Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  “He sold me, did he not?”

  “Christ.” The muscle jumped again. It was uncomfortably close to the truth. He ran a hand through his hair. “It may be his view, but it is not mine. There is no bill of sale.”

  “There is Alastair’s marker.”

  “Already returned to him,” Griffin said. Thrust in his face, he could have said. He wished now that he would have forced her brother to chew and swallow the damnable thing.

  “So I am yours.”

  “If you like.”

  Olivia did not reply. She fingered the card he’d flicked away earlier and returned it to the proper stack. “Did you know his ring was stolen before I asked him about it?”

  “Yes. He mentioned it on the way here.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “I suspect it was not an entire untruth.”

  Her eyes darted to his face. “You are generally more forthright.”

  “I think it is safe to assume he lost it in a card game, most likely a crooked one, if my sources are to be credited.” Before she asked about his sources, he told her. “Misters Fairley and Varah. You will remember them, I think.”

  “Indeed. So they assist in matters other than the removal of women from their homes. How enterprising they are.”

  “On occasion. They observed your brother on successive nights at Crocker’s club, deep in his cups and light in his pockets. I did not know then that he was in London, so their intelligence was appreciated. Do you recall that I told you about Crocker? He operates one of the lowest circles of Dante’s hell. It was most unwise of Alastair to set any money down there, particularly unwise that it should have been at faro. Crocker’s dealer uses a box.”

  She had yet another reason to shake her head sadly at Alastair’s judgment. “A good player knows when a box has been rigged.”

  “Perhaps. I am quite certain you would. I’ve watched you track every card played, so I know you are entirely capable of seeing the deception, but your brother was already in desperate straits and unlikely to have been watching much beyond his own dwindling reserves.”

  Olivia slowly turned over three cards and made her play while her mind was otherwise engaged. “If Alastair was desperate, it wasn’t because he wanted to honor the debt he owed you. He already had determined that he would not return for me.”

  Griffin could not fault her conclusion. “That seems to be the hard truth,” he said quietly.

  She was oddly grateful that he did not pretend it was otherwise.

  “Your eight of spades plays on the nine of hearts.”

  “What?”

  He pointed out the move she was going to miss if she turned the cards again.

  “Oh. Thank you.” She made the play, then continued as if there had been no interruption. “How did Alastair take the ring back from you? You told me you’d put it in your desk. That little drawer where you drew out his marker, it would be a secret from most people, wouldn’t it?”

  Griffin rose and stabbed at the fire, then added more coals. “I have always wondered that you did not ask. It caused me to consider that you already knew.” When her head came up sharply, he was glad of it. For a moment the glazed look of defeat vanished from her eyes as she prepared to take umbrage with his assumption. He put up one hand to forestall her. “It was a reasonable conclusion, and you know it. Your brother’s marker was so outrageous that what was I to think except that you were party to his suggestion?”

  It was difficult to remain offended when she could not fault his logic. “You might have asked,” she said mildly. “Though I don’t suppose you would have had cause to believe me.”

  “It did not seem so at the time.” Griffin returned to his perch on the arm of the chair. Before he settled completely, he reached across the table and made a play for her that she was in danger of missing.

  “That is annoying,” she said.

  “Yes, I know.” He was unrepentant. “My sisters have said the same when they are at cards. I cannot help myself.” When he leaned forward again, she lightly slapped his hand away. He grinned, mostly because she did not look at all abashed. He sat back, folded his arms, and was largely content watching her.

  “You have not answered my question,” she reminded him after a time. “The ring. How did Alastair take it from you?”

  “He didn’t. Not precisely. He had an accomplice.”

  “An accomplice? One of your own staff?” Even as she put the question to him, she knew the answer lay elsewhere. He had the loyalty of everyone who worked for him, and more than one servant had been moved to remark that he was a generous employer. Olivia could not conceive that Alastair had been able to persuade one among them to come to his aid. But if not a servant, then who?

  Watching her, Griffin knew the precise moment Olivia hit upon the answer. Her eyes widened beneath raised eyebrows; her hands ceased to turn the cards. She stared at him, looking to him for confirmation of her thoughts before she gave them voice. He nodded once.

  “Mrs. Christie?” She breathed the name more than said it and, conscious of insult, still posed it as a question.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Christie.”

  “You have always known?”

  “I have always suspected. I knew when I said as much to her and she did not deny it. She wanted me to know but did not possess the courage to say as much aloud. I broke off our arrangement, but in her mind she has had the last word.”

  A small vertical crease appeared between Olivia’s eyebrows. “It seems you had a complicated arrangement.”

  He shrugged. “Perhaps it was. It was straightforward at the outset, at least to my way of thinking. Such entanglements as there were, were of her making. I did not encourage them.”

  He would believe that, Olivia thought, and she felt something akin to pity for Mrs. Christie. She could imagine that Griffin’s former mistress had allowed herself to hope; therein were born the entanglements. “A woman scorned,” she said softly, more to herself than to Griffin.

  “One motivation, certainly,” said Griffin.

  “But you hadn’t yet ended your arrangement.”

  “No, but she was entirely capable of seeing the road ahead. She may have known before I did that we would part ways soon. It is very much like her to plan for such an end.”

  “But to help Alastair…” Olivia could not quite grasp the sense of it beyond Mrs. Christie’s desire for revenge.

  “You are his sister,” Griffin said gently. “His older sister, in fact. The truth does not come so easily when we fail to see our loved ones as someone outside their relationship to us.”

  Olivia blinked as the import of his observation was borne home to her. “They were lovers?”

  He smiled because she was so clearly astonished. “You knew there was a woman.”

  “Yes, but…” She shook her head. “But Mrs. Christie? It is beyond my comprehension.”

  “Judging by the attention your brother received here—from women, I might add, who were clearly attached to their gentlemen escorts—I can attest to the fact that his face and figure were much admired.”

  Olivia waved that aside. “I am very aware that Alastair is possessed of a handsome face and figure, my lord, and for that matter, a handsome income as well, but he is not you.”

  Griffin found himself the object of Olivia’s frank study. It was never easy being on the receiving end of such regard, which was why he often was the one initiating it. He suffered it for several long moments before he was struck by the humor of it.

  “Have a care, Olivia, else I will think you mean to flatter me.”

  “Of course you will think that. You are ever hopeful. Still, at the risk of encouraging you, I must underscore my point that Alastair is not so well favored as you, financially or in any other way.”

  It was then that Griffin was compelled to point out what she’d allowed herself to forget. “He is also not married.”

  Chapter Eight

  Olivia lay awake long after the house quieted. The
candle at her bedside had flickered out sometime earlier, and it was the fire’s meager light that stretched across the floor toward her. She had participated in the closing rituals that put the hell to bed for the night and prepared it for the following day’s business. Until this evening, Griffin had never permitted her to have any role or responsibilities after the patrons departed. It was not that he assigned her any particular tasks tonight, but that he didn’t stop her from taking part. She’d felt his eyes on her on at least two separate occasions, but he never interfered, and when he removed the money boxes from the gaming rooms and took them to his study, he did not insist she accompany him.

  She was both glad of it and confused by it.

  Olivia turned on her side and burrowed deeper into the bedcovers. She wondered if Mrs. Christie had ever known such disconcertion in her dealings with Griffin. If she had, it might have been reason enough to seek out Alastair. He was infinitely less complicated, though Olivia supposed that was as much because of his youth as his predilection for making the easy choices. Her brother’s naïveté might have been appealing to a woman weary of another man’s suspicious nature.

  Alastair’s heirloom ring had likely garnered Mrs. Christie’s interest at the outset; his connection to Sir Hadrien had probably sustained it. The woman’s sense of being wronged by Griffin went a long way to keeping her at Alastair’s side and quite possibly provoked her to help him steal back his ring.

  Olivia wondered if Mrs. Christie had been the first to propose the theft or if perhaps Alastair had put the idea before her. It rarely occurred to Alastair to guard his tongue. If he had a thought, he was pleased to speak it aloud, though most often it was simply to turn over an idea in his mind. Olivia recalled being disconcerted by her brother’s conversational asides until she realized he wasn’t really speaking to her. Mrs. Christie may not have understood that much of what tripped so easily from Alastair’s tongue was meant to be ignored.

  Still, it was Alastair who was the author of the marker. She could not put the responsibility for that on Mrs. Christie’s shoulders.

  All the rest, though, fell to her. She was the one who would have known Griffin was not wearing the ring, the one privy to the drawer where he’d hidden it, the one with ease of access to the hell and the freedom to move through its halls and rooms without calling attention to herself.

  Mrs. Christie must be well pleased that the consequences of her theft were so far reaching. She had not only retaliated against his lordship in fine style, but she had relieved her new protector of his most onerous burden. All in all, it was a good piece of work if one shared her eye-for-an-eye sense of justice.

  Olivia did not.

  Wearily, she lifted her head just enough to plump the pillow under her. If she could not settle her mind, sleep would never come. It did not seem to matter that she was tired almost beyond bearing—she was still seized by a restlessness that made it impossible to find comfort in her own skin. She wished that she might throw it off as easily as her bedclothes or shed it like her nightgown.

  When long minutes passed and she realized she would not sleep, Olivia finally surrendered, tossing the blankets aside and scrambling out of bed. She shrugged into her robe just as her teeth began to chatter and danced a bit on the cold floor until she found her slippers. She paused in front of the fireplace, taking advantage of its meager heat before she dashed out of the room.

  Olivia did not think better of her flight until she arrived at Griffin’s door. She stared at it, gently tested its handle, then paced off a dozen steps on either side of it before she determined there was nothing for it but that she should go forward.

  “Did you mean to be stealthy?” Griffin asked as Olivia backed herself into his room. “If so, you are sadly out of it.”

  Olivia jumped and spun. She squealed. The high-pitched sound was altogether unfamiliar to her, and she clamped one hand over her mouth so neither of them would have to hear it again.

  Griffin touched one palm to his ear. “That was unpleasant.”

  “You scared me to death.”

  “Obviously not.”

  She glared at him, hoping the expression was not lost in the dimly lighted room. In the manner of an accusation, she asked, “Why are you still awake?”

  Griffin’s eyebrows rose in tandem. “Because I am not asleep?” He lifted the book resting on his lap. “I find reading requires a conscious mind, though apparently not the writing of it.” He closed the book and laid it aside. “This work is wholly impenetrable.”

  Curious, Olivia approached the bedside table and lifted the leather-bound book before he could pull it back. Laughter stuttered from her lips. “Why, it is a Gothic novel. You, my lord, are a fraud. It could not be a more straightforward tale, and the writing is elegant in its precision.”

  Griffin knew himself to be vaguely abashed. He held out his hand for the book. “A guilty pleasure,” he said, reaching out to snatch it from her. When he laid it down this time, he purposely set it on his other side. “I have not failed to notice that you are not sleeping either. As it seems unlikely that you came here to discuss literature, and as you were bent on slipping into my room without announcing yourself, it would perhaps be prudent to explain yourself at this juncture.”

  “I was going to wake you,” she said somewhat defensively.

  “I should hope so.” He adjusted a pillow at the small of his back and rested his head against the polished walnut headboard. “It is disconcerting to think you meant to smother me in my sleep.”

  Olivia blinked. “I would not—oh, you are teasing. I didn’t realize…” She took a steadying breath, pressed her palms flat against her thighs. “There was no discussion of what you will require of me. When we did not speak of it earlier, it did not occur to me that we would not speak of it at all.”

  “Is it so important that we speak of it now?”

  “Yes. I think it is.” Otherwise she would never sleep, although she knew better than to tell him that. “You will have some terms, I collect, and I should like to know what they are.”

  “I did not put them to paper, Olivia.” He moved his legs to one side and made room for her on the edge of the bed. “Sit down. Come. You have already bearded the lion.”

  Olivia sat. She folded her hands in her lap and stared straight ahead, giving him only her profile limned in candlelight.

  “I suppose you wish I’d been sleeping,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “Could I have expected you to crawl into my bed? Mayhap wind your arms around me? Your knees at the back of mine? It is not an unpleasant way to be awakened. Is that what you meant to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Griffin gave her full marks for not dissembling. “Why?”

  “To have done with it.”

  He chuckled low in his throat. “Pray, do not spare my feelings.”

  She glanced at him, unapologetic but mildly embarrassed that she had been so forthright. “I was unaware any of your feelings were engaged. If that is the case, I will choose my words more carefully.”

  He shook his head. “I hope you will not. Candor is an admirable quality and not practiced nearly often enough. I recall you telling me on the occasion of our first meeting that you are not a romantic.”

  Had she? “I find it odd that you remember.”

  “I remember a great many things from that interview. You also informed me that while you were not by inclination a romantic, you held out the hope that others might be.”

  “Fodder for poets and dreamers, else what would they have to hang their hats on?”

  Griffin studied her profile. Its unlined purity was in complete contrast to her rather jaded perspective. “Have you ever been in love?”

  “No.” Then, because he said he appreciated her candor, she turned to him a second time and pinned him with an inquiring glance. “Have you?”

  He did not answer immediately, not because he was searching for the proper response, but because he was trying to decide if he would
give her any response at all. What loyalty did he owe his wife? What explanation did he owe Olivia? “Yes,” he said. “Once. And briefly.”

  She regarded him steadily, satisfied with his answer. He did not have the look of a gentleman eager to reacquaint himself with that thorny emotion. “Perhaps we will suit, you and I.”

  “It’s occurred to me also.”

  Olivia nodded, looked away. “Will you want me to undress?”

  “Eventually.” Griffin leaned forward and unclasped her hands, drawing one into his. “But I suspect you will be cold if you do so outside of the covers. Your hands are already like ice.” He tugged so gently that she could have mistaken it for her own movement toward him. With his free hand he raised the bedclothes. “Come. You will find it considerably warmer on this side of the blankets.”

  Olivia used the toe of one foot to remove the slipper on the other. When the second slipper dropped to the floor, she slid in beside him and unbelted her robe. He helped her out of it, tossing it at the foot of the bed, but he did not draw her down as she expected he would. He gave her part of his pillow instead, and she supported herself against the headboard just as he did. Her shoulder lay against his upper arm; his fingers remained laced in hers.

  “Are you breathing?” he asked. “You do not sound as if you are breathing.”

  She sipped the air. “I am now. Thank you.”

  He smiled. He realized of a sudden that he appreciated her company. “If you wish, we can sit for a time. I cannot think of a single reason that we should rush our fences.” He gave her hand a squeeze, laughter lurking at the back of his throat. “Other than your earnest desire to—how did you describe it?—yes, to have done with it.”

  “You are enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

  Borrowing her words, he said, “I am now. Thank you.”

  Olivia closed her eyes. His thumb was making a pass across the back of her hand. She tried to think about only that, but her head throbbed anyway. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and the crease between her eyebrows with her forefinger. “I hope you do not always mean to be so agreeable,” she said quietly. “It will be better if you are not too kind.”