Chapter Six
Olivia had a book open in her lap but had given up trying to read it.
Her attention kept wandering each time she heard the echo of a footfall from the hall and stairway.
It was difficult to imagine that Breckenridge would allow her defiance to pass without a confrontation.
That he had not forcibly removed her from the faro table spoke to his ability to let a thing rest while he considered what course of action to take.
It was not that he was patient, but that he was cunning.
She was almost sick with the anticipation of his appearance at her door, though she could admit that it was no more than she deserved for disregarding his authority.
Olivia’s nerves grew more taut as the hell quieted.
The diminished activity on the floor below her room was a sure sign that the servants were nearing the completion of their tasks.
She had fled the faro table immediately after paying out the last of the winnings to the punters and passing the hell’s share to Breckenridge.
Although he’d thanked her politely, she knew it was for the benefit of the patrons lingering around her table.
There was naught but scorn in the dark, chilly glance he reserved exclusively for her.
When the knock at the door finally came, she still started with enough force to dislodge the book. She bent to pick it up only to have it slip from her nerveless fingers as Breckenridge entered.
“I thought we agreed you would keep the door locked,” he said, closing it behind him.
Olivia retrieved the book and placed it on a side table.
As she made to rise, Breckenridge came to stand in front of her chair.
She was forced by his proximity to lower herself once again and tilt her head back to look up at him.
He was not going to be sympathetic to the crick in her neck as she had been to his.
“The patrons are gone,” she said. “There is no one here that means me harm.” She regarded him steadily. “Is there?”
He leaned forward and braced his arms on either side of her chair.
The fact that she didn’t cower only served to incense him.
“You are neither stupid nor naive. You know bloody well that I want to put my hands on you, and your apparent belief that I am, at my core, unwilling to do so is unwarranted. With very little more in the way of provocation I could be moved to turn you over my knee.”
Olivia’s breath hitched as her lips parted. Blood roared so loudly in her ears that she could not hear a single one of her scattered thoughts.
“Nothing to say?” he asked. “Good. I will assume that means I’ve persuaded you.
” He straightened but did not give quarter.
His gaze slid over her, registering for the first time that she had not readied for bed and was still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the gaming room.
There was but one conclusion he could draw from that. “You were expecting me.”
“It seemed likely that you would want to discuss my decision to act in opposition to your wishes.”
“You do not even pretend it was something other than defiance.”
“I judged that it would make you angrier. Was I wrong?”
A muscle worked in Griffin’s cheek, briefly whitening his scar. “No,” he said finally. “You were not wrong.” He took a small step backward and jerked his chin at her. “Take off that ridiculous turban. What possessed you to wear it in the first place?”
“A desire for anonymity,” she said as she carefully unwound the pink silk shawl she’d fashioned into a headdress. “My hair is a rather singular color.”
It was, but Griffin did not support the observation. “So your reputation is more important to you than you would have me believe.”
“No, but I understand that preserving it seems to be important to you.” She folded the shawl and laid it on her lap. “I darkened my eyebrows and lashes also.”
He’d noticed. “And painted your cheeks and your mouth. Go wash it off.”
Flushing slightly, Olivia rose to her feet. She ducked her head slightly as she slipped sideways to get past him.
Griffin brought her up short, gripping her elbow. He put a finger under her chin, lifting it, and his eyes narrowed on her right cheek just beneath the corner of her eye. “The beauty patch as well.”
Olivia forced herself not to run. When she returned from scrubbing her face, Breckenridge was lounging comfortably in the chair she’d occupied. He merely pointed to the window bench, clearly expecting that she would comply. Recalling his threat, she did.
“You attracted a great deal of attention this evening,” Griffin said. “I don’t know that the faro table has ever had gentlemen three deep at every station.”
“It did seem they were eager to play.”
“They were eager to spend time in your company.”
“Then they are very foolish.”
“Perhaps.”
She had expected Breckenridge’s unequivocal agreement, so his less certain response surprised her.
He was still studying her, though not as intently or coldly as he’d done earlier, but with more speculative interest. Not knowing what to make of that, she remained quiet, waiting for him to direct the conversation.
“I counted the winnings from the faro table,” he said. “Will you venture to guess what the house took in this evening?”
“I cannot speak for all of your profits. At my table I think it was just shy of six hundred quid.”
One of Griffin’s eyebrows kicked up. He did not imagine for a moment that her guess was lucky. “Five hundred ninety-three pounds exactly, but I think you knew that.”
She shrugged.
“Do you know what the punters won?”
“Some two percent less. Those are the odds in favor of the house in an honest game. It was an honest game, my lord. I did not employ sleight of hand or any trickery by distraction.”
Griffin had watched the players’ losses carefully and knew she hadn’t skewed the odds in his favor.
“That was my observation also,” he said.
“In regard to the sleight of hand, at least. Your presence was distraction enough for the players, I think, to support the fact the hell’s winnings were in excess of three percent.
” He held up a hand to stay her protest. “I am not accusing you of cheating, merely of being a distraction. I don’t suppose that if I were to poll the gentlemen I would discover that any of them minded.
Some of their lady friends, though, were made unhappy by the competition for their attention. ”
When she seemed startled by this last, Griffin shook his head. “Come now. You were able to calculate the winnings within a hairsbreadth of dead-on accuracy, but failed to notice that more than one woman was cheerfully contemplating your demise? That is hard to credit.”
“You may believe what you like. I can only say that my own attention was all for the play at hand. You will perhaps understand that the wagers and winning were substantially more important to me than the petty dramas staged by some of your female guests. Pray, what did I have to fear from any of the women when your place at the head of the murder queue was already secured?”
Griffin’s smile became marginally less derisive. “And you should be glad of it, for I would do the thing quickly. Those women—all of them—would pluck out your heart with tweezers.”
She blanched, her hand coming up as if she could ward off such an attack.
“Just so,” he said, watching her narrowly. The urge was upon him to laugh, and he was hard-pressed not to give in to it. To make certain that he did not, he put another matter before her. “Did you see him tonight?”
The shift in subject was so abrupt that for a moment Olivia did not follow. When she realized what Breckenridge was asking, she let her hand fall to her lap. Her color did not return. “My attacker? No. I didn’t see him.”
“So your attention was not all for the wagers and winnings.” When she offered no contradiction, he went on. “It was dangerous, what you did. Had you given the least thought to what you might do if you saw him again?”
Olivia shook her head. “I didn’t, but it occurs to me now that I should arm myself with a pair of tweezers.”
Griffin was not amused. “He might return at any time. You have to consider that. A public accusation would harm you more than him, unless, of course, it is your intention to force me to call him out.”
“Put it from your mind. I will neither confront him publicly nor have blood drawn on my account.”
Curious now, Griffin asked, “Is there some doubt in your mind as to the outcome of pistols at twenty paces?”
“There is always doubt, my lord, and you would be foolish to suppose that you could never be the loser of such a confrontation. You might slip as you turn to face him, or you might be possessed by a sneeze at the very moment you take aim. Your weapon might misfire. He might count off eight paces to your ten and shoot before you. His physician may be superior to your own. All things being equal, he may simply be luckier than you that morning. If your pride smarts because I entertain doubts that you would be the victor, then you are most desperately in need of a restraining hand.”
“A surfeit of pride makes one vulnerable, is that it?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” he said. His pride was not engaged, but he did not tell her this. What she had described were the risks, some more probable than others, that a dispassionate gentleman weighed before issuing a challenge. “Consider that you have duly restrained me. Now, what of your pride?”
“Mine?”
“Certainly yours. Is it not pride that prompted you to disobey me? You have determined that you must settle your own debts, attend to your household staff, and rescue your brother from his folly. What is pushing you toward those ends if it is not pride?”
“A finely honed sense of responsibility.”
“That you take pride in.”
Olivia pressed her lips together, not to bite back her reply but because she had none.
Griffin pushed his point home gently. “Can you not admit that you might benefit from a restraining hand?”