by Goodman, Jo
“I assume it occurred through her connection to Restell Gardner. Pray, do not ask. Her family tree is surprisingly full-branched in spite of the fact that she has no children of her own.”
Olivia considered that, then offered a somewhat guilty confession. “I’m not certain, but I might have given myself away. She has a way about her, it’s all I can offer as an excuse.”
“It doesn’t matter. She knows everything and is above all discreet.” He frowned a bit as she turned her head. “Olivia?” He caught the underside of her chin with his fingertips and nudged it sideways so that he might have a better view of her cheek. “What happened? That is no pillow wrinkle. Your face is scratched.”
She touched her cheek. “Is it?” She’d looked right past it when she’d studied her reflection earlier. “He wore a ring. I suppose that explains it.” Her skin was faintly warm, but that was a consequence of sleep, not a lingering response to the blow that had pushed her off her feet.
“He?” asked Griffin, but he was already working out the answer. Olivia’s offhanded inquiry about her father and Lady Rivendale suddenly made sense. “Sir Hadrien is here?”
“Was here. He’s gone now, or he should be. I showed him the door, more or less. I do not imagine he is lurking in the gaming rooms. He was disdainful of them, Griffin, and suggested that I was squandering my talents here.” Amusement laced her voice, and she smiled as she shook her head, inviting Griffin to find the humor as well. “He made reference only to cards, but he meant I should apply it to other things as well. Why work in the service of one man when I might work in the service of so many? You will know I was not tempted in the least, so he will likely arrive tomorrow and demand an audience with you. I will be gone, of course, because there is nothing left to be said that I did not already put before him.”
Griffin stared at her. He spoke slowly, trying to make sense of the incongruity between what she said and how she said it. “Your father appeared without invitation or notice, suggested you’d make a better courtesan than a mistress, struck you hard enough to leave his mark, and you find cause there for amusement?”
“Do not forget he was disdainful of your hell.”
“Yes, well, I shall plant him a facer for that,” he said dryly. “As to the rest…” He paused, searching for a manner of death for Sir Hadrien that was outside the common mode.
“As to the rest,” she said, “it is already done. My honor is satisfied.” She took Griffin’s hand in her own. “You did that for me, Griffin. I knew I could be strong because you expected I would be. I believed you first, then I believed in myself.”
“I’m very glad to hear it, but it doesn’t mean you should stand against someone like Sir Hadrien on your own. Good form requires that each participant choose a second. I would have been honored to be yours.”
Olivia gave him a wry smile. “I had not realized you put such stock in good form.”
Griffin shrugged. “When it serves.”
“You will have your chance with him. Did you not hear me say he will probably return tomorrow? I suggested that he do so in the afternoon when I will be gone, though if you cannot promise that you won’t challenge him, I will have to remain and act as your second, if only for the purpose of restraining you.”
“Restrain me? How do you imagine you might accomplish that?”
“Telling you would eliminate the advantage of surprise, and I will be counting heavily on that.”
He chuckled. “Very well. I will allow that you can do whatever you set your mind to and have done with speculation. Where will you be tomorrow if Sir Hadrien does indeed seek me out?”
“I am taking Nat to be fitted for some new clothes. Mr. Mason will accompany us, so have done pulling that disagreeable face.”
“I can have someone come here to fit Nat.”
“Then I wouldn’t be gone from the house, now would I?”
“I have a suspicion that you’ve been planning this, and your father’s arrival is a convenient reason to have it done.”
“I frequently marvel at your perspicacity.”
He could not think of anything to do about her saucy mouth except to kiss it. He felt the shape of her smile beneath his lips before she eagerly gave herself over. It was only with the greatest reluctance that he eventually pulled back instead of drawing her down on the chaise.
“I suppose we have neglected our duties long enough,” Olivia whispered, searching his face. She leaned forward, caught his chin with her lips, then the corner of his mouth. The tilt of her head invited him to linger a moment longer over the stem of her neck. She sighed. “I’ll have to put the wig on again, paint my face.”
“Mmm.” He caught her earlobe, worried it. He felt her shiver ever so slightly. “God, but you tempt me.” This time when he drew away he put himself outside of her reach by moving to the wing chair. He was only in it a moment before he realized the fit was not quite right. Lifting one hip, he reached beneath him and pulled out Olivia’s wig. The string of seed pearls that had been artfully arranged in the auburn curls was twisted and drooping. He poked at the pearls, saw he was only making matters worse, and gently tossed the wig to Olivia.
Griffin slid into a casual incline in the chair and watched Olivia work. He observed her deft and nimble fingers while his mind wandered to certain details that had been left out of her account.
“Did you ask Sir Hadrien how he came to be here?”
She shook her head. “I imagine Alastair told him that he’d returned the ring to you. That would have brought him here straightaway.”
“Have you had any correspondence from your brother?”
“No, but if he’s been at Coleridge Park, then he hasn’t yet received my letters.”
Griffin considered that, wondering if the explanation was as simple as that. “Then Sir Hadrien’s concern was all for the ring, is that right?”
Olivia glanced up, frowning. “I hope I did not lead you to believe it was ever anything else. He was grateful for the attention paid to keeping the family name well out of it. I told him he had you to thank, so perhaps he will.” She bent to her task again. “Sir Hadrien had some idea that he would accept me in place of the ring, but I disabused him of that notion. He thought I might suit someone named Reginald Sewell, Lord Pearce.”
“Pearce? Is he still alive?”
“So it would seem. Apparently he would not expect me to bear his children, so that is something.”
Griffin’s left eyebrow rose in a dramatic arch. “Indeed.”
Olivia finished with the wig, then held it out in front of her for a final inspection. “You would not consider exchanging me for the ring, would you?”
“I hope that is not a serious question.” But then he saw that it was, in spite of her attempt to say it lightly and put it before him as though it had only just this moment occurred to her. “Do you still trust me so little, Olivia?”
She’d hurt him, she realized, and rushed to explain herself. “No, that’s not it at all, or rather I did not mean you should put that construction upon it. I am not so confident that I don’t require reassurance now and again.”
“You know,” he said after a moment, “that marriage might improve your confidence.”
“I thought we were done with Lord Pearce.”
“Amusing.”
“You have someone else in mind?”
“I will have to give it some thought.” He saw she was in anticipation of yet another proposal and deliberately withheld it. There should be some small way of getting his own back after she’d turned down every one of his offers. “Your standards are perhaps too exacting for mere mortals.”
She twisted her hair into a knot and slipped on the wig. “I have a particular fondness for mere mortals, so you are wrong there.”
He stood and held out his hand to her. “I’ll remain hopeful, then, that someone more suitable than Pearce will come to mind.”
Olivia took his hand, rose, then allowed him to tug at the wig so it fit her he
ad snugly. “Go on,” she said when he’d finished. “I am still in need of a few minutes to apply my mask. Tell Mr. Mason that I will be at my station directly.”
They walked out together, but before they parted in the hallway, Olivia stayed Griffin by placing one hand on his shoulder and turning in to him. The kiss she offered was hot and wet and deep, and served up to remind him that he teased her at his own peril.
Nat put his hand in Olivia’s as soon as they stepped off the curb to cross Moorhead Street. They dodged a lumbering tinker’s wagon, a single rider on a great cinnamon gelding, and a hack that would not give way to any of the pedestrian traffic. Mason led the way, urging them to hurry, then made a point of looking them all over when they reached the opposite side of the street.
“All of a piece, it seems,” he said. “There’s a good thing. My guts for garters otherwise.”
“Guts for garters,” Nat repeated gravely. “Too bloody right, Mr. Mason.”
Olivia tried to be disapproving of both of her companions, but it required too much effort. “Let us continue, gentlemen, shall we? Nat is growing inches even as we stand here. The tailor will have to put twice the length in his knickers to account for it.”
They started off again, this time with Olivia and Nat leading the way. They took the shortcut through the park, stopping from time to time to appreciate the budding trees and the occasional blooming jonquil. Nat was an agreeable companion, curious about everything he observed but politely restrained in the number of questions he put before them.
Why do ladies plant gardens in their bonnets? How do they wind the clock in the tower? How many ships fit side by side across the Thames? What did the hack driver mean when he yelled “bugger off”?
Olivia fielded some questions, tagged Mason to answer others, and in the case of “bugger off,” ignored Nat completely.
Nat was cooperative while he was measured and fitted—more cooperative, Olivia recalled, than she had been when Griffin had arranged for her to be poked and pinned by Mrs. McCutcheon. When they were finished at the tailor’s, Olivia suggested they visit the bookseller’s. After that they went to a notions shop, the milliner’s, and stumbled upon a place that sold all manner of pewter ware, including what seemed to be his majesty’s entire army. Nat was pleased to leave with his first cavalry soldiers.
Mason offered to flag a hack for them, but Olivia wanted to be certain that she would not encounter Sir Hadrien at the hell and decided that walking, even weighed down with an armload of parcels, was just the thing to extend their time away.
They paused at the perimeter of the park to observe some children putting kites into the air. Their nannies sat on a bench, watching them, occasionally offering some encouragement, but seemingly more interested in exchanging gossip.
“It reminds me of the painting in your former room, Nat. You know the one I mean?”
He nodded. “I liked it very much, Miss Cole.”
“Perhaps we should move it. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.” She tipped her head back as one of the kites soared skyward. “Have you ever flown a kite?” she asked. “Look at the blue one. Oh, it’s going to make a dive.”
“I never have, have you?”
“Never.”
Nat turned to put the same question to Mason, but the words stayed locked in his throat as a fair-haired gentleman appeared suddenly behind the valet and knocked him hard to the ground. Nat dropped his parcels and flew at the stranger, but he was swatted aside like a pesky insect. He stumbled, fell, and rolled on his back. He called a warning just as Olivia was struck between the shoulder blades by the villain’s walking stick. The blow made her lurch forward and her packages tumbled out of her arms. She pivoted awkwardly, trying to find her balance, but before she could manage the thing she was lifted and slung over the man’s shoulder.
Nat yelled, “Bugger off!” and started to rise to his feet. He took a kick in the side, fell back, and saw the same strike used to keep Mason down. Someone screamed, and Nat supposed it was a good thing except that no one really came to their aid. All but one of the children had abandoned their kites, and the nannies were urging everyone to huddle close.
Nat scrambled to his feet and took a step forward in pursuit of Olivia and her assailant. This time it was Mason who held him back. The valet gripped Nat’s ankle like a vise.
“You can’t, son, else I’ll lose you as well.”
Nat sunk back to his knees as Olivia was thrust into a waiting carriage. The villain followed, the door banged shut, and the carriage rolled forward swiftly, as though it had never been fully at rest.
Mason saw the same. “He was lying in wait for us,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. His right shoulder was dislocated and his arm hung painfully at his side. He cradled it and directed Nat to pick up what he could manage and guard the rest while he hailed a hack.
A fat tear slipped free of Nat’s lower lashes and followed the path of his scar. He bent to pick up Olivia’s hat box. “It’ll be guts for garters.”
Mason nodded. “Too bloody right, it will.”
Chapter Sixteen
Olivia stumbled and fell as she was given a final hard shove into the room that would be her prison. Just before the door closed, candlelight illuminated the windowless room, and she saw she wouldn’t be alone. The door slammed shut, the light vanished, and a key rattled in the lock. A bar was shoved into place. By the time she caught her breath, the retreating footsteps could no longer be heard.
“Alastair?” Olivia awkwardly pushed herself up on all fours, then sat back on her heels. “Alastair? Is that you?”
“S’me, Livvy. S’me.”
The room’s overpowering stench made Olivia gag. Sweat, urine, vomitus, and other human waste, all of it overlaid by something pungent and oddly fruity, assailed her. She grabbed the hem of her gown and pressed it against her nose and mouth. The fabric did almost nothing to stay the foul odor, and she could taste it on her tongue, feel it enter her lungs.
“Are you drunk, Alastair?” she asked through the folds of linen.
“S’wine cellar. Course I’m drunk. You will be, too. S’only way.”
“Where are we?”
“I tol’ you. Wine cellar. Good stock. She selects it, I think. Likes to.”
Unable to stomach tasting the air any longer, Olivia lowered her hem a fraction and breathed carefully through her nose. The back of her head ached where she’d been struck. She rolled her shoulders and felt the knotty tension between them. She’d no chance to prepare for the attack and would not have known what had been used against her if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the villain and his weighted walking stick in the carriage. She’d feigned unconsciousness, hoping it would give her an advantage when they arrived at their destination. What it did, however, was give the villain an opportunity to bind her wrists before she knew what he was about. Her wild struggle came too late to be effective, and the hand he clamped over her mouth took away her voice and her breath. When she finally slumped against him there was no fight left in her. Her body jerked and shuddered, but it was in the throes of surrender, not in preparation for another round.
“She?” Olivia asked. “Who is she?”
Alastair groaned softly, held his head in his hands. “Mus’ you go on and on, Livvy? She’s she. A-lysss.”
Mrs. Christie, then. More annoyed than alarmed by this intelligence, Olivia released her gown altogether and began to work on the knots of her wrist bindings. She used her teeth to loosen the fabric, nibbling and tearing at the knots until she felt one of them give. After that it was easy to pull one of the ends and make space enough to slip her hands free. He’d bound her with a length of lightly starched cotton. His cravat, she realized, as she folded it into thirds and tucked most of it under the sleeve of her pelisse.
“How long have you been here, Alastair?”
“Don’ know. Wha’ day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Wednesday. The eleventh?”
“The eighteenth.”
“Oh, well, then, s’been a week and a bit. S’easy to lose time here.”
“I’m sure drinking helps.” Olivia rose to her feet and carefully made her way toward the sound of his voice. She found him with the toe of her foot, then hunkered down beside him. “Have you been hurt?”
“My pride.”
“Yes, that is always the deepest wound.” She touched his forehead, brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. “You have not been treated kindly, I think.”
“Not kindly, no.”
She could not even be put out with him. He was so clearly gone in his cups that he was doing well just stringing a few slurred words together. The fact that he was still sitting upright had more to do with the wall at his back than his strength of will. Olivia removed her pelisse and made certain it was under her before she sat. Alastair, if he could have seen what she was about, would probably have rolled his eyes at her fastidiousness, but Olivia believed she needed to embrace dignity for as long as possible.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
“Don’ think she likes me anymore.”
“Yes, it seems that might be the way of it.”
“S’all right. I don’ like her s’much either.”
“Good for you.”
“She wan’s the ring, Livvy.”
“Hardly surprising. You took it back from her, didn’t you?”
“Did. I did. Heard wha’ you tol’ me. Thought about it. Thought I should give it back. Make things right. I ’spect things haven’t always been right for you.” He lightly bumped her shoulder with his own. “You really are there, aren’t you? Wondered. Talk to myself sometimes, s’I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m here.” She nudged him back. “Truly.”
“How’d it happen?”
Olivia told him about the attack in the park. “Mr. Mason would not have let anything happen to me if he could have prevented it. Nat, too, I imagine. I have to hope neither was seriously injured, that the gentleman villain wanted me too badly to do more than push them out of the way.”