by Goodman, Jo
And because she said it with the perfect proportions of seriousness and sauce, Griffin was moved to abandon his ledger, lean across the space that separated them, and drop a kiss on her slightly parted lips.
“What was that in aid of?” she asked when he drew back.
“Must there be a reason? Sometimes one simply wants to satisfy an impulse.” He saw her frown, closed the ledger, and crossed his arms to regard her frankly. “Do you imagine we’ve done that already?”
She knew he was referring to their one night and morning together. It was the exact thought in her head as well. “I supposed that it must be so. You did not ask me to join you again.”
“Again? I did not invite you to join me the first time.”
That stung, but Olivia held her head up. “You did not send me away.”
“No, I didn’t, did I? Do you recall that you wanted to have done with it?”
Her words, held up to her once more. She released her breath slowly. “Naturally, I recall it.”
“Can you not conceive that I might have wanted something more?”
“Something more? I allowed you to make free with me. If you want something else you must say it plainly, else how am I to know? I haven’t your talent for reading minds.”
Afraid he might pull her from his chair and shake her, Griffin stood and stepped away from the desk. “I want you to come to me of your own accord, not because you think it’s some bloody requirement. When did I give you cause to think I held you in so little regard? I am not your brother, nor your father, nor apparently like any of the men of your acquaintance.”
He saw her begin to shrink in her chair and reconsidered the last. Perhaps he was exactly like every other man she’d known. Bullying. Demanding. Selfish. He blew out a breath, disgusted with himself, and plowed his fingers through his disheveled hair. “That was unforgivable. I apologize.”
Olivia’s fingers remained firm on the chair’s curved arms, pressed whitely against the leather. It kept her from shrinking farther into the chair, further into herself. She stared at him, dry-eyed, watchful.
Griffin was struck that she was seeing him through the eyes of a wounded child, one without hope, without spirit, and suddenly he knew the question he wanted her to answer. “Before you came to my room, Olivia, how old were you the last time you were in a man’s bed?”
He thought she might flinch, but she was already too frozen to do that. Still, she answered him, though he had to strain to hear it.
“Twelve,” she said. “I was twelve.” Defiance covered the wounds. “And though you did not ask, I will answer the companion question. I was six.”
Griffin was the one who flinched.
Olivia heaved herself out of the chair. “You should have considered your question more carefully. There are some things that no one should know.” She brushed past him and made a quiet, dignified exit.
Olivia woke with a head as thick as paste and thumping like a drum. Moaning softly, she pushed herself upright, though nothing was improved for it. She reached for the glass of water at her bedside and realized simultaneously that the thumping was not entirely in her head. She recognized Wick as the one industriously beating on her door. One could be forgiven for concluding there had been a general call to arms announced by Wellington himself.
He strode directly to the bed after she bid him enter. “His lordship requests your company at breakfast,” he announced importantly. “He said I should tell you it would be a kindness to him.”
Remembering how they parted, Olivia was uncertain if she wished to do him any kindness. Before she could decide, however, Wick was lining up her slippers and holding out her robe.
“He will have scones, miss. Cook made them fresh this morning. And he requested hot cocoa as well. That’s to please you because he never drinks it when he’s dining alone.”
Griffin’s strategy was obvious, but effective. Using Wick to deliver the message was probably his best tactic since Olivia did not like to think of sending the boy back to Griffin with her refusal. “Go,” she said, waving him off. “Tell him I will be there shortly. Wait. Leave my robe. Thank you.”
She joined Griffin a half hour later after performing her ablutions, braiding her hair, and choosing a simple hunter green day dress from her wardrobe. He was also dressed and looking very fine in a black frock coat and trousers, a pewter gray waistcoat, a startling white linen, and a precisely knotted neckcloth. He rose when she entered the bedroom suite and made a short bow. It was almost ridiculously formal, and it rather made her feel like weeping because he was trying so hard.
“Will you join me?” he asked when she hesitated just inside the doorway.
“Yes, of course.” He held out a chair for her and eased her toward the table as she sat. “Thank you.”
Griffin returned to his seat. “May I serve you?”
“Yes, if you like, but do not fill my plate. I haven’t the appetite for it.”
He wasn’t surprised. Except for the transparent violet shadows beneath her eyes, her complexion was wan. It was obvious she had slept no better than he last night. He cut a warm scone in half, added a dollop of sweet butter, and placed it on her plate. He indicated the eggs, but she shook her head. He gave her a rasher of crisp bacon instead and poured a cup of cocoa for her.
It was only when she bit delicately into her bacon that he buttered the other half of the scone for himself. “I wonder if you will permit me to escort you on your daily walks. Mason will be devastated, of course, but I have had my fill of the green-eyed monster and wish to take a turn with you myself.”
She blinked. Twice. She held the strip of bacon like a dart that she might toss at any moment.
Eyeing the bacon warily, Griffin continued. “I understand if you would prefer my valet’s company. He has his faults, but prying into the affairs of others is not one of them.”
Green-eyed monster? she wondered. He was jealous of Mason? He might have confessed to any number of failings more believable than that. But what if he’d meant it? “May I assume that you are done protecting my reputation?”
“At your peril. We can hardly put Miss Ann Shepard to rest, can we?” He paused a beat. “Honey.”
“I so dislike the hairpieces,” she said on a sigh.
Griffin had no liking for them either. Even confined in a braid, he preferred the natural, dramatic fire of her hair to the more conventionally colored wigs. “A necessary evil. There is still your father to consider.”
Olivia understood much better now how Sir Hadrien could impede Griffin’s financial recovery. Her father would do it, too, if her position in the hell became known publicly. All he had ever required of her was anonymity, and until she moved in with her brother, she’d never challenged him. “Very well,” she said. “I am agreeable. Will you walk with me this morning?”
“I will. I shall have to inform Mason directly, but we can leave in—” He cocked his head toward the door, frowning at the interruption. “Go away.”
Olivia hid her smile behind her hand when the door opened and Mason slipped through a narrow opening as though stealth would make his entry less disagreeable.
“It is Mr. Gardner, my lord,” Mason said. “He begs a moment of your—”
The door opened wider. “Be clear, man, did you hear me beg? Do I look as if I’m begging?” Restell Gardner removed his hat and revealed a thatch of flaxen hair gilt with sunshine. He tore off his scarf, passed it and the hat to Mason, then removed his coat and gave it as well. “Tell him, Breckenridge, I do not—” He noticed Olivia for the first time. “Miss Cole. That is you, is it not? I did not realize you were here.”
Olivia had never been introduced to Mr. Gardner during the brief time he managed the hell in Griffin’s absence, so she was surprised that he not only recognized her, but knew her name. Griffin’s trust in the gentleman must be absolute. “Mr. Gardner. It is a pleasure.”
“It is not,” said Griffin. “Not at all. What are you doing here at his ungodly hour?�
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Restell Gardner strode into the room as Mason slipped out of it. He did not wait for Griffin to extend an invitation to sit, but dragged a chair over to the table and put himself in front of the platter of scrambled eggs. “May I? I have not yet been home, therefore I have not yet had my breakfast.”
“By all means, help yourself. You have news, I take it. Finally.”
“Finally? You wound me. I have been about your particular business only a fortnight and have concluded it far and away more satisfactorily than all of your hirelings before me.”
“I didn’t hire you. You are doing me a favor, remember?”
“As you will do for me.” His eyes swiveled to Olivia, though the question in them was for Griffin.
“You may say whatever you’ve come to say in front of Miss Cole.”
Restell Gardner’s clear blue eyes went from questioning to speculative. “Very well, then,” he said, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “It concerns Lady Breckenridge, of course. I have found her.”
Chapter Ten
Mason accompanied Olivia on her late-morning walk, then again a few hours before the hell was opened for the patrons. He was unaware he’d been very close to being replaced as her walking companion. Olivia was glad Griffin had not gotten around to telling him. His countenance was visibly morose today, his mood leaning toward the same black humor as his employer’s.
Olivia had politely excused herself upon hearing Mr. Gardner’s news. She did not expect that Griffin would try to stop her, nor did he. For once he was not able to conceal every nuance of feeling. She observed surprise, but not shock; resignation, but no rejoicing. There was only an infinitesimal pause as he raised his cup of coffee to his lips, while she had not been able to breathe. It had been impossible to know what it all meant, and Griffin had not sought her out following Mr. Gardner’s departure to explain. In fact, not long after his friend’s exit, Griffin had also left and no one, not even Mason, knew when he might return.
Olivia prepared for dealing faro, though she was uncertain if Griffin would want her at the table if he weren’t present. He might appreciate that she and his staff could operate the hell in his absence, or he might decide she had put herself in harm’s way. As the time neared to open the doors and neither Griffin nor any of his trusted friends arrived to oversee the gaming, Olivia became aware that the staff was looking to her to make a decision.
Olivia had every confidence in their ability to manage the hell’s tables; it was the hell’s guests that concerned her. Who among them could assert calm, reason, and authority if the patrons proved difficult? It was not solely a matter of physicality. There were footmen hired specifically for their ability to escort unruly guests from the premises, but their particular skills were rarely on display because of Griffin’s talent for defusing all manner of tense situations. She did not pretend she was possessed of that same talent, and even if she was, Olivia also recognized she would not be accorded the same respect.
Standing at the window of Griffin’s study, Olivia could monitor the traffic as night settled on Putnam Lane. She was anticipating Griffin’s last-minute arrival, but also trying to gauge how much income he would lose if they did not open. She watched a carriage slow in front of the hell and the driver make a nimble descent to assist the passengers. A gentleman alighted first, his manner somewhat stiff but thoroughly unobtrusive. Following him was a woman who could not help but call attention to herself with her expansive gestures and energetic stride. She wore a black velvet mantle trimmed in ermine and a hat sporting a veritable fountain of snow-white ostrich plumes. Her companion had to hurry to keep up with her as she swept up the stairs.
There could be no mistake as to her identity. Griffin had described her bearing, style, and every one of her eccentricities in amused and admiring detail. This woman was easily one of his favorite patrons, perhaps the one he liked above all others, and she was charging toward the front doors of the hell as if she meant to take no prisoners.
Olivia knew then that the Countess of Rivendale was the answer to the question that had been plaguing her.
It was shortly after midnight when Griffin’s carriage turned the corner from Moorhead Street to Putnam Lane. He noted there was little in the way of pedestrian traffic. Those who were walking did so with their heads down and their gloved hands bunched into fists. An icy wind spiraled along the lane, lifting skirts and hats that were not anchored. Candlelight winked in all of the windows; red lanterns swung in most of the doorways.
Anyone with a modicum of sense and a few shillings to spare was already in one of the hells or hurrying purposefully toward one. February was always good for forcing the players indoors. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable, that his own establishment would not benefit from the reliably bitter north wind.
Griffin leapt from the carriage without assistance and dropped his head to butt the elements like every other passerby. His posture, his fatigue, and the distracting nature of his own thoughts conspired to keep him from noting the activity in his hell until he crossed the threshold and was confronted by the crush of guests in the entrance hall.
Mason’s dour expression eased upon seeing his employer arrive unaccompanied. He squeezed through the crowd with a slight spring in his step and still managed to keep his dignity intact. He took Griffin’s hat, gloves, and greatcoat. “You are well, my lord?”
“I have no idea. Do I look well?”
“Peaked. You look peaked.”
Griffin drew his valet into a corner where a pair of large potted ferns shielded them from curious glances. “Explain this.”
“You will find it is all in hand.”
“That is not an explanation. Whose hand is it in, exactly?”
“That would be the countess.”
“The countess?” Griffin’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “Lady Rivendale? Never say you mean that—” He stopped because he saw it was quite clearly what Mason meant. “Whose idea was—” And he stopped again as the obvious answer occurred to him. “Where is she?”
“Her ladyship?”
Griffin set his jaw and waited.
Mason sniffed. “Miss Shepard is at her station.” He was going to add that she was doing very well indeed, but Griffin was already pushing through the crush.
Lady Rivendale stepped into his path just as he entered the faro gaming room. Her interference was so smoothly made that he had to believe she’d placed herself near the door for just such a purpose.
“La! Breckenridge! What an excellent evening I am having!” She slipped her arm through his and steered him into the adjoining card room and away from the faro table. It was only necessary to tug a little, and she observed that he was good enough to give her his polite attention, though a glower might have been more apt for the situation. “Mr. Warner has shown a surprising facility for command tonight, and I can tell you I am thankful to learn of it. You will want to know that he has kept a keen eye on all activity at roulette and vingt-et-un while I have seen to the cards, dice, and faro, of course. Your patrons as a whole have been sadly well-mannered this evening, so there was cause to eject only two.” She sighed heavily. “It’s been a disappointment, really, that they should behave themselves. I cannot think when I will have opportunity to watch Mr. Warner act with such delicious authority.”
“I will arrange it,” Griffin said dryly, “if you will promise never to assume the managing of my hell again. Don’t you have a nephew who is a duke or some such title that should give me pause?”
“Godson,” she said. “And he is a viscount, like you, not a duke. A blessing, really, as Sherry is high enough in the instep to make even me uncomfortable. But you shouldn’t worry that he will call you out. He does not do that sort of thing any longer. A messy business, I believe he finds it, and really, he indulges me when I embrace certain unconventional pastimes as I have tonight.”
Griffin darted a glance through the doorway to the faro table. His view of Olivia was entirely obstructed by the gentlemen m
aking their wagers. “It is gratifying to learn that I will not have to face Sheridan, but is there not another relation who might come to take up cudgels?”
The countess frowned. “You cannot mean the Earl of Ferrin.”
“Ferrin. Yes. He’s the one.”
She laughed. The rich, hearty sound of it turned heads, but she gave this no notice. “Do not be such a noddy. Ferrin is the very last person you should fear. He is married to my dear Cybelline, but more importantly he is Mr. Restell Gardner’s brother, and Mr. Gardner frequents this hell. I know it for a fact.”
Griffin had an urge to pluck a feather from her ladyship’s hat and go fly fishing. “I am in no way relieved that you are so well set in society. The wags will have it on the morrow that you were greeting my patrons and counting my profits. I should not be surprised that they will put you at the center of some row and credit you with tossing out the two gentlemen yourself.”
“Oh, I hope not. Mr. Warner should have the credit there. A pair of your footmen were standing close to assist, but he didn’t know that, and truly, he was everything Wellington in his uncompromising authority.”
Everything Wellington? Griffin could not help himself. She’d managed to coax a smile from him, which he suspected had been her goal from the outset. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Bending near her ear as though to whisper something, he lightly kissed her cheek.
“You’re a scoundrel, Breckenridge,” she said, flushing as prettily as a schoolgirl. “And I adore scoundrels. Go on. I know you want to speak to Miss Shepard.” She caught the sleeve of his frock coat and held him fast another moment. “I hope you will be easy with her. She had your best interests uppermost in her clever mind, and naturally, I would not have agreed if I were not intrigued by the idea of managing an establishment such as this. Women have so few opportunities to make their mark in business, don’t you think?”
“If we have that discussion, my lady, I will never get to Honey’s side, and well you know it.”