Chapter Seven
Over the course of the next ten days, Olivia found herself returning again and again to the moments before, during, and after the kiss.
When she was of a mood to recall the thing fondly, she felt a measure of heat uncurl inside her until her cheeks flushed and there was an unmistakable tug of something both pleasurable and needy deep inside her womb.
When the memory came unbidden, as it invariably did in the presence of his lordship, Olivia soured, her mouth becoming flat and uninviting, her jaw tightening so that it ached well into the evening.
That Griffin seemed to know what she was thinking in those moments—and appeared amused by it—merely put her further out of sorts.
On occasion she brought the thing to mind because she wondered what she might have done differently. She told herself that such reflection was necessary to learn how such an end might be avoided, but too often she found herself contemplating an end in which she didn’t turn her back on him.
Her humor was not improved for it.
Olivia rose from her bed and padded softly into the bathing room.
A full week ago, she’d finally been able to return to the room she’d begun to think of as her own.
The quiet suited her; the view from the window did not.
She missed the rascals gathering on the street below Griffin’s room and the glimpses she’d had of the prostitutes in their finery.
The activity at the back of the house was limited to wagons lumbering down the alley, tradesmen and tinkers approaching the rear entrance, and servants carrying out slops.
She could no longer hear Griffin moving about. If she was being strictly honest with herself—and she was inclined to be—Olivia could admit that she missed this proof that he was nearby most of all.
She was uncomfortable with the realization that she’d come to depend on him, though she could not define the precise nature of that dependency.
It was the shelter, of course, but not that alone, and the opportunity to earn a wage, though not only that.
They had established a tentative peace, a somewhat guarded mutual respect, and a conversational manner that was frequently all thrust and parry.
He often knew the bent of her mind, while she found his impenetrable except on those rare occasions when he wanted it to be otherwise.
Olivia did not discount the protection she was afforded because she was residing in the gaming hell.
Breckenridge’s hell. She found it peculiar that he wanted to safeguard her reputation when she had none worthy of such an effort.
That she’d been able to defend herself against an intruder had left him singularly unimpressed.
He seemed to embrace the notion that it should fall to him to repel all boarders, although he was not inclined to unduly restrain himself from advancing.
Still, she felt safe when she knew he was about, safer yet when he was near. The irony was not lost to her, and the taste of it was bittersweet.
When Olivia came out of her reverie, she was staring at her reflection and chewing lightly on her upper lip. Mocking herself, she wrinkled her nose and stuck her tongue out, then picked up her hairbrush and made a determined, ruthless pass through her flaming tangles.
It was her habit of late to eat in the kitchen with the staff, so when Beetle arrived carrying her breakfast she was immediately wary.
When he informed her that Lord Breckenridge had taken his leave of them earlier and expected to be gone for several days, Olivia had to remind herself not to kill the messenger.
No doubt Beetle had pulled the short straw when the servants were debating who should tell her.
She took pity on the hapless lad and did not allow him to give her the remainder of the disappointing news, relating it to him instead.
“He means that I should stay here until he returns, I suppose,” she said. “In my room.”
Beetle stared at his shoes and nodded.
“Where did he go?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Does anyone?”
He glanced up, shrugged, then ducked his head again. “Mr. Mason, I expect, but he won’t tell you. He doesn’t tell anyone.”
“And who will oversee the operation of the hell in his lordship’s absence?”
“Mr. Gardner. He’s a right ’un, sure enough. And knows a thing or two about gaming. Heard tell of him nabbing a cheat once, right here in this house, so he’s a trustworthy bloke.”
Olivia could not recall that she’d ever heard Gardner’s name.
She’d been formally introduced to very few of Breckenridge’s acquaintances while she dealt faro, and only, it seemed, when not doing so would have raised more questions than it settled.
And while he appeared at his ease presenting her as Miss Ann Shepard and called her Honey with feigned affection, she suspected none of it set well with him.
“Mr. Gardner,” Olivia repeated. “Very well, I shall endeavor to make the best of it.”
Beetle looked up, grinned. “You’re a right ’un, too, miss, and that’s a fact.” Then he scurried off.
During Griffin’s absence Olivia cast her line a number of times hoping to learn his whereabouts.
Mason mostly ignored her attempts, except for the occasion when he pointed out in rather dry tones that she was fishing in a poorly stocked lake.
Truss seemed to be genuinely ignorant of Griffin’s destination, and what she managed to reel in from the rest of the staff was merely supposition.
Of Mr. Gardner, she saw nothing. That was disappointing because she imagined that the person Griffin most trusted to manage the hell would be likely to know things she was not privy to, though equally likely, she supposed philosophically, not to share any of them with her.
Her days took on the sameness that they’d had at the beginning. She read, walked, ate, and slept with little deviation from the routine. She worried about Alastair, about her home at Jericho Mews, about how long it would take her to repay the debt and what she would do once she saw the thing done.
She thought she’d known the answer to this last at one time, but she was no longer as certain of it. There were worse places to live than Putnam Lane and worse things to be than one lord’s mistress.
Someone stumbling hard on the stairs caused a vibration to shudder through the house.
Curious, she went into the hall to investigate and more clearly heard the sounds of a scuffle.
The hell was hours yet from opening its doors to the rich and the rabble, but she could not fathom that any of the servants were exchanging blows.
Even allowing for the high spirits of Wick and Beetle it was difficult to imagine.
Prepared to put a period to the fisticuffs, Olivia ran to the top of the stairs. She was glad for the support of the banister when she got there.
Her brother had finally come for her, although from the white-knuckled hold Griffin had on Alastair’s throat, it appeared he was returning most reluctantly.
Olivia charged down the steps and wedged herself between the combatants. Several of the servants were already clustered at the foot of the stairs in anticipation of being called to lend assistance. Griffin, however, required none. It was her brother who was going to die.
“Release him,” Olivia said, pulling on Griffin’s hand. She tried to slip a finger under his palm. “You’re choking him. He cannot breathe! Can’t you see? He cannot breathe.”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight,” Griffin said. There was only a hint of strain in his voice. “Show your sister you can breathe, Mr. Cole.”
Alastair sucked in a wheezing, labored breath.
“There. You see? Your brother can breathe.”
Olivia gripped Griffin’s thumb and pulled on it. “Let him go, my lord.” Squeezed as she was between the two men, her own words sounded breathless. “Please.”
Over the top of Olivia’s head, Griffin made certain Alastair saw his displeasure and took note that what he would do was for Olivia, not for him.
“As you wish.” He released Alastair and stepped back against the rail, then gestured that they should precede him up the stairs.
Olivia offered her shoulder to her brother, who looked as if he might simply slide down the wall.
Griffin watched them go, then after he was certain the staff dispersed, he followed.
“My study,” Griffin said when Olivia would have turned her brother toward her room.
She nodded jerkily and pointed out the room to Alastair, quite forgetting that he’d had occasion to visit it before. Once inside, she indicated the chaise and nudged her brother in that direction when his feet took root just beyond the threshold.
“May I pour him a whiskey?” she asked Griffin.
“No liquor,” he said flatly. “I am not convinced he is yet sober. You may ring for whatever else you like.”
Olivia glanced back at Alastair. She’d not smelled alcohol on his clothes or breath, but he sat like a man nursing a sore head, his shoulders hunched almost to the level of his ears.
“I cleaned him up,” Griffin said, divining her thoughts.
Frowning, Olivia pulled the cord. She waited by the door for the footman while Griffin crossed the room to his desk.
He hitched one hip at the front rather than taking up his chair.
Olivia noticed his attention was all for Alastair and that her brother had yet to look up.
She wondered that she did not feel at all sorry for him.
The footman arrived and she asked for a pot of tea.
The silver tray, the china cups, the detail to pouring, all of it would lend an air of civility to whatever was to come.
At least Olivia hoped it was so. She was not certain that Griffin could be moved a second time to release Alastair from his throttling grip.
Olivia went to the foot of the chaise but did not sit. Alastair, she noted, did not look at her. Neither man said anything, waiting, it seemed, for her to end the silence.