Olivia made to rise with a measure of dignity. “Perhaps later. When you might be more inclined to appreciate them.” She pointed to the nearby table. “May I?”
“Of course.” He started to set his cup down in preparation of helping her, but she waved him away.
Olivia pulled the cherrywood table toward the chaise. It was not the proper size or shape for what she wanted to demonstrate, but she would make do. She stood on the opposite side of the table and began shuffling the cards.
It took her a few moments to find her rhythm. The cards were well used, slightly thick because of it, with corners that snagged and faces that did not easily slide against one another. She was also badly out of practice. Twice the cards fluttered from her hands, making her feel gauche and clumsy.
Griffin’s cup hovered halfway between his lap and his mouth as he gave over all of his attention to Olivia Cole. Her long, elegantly tapered fingers moved and manipulated with a speed and deftness that his eyes could not easily follow. Even when some of the cards escaped her hands, she shoveled them up with the remainder of the deck in a fashion so smooth as to give the impression the initial fumbling was deliberate.
He put his cup aside and leaned forward. She tapped the deck on the table, squaring it off, then fanned it open, first with the back of the cards showing, then again with the pips and faces turned up. She did this several times, flipping the cards back and forth with a flick of her wrist.
When she paused, he glanced up and caught her frowning. “What is it?” he asked.
“Will you look under the chaise? The four of hearts and the queen of clubs are missing from this deck.”
He did not inquire as to how she could possibly know that—she’d neither sorted nor counted the cards—but when he felt around under the chaise his fingertips caught the edges of two cards. He picked them up and laid them face up on the table. The four of hearts and the queen of clubs.
“You purposely left them behind when you picked up the rest of the deck,” he said.
Olivia drew the two cards toward her and slipped them into the deck. “You know I didn’t examine the cards when they were under the chaise. I couldn’t see them properly.” She handed him the deck. “Take as few or as many as you like.” She turned her back and waited.
Griffin removed one card and slipped it under the tray at his side without looking at it. He slid the deck toward her again. “All right.”
Olivia pivoted, picked up the cards, and resumed shuffling. They stuck occasionally, and she had to adjust the pressure of her hands and fingers to compensate. She spread the cards in a perfect arch on the table, flipped them once, flipped them back, and gathered them up again.
“The six of spades,” she said.
Griffin lifted one edge of the tray and slipped the card free. He glanced at it before pushing it across the table toward her. “The six of spades.”
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Did you suppose that if you examined it beforehand you might give it away? I should very much like to see what expression of yours hints at the six of spades.”
He scowled at her.
“Really? I confess I would have mistaken that for one of the knaves. A diamond, mayhap, or a heart.”
“Amusing,” he said in a tone that communicated the opposite.
Olivia tried to school her smile but it would not be tempered. It was only when she realized that she was enjoying herself that it faded. Her hands grew clumsy again and she lost several cards. She flinched, turning her head and raising one shoulder a fraction, then dropped a small curtsy and offered an apology for her awkward handling of the cards.
“Why did you do that?” Griffin asked.
“Do what?” She attended to her shuffling and did not look at him.
“Make that bow and apologize.”
“Did I?” Olivia divided the deck and nimbly worked the halves between her fingers, passing them back and forth between her hands. “I didn’t realize.”
“Yes, when you dropped the cards.” He inclined his head to one side to try to catch her eye and was left with the impression she was purposely ignoring him. “Just after you drew back.”
“I couldn’t say,” she told him. “I don’t recall doing it.”
Griffin chose not to press. He knew what he had seen and did not question the accuracy of his perception. She had anticipated a blow. That was the only reason people started in the manner she had. The lift of her shoulder was instinctive, a protection against a strike that was aimed at a more vulnerable point, perhaps her chin or cheek.
He returned his attention to her manipulation of the cards. She was remarkably smooth given the dog-eared condition of the deck she was using. There was rarely a hesitation; her initial stiffness was gone. She now was able to look away from her hands and still complete the cutting and turning of the cards without mishap. She had the sort of dexterity that would have enabled her to force any card on him that she desired. What she did, however, was slide the deck forward and ask him to make a cut.
Olivia took back the deck and laid out thirteen cards in two rows, ace through king, all of them spades. In the first row the ace was on her left, the six on the right. The seven of spades lay at the head, perpendicular to the two rows, and the remaining six cards, the eight through the king, had a one-to-one correspondence with the cards in the first row.
“That is the layout of a faro table,” Griffin said.
“It is. I assume you have one in your hell.”
“Of course.”
“With a spade suit like this glued to the table?”
“Painted, actually. It is a very fine table. Antique, and in excellent condition.”
Olivia nodded. She’d expected nothing less. “Without a traditional table here, we’ll have to pretend these cards are permanently fixed.”
“Very well.”
“Would you like to make a wager?” She drew the remainder of the deck to her and looked around for something that might be used as a marker.
Griffin picked up one of the toast triangles and tore it in half. He placed one half on the three of spades and ate the other.
Olivia chuckled. “It is an unusual token, but one supposes that as owner you are able to establish the house rules.”
“Precisely.”
Olivia paused a moment, waiting to see if Breckenridge wanted to rethink his wager or add another. When he simply resumed drinking his coffee, she said, “All bets are down.” She turned over the top card on the remaining deck. It was a five of hearts. “The house wins on all bets placed on the five.” Sighing, she feigned disappointment that he’d placed his wager elsewhere. “I should have liked to eat the winnings.”
“Then you would be stealing from the house,” he reminded her.
“A most excellent point.” She placed the losing card on her right and turned over the next card, a seven of diamonds. “The house pays on all wagers on the seven. It appears you do not win either. Do you wish to make another wager or allow your toast to stand on the three?”
“I’ll allow it to stand.”
“As you wish. All bets are placed.” The next card she turned over—the losing card—was a three of clubs. As the suit in faro was unimportant to the play, it only mattered that the card was a three. “The house wins on all wagers placed on the three. Oh dear, that means you’ve forfeited your toast.”
“How fortunate for me that I am also the house,” Griffin said, picking up the bite-sized piece and dropping it in his mouth. He made a show of enjoying it, too. “Did you force the three so the house would win?”
Olivia took exception to that. The entire line of her body stiffened. “You are asking if I cheated, and the answer is no.”
“But you could.”
She simply stared at him.
“But you could,” he repeated. He picked up his last piece of toast and divided it. This time he made a wager with each half, placing one on the queen and the other in the space above and between the nine and ten, thus splitting that bet. “The next card you draw is the winning card for the punter. I want to win on the queen.”
Olivia’s mouth flattened. She wondered that she had allowed herself to expect something different from him. Her disappointment was sincerely felt, but when she reflected on it, she realized she was more disappointed in herself for lowering her guard than in Breckenridge for taking advantage.
“On the queen,” she said without inflection, looking away. She covered the deck briefly with her palm while she idly stretched and contracted the fingers of her other hand. Lifting her palm, she tapped the deck once with a forefinger then turned over the top card. The queen of diamonds was displayed. “Punter wins on the queen.”
Griffin whistled softly. “You can indeed.” He picked up the piece of toast and set it back on the tray. “The house wins on the next turn. Since I split the bet, you can do it with either the nine or the ten.”
“You do not even make it challenging,” she said coolly. “Choose which card you wish me to show you, the nine or the ten.”
“The nine.”
With no enthusiasm for the task, Olivia laid her palm over the deck again while she absently fiddled with the sleeve of her gown. Out of view her thumbnail fanned the corner of the stack of cards. She lifted her hand.
“Wait,” Griffin ordered. He reached across the table and did what no player would be permitted to do during a turn at faro: He revealed the top card himself. “A four,” he said.
“So it is.”
“You weren’t able to do it that time.”
“That’s the card you lifted,” she said.
“It was on top.”
“Perhaps it was when you reached for it, but when I choose the top card, it looks like this.” She turned it over and displayed the nine of hearts.
“God’s truth, but you’re adept at it.” Griffin’s tone was all admiration as he sat back and rubbed his chin with his knuckles. “You told me you possessed no happy talents.”
“Obviously we define that differently.” She swept her hand across the table, gathering all the cards, including the faro layout, then set the deck in front of him. “You appear to have an understanding of my usefulness. I should like to begin as soon as possible, tonight if you will. I imagine it will require some time for me to acclimate myself to the routine everyone else in the hell abides by, but I shall endeavor to do so as quickly as possible.”
Taking a short breath, Olivia went on quickly before Breckenridge could insert a comment. “While I remain hopeful that my brother will return soon, I recognize that I must also be practical. I have expenses and no means of meeting them. There are debts I must repay, and I am depending on you to appreciate that. If you will not allow me to leave, then it remains that I have to find some manner of supporting myself here. You would not deny me that opportunity, would you?”
Griffin poured a second cup of coffee. This time he ignored sugar and cream. “I find myself staring up at you again.”
Olivia dropped to the wing chair behind her, resuming her perched posture as Breckenridge rubbed the back of his neck. He let his hand fall away, sipped his coffee, and made a disagreeable face. “You take cream,” she said. “You forgot the cream.”
He grunted softly, added cream, and tasted the coffee a second time. The crease between his eyebrows softened. “You said quite a lot,” he told her. “Shall I begin anywhere or is there some particular you would like addressed first?”
Olivia felt as if her chest were being squeezed. If he was going to allow her to work at his faro table, he would have just said so. She prepared herself to hear his objections and prayed she would not humiliate herself by showing the depth of her distress. “Begin where you like,” she said, and was glad of the confidence in her voice.
“Tell me about these expenses you say you have. What are they?”
“I have a home in Jericho Mews,” she said. “Or rather, I live with Alastair there. Or did.” Impatient with herself, she blew out a puff of air. “The household staff needs to be paid. So does the greengrocer. Mr. Fox will not extend any more credit for meat if I do not pay the bill in full this time. Even in my absence there are things that must be done. The servants—and there aren’t so many of them as you have—need to eat. I cannot simply ignore them because I’m here.”
“Your brother does not seem to share your finely honed sense of duty, else he would be seeing to their wages, their needs, and your honor.”
“If he were able to do anything differently, he would.”
Griffin noted that what she offered was neither a defense nor an indictment. It was, in truth, a simple statement of fact. “I could arrange for you to close up the house and let the servants go.”
Olivia could not help herself. She recoiled. “No!” When he stared her down under arched eyebrows she remembered herself. “No,” she said, this time with considerably less heat. “It would not be a simple matter for the staff to find other employment, and I…I like the house and would not want to see it empty.”
“Then your brother owns it?”
She shook her head. “You cannot recoup the debt he owes by taking it from him. He rents it.”
“So there is rent to pay as well. You did not mention that. Now I understand why you do not want it empty. You would lose it.”
“Yes.”
“I begin to see why your brother wanted you here. It seems he meant for you to have a place to live when he took himself off.”
Olivia did not try to deny it. She was no longer certain that Breckenridge was wrong.
“What are you proposing again?” he asked.
“That you permit me to work for you.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Of course it’s possible. I showed you that I know faro. I can deal vingt-et-un also, and I know when the house must stand or take another card.”
“I’m quite sure you do, but I run honest games here, and you, my dear Olivia, are a most excellent cheat.”
Confused, she asked, “If you have no use for the skill, then why did you insist on knowing if I could force the cards?”
“Because it intrigues.” He shrugged. “And entertains. You are perhaps the best I have ever seen.”
“I thought you wanted me to cheat, else I wouldn’t have shown you.”
“Yes, well, now you know I do not, and it is your misfortune to be so very good at it that I could not possibly trust you. You may not credit it, but my reputation, such as it is, is important to me. For all that I am something of a pariah in certain fashionable circles, in the underworld of gaming hells, I am credited to offer a fair deal. However one wishes to interpret that phrase, it remains true. I expect the same in return, and that is known as well, particularly by those who’ve crossed me.”
“Like Alastair.”
“Exactly like Alastair.”
“I have no intention of crossing you, my lord.”
“Don’t you? Again, I say, how will I know? I was looking for your sleight of hand and could not see it. You will amaze my patrons as you did me, then you will make them wary. Whether or not you cheat is almost beside the point. If they suspect you are, they will not play.”
“You’re wrong,” she said quietly, but with conviction. “Though I don’t suppose you will give me the opportunity to prove it.”
“Just so.” Griffin took another sip of his coffee. “Is your brother so skilled?”
“I believe the answer to that is he owes you £1,000.”
“You have me there,” he admitted. “Does he know about your talent?”
“We’ve never discussed it.”
“No? Why not?”
“It did not seem prudent.”
“You mean he would have wanted you to teach him.”
Olivia’s hands tightened in her lap. “I suppose that’s what I meant.”
“How is it you learned and he didn’t?”
This was the question she’d been dreading. He’d been circling around it long enough to make her dizzy from the anticipation of it. She didn’t know until the words were out of her mouth that she would tell him the truth. “Alastair and I were not raised in the same home.”
Griffin had suspected as much. “He lived with Sir Hadrien?”
“Yes. And his mother.”
So Olivia and Alastair were half siblings. He’d wondered. “And you lived…?”
“Here and there.”
“That is rather less than specific.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but you are not entitled to more.”
He was not deterred. “With your mother?”
Olivia said nothing.
“It is not the worst of all things to be a bastard,” he said.
Her eyes darkened, and before she thought better of it, she said, “You know this from experience, I collect.”
Griffin sucked in a breath. He was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a fashion, even when he deserved it, and he supposed he deserved it now. “I spoke out of turn. I am not a bastard.”
“And neither am I. The truth is more prosaic. My mother died in childbirth and my father remarried.”
There was much more, of that Griffin had no doubt, but because he could not justify his interest, most especially to himself, he asked for no other particulars. He addressed the problem of her home and staff instead. “Let us agree that you will compose a letter to your housekeeper expressing your need to be away some weeks longer. You will include sufficient funds to pay your servants and your outstanding bills.”
“I haven’t such funds.”
“I’m well aware. That is why I shall make them available to you. Your housekeeper? Is she trustworthy?”
“Yes. She will carry out my wishes.”
“Good. You will give me an accounting of what you need and I shall arrange it. I will want to see the letter, naturally.”
“Naturally,” she said dully.
“Come, there is no cause for you to act defeated. You cannot seriously have supposed I would permit you to work the faro table when I do not even employ a single female on my staff. It is dangerous, as you have good reason to know.” He could not imagine that she needed to be reminded of the assault.
“This is different.”
“How so?”
“I would be engaged in my work in front of you. It does you no credit if I cannot not be safe with you in the same room.”
God’s truth, but there was some logic to her argument, although he wondered if she had any sense that he might pose the greatest danger to her. He’d meant what he’d said about not wanting another mistress, but he was not entirely opposed to a less formal arrangement, one that brought her around at his whim, not hers. He had been thinking of it of late, unable to ignore the fact that she was sleeping in his bed—without him.
The carnal thoughts were not easily dismissed, and in truth he had not put forth much effort to do so. Olivia Cole was appealing in an otherworldly fashion. Her ginger hair would not be tamed by combs or braids and the wildness of it made him think she had walked through fire. It was a vision supported by the fact that she had survived one.
Her eyes, with their faintly exotic slant and emerald coloring, invariably aroused his interest. On most occasions she offered a direct, even impudent, stare that he appreciated simply for its novelty. When she avoided his gaze, it was not because she was shy of a sudden, but because she was unable to shutter strong emotion. She hid it behind long lashes as she glanced off to one side, an expression that might easily be misconstrued as demure, but was in fact a response to fear.
It was difficult to know with any degree of certainty what made Olivia Cole afraid. She’d remained clear-eyed and level-headed facing her attacker and didn’t panic when fire began to consume the room. She’d been willing to incur his displeasure by not only leaving her room this morning, but presenting herself at his door. If he had to advance a theory, Griffin would say that the thing she feared most was herself.
That also intrigued, drawing him in when perhaps the wiser course would be to increase his distance.
He finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. Too many more nights on the chaise, he decided, and self-preservation would dictate that he present himself at her door.
“You are in expectation of a reply,” he said, studying her, “as if I might be inclined to change my mind. I am not so inclined. When your brother’s debt is finally settled to my satisfaction you will thank me that I did not permit you in the gaming rooms. You have some sort of society to which you will return. Your life will proceed more smoothly if it is not rumored that you were once the faro dealer at Breckenridge’s hell.”
“You know nothing about my society. It is not a consideration.”
Griffin thought he might throw up his hands in frustration. What kept them at his side was a suspicion that they might find their way to her throat. “You are relentless, Miss Cole.”
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.