Chapter Five #5
He finished his coffee, set the cup aside, and rolled the stiffness from his shoulders. Too many more nights on the chaise, he decided, and self-preservation would dictate that he present himself at her door.
“You are in expectation of a reply,” he said, studying her, “as if I might be inclined to change my mind. I am not so inclined. When your brother’s debt is finally settled to my satisfaction you will thank me that I did not permit you in the gaming rooms. You have some sort of society to which you will return.
Your life will proceed more smoothly if it is not rumored that you were once the faro dealer at Breckenridge’s hell. ”
“You know nothing about my society. It is not a consideration.”
Griffin thought he might throw up his hands in frustration. What kept them at his side was a suspicion that they might find their way to her throat. “You are relentless, Miss Cole.”
She actually smiled.
“There is no reason you should be so full of yourself. It was not a compliment.” He watched her school her expression but did not imagine for a moment that she was chastened. “You are Sir Hadrien Cole’s daughter. I have not forgotten that, even if you have.”
Olivia was quiet a long moment in which her stare did not waver. “You have it wrong, my lord. It is Sir Hadrien that has forgotten.”
It was rare that Griffin found himself at a loss, but he knew that feeling now.
Her voice did not hint at sadness; her eyes did not hint at pain.
It was in the stillness of her posture, in the way she seemed to draw into herself that he sensed her self-protective isolation.
Lonely, perhaps, almost certainly alone, she imposed distance without retreating and effectively, eloquently, told him she would say no more on the subject.
“Why is it so important to you?” he asked at last. “I’ve told you that I will see to your house and your staff and your creditors. What is it that I don’t understand that makes you want to do this thing?”
Olivia responded with a question of her own. “Do you believe women can desire to act honorably, that they have a duty to account for their own debts?”
“You do not want to hear my opinion of women and honor and duty.”
“That is a kind of answer, isn’t it? You would not be looking for an explanation if I were a man; honoring a debt would be your expectation.
You have satisfied yourself that I am no more than my brother’s marker, and it is not only you, but Alastair, too, who sees me in such a manner.
If I go on as I have, it is how I will come to see myself.
” She glanced at her hands, shook her head.
“A marker. Can you imagine? Not flesh and blood, but currency. It is too lowering.”
Even for me. She did not add the words, but they flitted through her mind. Afraid they would make her sound pitiable, she held them back.
Griffin regarded her with a certain amount of skepticism. “I cannot decide if you are sincere or well rehearsed.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It is honest.”
“You are correct,” he said, inclining his head to salute her. “It doesn’t matter. My mind is unchanged.”
The hell was particularly crowded this evening, Griffin noted.
He was aware that Mrs. Christie’s absence had led to some speculation among his regular patrons.
There were wagers in the betting books as to when she would reappear.
Griffin did not discourage the activity, though he suggested adding a column that permitted bettors to mark their wagers as when hell freezes.
This led to further speculation that perhaps a blizzard was in the offing.
It was a harmless enough activity and aside from that one comment, he remained quiet on the matter of his former mistress.
He’d learned that she was frequenting some of the competing clubs—Johnny Crocker’s most often—but this did not concern him.
In spite of the acrimony of their parting, he wished her well, and if she did deign to visit his hell again, he knew it would happen only when she had captured the attention and the arm of someone she considered his rival.
It would not be enough for Alys Christie that she was doing well. She would want to know that he was not.
“Lady Rivendale,” Griffin said, lifting the hand she extended to him and bringing it to his lips. “You are looking particularly fine this evening. It occurs to me that you will be the very devil to beat at the tables.”
She smiled warmly and shed a decade off her fifty plus years. “I hope you are right, Breckenridge. I have it in my mind to win a perfectly vulgar sum of money tonight.”
Griffin chuckled. “What is your game so that I might show you to your table?”
“Conquian.” A gentleman some ten years her senior appeared at her side, a drink in either hand. She lifted the glass of wine meant for her. “Do you know Mr. Warner?”
“I have not had the pleasure.” He made a slight bow. “Welcome to my club.”
Before Mr. Warner could make a reply, Lady Rivendale offered a distinctly masculine snort.
“Pray, Breckenridge, do not puff the thing up. It is a hell, a fine one to be sure, but still a hell. I shall be most disappointed to learn I’ve convinced Mr. Warner to provide escort to a respectable establishment.
He has been to those. Tell me that you have not found religion. It would be too depressing.”
Griffin laughed heartily, as much at the hapless Mr. Warner’s expression of alarm as the countess’s eccentricity.
“It is still very much a hell,” he assured her, and was rewarded by another of her merry smiles.
She was in every way a beautiful woman, more so because of the energy with which she embraced life.
He’d heard remark once that she’d earned the lines that fanned out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, so why would she hide them?
Did a general hide his medals? Griffin had decided it was an excellent position from which to view one’s life, and he admired her for it.
“We had a bit of a dustup last week and a row between the punters at faro only two nights ago.”
“It has been a mannerly squeeze, then,” her ladyship said, disheartened.
“Do not fear. I promise, if no one begins a brawl this evening, I will start the thing myself. Shall I show Mr. Warner the rear exit in the event you have need of a hasty escape once the fists fly?”
“I can find it, not that I would. A brawl is just the sort of entertainment I crave.” She took Mr. Warner by the elbow.
“Come along. Do not mind us. We are having you on a bit. Drink up and you will see that it is so or that it doesn’t matter.
The conquian table is in the next room. I am quite certain they will make room for us. ”
Griffin turned to watch her go, smiling encouragingly at Mr. Warner as the gentleman glanced back over his shoulder, uneasiness stamped on his countenance.
If Mr. Warner proved himself a trepid escort, Griffin had no doubt he’d seen the last of the man.
Lady Rivendale did not suffer the faint of heart.
Griffin moved among the patrons with an ease that belied the fact that his thoughts were otherwise occupied.
He spoke to some, listened to few, and nodded politely when anyone caught his eye.
He made a round of every table, caught tidbits of gossip, and showed a trio of high-stepping gentlemen to the door when he saw them produce their opium pipes.
For a time after he’d bought the establishment he had tolerated the opium smokers while he was ridding the hell of its prostitutes.
It was not unusual for someone to challenge his rule, and he did not employ his staff to purposely seek out the violators and eject them, but when it was blatantly done the guests were asked to leave or were removed.
No matter what aspect of the business engaged his attention, Griffin found he had gray matter enough to spare for the problem of Olivia Cole.
And she was a problem.
Until this morning her requests had been rather benign.
He’d been very aware of the small ways in which she elicited the cooperation of his staff, and he’d made no move to interfere, but she hadn’t asked for the wardrobe he’d provided, and she hadn’t put the idea of a bath in anyone’s mind.
If she remained in the hell much longer, they would all be tripping over themselves doing for her.
The fact that she was not at all helpless was no sort of deterrent. He…no, all of them…had been seized by an urge to protect her. He was fighting it. His staff, even the occasionally severe and skeptical Mason, had never thought to resist.
Olivia Cole was such a presence in his mind that when he turned to the faro table to watch the play, he immediately dismissed what his eyes revealed as a flight of fancy.
It was not possible that it was she standing in the banker’s position at the table, smiling rather winsomely, slowly shuffling a new deck and monitoring the placement of the bets.
Moreover, it was not possible that she had defied him.
“All wagers are down.”
It was the voice, her voice, that made the incomprehensible suddenly quite certain.