by Goodman, Jo
“Then she won it back for Alastair. He’s still with her, is he not?”
“I have not heard differently, though I do not go out of my way to learn such things. As to whether she won the ring for him, I would not place a wager there. One rarely goes wrong depending upon Mrs. Christie, first and foremost, to look after herself. It is not beyond reasonable to suppose that she has come to some understanding with your brother and another with Mr. Crocker. She does not move from one situation without making arrangements for the next.”
“I wish you’d told me.”
“Perhaps I should have, but we both seemed to have put this matter of the ring behind us. I never wanted it, Olivia. Not for myself. I’d hoped possession would ensure your brother paid his debt, nothing more.” Griffin found the ring in his pocket and set it on the table. He nudged it with his fingertip, turning it round. “Have you wondered at all how your brother was able to enter?”
She hadn’t. Now she did. “A key?”
“Most certainly. And that could have only come from Mrs. Christie. She would have had access to them at one time.”
“You think she still has keys in her possession.”
“It seems likely. Truss is particular about locking the doors. Everyone on Putnam Lane does the same. The hells are too vulnerable otherwise.”
“So he stole the ring from her, and the key, and came here. I am not certain I take your point.”
Griffin stopped turning the ring. It wobbled, then was still. “Someone else once had possession of a key,” he said. “You cannot have forgotten that.”
Olivia blinked. “The gentleman villain.”
“The very same. I thought—we all did—that he lifted the key from the peg in the servants’ hall. Guests do not normally venture below, but we believed he could have done so unnoticed because almost all of the staff is engaged in the gaming rooms. The presence of this ring makes me suspect he had the key to your room when he entered the hell that night.”
She frowned. “Are you saying that the villain is responsible for the return of the ring?”
“No. Not at all.”
“Then Mrs. Christie.”
Griffin flicked the ring so it skittered and spun across the table toward Olivia, the emerald and diamonds flashing. “For returning this? Hardly.”
Olivia stared at the ring for a long moment before picking it up. She turned it over in her hand thoughtfully, then, on impulse, slipped it on her thumb. She looked up at Griffin.
“Yes?” he asked, knowing full well that she’d worked it out for herself. Her eyes flashed much as the emerald had.
“You think Mrs. Christie sent the villain.”
“You have it exactly.”
“But why?”
“As to that,” he said, taking her hand, “we shall have to ask.”
Chapter Fifteen
Alastair ducked. The black lacquered jewelry box Alys Christie flung at his head sailed over it instead and thudded hard against the wall. The hinged lid remained intact until the box dropped to the floor. Alastair glanced at it but not for long. The damaged treasure chest and all of its spilled booty were much less concerning than the tortoiseshell hairbrush Mrs. Christie prepared to launch at him next.
He feinted left, then right, and took a glancing blow off his shoulder. Her aim was true. He was merely a bit lighter and quicker on his feet.
A second hairbrush, this time one with a heavy silver backing, thumped against the door as he spun sideways. She’d meant for it to slam into his chest.
He took a step toward her, hands extended slightly to ward off the next missile. “Alys.”
It was his cajoling tone that further incensed her. Never taking her eyes from him, she blindly slapped the top of her vanity until her fingers found something useful. She gripped her handheld mirror with the ferocity of a warrior and raised it just above her shoulder. This time she did not let it fly immediately.
“You had no right!” Her nostrils flared as she sucked in a breath. Her normally pale complexion was flushed with angry color. “That ring was mine. Mine!”
Alastair’s raised eyebrow emphasized his skepticism. “Really? You were able to convince yourself of it?”
Her hold on the mirror did not falter, but he had captured her attention in a manner that stayed her hand. “What do you mean I was able to convince myself? You were there. So were dozens of witnesses. I won the thing from Johnny Crocker, and that makes it mine.”
“I lost it in a rigged game. You not only encouraged me to make that wager, you knew the dealer’s box was set against the players. Crocker runs an honest game only when it serves him, and there is probably no one as knowledgeable on that count as you. He took the ring from me so you could take it from him. I know very well that you are in league. It has always been about the ring, though I was slow to see it. You coveted it from the first. Looking back on the occasion of our introduction, it was the ring that brought you to my side, the ring that you admired.”
“Your accusation has no substance.”
He stood a bit straighter, more confident now, no longer feeling at a youthful disadvantage. There was a hint of disdain in his cool green eyes. “I notice you do not deny it.”
“What would be the point? You will believe what you will.” She lowered the mirror a fraction. “Have a care, though, not to put your assumptions about. You will not like the consequences.”
“As it happens, your threat aside, I have no intention of sharing what you did with anyone. You are known to be the grasping, cunning one, so hearing that you managed another coup will hardly surprise the masses. I, on the other hand, do not wish to be reminded of my own colossal folly.” He tipped his head to one side as he considered her, his smile only mildly contemptuous. “I cannot regret our association, Mrs. Christie, but if you throw that mirror at me, I will consider that you have ended it.”
She did not lower the mirror, but neither did she pitch it at him. He looked as if he might be inclined to pitch it back…or paddle her with it. This last was an intriguing thought, though she was quite certain she would like it only in the abstract. The humiliating reality was not to be borne.
“So you have come into your own now, is that what you would have me believe?”
“Come into my own? I haven’t any idea what you mean.”
“I am speaking of your transformation, of course. From rascal to self-righteous prig. You are ruined, I fear.” She dropped her hand to her side and lightly tapped the mirror against her leg. “Your sister has ruined you.” The slip of a smile she offered did not touch her cool blue eyes. “But then, you have ruined her. Perhaps it is only fair.”
Alastair’s jaw worked and at his side his hand clenched and unclenched. “You would do well not to mention Olivia.”
“Why? Am I not fit to speak her name? Olivia. O-li-vi-a.” She held her ground when Alastair took a step forward. He was still too far away to strike her, but the intent was there. “She’s proved to be no better than she ought, wouldn’t you say? Isn’t that what your father told you? The truth will out. I cannot decide if you meant to prove him wrong by throwing her in Breckenridge’s path, or hoped to prove him right. Either way, you were well rid of her, and isn’t that what you desired above all else?”
“You should stop talking now, Alys.”
“Have I made you uncomfortable?” Her sly smile deepened a fraction. “I recall very well that you were weary of her presence. You told me she regarded you with such disapproval that you could not bear to be in the same room with her.”
Had he said that? Alastair wondered. He’d been cross with Olivia, so he probably had. “I believe I made too much of it. She was concerned for my welfare.”
“Hers also. How easily you forget that. She was an albatross, you told me.”
“I feel fairly certain I never called her such.”
“A weight, then. A burden of significant proportion. That is what you would have had me believe. And you wanted rid of the responsibility for her
. She took much more than she gave, do you recall saying that? Her presence in your home forced you to live in reduced circumstances, set you outside your father’s good graces, and made your mother critical of you at every turn. You had no liking for any of it.”
Alastair flushed, but he accepted the words she threw back at him because he remembered very well that they had once been his own. His deep shame made him mute.
“You wagered recklessly, Alastair, and you lost. You were lost. You did not apply to your sister for help after Breckenridge relieved you of your ring. You came to me. How sad you were. Pathetic, really. And I took pity on you, helped you get it back. Two birds with one stone, because you never objected to shedding yourself of your responsibilities to Olivia at the same time.”
Alastair stiffened as this last dart hit center, but he found his voice. “It was wrong of me, Alys. Olivia stood for me as I was never able to stand for her. She didn’t hesitate; that’s what Breckenridge told me when he dragged me off to face her. I was so cowardly that I fought him to avoid her.”
He judged that Mrs. Christie had settled herself enough that he could turn his back on her. He went to the drinks cabinet in the adjoining sitting room and poured himself two fingers of scotch. When he looked up, raising his glass, he saw that she had followed him. “Would you like one?”
She shook her head. “You walked away from me.”
“So I did. Trading barbs such as we have made me thirsty.” He regarded her over the rim of his crystal tumbler. She had left the mirror in her bedroom, but it only made her marginally less dangerous. “I take it you are not yet finished.”
“I’m not, no. And I don’t need your permission to continue, so, pray, do not insult me by giving it.”
He merely sipped his drink.
Alys thrust her chin forward. “I never thought Breckenridge would accept her as your marker. I thought his mistrust of women ran too deep for that. A miscalculation on my part, and a serious one as it turned out. He kept her and put me out.”
“Do not delude yourself, Alys. He would have put you out anyway. Your association was nearly at an end, else you would not have looked me over so carefully.”
She did not deny it. “It is about choice. Mine, not his. Your sister provoked him to do it.”
“That is hardly likely. It is fairer to blame me. Did you not tell me Breckenridge suspected your fine hand in helping me take back the ring?”
“A suspicion only.” Alys shrugged. “I could have persuaded him to see it differently. Olivia’s presence made him unreasonable.”
Alastair recognized the futility of argument. This time when he made no reply it was of a purpose.
“I want the ring back,” Alys said.
“So you have said. You will have to apply to Breckenridge for it, though that supposes he actually knows he has it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I did not precisely place the thing in his hand. Ever the coward, I suppose. Neither did I return it to his desk where it might sit unnoticed for weeks. I put it in his son’s room.”
Mrs. Christie’s breath hissed between her teeth. “He hasn’t recognized the brat. The betting books favor the child being his wife’s bastard.”
“Be sure to tell him that when you ask for the ring.”
She ignored that. “What possessed you?”
“I told you. Cowardice.”
“Madness is more like it.”
Recalling that he’d nearly broken his neck stumbling over the infantry, Alastair was inclined to agree. “I’ll claim the ring when I can pay the debt. It is what I should have done at the outset.”
“Sir Hadrien will not be pleased to learn what’s become of it.”
“I don’t suppose he will, but he’s a practical man and will accept it is better lost to the viscount than to you.”
Mrs. Christie did not hesitate. She closed the distance between them and laid her hand hard across Alastair Cole’s cheek. She watched his eyes water with the sting of her slap, but he made no move to retaliate. Desirous of goading him further, she raised her hand again. This time he caught her by the wrist.
“I am not opposed to striking a woman,” he said. “But that is not what you had in mind, is it, Alys? Do you think I don’t know what you want?”
“The ring,” she whispered. “I want the ring.”
“And a proposal to go with it, I’m thinking.” He bent his head and placed his mouth near her ear. He could feel her tremble. With anger. With lust. “What I mean to propose is of a decidedly different nature.”
“All bets are down.” Olivia scanned the table to memorize the placing of the wagers. Occasionally there was a gentleman who tested her with a bit of sleight of hand. Most efforts were clumsy, and she caught them right off. Sometimes, though, the effort was good enough to be worthy of her observation, and she tracked their cheating through several games before she settled with them privately.
Tonight she was intrigued by the deft play of a pair of gentlemen who looked as if they might be, if not brothers, then cousins. They were most excellent at diversion and delivery. One would draw attention, while the other dropped a chip—usually concealed in his palm or cuff—on the card that would match Olivia’s draw from the deck. They did not do it on every turn, but often enough that they were winning well in advance of the odds that they should do so.
She wasn’t particularly insulted that they tried their hand at it at her table. The mental diligence she applied to watching their antics kept her from entertaining thoughts of those things over which she had no control—the matter of Mrs. Christie and the gentleman villain being chief among them.
Griffin had called upon Mrs. Christie several times in the last two weeks and never found her at home. On his last visit, he’d been frustrated enough by the housekeeper’s protests and vague accounts regarding her mistress’s whereabouts that he’d made his own inspection of the property.
And discovered for himself that Mrs. Christie was indeed gone from home.
Thwarted, Griffin sent Misters Fairley and Varah, who once again were beholding to him for the forgiveness of certain debts, to bring Alastair around to the hell. That worthy was also gone from town, a situation Olivia found disturbing when it coincided with Mrs. Christie’s absence.
That her brother may have eloped to Gretna or conceived the notion that he might actually introduce his mistress to their father made Olivia’s stomach churn. She doubted her brother understood the complete folly of either of those actions. She’d hoped that by returning the ring, Alastair had meant to reconcile not only his debt with Griffin, but his relationship with her, yet she’d written to him twice and had no reply to either overture.
Olivia drew herself sharply to the present and looked over the table. Her inattention had been mere seconds, but she’d nearly missed the chip drop that put a wager on the ten. The card she’d turned over by rote was naturally a ten spot.
Smiling warmly, as if nothing untoward had just occurred, Olivia paid out the winnings. She caught Mason’s eye and indicated that she would need to be spelled soon. He began to make his way to the table by walking the perimeter of the room.
Olivia was so intent on completing the game and escorting the cheats to a private corner for a dressing down, that she missed the faint stir among the patrons as a new player was admitted to the room. It was only when there was a parting of gentlemen around her table that her attention was drawn to the cause of it.
Sir Hadrien Cole stood directly in her line of sight.
Olivia’s fingers closed more tightly over the cards she held, but she didn’t flinch. Her father regarded her without expression. She had forgotten how terribly difficult it was to keep her chin up and her eyes level when he looked on her in such a fashion. It was not a look that placed her beneath him, nor one that showed the least curiosity. She was nothing in his eyes. Nothing.
And the knowledge chilled her.
“Miss Shepard?” His voice had a deep, resonating timbre that
was at odds with his slender, narrow frame. He stood taller than many of the men around him but could have slipped like a shadow among them. His eyes were not merely gray, but the cool, darker color of pewter, and an exact match for the hair at his temples. Those eyes were rather too closely set on either side of a blade of a nose, but it was a minor flaw in a countenance whose sharp definition made it arresting. “Miss Ann Shepard?”
He had a sensual mouth, wide and full, almost feminine in its line. It remained slightly parted after he spoke. My dearest girl. My own sweet Olivia.
Olivia realized that a dozen pairs of eyes were now turned in her direction, all of them expectant. They knew very well that she was not often at a loss for words and had never given any of them the cut direct. Mason sidled up to the table, but she expected no help from that quarter. He, like everyone else standing at hand, had not the slightest comprehension of the beast in their presence or its connection to her.
“I am Miss Shepard,” she said politely, inclining her head. The faintest smile played about her mouth. He would crush defiance, but he would not understand amusement. Far better to give him a reaction he could not comprehend. “But you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You are…?”
He did not respond to her inquiry. “It is a matter concerning your family that brings me here. A moment of your time, if you please.”
Her family indeed. She pretended to consider, though she knew she would allow it. Sir Hadrien would not insist that she accompany him, not publicly, but he was perfectly capable of lying in wait. Aware that interest in her exchange had intensified, she darted a sideways look at Mason, assured him that the odd encounter was acceptable to her, then passed the deck of cards to him.
“Of course,” she said, pleased that she could affect such ease in her manner. Where was Griffin? She cautioned herself against looking for him, unwilling to give Sir Hadrien the satisfaction of knowing he had put her off her stride. She rounded the table and the punters stepped aside for her, widening the breach that her father had made with his mere presence.