by Goodman, Jo
On occasion she brought the thing to mind because she wondered what she might have done differently. She told herself that such reflection was necessary to learn how such an end might be avoided, but too often she found herself contemplating an end in which she didn’t turn her back on him.
Her humor was not improved for it.
Olivia rose from her bed and padded softly into the bathing room. A full week ago, she’d finally been able to return to the room she’d begun to think of as her own. The quiet suited her; the view from the window did not. She missed the rascals gathering on the street below Griffin’s room and the glimpses she’d had of the prostitutes in their finery. The activity at the back of the house was limited to wagons lumbering down the alley, tradesmen and tinkers approaching the rear entrance, and servants carrying out slops.
She could no longer hear Griffin moving about. If she was being strictly honest with herself—and she was inclined to be—Olivia could admit that she missed this proof that he was nearby most of all.
She was uncomfortable with the realization that she’d come to depend on him, though she could not define the precise nature of that dependency. It was the shelter, of course, but not that alone, and the opportunity to earn a wage, though not only that. They had established a tentative peace, a somewhat guarded mutual respect, and a conversational manner that was frequently all thrust and parry. He often knew the bent of her mind, while she found his impenetrable except on those rare occasions when he wanted it to be otherwise.
Olivia did not discount the protection she was afforded because she was residing in the gaming hell. Breckenridge’s hell. She found it peculiar that he wanted to safeguard her reputation when she had none worthy of such an effort. That she’d been able to defend herself against an intruder had left him singularly unimpressed. He seemed to embrace the notion that it should fall to him to repel all boarders, although he was not inclined to unduly restrain himself from advancing.
Still, she felt safe when she knew he was about, safer yet when he was near. The irony was not lost to her, and the taste of it was bittersweet.
When Olivia came out of her reverie, she was staring at her reflection and chewing lightly on her upper lip. Mocking herself, she wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out, then picked up her hairbrush and made a determined, ruthless pass through her flaming tangles.
It was her habit of late to eat in the kitchen with the staff, so when Beetle arrived carrying her breakfast she was immediately wary. When he informed her that Lord Breckenridge had taken his leave of them earlier and expected to be gone for several days, Olivia had to remind herself not to kill the messenger. No doubt Beetle had pulled the short straw when the servants were debating who should tell her. She took pity on the hapless lad and did not allow him to give her the remainder of the disappointing news, relating it to him instead.
“He means that I should stay here until he returns, I suppose,” she said. “In my room.”
Beetle stared at his shoes and nodded.
“Where did he go?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Does anyone?”
He glanced up, shrugged, then ducked his head again. “Mr. Mason, I expect, but he won’t tell you. He doesn’t tell anyone.”
“And who will oversee the operation of the hell in his lordship’s absence?”
“Mr. Gardner. He’s a right ’un, sure enough. And knows a thing or two about gaming. Heard tell of him nabbing a cheat once, right here in this house, so he’s a trustworthy bloke.”
Olivia could not recall that she’d ever heard Gardner’s name. She’d been formally introduced to very few of Breckenridge’s acquaintances while she dealt faro, and only, it seemed, when not doing so would have raised more questions than it settled. And while he appeared at his ease presenting her as Miss Ann Shepard and called her Honey with feigned affection, she suspected none of it set well with him.
“Mr. Gardner,” Olivia repeated. “Very well, I shall endeavor to make the best of it.”
Beetle looked up, grinned. “You’re a right ’un, too, miss, and that’s a fact.” Then he scurried off.
During Griffin’s absence Olivia cast her line a number of times hoping to learn his whereabouts. Mason mostly ignored her attempts, except for the occasion when he pointed out in rather dry tones that she was fishing in a poorly stocked lake. Truss seemed to be genuinely ignorant of Griffin’s destination, and what she managed to reel in from the rest of the staff was merely supposition.
Of Mr. Gardner, she saw nothing. That was disappointing because she imagined that the person Griffin most trusted to manage the hell would be likely to know things she was not privy to, though equally likely, she supposed philosophically, not to share any of them with her.
Her days took on the sameness that they’d had at the beginning. She read, walked, ate, and slept with little deviation from the routine. She worried about Alastair, about her home at Jericho Mews, about how long it would take her to repay the debt and what she would do once she saw the thing done.
She thought she’d known the answer to this last at one time, but she was no longer as certain of it. There were worse places to live than Putnam Lane and worse things to be than one lord’s mistress.
Someone stumbling hard on the stairs caused a vibration to shudder through the house. Curious, she went into the hall to investigate and more clearly heard the sounds of a scuffle. The hell was hours yet from opening its doors to the rich and the rabble, but she could not fathom that any of the servants were exchanging blows. Even allowing for the high spirits of Wick and Beetle it was difficult to imagine.
Prepared to put a period to the fisticuffs, Olivia ran to the top of the stairs. She was glad for the support of the banister when she got there.
Her brother had finally come for her, although from the white-knuckled hold Griffin had on Alastair’s throat, it appeared he was returning most reluctantly.
Olivia charged down the steps and wedged herself between the combatants. Several of the servants were already clustered at the foot of the stairs in anticipation of being called to lend assistance. Griffin, however, required none. It was her brother who was going to die.
“Release him,” Olivia said, pulling on Griffin’s hand. She tried to slip a finger under his palm. “You’re choking him. He cannot breathe! Can’t you see? He cannot breathe.”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight,” Griffin said. There was only a hint of strain in his voice. “Show your sister you can breathe, Mr. Cole.”
Alastair sucked in a wheezing, labored breath.
“There. You see? Your brother can breathe.”
Olivia gripped Griffin’s thumb and pulled on it. “Let him go, my lord.” Squeezed as she was between the two men, her own words sounded breathless. “Please.”
Over the top of Olivia’s head, Griffin made certain Alastair saw his displeasure and took note that what he would do was for Olivia, not for him. “As you wish.” He released Alastair and stepped back against the rail, then gestured that they should precede him up the stairs. Olivia offered her shoulder to her brother, who looked as if he might simply slide down the wall. Griffin watched them go, then after he was certain the staff dispersed, he followed.
“My study,” Griffin said when Olivia would have turned her brother toward her room.
She nodded jerkily and pointed out the room to Alastair, quite forgetting that he’d had occasion to visit it before. Once inside, she indicated the chaise and nudged her brother in that direction when his feet took root just beyond the threshold.
“May I pour him a whiskey?” she asked Griffin.
“No liquor,” he said flatly. “I am not convinced he is yet sober. You may ring for whatever else you like.”
Olivia glanced back at Alastair. She’d not smelled alcohol on his clothes or breath, but he sat like a man nursing a sore head, his shoulders hunched almost to the level of his ears.
“I cleaned him up,” Griffin said, divining her t
houghts.
Frowning, Olivia pulled the cord. She waited by the door for the footman while Griffin crossed the room to his desk. He hitched one hip at the front rather than taking up his chair. Olivia noticed his attention was all for Alastair and that her brother had yet to look up. She wondered that she did not feel at all sorry for him.
The footman arrived and she asked for a pot of tea. The silver tray, the china cups, the detail to pouring, all of it would lend an air of civility to whatever was to come. At least Olivia hoped it was so. She was not certain that Griffin could be moved a second time to release Alastair from his throttling grip.
Olivia went to the foot of the chaise but did not sit. Alastair, she noted, did not look at her. Neither man said anything, waiting, it seemed, for her to end the silence.
“You are uninjured?” she asked her brother.
Alastair kept his head down, the weight of it supported by his hands. He nodded, though it was an effort to do so.
“You look as if you might be ill. Shall I fetch a pail?”
Alastair merely grunted softly.
“That is an Aubusson rug beneath your feet, Alastair.” She did not mention that she had reason to know because she’d been sick on the very edge of that rug. “His lordship is likely to have some affection for the thing. We already know he has none for you.”
“I’m all of a piece,” he said.
“Then you will do me the favor of sitting up. If there is an explanation, I should like to see your face as you make it.”
Alastair straightened. He jerked his chin in Breckenridge’s direction. “Apply to him for an explanation.”
The corners of Olivia’s mouth sagged with disappointment. “Would you embarrass yourself further, Alastair? Would you embarrass me? I am entitled to hear something from you, am I not? You might begin, for example, with why his lordship had you by the throat.”
“It is obvious by now, is it not? I did not want to see you again. I was trying to avoid just this end.”
Griffin was more than a little surprised by Alastair Cole’s capitulation. For all that he made a querulous offering, it was nonetheless a confession. Of course, Griffin thought, he may have well given in as easily beneath Olivia’s take-no-prisoners gaze. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for her next volley, prepared to enjoy himself at Alastair’s expense. Instead, Olivia lobbed it at him.
“You are too smug by half, my lord. It is not in the least attractive.”
“So I have been given to understand.” He made no attempt to temper the smile she’d correctly observed as smug. “It is perhaps unfortunate in this instance that I am not a vain man.”
Olivia’s mouth flattened in disapproval, but she returned her attention to her brother. “Where have you been, Alastair?”
“You must know that I went to see our father. Didn’t Lord Breckenridge show you my note?”
“I read it. You didn’t mention Sir Hadrien. I think you meant for me to make that assumption.”
“I wrote that I was going to apply for an advance on my allowance. Pray, to what other person might I have gone?”
“Your mother, I imagine, though I did not consider it at the time.”
Twin coins of color appeared in Alastair’s cheeks. “No. She would not have been sympathetic.”
“Was Father?”
Alastair’s eyes darted away, then slowly returned to Olivia’s. He lifted his chin slightly. “No,” he said. “Under the circumstances, he was not at all inclined to help me.”
Olivia closed her eyes, momentarily light-headed with the fullness of the difficulty facing her. She reminded herself that nothing had truly changed. Hadn’t she been facing this very thing before his arrival? She had tried so hard not to hope that he might relieve her of the burden, but her disappointment was so profound that she realized some part of her had dared to imagine a different outcome.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Griffin stirring on the edge of the desk as if he was about to make a move to assist her. To prevent him from coming to her aid, she retreated a few steps until the back of her knees came in contact with a chair, then she sat. Alastair’s face was in full profile, every one of his features drawn down at the edges. If he noticed her distress, he was too full of self-pity to lend support.
“It is not unexpected,” she said quietly. “You must have known that Sir Hadrien was unlikely to be persuaded.”
He shrugged. “There was nothing for it but to ask.”
“Of course. It was the simplest solution.” She continued to regard his wretched profile and willed her heart neither to soften nor break. “You have been gone a very long time, Alastair. Did Father invite you to stay?”
“He did. Mother also.”
“I see.”
Alastair’s head swiveled sideways. “I didn’t, Olivia. I couldn’t. Two days, that was all I stayed. I journeyed back to London that quickly.”
“But not as far as Putnam Lane,” she said. “Where did you go? Where did his lordship find you?”
Alastair’s gaze slipped away again. He said nothing.
“Where did he find you?” she repeated. Because her brother could not, or would not, answer, she turned to Griffin. “My lord?”
“Jericho Mews,” Griffin said quietly.
Olivia thought it was fortunate that she’d chosen to sit. She pressed her palms to her midriff. It was as if she’d been pummeled. The ache was that real. “You returned home?” she asked her brother. “Is that true?”
“Only now and again. The rest of the time I stayed…”
When Alastair’s voice trailed off, Olivia looked again to Griffin for an answer.
“With his mistress. It is what made him difficult to locate.”
Olivia nodded, swallowed. “I didn’t realize you’d been looking for him. How long? From the beginning?”
Griffin did not answer immediately. He considered lying, but decided that she deserved to know the truth. If she was courageous enough to ask the question, then only one answer served. “Since your second evening at the faro table.”
“My second evening? I don’t under—” Then she did. Griffin’s search was not prompted by her dealing faro. He was moved to look for her brother because of the kiss they’d shared that same night. “I think you flatter yourself overmuch, my lord. Nothing would have ever come of it.”
Griffin’s half-smile teased with its mockery. “I do not flatter myself that I am anything save determined. You underestimate me, Miss Cole.”
Alastair’s eyes darted from Olivia to Breckenridge and could make no sense of what passed between them. Clearly, it was a matter to which neither wanted to make him privy. He latched on to the part he could comprehend. “You were dealing faro, Olivia? You?”
Still regarding Griffin, Olivia answered Alastair’s query absently, “A game or two, now and again.”
“Now and again?” Alastair snapped to attention, wearing indignation like a regimental uniform. He jutted his chin in Breckenridge’s direction. “You permitted my sister to stand at the gaming table and deal faro?”
Griffin shrugged as if the matter were of no consequence. “It was faro or vingt-et-un. I determined that faro was the better choice.”
Alastair shot to his feet and took a step forward before Breckenridge’s arched eyebrow stopped him in his tracks.
“You wish to say something?” asked Griffin. “Issue a challenge, perhaps?”
“I…um, I…No, that is…no.”
Olivia pressed the fingertips of her right hand to her temple and massaged the ache that was building there. “Sit down, Alastair,” she said quietly. “Be glad of his lordship’s perverse sense of humor, else you would find yourself counting off ten paces at dawn.”
Without conscious intent, Alastair’s hand went to his throat. He sat. The smattering of freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose were more pronounced against the paleness of his complexion. “You should not have been dealing faro,” he said. “What Father says about yo
u—”
Pained, Olivia cut him off. “Perhaps not. But you were not here to make your argument, were you?”
Griffin was careful not to show the least expression as Alastair’s neck seemed to shrink inside the stiff points of his collar. It was entirely possible that Olivia’s brother would seek refuge inside his frock coat like a turtle ducking into its shell. He cast his glance in Olivia’s direction, saw her stricken countenance, and followed the direction of her gaze to Alastair’s naked right hand.
Olivia’s voice was hardly more than a whisper, thick with disappointment and heavy with the ache of unshed tears. “Oh, Alastair. What have you done with the ring?”
He was immediately defensive and not a little petulant. “Done? Why should you think I have done anything?”
Olivia merely stared at him.
“Stolen,” he said, deflating slightly. “It was stolen from me.”
Olivia found it was possible to feel sorry for her brother. She asked Griffin, “Might I have some moments alone with Alastair, my lord?”
Griffin looked from one to the other, hesitating only briefly before he nodded. “Of course. I will wait outside.”
Olivia had not imagined he would give over his study to them, but that she and Alastair would make their way to her room. Her lips parted in advance of her protest, but his rather kind, compassionate smile kept her silent. That, too, was unexpected.
When he was gone, she stood and moved once more to the foot of the chaise. Alastair, as a matter of course, made room for her beside him. “Did you mean to simply leave me here?” Alastair was long in replying, which she supposed was its own sort of answer. “I see.”
He shook his head. “No. You shouldn’t think it was ever my intention, Olivia. Not at the outset.” He darted her a sideways look. “But after Father refused me, and as the days passed with no turn of fortune that would have helped me make good on my losses, I reasoned my way into believing you were better served in Breckenridge’s care than in mine. I have not done well by you, sister. I do not imagine that will change.”