Chapter Four #3
Olivia managed to hum her approval. She quickly raised her teacup to her lips to hide the fact that not a single word could be pushed past the lump in her throat.
She sipped, swallowed, and felt the ache ease.
For all the defenses she had in place, she had never been able to guard herself against an unexpected kindness.
Griffin removed himself from the bed and returned to his chair. He held his whiskey between his palms and stretched his legs so the toes of his boots were just under the edge of the bed.
Olivia was struck again by the impression of weariness.
It was masked to some degree by his casual posture, but it resided there just beneath his skin, a peculiar tension that held him together even as it stole his strength.
He had the look in his dark eyes of someone who rarely rested even when he slept, perhaps most especially when he slept.
It was not her place to ask after him, so she tucked the thought away for examination later and continued to sip her tea.
“I should like to hear the whole of what happened in your room,” Griffin said. “If you are prepared to tell me, that is.”
Olivia appreciated that he framed it so carefully but wondered if she truly had the right to refuse. She caught the glimmer of his smile as he waited patiently for her response. How was it that he seemed to know what she was thinking?
She indulged in a deep breath and released it slowly. “He did not rape me, if that’s what you want to know.”
“You are telling me what did not happen. I’d hoped you’d be able to tell me what did. How was it that Wick came to know that you were in danger, for instance?”
“I was able to reach the window. I threw it open and managed to get my head out before I was dragged back. I think I screamed. I must have, else Wick would have had no cause to raise the alarm. I certainly didn’t know he was in the yard.”
“Sent out on the cook’s errand, I believe. It was difficult to make out most of what he was telling me. Excitement did not lend itself to clarity of his expression.”
Olivia could well imagine. “Poor Wick.”
It was her perfect sincerity that made Griffin cock his head to one side and study her in this new light.
“You are staring,” she said.
“Am I?”
“You are. Have I a smut on my nose?”
Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “On your nose. Your cheeks. A crease of it on your brow.” Because she held the cup and saucer she hadn’t the means to hide her face behind her hands.
Taking pity on her, though not necessarily because he regretted pointing out the blackened state of her complexion, Griffin relieved her of her tea before she upended the cup.
He set her drink and his aside, then disappeared into his dressing room.
“Stop rubbing,” he said upon his return. “You’re making it worse. Hold this.” He placed a basin of water in her lap and soaked a flannel in it. “I’m sorry, but this will be cold.” He wrung out the flannel as he hitched his hip on the edge of the bed and turned to her. “Close your eyes.”
She blinked several times before she obeyed, then the damp flannel was against her cheek. She could feel the gentle pressure of his fingers on the other side of it, washing her face like velvet.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell me the rest of it.”
It took her a moment to realize he meant that she should go on with her story. It seemed oddly intimate, uncomfortably so, yet there was ease here, too, because he’d seen to it that her eyes were closed.
Griffin prompted her. “You were telling me that he pulled you back into the room after you called for help.”
“Yes. I hit my head on the sash hard enough to see a flash of…” She frowned slightly. “No, I don’t suppose it was that hard after all. I think what I saw was the fire.”
Griffin put his fingers at the back of her head and probed gently. He found a bump. Even a gingerly exploration caused her to wince. “Hard enough.”
She waited until his hand dropped away before she spoke again. “He…he pulled me down. The towel I’d been using to dry my hair was on the floor where I’d dropped it. I thought there might be some use for it. There were no other weapons at the ready.”
“No, I don’t imagine there were.” Griffin applied the cloth to her left cheek. “So did it prove helpful?”
“After a fashion…That is…It is difficult to…” Her voice trailed off as she considered the words in her own mind.
There was no bow she could put on the thing to make it pretty.
She’d almost strangled a man. That was the truth she could tell him, but it was the truth that he would hear that troubled her more.
The truth that she felt not a whit of remorse. “I don’t think I want to say.”
“Very well. You don’t have to.”
Olivia felt compelled to offer something in its place. “The noise you made at the door distracted him.”
“Is that right?”
She ignored the thread of skepticism in his voice and nodded. “And…and I was able to throw him off.” It was not a complete lie. “I ran to the door, but you couldn’t open it from your side either, and I was afraid he might take me down again if I tried to take the key from him.”
“A perfectly reasonable fear,” said Griffin. Acid churned in his stomach.
“Was it? I felt the coward.”
Griffin dropped the flannel in the basin and placed two fingers under Olivia’s chin, lifting it. “Look at me, Olivia.”
She knew herself to be compelled by the softly spoken command. She opened her eyes and found herself mirrored in the dark reflection of his own.
“You beat out a fire that might have consumed every one of us. That is not the act of a coward.”
“It was easier to fight it than him.”
A smile tugged at one corner of Griffin’s mouth.
“Sometimes it does not matter which enemy you choose to fight. What matters is that you fought. It is my opinion that you acquitted yourself admirably against both.” He watched her stir uneasily, though whether she was discomfited by his praise or his proximity he didn’t know.
He drew back and removed the basin from her lap.
The water was gray with the sooty residue from her face.
He tilted the bowl a bit, drawing her attention to it. “You haven’t a smut left.”
She smiled faintly and made to touch her cheek.
He caught her wrist when it was halfway to her face and shook his head.
Olivia examined her hand and saw that his good work would have been for nothing if she’d touched any part of her face.
When he cast his eyes at the basin, she obligingly dipped her hands in the water.
“It seems that a bath was wasted on me this evening,” she said as he cleaned her fingers.
“What do you mean?”
“The lads prepared a bath for me tonight, though I suppose Truss or Mr. Mason supported the idea of it. I fear I am dirtier now than I was before my first soaking. Still, it was a bit of good luck to have so much water nearby.” She glanced at him.
“How did you imagine I was able to put out the fire?”
“I didn’t imagine. It was almost entirely out by the time Truss and I entered. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how you’d done it. I’m afraid I was more concerned that you survived it.”
She nodded. “The ￡1,000. Yes, it’s understandable that you would want to protect Alastair’s marker.”
“Bloody hell,” he said feelingly. “My concern had nothing to do with the debt.” He finished wiping down her palms with brisk, almost agitated swipes, then stood and carried the basin back to the dressing room.
“You’ll sleep here this evening,” he said when he returned. He staved off her protest by lifting a hand. “There really is no other room available. I will stay in my study, of course. Did you have any supper?”
“No, but—”
“I’ll send Foster with it. I have to see to my other guests. My paying guests, I suppose you’d say.”
Olivia had quite a lot she’d like to say, but she was ignored when she called out to him. She knew better than to suppose he hadn’t heard her. Her voice was still hoarse and husky from the effects of the smoke, but she’d seen the slight hesitation in his step and did not mistake the cause of it.
She’d poked at a tender spot and he’d dismissed her because of it.
It was gone three when the last of the patrons were finally steered from the gaming hell.
Footmen cleared the rooms of empty glasses and sneaked a sip now and again from the ones that weren’t quite so empty.
Wick and Beetle swept the floors and kept an eye out for stray coins.
The drinks cabinet was refilled, the wine cellar locked, and the tables cleared of the detritus of gaming: ashes, snuff, unclaimed markers, dice, and cards.
It fell to Mr. Truss to sort through the cards to make sure none had been marked.
Each time he found one with a suspicious crease on the corner, he tossed it, then made up new decks to be used the following evening.
As was his habit at the end of each evening, Griffin carried the money box to his study.
While his staff worked to set the hell to rights, he counted the night’s earnings and recorded it in his account book, separating the income into columns based on the origin of the revenue.
The roulette wheel did well for him most nights, and this one was no exception.
His earnings for vingt-et-un were steady, a fact that he found interesting as Mrs. Christie was no longer a presence at the table.
She always managed to draw in players, so he had expected to see less income once he released her from his protection.
That this was not the case merely underscored the other damning revelations about her involvement in his business.