by Goodman, Jo
Olivia trusted that was so. His anger was well checked today, but she did not think she would have cared to witness it last night when every one of her own nerves was so tautly stretched. She acknowledged his restraint. “It was a kindness that you waited. Thank you.”
“I didn’t do it for you.”
She nodded. “I know, but it’s true I benefited.”
A small crease appeared between Griffin’s eyebrows as he continued to regard her closely. “Are you being clever, I wonder. If so, you should know that I am not easily taken in.”
“I thought I was being honest. If you think there is something clever in that, I will not attempt to dissuade you.”
He raised his cup once more to his lips, wishing—not for the first time—that he had more whiskey in the thing than tea. He drank, set the cup down, and allowed himself a small admission. “I cannot say that you have met or exceeded my expectations, Miss Cole, since I conceived of none, but I think there is no harm in telling you that I find you to be a most singular individual. I offer no judgment as to the good or bad of it. It is simply that I want to acknowledge a certain peculiarity of character about you that I find more intriguing than annoying.”
Olivia tilted her head a fraction as she took in the import of his words. “Then I have missed the mark, my lord, for I did so wish to be annoying.”
A glimmer of a smile played along his mouth. “It is my perversity, I’m afraid, not yours, that makes it thus. We shall have to, both of us, endeavor to go forward. Now, I should like to have your brother’s marker returned to me. It is crushed in one of your fists, I believe.”
Olivia saw no merit in pretending to be surprised by his observation. She would have liked to destroy Alastair’s marker, true, but she also would have liked to have accomplished the thing without being caught out. It was borne home to her once more that very little escaped his lordship’s notice. She stood and handed over the note.
“You show considerable restraint yourself, Miss Cole. For a moment I thought you might dunk it in your tea.”
She might have, had it occurred to her. “It’s yours,” she said simply.
“So was the ring…briefly.” He ran the side of his hand over the note, smoothing it out so he could then fold it neatly. When he was done he returned it to the cubby he’d taken it from, then sat back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers as he considered what must be done.
“I presume you know your brother better than I. What do you predict he will do?”
“He will speak to our father.”
“Will he? You don’t think he’ll run off? I had the sense that he was almost pleading with me to take you. I considered that he wanted to relieve himself of the responsibility, though how he can be your caretaker or guardian surpasses my understanding. He is an unlikely candidate for the role since he is in no fashion responsible for himself.”
“He won’t run off.”
“Even if Sir Hadrien refuses his request?” Griffin saw her hesitate and knew he had hit the mark directly. “You are not so certain now, are you? Has Mr. Cole any other means of raising so much of the ready?”
“I cannot say.”
“Which means he doesn’t.”
“It means I cannot say. My brother does not confide everything to me.”
“Why not? He writes that you are clever and resourceful. Vastly clever. Why does he not avail himself of such intelligence as you are alleged to possess?”
“Although I am older by three years, Alastair has recently come to fancy himself my protector.”
So she was four and twenty. He’d wondered. “God help you, then.”
Olivia set her mouth in a disapproving line. “You tell your sisters all, I collect.”
Hoist by his own petard, Griffin admitted that he did not. His exact words were, “Perish the thought.”
“Just so. My brother determines what I must know. It is frustrating and worrisome, but telling him that changes nothing. He promises he will do better, but he is a man, and thinks he must have his secrets from me.”
Griffin considered this, uncertain what he could believe. “Would regularly visiting this establishment and others like it be one of his secrets?”
“In a manner of speaking. I knew he enjoyed making wagers and participated frequently in the sort of silly speculations that young men take into their heads. You must be familiar with such things. Will the hack driver turn right or left at the next crossroads? How many pitchers of ale can the serving girl balance on her tray without mishap? Will it rain before noon, do you think? Snow? Hail? Can a certain gentleman deep in his cups still have his way with the—”
Raising one hand, Griffin stopped her. “I am familiar,” he said dryly. “The hack driver, by the way, usually turns left, and four pitchers is generally as many as a serving girl can manage.”
“It is good information to have.” Given a tray large enough, she could carry six pitchers. That peculiar talent was not something she intended to share with the viscount. “My point is that I was aware of Alastair’s wagering. That he was frequenting your establishment or any other hell was unknown to me.”
“You lived in the same house.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you think he was going of an evening?”
Olivia’s eyes dropped to her hands. The teacup she was holding between them was growing cold. There was little enough of the tea left, and she determined that she must drink the last of it.
“Your avoidance of an answer can only be temporary at best,” Griffin pointed out. “I will have the truth—or some version that passes for it—from you.”
Olivia smiled politely, if somewhat coolly, and finished her drink. She replaced the cup in the saucer and moved both to the desk, resting them on top of a short stack of papers so there would be no risk to the finely polished wood grain. “Is it your practice to use thumbscrews?” she asked, sitting back once more. “Or must I steel myself for the rack?”
Griffin said nothing for a moment. His sigh conveyed more in the way of disappointment than frustration. “You are least amusing when you are trying be.”
Olivia felt her cheeks warming. Effort was required not to flinch in response to his dark, unwavering gaze. With a stare such as he possessed, thumbscrews and the rack were superfluous.
“If you must know, and apparently you must,” she said, “I believed my brother was visiting a lady friend.”
This was a bit of intelligence that Griffin had not anticipated. The larger question for him was if it had any basis in fact. “What made you think so?”
“Small things. His attention to his appearance. His restlessness of an evening as the hour grew late. The time he spent at his desk dealing with correspondence. I don’t believe he was ever so diligent as he appeared to be recently. It may be that he was only preparing markers similar to the one he left for you. I couldn’t know that, naturally. I imagined he was writing sonnets.”
“Sonnets.”
“Do young men not compose them any longer?”
“Not since Byron set the standard beyond what mere mortals can put to paper.”
“Well,” Olivia said flatly, “I thought he was writing sonnets.”
“Let us pursue what you thought a bit longer. Was there a particular female you considered a candidate for your brother’s affections?”
She shook her head. “No one, I’m afraid. There were no introductions. I am…I am not often about in society.”
Griffin wondered at her hesitation. There was a moment there when he was certain she was choosing her words carefully. He decided not to press further into the reasons for her isolation. It was true enough, he knew, else how had she not come to his attention when he’d first made inquiries about her brother? Neither had those inquiries revealed evidence of a paramour or mistress. The absence of such information was troubling, although he allowed that Olivia Cole’s assumptions could be without foundation. It did seem possible, however, that Alastair Cole’s evenings out wer
e occupied with more than visiting the gaming hells, and Griffin realized that in addition to everything else he was confronting of late, he now had to concern himself with the reliability of his sources. If he could not trust that he was being given all the information, then he could trust none of it.
“It may be that your brother did not consider his lady friend suitable for introduction,” Griffin said. “That must have occurred to you.”
It was just as likely that the reverse was true, but Olivia did not offer that. “It did enter my mind that Alastair had set up a mistress. I suppose that when I noticed there were less funds to deal with the household accounts, I considered it more acceptable that he would squander his allowance on love of a woman than love of gaming or drink.”
Griffin’s narrow, crooked smile held a hint of derision. “You are a romantic, then.”
“No. Not at all. But I hold out hope that others might be.”
She had surprised him again. Intrigued him, really. “I confess this day is turning out as nothing I could have foreseen.”
Did he imagine it was any different for her? In spite of Alastair’s note stating his intentions and her own words to the contrary, she was not convinced that her brother was on his way to Sir Hadrien’s. If he’d thought of some other scheme to raise the money, he would be engaging in it now rather than journeying to their father’s.
“Can you tell me what your brother meant by the turn of phrase: she will reward you in ways you cannot imagine?”
Olivia saw that Breckenridge did not consult her brother’s marker. Evidently he had memorized the contents as well. She sought out a place of tranquility in her mind—this time a wheat field made golden by sunshine—and lay herself down at its very center. With panic momentarily quelled, she answered with preternatural calm. “You must not make too much of it. It is the sort of hyperbole that Alastair is wont to make when the truth does not serve.”
“And the truth in this case would be…?”
“That I am of no particular value to anyone, my lord. I have no funds, nor any hope of securing them. I have no happy talents. My interests are pedestrian and unlikely to change. I cannot say that I have any particular accomplishments. I do not play the pianoforte. Neither do I sing, paint, embroider, or ride. It would take considerable time to name all the things I cannot do, do not want to do, and will not do, so I hope you will spare us both that exercise.”
Griffin was silent a moment, taking it in. “I see. Then tell me why I should keep you here.”
“I can think of no reason.” She all but leapt to her feet.
“You are not an exclamation point, Miss Cole. Sit down.”
She sat. Slowly. “It seemed you were on the point of dismissing me.”
“You would do well not to assume you know the bent of my mind.” He leaned forward in his chair and set his forearms and folded hands on the desk. Tapping his thumbs lightly, he regarded Olivia Cole without expression. He owned that she suffered his direct study without demonstrating the least discomfort. Judging by the angle of her chin and the brightness in her eyes, she was preparing to challenge him if he gave her cause.
“Let us be clear, Miss Cole, that even if you are the single most unaccomplished female of my acquaintance, you are still worth a sum of £1,000. That your brother would have me believe you are worth something more than that, I am willing to credit to his affection for you and a healthy regard for his own skin. He could hardly say you were worth less, then offer you—however temporarily—in place of his debt. You can agree with that, can’t you?”
Although it was reluctantly offered, Olivia nodded shortly.
“It is also true, though perhaps not so obvious, that the longer you remain under my roof, the larger your brother’s debt grows and your worth increases. I cannot conceive that you are less expensive to accommodate than any other of the females that I know.”
“Perhaps you will be pleasantly surprised, my lord. I do not require that you accommodate me. In deference to my brother’s predicament, you can rest assured that I will ask for as little as necessary to assure my survival.”
“Then I will be surprised. It is my experience that women who begin by having the fewest needs soon come to a place where they must needs have it all. If you prove to be the exception, your brother and I will both have cause to thank you.”
“Might I know what your intentions are?” asked Olivia.
“My intentions? Yes, I suppose they are uppermost in your mind. I believe I mentioned that you will have a room prepared for you, be attended by a physician, eat a meal that you can keep down, and have the comfort of your own possessions as they will be brought here. Other than the visit by the physician, I imagine every day will be like every other. You will eat, rest, entertain yourself, and stay well away from the activities in this house.”
Olivia listened to this and knew a profound sense of relief. It struck her that perhaps she should have had more faith in Alastair’s judgment. He had been in desperate straits, true enough, to suggest that Breckenridge accept her in place of the ring, but he hadn’t precisely sent her into a lion’s den. The viscount was not without scruples, it seemed, and he appeared to have no designs upon her person. She was under no illusions that Alastair’s admonition to Breckenridge that he show more care for her than he’d shown for the ring carried the weight of threat with his lordship. He would do as he pleased.
“I should like to return to my residence to pack my things,” Olivia said. She held out no real hope that he would allow it, but it was not an unreasonable suggestion.
“No. Your maid, or someone you deem better able to make decisions regarding your wardrobe, will have to do it. Otherwise, the task will fall upon someone of my choosing.”
“As you wish. I think I should offer some explanation for my absence, don’t you?”
“And so it begins,” he said under his breath. “She who has no needs is already asking for paper, pen, and ink.” He pushed all of it in her direction. “You may compose your missive here. Be certain that I intend to read it.”
Pulling her chair closer to the edge of his desk, Olivia murmured her agreement. With Breckenridge poised to take the paper immediately from her possession, she had little choice but to be brief and believable. She considered several different introductions, then decided that bold was best.
Olivia barely lifted the quill as she wrote, waiting until her words disappeared to nothingness before she deigned to dip her pen in the ink. She scratched out five sentences, read them over for legibility and accuracy, then signed her name. The ink had not yet dried when Breckenridge took it from her.
“Who is Mrs. Beck?” he asked, glancing up at her.
“Our housekeeper.”
“She will not question this?”
“I don’t believe so. She suspected Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah were from Bow Street, and she is aware we spent very little time together before I left with them. I think she will be relieved to learn that they were friends of Alastair come to take me to him. As he has been gone from the house most of this last sennight, it seems reasonable to suggest that he has fallen ill and that I am to attend him.”
“You make no mention of where that is precisely.”
“I thought you might suggest something. It is not appropriate that I should put this residence.”
Griffin conceded the point. “Very well. To allay the concerns of your staff and avoid any true confrontation with Bow Street, let us agree your brother is recuperating at Wright Hall in Surrey.”
“Really?” she asked. “Surrey? Why there?”
“Because that is bloody hell where I say he is.”
She blinked.
Ignoring her startled look, Griffin bent to the task of adding the address as a postscript. He glanced over the missive and decided it would do. Tempering his impatience to be done with this thing, he said, “You have requested only one trunk. Will that be sufficient?”
“I will not be here long.”
He made a s
ound at the back of his throat that she was meant to take for skepticism and put the letter aside. “Someone will show you to your room directly. It should be ready by now, and you will wait there for my physician.”
It was the butler Truss who escorted Olivia to her room. He hadn’t much to say as he was clearly discomfited by her presence. Her bedchamber, he told her, was on the same floor as the viscount’s, but at the rear of the townhouse. He mentioned it only because he wanted her to know that he hadn’t put her in the servants’ quarters as it didn’t seem fitting. He made a point to explain that every other room in the establishment had a most particular purpose and that she wasn’t to be in any one of them without the express consent of Breckenridge himself.
Olivia had no reservations about agreeing to that.
The bedchamber was more than adequate for her needs. She was surprised to find that a small bathing room adjoined it. The copper tub was of such ridiculously large dimensions that she was sure the water would be cooled before it could be sufficiently filled. She had to squeeze around the tub to reach the washstand. Bracing her arms on the marble top, she confronted her reflection once again. In spite of her embarrassing bout of sickness, she could see that her color had improved since earlier this morning. Such was the influence of the viscount. Olivia counted it as a good thing she would not have to endure another interview with him during her stay. He was as desirous of ignoring her presence as she was desirous of being ignored.
All things considered, it could be much, much worse.
Olivia removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair. She glanced around and saw that no brush had been provided. Using one of the combs and her fingers, she managed to weed the small knots from her hair and finally tamed it in a thick braid. To secure the plait, she removed the ribbon that defined her bodice and wrapped it around the tail. Satisfied, she poured water into the washstand bowl and applied a damp flannel to her face and throat.