Chapter Twelve #4
“It’s the reason you set me in his path. But for your debt, but for the ring, I would have remained unknown to Breckenridge, and he to me. No explanations would be necessary. So, I will ask you again: where is the ring?”
“I told you.” He jutted his chin defensively. “It was stolen. I was cheated of it, if you must know. At faro. Johnny Crocker uses a rigged box in his establishment.”
“So I’ve heard.” It was precisely as Griffin had told her. Still, it was gratifying to have it from Alastair. He owed her the truth, and she owed him a reminder that he was not without responsibility. “So you cannot get it back?”
Alastair thought of where the ring resided now. Mrs. Christie took particular delight wearing it when they were together. She’d managed to relieve Johnny Crocker of it in a game of whist where she proved herself the better cheat. “I could get it back,” he said.
“Then do not ask me again how I will explain myself to his family when what explains your actions is no source of pride to me, nor, I hope, to you.”
Feeling the sting of her words as a slap, Alastair sucked in a short breath. “Do you want the ring, Olivia? Is that it?”
“It doesn’t belong to me,” she said, trying to make him understand. “Until you pay your debt, it belongs to him. I want you to make it right, Alastair. Not for my sake, but for yours.”
He frowned. “Why is this important now?”
“Because I am going back to him,” she said.
“And it’s unlikely that you and I will have occasion to speak again.
I should have said it before now, but now is when I’ve been moved to say it.
I owe you something for taking me in when you did—both times.
But I never owed you the whole of myself.
” She stood up, carefully gathered the cards, and let the newspaper lie. “Make it right, Alastair.”
She was halfway across the room when he called to her. “Father said you’d land like a cat. And so you have. You’re so bloody in love with him that you should thank me for what I’ve done.”
Olivia faltered once, then walked on.
The doors of the hell were closed when she arrived.
As it was well past nightfall, and the time when gentlemen and their lady escorts would normally be milling about the entrance hall and moving between the gaming rooms with a drink in their hands, Olivia waved to the hack driver to make certain he stayed while she tested the doors.
They were not only closed, but locked and barred on the inside.
She’d had no one accompany her from Jericho Mews, and her trunks and valises were particularly vulnerable on the roof of the hired cab.
A few passing gentlemen had slowed as they approached the steps to the hell.
Aware of them, Olivia did not wish to call undue attention to herself.
A woman alone on Putnam Lane at this hour was viewed in a very particular light, always red.
Olivia hurried down the steps, spoke briefly to the driver, then climbed back in.
She breathed more easily when the gentlemen moved on, and the cab rolled forward.
They circled the block and entered the alley from the cross street.
Approaching from the rear, Olivia could see the servants’ hall was lighted.
Even as she threw open the door and made to step down from the cab, she saw Beetle carrying out a bucket of wash water.
He was preparing to toss it, most of it in her direction, when he took notice of the hack, and finally of her.
“Miss Cole!” He dropped the bucket, clipping his toe, and hopped toward her on one foot.
“Oh, but it’s a pleasure to see you again, miss.
What a time of it we’ve had. Missed you fierce.
We all did.” He finally stopped hopping and took stock of the valises as the driver hefted the first one down.
“Here, I’ll be getting that. Go on inside, let Mr. Truss know you’re here, and just see if the others don’t come running out to help.
” The second valise he caught almost pitched him to the ground, and Olivia hurried off before his eagerness to help knocked him unconscious.
She asked for her old room, but her things were deposited in Griffin’s bedchamber.
She didn’t insist they be moved, which she suspected Truss was counting on.
She had never kept more than a few items of clothing in Griffin’s dressing room, but sometime during her absence the armoire she’d used had been moved here, and now stood ready to be filled.
She stared at it, wondering if Griffin had meant for it to be waiting for her, or whether his wife had used it.
Had they shared the room while she was here?
The bed? Olivia realized she didn’t know whether Mr. Gardner had ever delivered Lady Breckenridge to the hell.
It was not the sort of detail that was mentioned in the Gazette’s death notice.
Succumbed after a long illness.
Olivia had finally been able to make out those words.
A long illness. Perhaps that was why there was no news of her returning to London or attending a single affair.
If she had stayed at the hell, the secret had been closely guarded.
If she had been cared for at Wright Hall, Griffin had not been at her side.
He had never operated the hell from a distance.
Beetle and Wick appeared to help her unpack.
Mostly they just sat on one of the trunks, beating a tattoo against the side with their heels, while she did the work.
She could have asked them any one of the questions about Lady Breckenridge that occurred to her, but it felt like taking advantage and she let them chatter on about the things that were concerning to them.
Apparently Beetle’s mother was getting married to a decent enough bloke who promised she was done whoring. Beetle was happy enough about the marriage but miserable at the thought of leaving Wick.
“It’s a good thing you returned when you did, miss, else I might already be dragged off and have no chance to say farewell.”
“Then I’m very glad I came. I’d want to say farewell also. I’ll miss you, Beetle.”
His cheeks flushed a bright pink and he ducked his head, but not before he showed her his shy, gap-toothed smile. “Go on with you, miss. What am I to you but underfoot most times?”
“Well, I’ve grown accustomed to you there,” she said stoutly.
She carefully withdrew an ivory cashmere shawl from one of the valises and refolded it so it would fit neatly in the chest of drawers.
“Wick is certainly going to pine for you. All of the staff, I should think. His lordship as well, though you were never under his feet the way you were mine. Why is that, Beetle?”
Wick took a sharp jab at Beetle’s ribs and answered for him. “It’s on account that you smell better.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Like rose petals.”
Olivia made a threatening gesture toward both boys, which only caused them to giggle. “It’s lavender, not roses.” She turned away before they could see she was smiling.
Beetle jumped down from the trunk to pick up one empty valise and scoot another toward her.
“You’re wrong about his lordship. Missing me, I mean.
Oh, maybe just a little he will, seeing how I shined his boots all proper and Wick never got the knack of it, but he’s got his own boy now, so that’s good, though I don’t suppose that one will have to polish boots. ”
Olivia straightened slowly as she lifted the valise. She did not set it on the seat of a chair as she’d meant to, but hugged it to herself instead. “His own boy? What do you mean by that?”
Beetle hopped back on the trunk, clutching the empty valise much as Olivia was. “His son, miss. His lordship has himself a son.”
Olivia sat in the wing chair in Griffin’s study, a wool rug thrown over her legs.
After a brief burst of spring-like weather, the turn in the skies was a disappointment.
Rain hovered again, falling intermittently throughout the day.
The chill was deep, almost impossible to dismiss, and sitting as close to the fire as she could reasonably do safely did not help overmuch.
She closed the book in her lap and tucked it between her hip and the arm of the damask-covered chair.
Tipping her head back, she closed her eyes.
It had been nearly a fortnight since she’d returned and still there was no word from Griffin.
The hell remained closed night after night, during which Olivia slept restlessly, the incoherent but constant hum of voices and rattling traffic from the street serving to punctuate her sleep at odd moments.
She’d awakened once with the sheets tangled but not twisted, hugging her pillow, but not throttling it.
A dream then, she’d decided. No nightmare. No terror.
When Griffin returned she would tell him that she’d dreamed of him. It was probably true. She wanted it to be true.
The household staff was pleased to have her back, though they treated her with rather more deference than she wished.
They hardly knew what to do with themselves with the doors closed each evening.
It was inevitable that they turned to cards and dice and spun the roulette wheel themselves.
Thus far, Wick and Mr. Truss had winnings exceeding everyone else, which meant a great many others were engaged in doing their chores.
She’d had a turn trimming candles after making an incautious wager with Wick—and losing.
She heard the door open behind her but didn’t turn. “Bring the tea here, Wick, and set it on the table. Have a care not to topple the books, or anything else. I cannot be certain I put it all in order the last time you stumbled and went head over bucket.”
“Someone’s guts will be garters if you didn’t.”