Chapter Four #4
The competitive card games between players, either as individuals or partners, brought him no money.
The drink that these players consumed, though, brought him a great deal, and it was not unusual for a player who’d had a good run of luck to leave some of his winnings on the table for the house.
He noticed that that particular column showed a marked increase, as it had every evening since Mrs. Christie’s departure.
He’d been right to suspect that she regularly helped herself to the winnings when she’d cleared the tables.
She’d also been pleased to accept a modest percentage of the winnings she gave him each night.
Alys Christie had taken her share, then taken it again.
The figures he recorded now were sufficient to prove her cheating to his satisfaction.
Griffin closed his eyes briefly, rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger.
He stifled a yawn and the figures in the ledger blurred.
He shook off the fatigue and added the columns again.
When he arrived at the same sum three times over, he replaced his quill, stoppered the inkwell, and sat back in his chair waiting for the page to dry before he closed the book.
He was all for his bed.
That was when he remembered that Olivia Cole was sleeping in it.
He had several thoughts concerning that turn of events, none of them particularly gallant or charitable.
Bloody hell.
Griffin glanced at the chaise longue situated at an angle between two walls of books. He never used it, but it filled the space nicely and served to hold the overflow of books that always seemed to be present in the room. He’d have to clear it before he could lie down.
He rubbed his eyes again. The mere thought of moving those books wearied him. When he considered that he would have to retrieve linens and blankets from the hall cupboard and nightclothes from his own bedchamber, he wondered if he might just be able to sleep in his chair.
It was the possibility that he might wake her that settled him on the matter.
He could send Mason or even Truss to get what he needed, but the same end concerned him.
He could not imagine that she would have no questions.
Mason and Truss could not answer them, and he was of no mind to do so at this hour.
In truth, there was little enough to tell her, and Griffin allowed that perhaps his internal argument was simply in aid of avoiding her. That insight, if accurate, did not set particularly well with him as he’d always believed it was in his nature to go at a thing head on.
He’d done just that with his staff, gathering them in small groups at different times so the hell’s routine and service would not be interrupted and his own absence would not be remarked upon.
He asked them about the keys—which were primarily in Truss’s care but not inaccessible to others—and had them account for their use throughout the evening.
The most valuable keys—those to the wine cellar, liquor cabinets, meat locker, silver drawers, and linen cupboards—were all kept on a ring that Truss carried with him.
The keys to other rooms were seldom used and hung on pegs in the servants’ hall.
If it was determined that there was a need to lock a particular room, then Truss added that key to his ring or delegated responsibility for it.
It was no surprise to discover the key that turned Olivia’s lock was missing from its peg.
No single key opened everything, but there existed one key that opened many of the doors to the bedchambers. Truss held this key as well and was able to produce it when called upon to open Olivia’s door.
Sitting back in his chair, his eyes partially closed as he stared at the fire, Griffin could recall far too easily the emotion that had roiled through him as he’d tried to gain entry to her room: guilt, frustration, fear.
He felt some measure of all those things now as a picture of Olivia Cole, her long, slim frame curled defensively against the fireplace, formed in his mind.
Much of her braid had come undone and strands of fiery ginger hair close to her face were already dry and curling.
It was not possible for a moment to distinguish those flickering tendrils from the flames mere inches from her.
She’d seemed oblivious to her proximity to the fire, or perhaps it was merely that she craved its warmth, but Griffin remembered thinking that with a single spark she would ignite like a candlewick.
Her complexion had been as pale as salt.
The effect was to make her eyes burn more brilliantly than was their usual cool green cast. It seemed to him that she weighed next to nothing when he lifted her, though part of him conceded it was the strength of his own fear that made carrying her feel effortless.
He’d made discreet inquiries of some of his better-known patrons, asking offhandedly about a gentleman who might have been among them earlier.
He owed the young Corinthian two quid, he told them, but had neglected to make careful note of the man’s name.
He moved among his guests, pausing to pose his question, offering the same brief description that Olivia had offered him, knowing all the while that it was unlikely to bear fruit.
With the help of the footmen, he tried to create a list of patrons who had come on their own and those who had come as part of a larger party.
It was a doomed exercise. There simply was no way of knowing with reasonable certainty who came and went.
The order that he’d given to evacuate the building worked against him as it was impossible to know how many guests departed after being herded outside.
Foster thought he’d seen a gentleman such as Griffin described, but it turned out he was thinking of Mr. Penny-weather, whom another footman had seen gallantly escorting his lady friend from the hell when the alarm was called.
Wick had only seen the villain at the window. To the boy, the gentleman was more shadow than substance. He could confirm the presence of such a person in Olivia’s room, but he couldn’t offer a detail that might lead to identification.
Griffin was forced to admit he might never learn the name of Olivia’s attacker, and nothing about that outcome pleased him. It was yet another complication in his increasingly complicated life.
On impulse, he strode to the bookshelves, removed three particular volumes, and checked for the presence of his pistol case.
Still not satisfied, he took it from the shelf, opened it, and examined the weapons.
He’d been tempted to fire one tonight. The pistol ball would have made short work of Olivia’s lock, but the fear of firing into her gave him a long enough pause that Truss was able to appear with the key.
He closed the lid and returned the case to its hiding place.
He knew some hell owners kept their weapons close at hand, even carried them on their person like highwaymen were wont to do.
Griffin had never seen the necessity of it.
Still, he thought, putting the books in their place, a bit of practice with them was not out of the question. Afternoons came to his mind as just the right time for that sort of activity.
When Griffin sat back at his desk, he opened the concealed drawer and drew out Alastair Cole’s marker. He read it again, wondering once more at the young man’s intention in offering his sister in place of a ring. A gem rarer than the one I wear… Did he value her so little, or so much?
…show her more care than the disdain you showed for my bauble.
Griffin could not help but think that it was Alastair who had shown disdain for his sister, yet there was no denying that Olivia had not railed against her fate. What was it she’d said to him? Oh, yes. I have no honor.
What was he to make of that?
She will reward you in ways you cannot imagine.
Griffin came close to crumpling the marker then. He’d seen to her comfort, her health, and the improvement of her mind. She’d rewarded him by setting his hell ablaze and forcing him to contemplate carrying a pistol.
Alastair Cole was right. It was an end he could not have imagined.
Mason entered Breckenridge’s study with a very light tread, loath to disturb his employer if he had finally found sleep.
True, it was well past the time when Breckenridge would usually rise, but Mason was aware of how little rest the viscount had enjoyed since the attack on Olivia Cole.
It was not simply that Breckenridge hadn’t been able to avail himself of his own bed, it was that he’d refused the comfort of one in any of the rooms on the floor above.
He did not explain his reasoning, though Mason surmised it was because he did not want to be too far removed from Miss Cole.
It seemed to the valet that even when Breckenridge was mingling with his patrons there was some part of him always alert to any disturbance above stairs.
Last evening the viscount had been moved to investigate a thud that had turned out to be nothing more than a book dropping to the floor.
It was Mason’s opinion that his employer’s attentiveness was, if not quite unnatural, then extraordinary.
Griffin felt no compulsion to sit up or open his eyes as the door clicked into place behind his valet. He recognized the stealthy movement as the one Mason employed when he was reluctant to disturb, as though the consequence of every step must needs be weighed.
He managed not to sigh his annoyance. “What is it?”
“The seamstress just left.”
“And?”
“Miss Cole has asked if she might speak with you.”
“The garments do not suit her?”
“No, I believe they suit her admirably.”
“She finds them insufficient then.”
“I doubt that is the case.”
“I don’t care for her thanks, Mason. You may tell her that.”