Price of Desire

by Goodman, Jo

  The family of Elaine Ellen Wright-Jones, nee Stoppard, Viscountess Breckenridge announced her passing on 25 March, 1823.

  Olivia’s vision blurred. Individual letters floated in the tears that gathered at the rim of her eyes; the words bobbed like flotsam. She could only make out that the account, like the viscountess’s life, was altogether too brief, and it was this brevity that struck at Olivia’s heart.

  “I should go to him,” she said quietly. “It will be better if he doesn’t have to send for me.”

  Alastair turned on his heel. His hands were clasped behind his back, warming them at the fire. “Go? Go where? Did you read the notice, Olivia?”

  “I…um…” She glanced at it again, tried to concentrate.

  “Never mind,” said Alastair. “She’s being interred at Wright Hall. Today. Breckenridge is not in London. He is not anywhere you can go, which is just as well if your intention is to fly to him. You will have to stay here awhile longer yet, though I cannot say it is agreeable. You forget yourself if you think he would welcome you at this time. He is certain to be surrounded by family. How do you explain yourself to them?”

  How indeed? Olivia set her elbow on the table and her head in her hand. She rubbed her temple. A tear dripped from beneath her lowered lashes, and she dashed it away. “Where is the ring, Alastair?”

  The non sequitur caught him unaware. He required a moment before answering. “What has that to do with anything?”

  “It’s the reason you set me in his path. But for your debt, but for the ring, I would have remained unknown to Breckenridge, and he to me. No explanations would be necessary. So, I will ask you again: where is the ring?”

  “I told you.” He jutted his chin defensively. “It was stolen. I was cheated of it, if you must know. At faro. Johnny Crocker uses a rigged box in his establishment.”

  “So I’ve heard.” It was precisely as Griffin had told her. Still, it was gratifying to have it from Alastair. He owed her the truth, and she owed him a reminder that he was not without responsibility. “So you cannot get it back?”

  Alastair thought of where the ring resided now. Mrs. Christie took particular delight wearing it when they were together. She’d managed to relieve Johnny Crocker of it in a game of whist where she proved herself the better cheat. “I could get it back,” he said.

  “Then do not ask me again how I will explain myself to his family when what explains your actions is no source of pride to me, nor, I hope, to you.”

  Feeling the sting of her words as a slap, Alastair sucked in a short breath. “Do you want the ring, Olivia? Is that it?”

  “It doesn’t belong to me,” she said, trying to make him understand. “Until you pay your debt, it belongs to him. I want you to make it right, Alastair. Not for my sake, but for yours.”

  He frowned. “Why is this important now?”

  “Because I am going back to him,” she said. “And it’s unlikely that you and I will have occasion to speak again. I should have said it before now, but now is when I’ve been moved to say it. I owe you something for taking me in when you did—both times. But I never owed you the whole of myself.” She stood up, carefully gathered the cards, and let the newspaper lie. “Make it right, Alastair.”

  She was halfway across the room when he called to her. “Father said you’d land like a cat. And so you have. You’re so bloody in love with him that you should thank me for what I’ve done.”

  Olivia faltered once, then walked on.

  The doors of the hell were closed when she arrived. As it was well past nightfall, and the time when gentlemen and their lady escorts would normally be milling about the entrance hall and moving between the gaming rooms with a drink in their hands, Olivia waved to the hack driver to make certain he stayed while she tested the doors. They were not only closed, but locked and barred on the inside.

  She’d had no one accompany her from Jericho Mews, and her trunks and valises were particularly vulnerable on the roof of the hired cab. A few passing gentlemen had slowed as they approached the steps to the hell. Aware of them, Olivia did not wish to call undue attention to herself. A woman alone on Putnam Lane at this hour was viewed in a very particular light, always red.

  Olivia hurried down the steps, spoke briefly to the driver, then climbed back in. She breathed more easily when the gentlemen moved on, and the cab rolled forward. They circled the block and entered the alley from the cross street. Approaching from the rear, Olivia could see the servants’ hall was lighted. Even as she threw open the door and made to step down from the cab, she saw Beetle carrying out a bucket of wash water. He was preparing to toss it, most of it in her direction, when he took notice of the hack, and finally of her.

  “Miss Cole!” He dropped the bucket, clipping his toe, and hopped toward her on one foot. “Oh, but it’s a pleasure to see you again, miss. What a time of it we’ve had. Missed you fierce. We all did.” He finally stopped hopping and took stock of the valises as the driver hefted the first one down. “Here, I’ll be getting that. Go on inside, let Mr. Truss know you’re here, and just see if the others don’t come running out to help.” The second valise he caught almost pitched him to the ground, and Olivia hurried off before his eagerness to help knocked him unconscious.

  She asked for her old room, but her things were deposited in Griffin’s bedchamber. She didn’t insist they be moved, which she suspected Truss was counting on. She had never kept more than a few items of clothing in Griffin’s dressing room, but sometime during her absence the armoire she’d used had been moved here, and now stood ready to be filled.

  She stared at it, wondering if Griffin had meant for it to be waiting for her, or whether his wife had used it. Had they shared the room while she was here? The bed? Olivia realized she didn’t know whether Mr. Gardner had ever delivered Lady Breckenridge to the hell. It was not the sort of detail that was mentioned in the Gazette’s death notice.

  Succumbed after a long illness.

  Olivia had finally been able to make out those words. A long illness. Perhaps that was why there was no news of her returning to London or attending a single affair. If she had stayed at the hell, the secret had been closely guarded. If she had been cared for at Wright Hall, Griffin had not been at her side. He had never operated the hell from a distance.

  Beetle and Wick appeared to help her unpack. Mostly they just sat on one of the trunks, beating a tattoo against the side with their heels, while she did the work. She could have asked them any one of the questions about Lady Breckenridge that occurred to her, but it felt like taking advantage and she let them chatter on about the things that were concerning to them.

  Apparently Beetle’s mother was getting married to a decent enough bloke who promised she was done whoring. Beetle was happy enough about the marriage but miserable at the thought of leaving Wick.

  “It’s a good thing you returned when you did, miss, else I might already be dragged off and have no chance to say farewell.”

  “Then I’m very glad I came. I’d want to say farewell also. I’ll miss you, Beetle.”

  His cheeks flushed a bright pink and he ducked his head, but not before he showed her his shy, gap-toothed smile. “Go on with you, miss. What am I to you but underfoot most times?”

  “Well, I’ve grown accustomed to you there,” she said stoutly. She carefully withdrew an ivory cashmere shawl from one of the valises and refolded it so it would fit neatly in the chest of drawers. “Wick is certainly going to pine for you. All of the staff, I should think. His lordship as well, though you were never under his feet the way you were mine. Why is that, Beetle?”

  Wick took a sharp jab at Beetle’s ribs and answered for him. “It’s on account that you smell better.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Like rose petals.”

  Olivia made a threatening gesture toward both boys, which only caused them to giggle. “It’s lavender, not roses.” She turned away before they could see she was smiling.

  Beetle jumped down from the trunk to pick up one
empty valise and scoot another toward her. “You’re wrong about his lordship. Missing me, I mean. Oh, maybe just a little he will, seeing how I shined his boots all proper and Wick never got the knack of it, but he’s got his own boy now, so that’s good, though I don’t suppose that one will have to polish boots.”

  Olivia straightened slowly as she lifted the valise. She did not set it on the seat of a chair as she’d meant to, but hugged it to herself instead. “His own boy? What do you mean by that?”

  Beetle hopped back on the trunk, clutching the empty valise much as Olivia was. “His son, miss. His lordship has himself a son.”

  Olivia sat in the wing chair in Griffin’s study, a wool rug thrown over her legs. After a brief burst of spring-like weather, the turn in the skies was a disappointment. Rain hovered again, falling intermittently throughout the day. The chill was deep, almost impossible to dismiss, and sitting as close to the fire as she could reasonably do safely did not help overmuch.

  She closed the book in her lap and tucked it between her hip and the arm of the damask-covered chair. Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes. It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d returned and still there was no word from Griffin. The hell remained closed night after night, during which Olivia slept restlessly, the incoherent but constant hum of voices and rattling traffic from the street serving to punctuate her sleep at odd moments. She’d awakened once with the sheets tangled but not twisted, hugging her pillow, but not throttling it. A dream then, she’d decided. No nightmare. No terror.

  When Griffin returned she would tell him that she’d dreamed of him. It was probably true. She wanted it to be true.

  The household staff was pleased to have her back, though they treated her with rather more deference than she wished. They hardly knew what to do with themselves with the doors closed each evening. It was inevitable that they turned to cards and dice and spun the roulette wheel themselves. Thus far, Wick and Mr. Truss had winnings exceeding everyone else, which meant a great many others were engaged in doing their chores. She’d had a turn trimming candles after making an incautious wager with Wick—and losing.

  She heard the door open behind her but didn’t turn. “Bring the tea here, Wick, and set it on the table. Have a care not to topple the books, or anything else. I cannot be certain I put it all in order the last time you stumbled and went head over bucket.”

  “Someone’s guts will be garters if you didn’t.”

  Olivia didn’t move, didn’t dare move. She let the whiskey-soft voice wash over her, settle in her hair, caress her face, slip under her skin. She felt him approach, but he remained behind her. She stayed just as she was, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of him. His fingers touched her hair, caressed her face, and slipped under the edge of her shawl to lay her skin bare.

  She reached for him then, laid her hand over his. Just that, nothing more. Olivia welcomed him home.

  Griffin required a few moments to collect himself before he could stand before her. Relief briefly shuttered the pain and weariness in his eyes. He removed the rug from her lap, took her hands, and lifted her to her feet. “I didn’t bring tea.”

  “It’s all right.” She drank him in instead. His face was thinner than she remembered, more sculpted, the scar more noticeable. His hair was damp at the edges, darker than chestnut there, curling just above the collar of his frock coat. There was the faintest bluish tinge in the outline of his mouth, lingering evidence of the bone-chilling wet that had been his companion on his journey. Shadows marked the underside of his eyes, their color not so different from what she observed in the line of his lips.

  Olivia removed her hands from his, stepped close enough to feel the chill coming from him, and unbuttoned his frock coat. She inched closer still, this time to bring her body flush to his, and slid her arms under his coat and around him. She rested her cheek against his shoulder, turned her face into his neck, and held on.

  Griffin’s chest heaved once, then his arms closed the circle at her back. “Christ, but I wanted you to be here. I was afraid…so afraid that you wouldn’t come back.” He turned his mouth toward her, pressed his lips to her forehead. “Your housekeeper said you’d gone,” he whispered. “She didn’t know where. I don’t believe she would have told me if she’d known. I was wild for finding you; I think she was afraid of me.”

  “You went to Jericho Mews?”

  “Mmm. It’s where I thought you meant to stay. When she said you’d left…bloody hell, Olivia…I was going to make your brother account for it.”

  “Alastair didn’t show me the door. I found it myself. I didn’t want to wait for you there, not any longer.” She tipped her head back and looked at him. “He brought me the notice of her ladyship’s death. I pitied her, Griffin, but I was sorry for you.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “I know.” He brought her head back to the curve of his neck as a small tremor slipped through her slender frame. She wept softly, almost soundlessly, and when she was done he gave her one tail of his intricately tied stock to wipe her eyes. He glimpsed her watery smile as she did so. “I wished I could have told you myself.” He shook his head, sighed. “If wishes were horses…”

  “Do you think I didn’t understand? I did. If you’d written, I don’t believe I would have been able to stay away. Can you imagine?” Alastair’s words came to the forefront of her mind. “How would you have explained me to your family?”

  Griffin’s arms tightened. He laid his cheek against her ginger hair. “What accounting could I give save the truth? I would have introduced them to the woman I love.”

  Olivia stayed upright because she was already leaning into him. “Is it truly so simple as that?”

  “It is, for me. I cannot say what they will make of it.” He nudged her hair. “Nor can I say how you will receive it. You are not going to be sick, are you?”

  She smiled because he did not ask if she was going to faint. He knew her that well. “No, I am not going to be sick.”

  “Well, there is something to be said for that.” Griffin did not anticipate a like reply and did not receive one. He was satisfied for now that she hadn’t squirmed out of his arms and charged for the dressing room. He felt another tremor slip down the length of her back. No tears this time, but a reaction to the cold he’d brought into the room and pushed right up against her. She’d absorbed his chill while he’d taken her heat. It was, as so often was the case in his dealings with Olivia, an exchange in which every advantage was his.

  Griffin set her from him long enough to remove his frock coat and settle her shawl evenly on her shoulders. He picked up the rug and set himself in the wing chair, then invited her to join him. “Do you think I’ll break?” he asked when she lowered herself with so much care onto his lap. “You weigh as much as a thistle. Come, ease your legs over here. Let me cover you with this.” He snapped the rug across her and tucked it around them both. “Here. What’s this?” He found the book she’d been reading, held it up, examined it. “Songs of Experience. You like Blake’s work?”

  “It’s very fierce, isn’t it? Fearless, too. I admire that.”

  “Of course you do.” He lowered the book over the side of the chair and let it drop to the floor. She settled comfortably against him, finding just the right niche for her shoulder, for her hip, and finally, for her head. “What news of the gentleman villain?” he asked.

  “None at all. He never showed himself to me. I told you he would not find me at Jericho Mews.”

  “Just because he did not show himself, it doesn’t follow that he wasn’t there.”

  “He does not deserve so much of your attention. I am here, aren’t I? And all of a piece. Enough has been said on that matter.” She pressed two fingers to his lips to stay his objection, and she was not swayed when he caught her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Tell me the rest,” she said in a tone that was both gentle and firm. “All of it. You will have no good sleep until you do, and you are already fair on your way to exhaustion.”

>   He did not release her hand, but set it against his chest and covered it with his own. “She had consumption. Had been seen by doctors well over a year ago. In Italy first, then France. One of them recommended the hot springs at Bath. She returned to England, most reluctantly, I believe, as by her account she’d been engaged in a splendid liaison with the Comte Auguste DeRaine, and presumably all of his liveried servants.”

  “Griffin.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s what she told me, what she wanted me to think. I don’t know if it’s true. DeRaine did not accompany her to Bath. There are similar springs in France that would have served as well. The comte may have sent her out.” His chest rose and fell with his next deep breath. “It speaks to Gardner’s wealth of contacts in every kind of society that he was able to find her. She had been in Bath less than three months, living as the widow Jeannine Aubert, though a more accurate description of her state would be that she was dying as that widow. Gardner did not learn that particular detail until he met her.”

  Griffin rolled his shoulders slightly, shedding some of the tension that was pulling his back taut. “Elaine used her own name—her maiden name—when booking passage, and she came through London. Gardner and his men followed that trail from inn to inn, found variations of the name, and traced the permutations until they led to the widow. I don’t know if I’d have sent him after her if I’d been aware she was dying. I don’t know if he would have gone. Faced with the choice of what to do when he came upon her, the truth of her condition obvious to his eyes, he tells me he simply explained why he was there and asked her if she would accompany him back to London.”

  “And she agreed,” Olivia said softly. “How extraordinary.”

  “Extraordinary.” His tone communicated it was none of that. “She had her reasons, Olivia. Atonement was not among them.” He closed his eyes briefly against the press of the firelight. “God’s truth, but I didn’t know it would be so hard.” He squeezed her hand, tilted his head, and regarded Olivia’s calm, yet somehow expectant features. “There is a child. A boy. Hers, she says, and I cannot think why she would lie about that. Mine, she also says, but then why would she say otherwise when she wants legitimacy for him and for herself?”