Chapter Sixteen
Olivia stumbled and fell as she was given a final hard shove into the room that would be her prison.
Just before the door closed, candlelight illuminated the windowless room, and she saw she wouldn’t be alone.
The door slammed shut, the light vanished, and a key rattled in the lock.
A bar was shoved into place. By the time she caught her breath, the retreating footsteps could no longer be heard.
“Alastair?” Olivia awkwardly pushed herself up on all fours, then sat back on her heels. “Alastair? Is that you?”
“S’me, Livvy. S’me.”
The room’s overpowering stench made Olivia gag.
Sweat, urine, vomitus, and other human waste, all of it overlaid by something pungent and oddly fruity, assailed her.
She grabbed the hem of her gown and pressed it against her nose and mouth.
The fabric did almost nothing to stay the foul odor, and she could taste it on her tongue, feel it enter her lungs.
“Are you drunk, Alastair?” she asked through the folds of linen.
“S’wine cellar. Course I’m drunk. You will be, too. S’only way.”
“Where are we?”
“I tol’ you. Wine cellar. Good stock. She selects it, I think. Likes to.”
Unable to stomach tasting the air any longer, Olivia lowered her hem a fraction and breathed carefully through her nose.
The back of her head ached where she’d been struck.
She rolled her shoulders and felt the knotty tension between them.
She’d no chance to prepare for the attack and would not have known what had been used against her if she hadn’t caught a glimpse of the villain and his weighted walking stick in the carriage.
She’d feigned unconsciousness, hoping it would give her an advantage when they arrived at their destination.
What it did, however, was give the villain an opportunity to bind her wrists before she knew what he was about.
Her wild struggle came too late to be effective, and the hand he clamped over her mouth took away her voice and her breath.
When she finally slumped against him there was no fight left in her.
Her body jerked and shuddered, but it was in the throes of surrender, not in preparation for another round.
“She?” Olivia asked. “Who is she?”
Alastair groaned softly, held his head in his hands. “Mus’ you go on and on, Livvy? She’s she. A-lysss.”
Mrs. Christie, then. More annoyed than alarmed by this intelligence, Olivia released her gown altogether and began to work on the knots of her wrist bindings.
She used her teeth to loosen the fabric, nibbling and tearing at the knots until she felt one of them give.
After that it was easy to pull one of the ends and make space enough to slip her hands free.
He’d bound her with a length of lightly starched cotton.
His cravat, she realized, as she folded it into thirds and tucked most of it under the sleeve of her pelisse.
“How long have you been here, Alastair?”
“Don’ know. Wha’ day is it?”
“Wednesday.”
“Wednesday. The eleventh?”
“The eighteenth.”
“Oh, well, then, s’been a week and a bit. S’easy to lose time here.”
“I’m sure drinking helps.” Olivia rose to her feet and carefully made her way toward the sound of his voice. She found him with the toe of her foot, then hunkered down beside him. “Have you been hurt?”
“My pride.”
“Yes, that is always the deepest wound.” She touched his forehead, brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. “You have not been treated kindly, I think.”
“Not kindly, no.”
She could not even be put out with him. He was so clearly gone in his cups that he was doing well just stringing a few slurred words together.
The fact that he was still sitting upright had more to do with the wall at his back than his strength of will.
Olivia removed her pelisse and made certain it was under her before she sat.
Alastair, if he could have seen what she was about, would probably have rolled his eyes at her fastidiousness, but Olivia believed she needed to embrace dignity for as long as possible.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.
“Don’ think she likes me anymore.”
“Yes, it seems that might be the way of it.”
“S’all right. I don’ like her s’much either.”
“Good for you.”
“She wan’s the ring, Livvy.”
“Hardly surprising. You took it back from her, didn’t you?”
“Did. I did. Heard wha’ you tol’ me. Thought about it. Thought I should give it back. Make things right. I ’spect things haven’t always been right for you.” He lightly bumped her shoulder with his own. “You really are there, aren’t you? Wondered. Talk to myself sometimes, s’I wasn’t sure.”
“I’m here.” She nudged him back. “Truly.”
“How’d it happen?”
Olivia told him about the attack in the park. “Mr. Mason would not have let anything happen to me if he could have prevented it. Nat, too, I imagine. I have to hope neither was seriously injured, that the gentleman villain wanted me too badly to do more than push them out of the way.”
“Ain’t a gentleman, now, is he?”
“No.” Deciding that sparing Alastair the details served neither of them, she described her first encounter with the villain.
Beside her, she felt Alastair’s position shift and realized he’d drawn his knees up and was resting his head on them.
“Are you feeling sorry for yourself, Alastair? I hope not, because I need you to help me to think our way out of this.”
“You might have been killed,” he said quietly.
“I might have been raped,” she said. “Either or both can still happen, Alastair. I require you sober, not maudlin.”
“S’right.” He lifted his head, stared into the darkness. “Thinkin’ now.”
Olivia slipped her arm in his. “Good. Now tell me about this cellar.”
Mason was unable to hold Nat back once they reached the hell’s entrance hall.
The boy dropped his parcels, bolted up the stairs, and was turning into the hall by the time Mason reached the bottom step.
His ascent was much slower than was his wont.
It was not only his shoulder that had suffered an injury but his ankle as well.
He used the banister to support himself as he limped along.
Truss appeared, asked what was toward, and offered Mason help mounting the stairs. They were met just as they reached the top by Griffin, then in short order, by Nat and Sir Hadrien.
Griffin’s face was tight. The scar shone whitely as a muscle jumped in his cheek.
He looked Mason over, appraised his injuries as being painful nuisances, and assisted Truss with moving the valet to his study.
By the time they had him settled on the chaise, Griffin had the whole of the story from him.
Remarkably, except for the fact that it was more easily understood, it was almost the same account he’d had from Nat.
“Did no one give chase?” Griffin asked.
“I wouldn’t let the boy go, my lord.” Mason hung his head. “And I could not.”
“I don’t mean the two of you. There were others in the park, weren’t there? Passersby on the street?” He gave his valet no warning, supposing it was better that way, and fixed his hands in a position to wrench the shoulder back into place. “Not a single Good Samaritan?”
Mason bellowed as Griffin set his joint.
Beads of sweat appeared in the crease of his brow and along his upper lip.
He sucked in a breath so hard that it whistled between his teeth.
When his eyes could properly focus, he saw Nat standing at the foot of the chaise, his eyes nearly liquid with alarm.
“Sainted mother, but you scared the boy.”
Griffin glanced at Nat, held out his hand.
“Come. Sit here beside Mr. Mason. Don’t allow him to so much as twitch.
We have wounded on the field, and you must see to your men.
” He saw a bit of pink color return to Nat’s ashen complexion as the boy nodded manfully and exchanged places with him at Mason’s side.
“Truss, send someone to fetch Pettibone.”
Sir Hadrien stepped out of the doorway to let the butler pass. “What of the carriage?” he demanded, pressing his hands together. “What of its direction?”
Turning to look over his shoulder, Griffin gave him a quelling glance. “Your concern is misplaced, sir. Our interview is at an end.” He turned back to Mason. “Was it the villain, do you think?”
“Seemed as if it might be. I had a glimpse of blond hair. The size of him was what Miss Cole described before. Who else wants to hurt her?”
“A very good question.” Griffin turned again to regard Sir Hadrien. “What do you think, sir? Who wants to hurt your daughter?”
The less than subtle questioning caused Sir Hadrien to bristle. “You are wrong, Breckenridge, and would do well to hold yourself in check. I have been with you, haven’t I?”
Griffin caught himself before laying more blame.
It was true enough that Sir Hadrien had been with him, but it was also true that Olivia had told her father she would be gone from the hell this afternoon.
Griffin could think of no one else who knew about the change in Olivia’s routine.
The villain could have been watching, waiting for such an opportunity, but it was equally possible he had information to make abducting Olivia easier.
From the description of events, it seemed the carriage had been lying in wait.
Griffin moved away from the chaise to stand in front of the bookshelves.
He ran his finger along the books at eye level, stopped at Smith’s An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, and removed it.
Having more than a little respect for Smith’s work, Griffin placed it on the chair behind him.
The next three books he removed were not given so much care.
They were allowed to thud to the floor while he reached for the object of his search.