by Goodman, Jo
“Ain’t a gentleman, now, is he?”
“No.” Deciding that sparing Alastair the details served neither of them, she described her first encounter with the villain. Beside her, she felt Alastair’s position shift and realized he’d drawn his knees up and was resting his head on them. “Are you feeling sorry for yourself, Alastair? I hope not, because I need you to help me to think our way out of this.”
“You might have been killed,” he said quietly.
“I might have been raped,” she said. “Either or both can still happen, Alastair. I require you sober, not maudlin.”
“S’right.” He lifted his head, stared into the darkness. “Thinkin’ now.”
Olivia slipped her arm in his. “Good. Now tell me about this cellar.”
Mason was unable to hold Nat back once they reached the hell’s entrance hall. The boy dropped his parcels, bolted up the stairs, and was turning into the hall by the time Mason reached the bottom step. His ascent was much slower than was his wont. It was not only his shoulder that had suffered an injury but his ankle as well. He used the banister to support himself as he limped along.
Truss appeared, asked what was toward, and offered Mason help mounting the stairs. They were met just as they reached the top by Griffin, then in short order, by Nat and Sir Hadrien.
Griffin’s face was tight. The scar shone whitely as a muscle jumped in his cheek. He looked Mason over, appraised his injuries as being painful nuisances, and assisted Truss with moving the valet to his study. By the time they had him settled on the chaise, Griffin had the whole of the story from him. Remarkably, except for the fact that it was more easily understood, it was almost the same account he’d had from Nat.
“Did no one give chase?” Griffin asked.
“I wouldn’t let the boy go, my lord.” Mason hung his head. “And I could not.”
“I don’t mean the two of you. There were others in the park, weren’t there? Passersby on the street?” He gave his valet no warning, supposing it was better that way, and fixed his hands in a position to wrench the shoulder back into place. “Not a single Good Samaritan?”
Mason bellowed as Griffin set his joint. Beads of sweat appeared in the crease of his brow and along his upper lip. He sucked in a breath so hard that it whistled between his teeth. When his eyes could properly focus, he saw Nat standing at the foot of the chaise, his eyes nearly liquid with alarm. “Sainted mother, but you scared the boy.”
Griffin glanced at Nat, held out his hand. “Come. Sit here beside Mr. Mason. Don’t allow him to so much as twitch. We have wounded on the field, and you must see to your men.” He saw a bit of pink color return to Nat’s ashen complexion as the boy nodded manfully and exchanged places with him at Mason’s side. “Truss, send someone to fetch Pettibone.”
Sir Hadrien stepped out of the doorway to let the butler pass. “What of the carriage?” he demanded, pressing his hands together. “What of its direction?”
Turning to look over his shoulder, Griffin gave him a quelling glance. “Your concern is misplaced, sir. Our interview is at an end.” He turned back to Mason. “Was it the villain, do you think?”
“Seemed as if it might be. I had a glimpse of blond hair. The size of him was what Miss Cole described before. Who else wants to hurt her?”
“A very good question.” Griffin turned again to regard Sir Hadrien. “What do you think, sir? Who wants to hurt your daughter?”
The less than subtle questioning caused Sir Hadrien to bristle. “You are wrong, Breckenridge, and would do well to hold yourself in check. I have been with you, haven’t I?”
Griffin caught himself before laying more blame. It was true enough that Sir Hadrien had been with him, but it was also true that Olivia had told her father she would be gone from the hell this afternoon. Griffin could think of no one else who knew about the change in Olivia’s routine. The villain could have been watching, waiting for such an opportunity, but it was equally possible he had information to make abducting Olivia easier. From the description of events, it seemed the carriage had been lying in wait.
Griffin moved away from the chaise to stand in front of the bookshelves. He ran his finger along the books at eye level, stopped at Smith’s An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, and removed it. Having more than a little respect for Smith’s work, Griffin placed it on the chair behind him. The next three books he removed were not given so much care. They were allowed to thud to the floor while he reached for the object of his search.
He carried the burnished mahogany case to his desk and opened it. Sir Hadrien had moved closer and stood in a position to see the pair of pistols lying against the dark blue velvet lining. Griffin ignored the disapproving noises coming from Sir Hadrien under the guise of throat clearing and examined each pistol in turn.
Both pistols were polished and primed. Griffin was glad now of his regular practice with them. They felt comfortable in his hand.
Griffin chose one pistol to secret under his frock coat at the small of his back. It fit snugly but did not limit his movement. Holding the other pistol aimed at the floor, he arched an eyebrow at Sir Hadrien. “Shall we? As I intend to take advantage of your waiting carriage, I do not mind sharing the space…overmuch.”
Sir Hadrien frowned. “Very well,” he said finally. “Naturally I will go, and I should have thought of lending my carriage at the outset.”
“Good.” He turned to Mason, who was struggling to rise. “Stay where you are. Nat, do not fail me.”
Mason grimaced as he propped himself on his elbow. “Shall I send Foster to Bow Street, sir?”
“If I haven’t returned in…” He considered the likelihood that things could be resolved quickly. “Let us say, two hours. Send for the runners and tell them to begin with Mrs. Christie.”
“But you said she was gone from town.”
“She has returned, I think.” He turned dark, predator eyes on Sir Hadrien. “Isn’t that right?”
Guided by Alastair’s somewhat slurred and haltingly given directions, Olivia explored the confines of their prison. “Is this Mrs. Christie’s cellar?” she asked as she paced off the length of the wall lined with wine bottles.
“Think so. Las’ thing I recall before waking here was havin’ dinner with her, so s’possible.”
“She drugged you?”
“S’pose she did.”
Olivia absently rubbed the back of her head where she’d been struck. She thought she might have preferred a sleeping powder to being clobbered. “Have you seen her since you’ve been here?”
“No. She ain’t come around.”
“What about the villain? Does he come around?”
“Now and again, just to take a poke at me with his stick.”
“Who brings you food, takes the slop bucket?” When there was no answer, Olivia asked, “Are you shrugging, Alastair? Shaking your head? I can’t see either.”
“Shruggin’,” he said. “Don’ know who it is. Servant, I ’spect. S’not the one you call the villain. Seen him before, though. Not here. Somewhere else. Can’t remember where.”
Olivia sighed. “Tell me about who comes here. Same person or different?”
“Same.”
That made sense, Olivia thought. Wherever they were, the fewer people who knew about it, the better. She turned the corner, ran her hand along the cool and damp stone wall. “Did you ever try to escape?” There was silence again, and Olivia had to remind her brother she couldn’t see his reply.
“No,” he said. “The villain tol’ me you’d be hurt if I conceived any notions of bravery. Got drunk instead, but here you are so I s’pose I should’ve done something.”
She came abreast of her brother and reached down to touch his shoulder. “You’ll have to do something now, Alastair, no matter what he says will happen to me. He wants to hurt me.” She paused. “He’ll try.”
Alastair drew in his legs as Olivia moved carefully around him and continued her search. “Won’t
let him touch you.”
“I know.” She bumped something with her toe, heard the slush of liquid, and grimaced as she stepped around the slop bucket. Her nose had gradually become numb to the worst of the odor, but tipping the bucket would have tested her resolve to keep down her breakfast. “We can also depend on Breckenridge to find us. If not today, then tomorrow, or the next day, but he’ll come. I am not of a mind to wait for him, though, and he will not expect that I should.”
“I fear you are being optimish…op-ti-mish-tic…op-ti…hopeful.”
“It is not hope, but confidence.”
“We do not know where we are. How will he?”
“He already suspects a connection between Mrs. Christie and the gentleman villain. Since none of us knows the identity of the villain, he must begin with Mrs. Christie, and I believe our father will know where to find her.”
Griffin gave Sir Hadrien’s driver Mrs. Christie’s address, but as soon as the carriage began to roll, he set his eyes hard upon Olivia’s father and pressed for information. “Will we find her at the residence?”
“I couldn’t possibly—”
Griffin raised the pistol. “I will shoot. You’ve spoken to her. Your son would not have returned the ring to me, then run to you with news of it. He’s shown some backbone of late, but not so much as that, I’m sure. If he didn’t tell you what he did, then you came by the news in the only other way possible: Mrs. Christie told you. She must have been very angry with Alastair to take the matter up with you. So I will ask you again, will we find her at the residence now that you are also in town?”
“I cannot know.” He thrust his hands forward as though his palms could ward off a pistol ball. “She might be gone shopping. Paying a social call. How can you expect that I will know if—” He stopped when the pistol jerked in Griffin’s hand and sat back hard against the plump leather squabs. He could not quite contain the rise of panic. It edged his voice, lending it the slightest quiver. “She has Alastair, Breckenridge. She’s taken my son. My wife is practically mad with grief and demands that I do whatever necessary to ensure his release. She cannot rise from her bed because of that woman. Do you think I would have debased myself by applying to you for the ring if not for the sake of my son and my wife?”
“I know you wouldn’t have done it for your daughter.”
“You don’t know anything, except that you think you know it all. Olivia lies, Breckenridge. She always has. Embellishment. Exaggeration. Those are but the small ways she creates and re-creates her tales. Fancies. Diversions. One might name them such if one is of a mind to be kind…or forgiving. I am no longer of such a mind and have not been so for years. She is jealous of my wife, of my son. Even as a young girl she tried to turn my wife against me.”
Sir Hadrien drew himself up and gave Griffin a considering look. “She reads people. Even someone like you who is remarkably good at schooling your features, Olivia is able to see something more. Have you never wondered why she is so good as a dealer? It is not only her expert handling of the cards. She watches the players, makes a game of supposing what they will do. She preys on them, not in an obvious way—not usually. I would venture to say that she’s preyed on you, saw something that would make you sympathetic to some of her most virulent lies, and those are the ones she told to bring you around.”
He paused, eyes narrowed. “I’ll wager she crawled into your bed first.”
Griffin lowered the pistol. “What did Mrs. Christie ask you to do?”
Sir Hadrien blinked, stared. A deep flush stole over his sharp countenance as he realized he was being dismissed. “That vile woman. She wants the ring, of course. She’d prefer the ring and marriage to my son, but as I would never give my blessing to the latter, and as Alastair cannot be compelled to enter into that arrangement, she seems to be willing to settle for the ring.”
Griffin shook his head slowly. “There is more to it than that. The ring is valuable, to be sure, easily four or five times the debt that was owed me, but for her to risk so much to have it back seems out of character.”
“How can you know?” Sir Hadrien asked flatly. “She has no character. No scruples. No morals.” He thrust his chin forward, challenging. “Your association with women like her can be all that explains it. Mrs. Christie. My daughter. I did not know your wife, but she must have been so inclined. I understand that she presented you with a bastard before she died.”
“There is nothing that Mrs. Christie likes less than leaving London,” Griffin said just as if Sir Hadrien had never spoken. “A journey to Coleridge Park is a most unusual step for her when she might simply have written.”
“A letter as evidence that she is holding my son for ransom? She is too clever for that.”
Griffin conceded the point. “Still, she might have found another way to lure you into town. That she went to you speaks of some urgency on her part. Did she appear to be under duress?”
“She appeared to be quite mad.”
Griffin realized Sir Hadrien would apply that description to anyone opposing him. He was incapable of seeing beyond his own nose. “How much time has she allowed for you to get the ring back?”
“She didn’t say, although I had the impression that once I came to town she expected the thing to be done quickly.”
“And yet you never once offered to pay Alastair’s debt. Your reputation for being close-fisted is well deserved, it seems.”
“The ring belongs to me,” he said stubbornly. “To my family. I shouldn’t have to pay for what is mine.”
“That is between you and your conscience, in the event you have one, though it occurs to me that Alastair would have been better served if Mrs. Christie had negotiated with your wife.” Griffin used the pistol to point toward a three-story brownstone town house with a wide entrance flanked by stone lions. “Ah, here we are. Before we go, let me explain the rules of engagement. You will follow my lead and do precisely as I say. The moment I determine you are a hindrance, I will shoot you. Whether or not I kill you depends on my mood of the moment. At the moment, I am feeling peckish, and that is not in any way good for you.” He jerked his chin toward the door. “Go on. I will follow directly.”
Cautious of the primed weapon in his hand and the pistol at his back, Griffin was slower to leave the carriage. Sir Hadrien was already lifting the knocker when Griffin came abreast of him.
The housekeeper once again made noises about Mrs. Christie being gone from the residence. Griffin and Sir Hadrien were still ignoring her protests as they mounted the stairs. Once they reached the top, they followed the sound of another voice, this one issuing orders in tones both impatient and frustrated.
“You are leaving town again, Mrs. Christie?” asked Griffin. There were trunks and valises set out in the bedroom, and it was clear from the activity that they were being packed, not the opposite. “So soon? I was certain you’d only just arrived.”
Alys’s maid appeared from the dressing room with an armload of gowns and came to an abrupt halt when she saw the visitors. Alarmed, she looked to her mistress for direction.
Mrs. Christie snapped, “Those belong in the armoire, Linsley. They can be pressed later. Go! The dressing room.” Her head swung around in Griffin’s direction. “You mistake the matter, Breckenridge, as you are prone to do. I am coming, not going.” Her gaze swiveled to Sir Hadrien, then back to Griffin. “This is still my home, and you have no right to assume you are welcome, let alone bring guests.”
Griffin revealed the pistol that had been partially hidden against his thigh. He held it up without menace, merely to show he had it. “Have done, Alys. I see what is toward. Your pretense that it is otherwise is insulting. Send your maid out.” He nudged Sir Hadrien forward enough to conceal the pistol as Mrs. Christie called to Linsley and ordered her out of the dressing room and then out of the bedroom altogether. He tapped the heel of his boot against the door and closed it behind her, then stepped away from Sir Hadrien so the pistol was clearly visible once more.
Alys Christie stepped behind one of the open trunks. Her hands played nervously against the lid. When she realized it, she forced herself to hold them still. She appealed to Sir Hadrien. “Do you mean to stand by and do nothing? It will not go well for you, you know.”
Sir Hadrien recalled Griffin’s clear directives and offered no reply.
“Where is she?” Griffin asked again. “Pray, do not dissemble. I promise I will not kill you, Mrs. Christie, but I will make you ugly. Give that a moment to settle in your mind before you answer.”
She stared at him, her features sagging and her complexion going to ash. “By God, but you would do it.”
“Most assuredly. Your answer.”
“Johnny Crocker has her, has both of them.” She pressed her hands together, imploring Griffin when she saw rage darken his eyes to black. “I swear I didn’t know that he planned to abduct Olivia. I had no part in it. I only found out an hour ago, by messenger, what he’d done. It’s about you, Breckenridge. He wants to ruin you. She is a means to that end, nothing else. I knew you’d come as soon as you learned of it, knew what you’d think, what you’d do. Why do you suppose I was leaving?”
Griffin let her wind down, made certain she did not intend to say more, then coldly reminded her, “I found my wife. Do you think there is anywhere you could go that I wouldn’t find you?” He watched her, saw that she knew better than to answer, and continued. “And do not suppose for a moment that I believe you are blameless here. I know what Crocker is to you and you to him. The desire to ruin me did not necessarily begin with him. Now, does he have them at the hell?”
She nodded. “He wants the ring. Give him the ring, and he’ll release them.”
“I thought he wanted to ruin me.”
“Yes,” she said hastily. “He does. And wants the ring besides.”
Griffin merely cocked an eyebrow at her, then waved his pistol toward the door. “Come. There is room enough for you in Sir Hadrien’s comfortable carriage. By the time we reach Crocker’s hell, you should have the wrinkles in your story neatly pressed.”