Chapter Twelve
Olivia wished she had never seen her attacker in the park.
Had Griffin been able to run him to ground, there might have been some good come of the encounter.
Griffin had not, however, and it changed the routine of everyone in the hell as a consequence.
No one save her made noises about the inconvenience, and because no one paid her the least attention when she did, she learned how to set her jaw so that a muscle twitched in her cheek.
It was a source of amusement to Griffin as he considered that her imitation of him not only hit the mark but was flattering besides.
Olivia was required to have two escorts when she left the hell and a pair of footmen standing post when she dealt faro.
The gentleman villain—as Wick insisted upon calling him—was considered to be a reckless and dangerous rogue, one who might very well have already returned to the hell unnoticed.
Griffin was convinced that it was not happenstance that put him in the park, but that he had been observing her for some time.
Even if it wasn’t true, everyone around Olivia agreed it was the safer course to act as if it was.
Olivia twirled a quill pen between her fingertips as she made mental calculations over an open ledger.
She sat with her feet curled to one side, her kid slippers lying under the chair.
She had yet to change into her nightclothes.
Her only concession to the lateness of the hour and the completion of her duties in the gaming room was to remove her wig and paint before she sat down with the book of accounts.
Griffin reclined on the chaise in his study and watched her.
It was a pleasure, really. She was capable of such fierce concentration that it changed the shape of her face.
The space between her eyebrows puckered; the line of her mouth all but disappeared as she pressed her lips together.
She used the feathered end of the quill to occasionally push back a fallen lock of hair or absently make a pass across her temple.
The skirt of her ice-blue gown spread over the chair like frosting.
She wore a loosely knotted silk shawl about her shoulders.
Her throat was bare, a condition he could not rectify because she would not accept jewelry from him and preferred not to wear those few pieces his wife left behind except when she was turning cards.
An emerald, he thought, would be the obvious complement to her eyes and coloring, but something sapphire would work as well—something so deeply indigo that it would hint at violet in certain light.
He watched her touch the quill to her throat, lightly tickle the hollow.
That raised his smile. He had reason to know she was sensitive there.
He’d made it a point to sip from that particular spot whenever he could, and she surrendered the tiniest of whimpers each time he did.
Griffin loosened his stock and unbuttoned his frock coat. He plowed four fingers through his hair. The heat that was in him now could not be explained by the roaring fire. He knew the source of it well enough: she was currently occupying his chair and amusing herself with a feather.
“I could make better use of that quill,” he said.
Olivia looked up, blinked owlishly. “Oh, you’re still here. I thought you’d gone.”
She was so entirely guileless at times that he could not take offense. He pushed ravishment to the back of his mind and sat up. He removed his stock, folded it around his hand. “Are you almost finished?”
“Almost. One more column. Do you wish to see?”
“Perhaps when you’re done. I trust you.”
“I know you do, and it remains a puzzler. I can make a mistake the same as anyone.”
“I don’t doubt it, but you won’t cheat me.”
No, she wouldn’t do that. She smiled at him, warmed by his confidence, and set herself once again to the task at hand. Still, she could not resist adding, “I’m much more likely to throttle you.”
Griffin was glad he was only reaching for his whiskey, not drinking it. Surely he would have choked. As it was, a bit of the liquid sloshed over the edge of the crystal tumbler. “I cannot know whether to be alarmed that you mention it or relieved that you can find some humor in it.”
“As it’s been more than a fortnight since I attacked you, relief strikes me as a better response.
” She quickly added the numbers in the last column, checked to see that all was balanced, and pushed the book away.
She returned the quill to its stand and stoppered the inkwell, then sat comfortably back in the leather chair. “Have you slept with one eye open?”
“No.” Griffin sipped his whiskey. “I have not so much as peeked.” He often fell to sleep after she did, but that was simply his way, not a precaution.
She’d shared his bed the evening after he had given chase to the gentleman villain and slept as deeply and trustingly as an infant.
He could not help but be encouraged by that.
Nothing seemed as likely to push her toward a nightmare as sighting her attacker in the park.
He’d finally come to know the whole of how she’d defended herself against the villain.
It had required some prodding on his part, a bit of insistence, but Olivia gave him all of it in the end, filling in those details that she’d left out on the first telling.
Griffin had had to wrestle with his own rage, most of it rooted in what he remembered as his own helplessness.
He hadn’t been able to put her out of harm’s way, and when it found her, he was the one who couldn’t reach her.
Nothing about that set well, but he’d held it in check because his anger served neither of them.
He’d applied himself instead to appreciating her courage and cleverness and waited until he was alone to give in to the other.
He’d even snapped a few damp towels, finding them as viciously effective as she described.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked. “Sherry?”
Olivia shook her head. “You expected Mr. Gardner would arrive today, didn’t you?”
He had, but he hadn’t realized she’d known. “Prickly, was I?”
Prickly was inadequate to describe the flashes of impatience she saw in him earlier.
Never one to suffer fools for long, this evening they were not even given an audience.
He did not move among his guests so much as prowl, and she saw him seek the view from the window in the card room on several occasions.
“Yes,” she said, tempering her smile. “Prickly.”
He blew out a short breath, set his tumbler aside, and idly unwound the length of linen stock from his hand.
“I calculated that enough time had passed for Gardner to make the journey to Bath and back again, though to be strictly honest, it’s not the impending arrival of my wife that concerns me overmuch, but your departure.
” He regarded her carefully set expression. “I suspect you knew that, didn’t you?”
Realizing that her effort to conceal it from him had been for naught, Olivia sighed. “It occurred, yes. You will not insist that I remain, will you?”
“Would you listen?” Tossing the stock to the foot of the chaise, he held up one hand, palm out. “Don’t tell me. It is better if I can permit myself to believe that you would. In exchange for that kindness, I will not ask it of you.”
Olivia gathered her hair at her nape and drew it forward over her shoulder. She combed it with her fingers. “The villain will not find me at Jericho Mews. He knows less than nothing about me.”
Griffin was not convinced of that, but he did not share his doubts with her.
It seemed to him that by trailing after her when she left the hell, the gentleman villain must have learned something.
“You will not be gone long. Elaine cannot remain here underfoot, nor do I believe she will want to. It is necessary only that she understand my intentions.”
“Do those include parading her in front of the ton?”
“Parade? I will escort her. Once will be sufficient to prove that she is still among the living. I have no wish to shame her.”
“Then be careful that you do not,” Olivia said quietly. “You mean to divorce her. There will be censure enough in that.”
“I assure you, the censure of the ton will not bruise her in the least.”
Olivia’s smile was gently chiding. “I was thinking of you.”
He arched an eyebrow and regarded her curiously. “Have I given you cause to think I care for the good opinion of the ton?”
“Many times, but the one that is most relevant to this discussion is the length and breadth of your search for Lady Breckenridge. It is more than a matter of pride, though that would be reason enough for what you’ve done.
It is also about your good name. That you operate this establishment is something that can be, and is, tolerated in some fashion.
Society accepts a rascal now and again and is the better for it.
A murderer is not a rascal, and the suspicion that you murdered your wife will always attach itself to your name unless you prove differently. ”
Griffin approached the desk and drew Olivia to her feet. He lifted her chin with the cup of his hand. “I prefer to believe I don’t give a damn.”
She nodded, met his gaze. “I know,” she whispered. “It is the same for me.”
Olivia returned to her brother’s house in Jericho Mews the following morning.
She didn’t have to explain why she was choosing to leave just then.
Griffin anticipated her departure the moment he’d confirmed that his wife’s arrival was imminent.
For his own sake as much as hers, he did not accompany her.
Foster and Drummond, accompanied by the lads, made the short journey from Putnam Lane to respectability in a hansom cab that Griffin hired for her.