Chapter Six #3
“What is that if not a suggestion? I certainly hadn’t thought of it. I supposed they believed you were protecting your investment. Not me, I mean, but the money in the bank. In any event, it is Honey Shepard who will be your mistress, not Olivia Cole.”
“Honey. I can’t say that I particularly like that. It makes my teeth ache.”
“Then it is good that you shall only address me as Miss Shepard.”
“Ann is a fine name.”
“Perhaps I will give you leave to use it on occasion.”
Griffin chose once again not to press as they both knew he would call her anything he pleased.
He stood instead. “I will speak to Mason in the morning about the wigs. It might be necessary to add more gowns to your wardrobe. A few items of jewelry, too. As my mistress, it will be expected.” He saw her frown.
“Do not worry. I shan’t allow you to keep the pieces. ”
She nodded, relieved. He could not precisely force her to wear them. “You have said nothing about my wages.”
He smiled. Olivia Cole did not disappoint. “I was thinking that a percentage of the winnings at your table would be in order. Say, half of one percent.”
“How much do you usually draw in at the faro table?”
“Four hundred quid.”
“And I brought you six hundred.”
“Five hundred ninety-three.”
“Of course. Five hundred ninety-three. And you would give me—”
“Three pounds,” he said. “I rounded up. I am prepared to be generous.”
“That is in no way generous. Five percent.”
“One.”
“Four,” she countered.
“One and one-half.”
Olivia shook her head. “Two percent.”
“Done.” It was a perfectly outrageous sum that he was promising her, but he reasoned it was far less than Mrs. Christie had been regularly stealing from him. “You have made a good bargain.”
“Five percent would have been a good bargain,” she said. “Two percent is only what is fair.”
Griffin chuckled. He inclined his head, saluting her. “I should take my leave before I am persuaded to offer you three.”
The faro table was crowded, just as he’d known it would be.
Griffin had been wandering in and out of the room where Olivia was working since the hell opened its doors, and he’d never seen less than a dozen young bucks vying for a place at the table.
As soon as one of them lost enough to force a move, another slipped into the vacated seat.
If she simply managed to bring in the house at only a one percent profit, he estimated that the winnings would well exceed what she’d accomplished the previous evening.
He observed that her gown would not have been out of place at the theatre or a ball.
If her dress lent her a certain elegance, then she lent it grace.
The movement of her arms was fluid, her deft touch with the cards something to behold.
She was a confection perfectly suited to a tray of iced tea cakes in a celestial blue satin gown with an overlay of tulle.
The rounded bodice left her shoulders bare and her fine skin reflected the play of candlelight from the wall sconces.
Her auburn wig fit her head snugly and was curled in a fall of clever ringlets that lightly brushed her neck whenever she turned.
The hair was dressed with copper combs and seeded with pearls, the latter matching the pearls sewn in the bodice of her gown.
Her throat was bare and Griffin thought he should correct that oversight soon. She would wear pearls well, but he thought of her eyes and decided that an emerald would also do.
Her white elbow-length gloves were her most exquisite accessory.
Although they fit her as well as her own skin, even she could not manipulate the cards with satin-covered fingertips.
He was the one who had removed them and instructed Mason to cut the fabric back to her knuckles so her beautifully tapered fingers were free to do their very best work.
On impulse, after he’d helped her slip back into the gloves, he had lifted her hands to his lips and kissed those bare knuckles, watching her as he did so.
Except for the soft parting of her lips, there had been no reaction that he could discern.
No surprise. No tender fury. No resignation.
She’d simply waited for him to be done, eased her hands from his light grasp, and brushed past him to make her way to the gaming rooms.
It might have been lowering if his heart had been attached to the gesture, but it was not that organ blinding him to good judgment. The blood pooling in his groin was a reliable indication of where the impulse had been born.
Griffin smiled politely in response to a tip of the head by one of the patrons, then moved to Foster’s side to prevent being pulled into a conversation for which he had little interest and even less time.
The footman stood at attention at his post just inside the doorway.
As Griffin had instructed on the day of his hiring, his eyes constantly roamed the room, alert to the shifts in the crowd and the first inklings of untoward behavior.
“What is your view, Foster?” Griffin asked. “Is she able to handle them?”
“As deftly as the cards, my lord.”
Griffin’s gaze drifted to the faro table, then past it. “What have you observed about their interest?”
“Respectful. She draws them in but keeps them at a distance. Not one among them has seemed to mind. Johnny Crocker played at her table for a while.”
“Was he now?” That the rival hell owner deigned to step outside his own establishment was hardly the usual thing. “He didn’t ask for me?”
“No. Came in and went straightaway to the faro table. I stood close by, just to make certain he didn’t trouble her.”
Griffin wasn’t certain what to make of Crocker’s interest, though he supposed it was possible that word had already spread regarding his new faro dealer. Perhaps Crocker wanted to estimate the potential damage to his own profits. “You’ll let me know if he returns, won’t you?”
“Immediately.”
“Good man.” He stepped away. “I’m going downstairs to observe the play at vingt-et-un.”
“Very good.”
Griffin chatted with several of his regular patrons in the hall and on the stairs before he reached another of the hell’s gaming parlors.
The dealer for twenty-one was Drummond, another of his household staff with multiple duties, though in Drummond’s case it was generally acknowledged that he was a much better dealer than he was a footman.
Truss tended to assign him the tasks that could not possibly be mismanaged.
Griffin watched the game for a while, congratulated Mr. Harvey’s good run of luck and better skill, then moved on to roulette.
The wheel was not favoring any one patron this evening and Griffin realized his own attention was wandering.
When a quartet of young bucks, all turned out in matching scarlet waistcoats, spilled through the entrance, Griffin backed away from the table to watch them.
Clearly from the volume of their speech and the color of their waistcoats, they were bent on making themselves a spectacle.
As soon as he saw they had fixed themselves on reaching the stairs, Griffin moved as quickly as the press of patrons around him would allow.
He was familiar with their set, though not these four in particular, and found them to be essentially harmless and easily managed without incident as long as they were not too far gone in their cups.
It was difficult to know at a glance how foxed they were.
Their high spirits could be attributed to their anticipation of adventure, the relief of arriving at Putnam Lane unscathed, or the natural self defense of young men playing at something outside their experience.
Perhaps their exuberance was rooted in all three, but Griffin suspected it was strongly supported by several rounds of hard drink.
He knew a moment’s unease as they rushed the stairs before him. He followed at a more seemly pace, unwilling to call attention to them beyond what they had called to themselves.
Olivia gave no outward sign that she was aware of the rowdy and slightly ribald laughter that was drifting in from the hallway. She turned over the top card on the deck in front of her. “House pays on four.”
She smiled at the collective groan that rose from the punters. Only one among them had a marker resting on the four. Showing sympathy for the losers, she paid out even money to the winning player and allowed all of them time to decide on their next wager.
“All wagers are down,” she said. She hardly heard the words herself as successive waves of deep male laughter rolled into the room. Heads turned toward the full tide of sound, but Olivia remained attentive to the game. She showed the top card. “House wins on seven.”
After listening to some good-natured protests from the losers, Olivia briskly collected all four of the markers resting on the seven of spades.
It was a splendid return for the house. While new wagers were being set, she glanced up to see four gentlemen advancing toward her.
She knew a moment’s alarm at the rate of their approach, afraid their momentum would push the tide of gentlemen upon her.
“Bets down, please,” she said to allow for some last bit of maneuvering and second guessing. When the last hand was withdrawn, she nodded. “All bets are down.”
There was some jostling for position at the rear of the crush around the table.
“Gentlemen. Have a care, else the markers will shift, and we will never sort out the winners from the losers.” Even as she said it, the table was bumped and three markers slid off the painted cards into other positions.
Olivia stepped back from the table and permitted the punters to rearrange their wagers.
“Gentlemen,” she said again, this time with a pointed look in the direction of the disturbance. “There is room enough for everyone to participate.”
“I am in love,” one of the newcomers declared as he craned his neck for a better view. “She has the voice of an angel.”