Читать книгу The Price of Desire - Jo Goodman - Страница 10

It was still dark when Olivia awakened. Snugly coccooned in the bed as she was, she allowed herself the luxury of remaining there a few minutes longer. The fireplace was cold and the stub of a candle she had placed on the bedside table had extinguished itself while she slept. She had wondered if she would wake disoriented to her new surroundings, but this was not the case. She knew immediately where she was and found some comfort in that, though it was short-lived. It was tempting to mistake this sense of familiarity for a sense of well-being. She could not do it, of course. The circumstances of her life were such that the moment she believed she was safe she was at her most vulnerable.

Olivia turned on her side and faced the window. She’d pulled the drapes closed before she retired but was careful to leave a sliver of an opening between them. As she lay watching, a crease of morning light slowly filled the space. The diffusion of the light, as though it were being filtered through frost flowers that had formed on the window, made her think it might have snowed overnight. She hoped it had. There was no part of London, from the tenements in Holborn to the palace at St. James, that was not improved by a blanket of snow. While fog had the ability to shroud the city’s landscape and make every distinction of architecture disappear, it seemed to Olivia that snow both illuminated and softened it. The townhomes along Putnam Lane would look just as respectable as those bordering the park once they were iced like party tea cakes.

The impulse was upon her to take in that vision, but she resolutely quelled it. If she had awakened in her own bed, she would have already thrown off the covers and completed her morning ablutions. Molly Dillon would have arrived in her room—a bit sullenly perhaps because she so disliked early risings—and helped her dress and arrange her hair, then Olivia would have asked for her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and left the house for a morning stroll before the snow was trampled and made black by the smoke and soot rising from thousands of chimneys.

Olivia snuggled deeper under the covers. She was struck anew by the silence of the residence. Now that she had experienced the din of activity that filled the hell at night, she imagined this quiet was greatly prized by Breckenridge and his staff. She had an appreciation for it as well, finding these moments were to be savored if one could concentrate on one’s breathing and not on the thoughts spinning like dervishes in one’s mind.

It was inevitable, though, that one thought would demand attention above all others.

Alastair.

Now that it seemed he had not come to physical harm, she could permit herself to be furious with him. And disappointed. He should have told her what was toward rather than attempt to settle his debt in this havey-cavey fashion. More to the point, he should not have been making wagers, especially when he knew he was extending himself beyond his means.

Olivia realized that Alastair had not considered he would lose, certainly not to the degree that he had. A loss now and again was inevitable, and he would have anticipated that, but his general optimism, and yes, his naïveté, would have blinded him to the reality of the deep losses he was sustaining. His good fortune would return because he believed it would, because it always had. He did not see what she saw, or rather he did not draw the same conclusions that she had.

It was Olivia’s view that her entry into Alastair’s life had turned the tide of his fortune, beginning with his falling out with their father. It was inevitable, she supposed, that Alastair would eventually come to it, and she did not want to think what his response would be.

The thought of Sir Hadrien darkened her mood. She flattened her lips, suppressing the small moan that would have otherwise escaped. She hoped that one day she would be able to think of him without this bitterness in her heart, for it afforded him too much influence over her, but apparently this morning was not the start of that day.

Drawing in a bracing breath, Olivia lifted the covers and made herself leave the warmth of her bed. She thrust her feet into her slippers and put on her robe, then dealt with the tinder and logs to build a modest fire in the fireplace. It was impossible to stay still for long—the cold was simply too penetrating. She hurried on tiptoes into the bathing room and prepared herself for the day.

Olivia did not miss her maid’s services until it came to dressing her hair. No elaborate knots were possible, so she simply wove a dark green ribbon into her hair as she refashioned her braid. She liked the weight of the plait at her back and decided then that it would be acceptable to wear her hair in such a manner until she was returned home. The likelihood that Truss would be able to secure the services of a maid for her seemed small. Olivia also deemed it unnecessary. She had many more years of experience doing for herself than she did having anyone do for her.

She had returned to warming herself at the fire when her door rattled gently at a knock from the hallway. She opened it cautiously, needing to assure herself it was not some late-night reveler still stumbling about Breckenridge’s hell looking for an exit. It wasn’t. Olivia recognized the footman as the one who’d carried the tea service into the viscount’s study yesterday morning. She nodded a greeting and bid him enter.

“It’s tea and a few points of toast, miss, just as the doctor bid us prepare for you. Cook allowed that you might be feeling more the thing this morning and added a bowl of porridge. You can eat it or not as you wish.”

“Thank you.”

He set the tray down on the bedside table nearest him. “It seems you should have a proper table in here, miss, and another chair to sit at it. I’ll see what I can find.” His face reddened as he was unable to stifle a yawn. He ducked his head. “Pardon me.”

“Of course. I feel quite certain this service falls outside the hours you typically keep.”

“It does that.”

“Then I’m the one who should beg your pardon. I have no liking for being a bother to others.”

“I didn’t mean it was a bother, miss.”

“I know.” And she did. “What is your name?”

“Foster.”

“And what are the names of those young lads I saw yesterday?”

“They’d be Wick and Beetle. Wick, because he cleans the lamps and sees after the candles, and Beetle…Well, that is because he scurries about like one.”

Wick and Beetle. Hardly the names their mothers would have given them. “Thank you, Foster. Will you come to take the tray or should I ring?”

“I’ll come back directly but ring if you require something. Mr. Truss informed us that we’d hardly know you were here, and he had that from his lordship. I don’t mind, though, if you come to realize there is a service I can do for you. Pulling on the cord will bring me here.”

“That is very generous, Foster, but I shouldn’t like to make trouble for you. I will manage, I’m sure.”

“Just the same,” he said, backing out of the room. “Truss says I’m to look after you and one pull will do it.”

“One,” she repeated, smiling gently. “That is good to know.”

Once she was alone, Olivia sat on the bed and ate. She was actually quite hungry and had to restrain herself from eating too quickly. The tea, toast, and milky porridge all settled reasonably well in her stomach. Had the cook provided a more generous serving of the last, she still could have eaten all of it.

She had removed herself to the chair and was reading from the Malthus when the door rattled again. Thinking it was Foster come to take away the tray, she bid him enter. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw it was Breckenridge’s valet.

“Mr. Mason,” she said, setting her book on the floor. “I did not expect that it would be you.”

“I had not meant it to be a test, Miss Cole, but it is just as well that it happened in this fashion. I feel strongly that his lordship would want me to caution you to see who it is at the door before allowing anyone to enter.”

“That is good advice, Mr. Mason. I was careful earlier, but you have seen for yourself that I lowered my guard.” She offered a small, slightly perplexed smile. “Do you suppose his lordship has considered the benefits of a key?”

“If he has, it would be to lock you in, I’m afraid.”

“Oh.” That wasn’t what Olivia had in mind. “Then I hope you will not mention it.”

“No, Miss Cole, I won’t.”

Had his eyes danced? Olivia thought they might have. His mouth, though, remained flat. “Why are you here, Mr. Mason, if not simply to caution me?”

“Dr. Pettibone’s instructions are that you should take a daily constitutional. It’s his lordship’s wish that I accompany you on your walk.”

“Really?” It was difficult not to be skeptical. “Lord Breckenridge wishes that?”

“He does. Are you agreeable?”

“Yes! Oh, yes! Allow me to get my pelisse.” She stopped suddenly, remembering that her outdoor garments were not in the armoire. They had been taken away yesterday after her arrival and not been returned to her.

“I have your things, Miss Cole. This way.”

The things Mason had for her were not precisely her things. Instead of her pelisse, a hunter green cloak was held out to her. The attached hood was trimmed in red fox fur, a color that very nearly matched her own hair. Mason also showed her a red fox muff to replace her worn kid gloves.

“I can’t accept these,” she said, trying to push them back. “Where are my garments?”

Mason gave no quarter. “They’re not fit for walking in this weather. You must have noticed that it snowed overnight.” He glanced toward the nearest window. “It’s snowing yet. Lightly, to be sure, but enough that heed must be paid.”

“I’ve walked in my things many times.”

“Yes, miss. It looked as if you had.”

Olivia flushed. She was aware that her garments were gently worn and no longer of the latest fashion, but that Mr. Mason should be moved to comment, however carefully, stung.

“I meant no offense, Miss Cole. His lordship thought that you—”

“Pray, do not trouble yourself to explain, Mr. Mason. I will accept them, now that I know their full cost.”

“I don’t think you under—”

Olivia turned her back on him, effectively cutting him off. She allowed him to place the cloak on her shoulders, but she fastened the silk frogs herself. The wait by the door seemed interminable as Mason put on his own coat, scarf, and hat.

The bracing air did not do as much to improve Olivia’s mood as the walk itself. By the time she and Mr. Mason reached the end of Putnam Lane she was regretting her churlish behavior and prepared to apologize for it. While the valet most kindly assured her that no apology was necessary, Olivia made him listen to the whole of it anyway.

“It must be entirely confessed,” she told him, “else it will always weigh on my mind.”

When she finished, his grave acceptance brought a smile to her lips. “How is it that you became my escort this morning?” she asked as they crossed Moorhead Street. “The truth, Mr. Mason. I am glad of this opportunity so I will not be put out if you came to it with all the enthusiasm of a young man confronting a press gang.”

Mason’s prominently rounded chin puckered a bit as he chuckled. “It was with rather more willingness than that. His lordship could not escort you, of course. He has that much concern for your reputation, and he is known by sight in this part of London.”

Olivia was unsure what that meant precisely, but she was loath to ask for an explanation. Was Mason saying that she would be seen in a poor light if the viscount accompanied her? It was difficult to fathom. He had rank, after all, and much was forgiven because of it. As she tried to work it out she was aware that Mason was continuing his explanation.

“There was naturally a concern for your safety. Even if there was no question that you would return, he would not have allowed you to walk the streets alone.”

Olivia freed one hand and lifted it to indicate the street ahead of them and the small park beyond. “It cannot have escaped your notice that there is almost no one about.”

“It is not a risk worth taking, Miss Cole. There are footpads alert to opportunity at any hour of the day.”

“And I am worth £1,000.” She looked at him sideways, wondering if she had misspoken. “You were aware of that, weren’t you?”

“I was. His lordship told me. You needn’t be concerned that it is common knowledge among the staff. It is yet another reason why I was chosen to act as your escort. You will find that Lord Breckenridge values discretion.”

“I see.” Olivia stepped over a mound of snow that had been pushed street side. Ahead of her an eddy of snow was lifted into the air. “How long have you been in his employ?”

“He was still in short pants.”

“Long ago as that?”

“I was his father’s man then.”

“His father’s dead?”

“Almost ten years now.”

She felt oddly dismayed to hear of it, though why that should be so she couldn’t say. “So young.”

“For both of them,” Mason said. “One too young to die; the other too young to take the mantle.”

When Olivia looked askance at Mr. Mason, she saw that he seemed surprised that he’d spoken so openly. She watched him press his lips together and knew there would be little else forthcoming. She ducked her head against the wind while he clamped one hand on his hat and used the other to raise his scarf to the level of his nose. With his mouth so effectively covered, they continued on just as if no words had ever passed between them.

Griffin waited until afternoon before he called upon Mrs. Christie. Nothing had been settled between them last evening. She had thwarted his every effort to end the affair. Because their confrontation had taken place at such a late hour, Griffin had not pressed his argument forcefully. Rather than utter sentiments that he still hoped might be left unsaid, he’d allowed her to believe she had won the day and his affections for that much longer.

He entertained no doubts that Mrs. Christie thought she had secured as much as another month under his protection. She set that much stock in her persuasive powers. To be fair, she had not tried to seduce him, though whether she thought she was punishing him or had correctly divined that his ardor for her had cooled he had no way of knowing. What she had done was to put forth the notion that she was his partner in business, that their association transcended the mere physical, and that her presence each night in his establishment was critical to his continued success.

He’d been struck by the complete conviction with which she set forth her argument and could think of no response save for those he would regret. Now, mounting the steps to her home, he wondered if he had done right by her, for it was in his silence that she perceived herself the victor.

Griffin had purposely chosen the afternoon hour to call upon her because he knew she would no longer be abed. The mantel of snow aided his cause, making it unlikely that she would have yet stepped out. Still, after she’d been informed of his arrival, she sent down the message that she was late in rising and would not be quick to join him. He supposed that he was meant to infer that he was free to go. Although he had every right to join her in her bedchamber—and had done so on many occasions when she thought to tease him in such a fashion—he allowed the housekeeper to show him to the drawing room where he knew he could expect to wait above an hour for her.

“So you are still here,” Alys Christie said when she finally saw fit to seek him out. She managed to infuse a note of surprise in her greeting. “I was not at all certain you would be. You have a tendency toward impatience of late.” She walked directly to him and gave him a kiss full on the mouth.

Griffin did not pull away but neither did he respond. If she noticed, she was not allowing him to see it.

“Will you take tea?”

He shook his head.

“A whiskey, then.”

“No, nothing for me.”

Her pale eyebrows lifted slightly. “Very well, but you would not deny me, would you?” Not waiting for an answer, Alys went to the drinks cabinet and poured herself two fingers of whiskey.

Griffin smiled slightly. He’d always been amused that she preferred hard liquor to sherry. In the beginning she’d tried to hide it from him, concerned that he would judge her as not being as refined in her tastes as she ought to have been. To Griffin’s way of thinking it made her more interesting rather than the opposite, and he’d told her so. That he was prepared to end their association did not change his thinking about her tastes. It was just that there was so little else that he found in any way attractive.

There would be those among his acquaintances who would wonder at this perception. By every standard of fashion, manners, and beauty, Mrs. Christie was acknowledged to be a diamond. At thirty years of age, she had the experience of being so well admired as to give her a surfeit of confidence. She exhibited the heritage of her Viking forbears in her pale coloring and smooth complexion, and while her hair was very fine, she had it in abundance. Even plainly arranged it called attention to itself. When she wore it adorned with flowers and beads it resembled nothing so much as a crown. Her figure was womanly in every regard: rounded arms, hips, and bosom. She knew what fashions and fabrics accentuated the features that made men shift their glances in her direction. The turn of her ankle was delicate; the curve of her waist pronounced. With shoulders held back and her chin lifted at an angle that suggested condescension, her manner of carrying herself was often referred to as regal.

Her standing in polite society, though, would never put her in the same circle as the royals. Griffin could not imagine that she would ever admit it, but she stood poised on the edge of the ton like a beggar at a baker’s window. And like that poor soul, she longed for entry, not mere crumbs.

Griffin had no illusions as to why she agreed to leave her former protector and accept his offer. She had observed that his own standing in society possessed a certain fluidity. He had rank, which gave him entry and a reputation that kept him closer to the periphery than the center. He enjoyed the freedom to step outside the ton altogether as he did when he took up the gaming hell, but he also was greeted by his peers as a prodigal son on any occasion that he returned to their fold.

Some of rank and privilege envied him for shrugging off the strictures that set their life on such a narrow path. Others, like Alys Christie, envied him his access to that path.

“We are done, Mrs. Christie,” Griffin said. He had not anticipated putting it before her quite so baldly, but once said he did not try to soften it. He watched twin sovereigns of pink appear in her cheeks. Her fine china-blue eyes, arguably her best feature, brightened with a sheen of tears. At one time he would have mistaken them as an expression of disappointment or sadness. What he had learned was that they appeared out of deep frustration and were the precursor to a fit of temper that few young children could match for ferocity and duration.

Griffin decided a warning was in order. “I will not suffer one of your rages, Alys, so think before you fly into the boughs.”

Taking a deep breath, she held herself in check for the moment. The note of caution in his voice meant little to her, and the threat less than nothing, but the fact that he had called her Alys was enough to give her hope. “We can discuss it, can we not, Breckenridge? I thought we had reached an understanding last evening.”

“There was no understanding. You made your argument, and I did not gainsay you. It is not the same as reaching an accord. We are done.”

Alys pursed her lips. Her fingertips tightened on the tumbler in her hand. “I don’t see how that can be. You need me.”

“Oh, Mrs. Christie, do not make me say otherwise. Let us at least agree that we might remain on friendly terms.”

“Is it because there was no good word from Paris? Have you now given up hope on everyone?”

Griffin was aware he was being drawn in and still could not hold his tongue. “You told Pettibone. That was not your place.”

“It is my place. Your wife—”

“My wife is nothing to you.”

“But if she’s dead—If you can prove that she’s—”

“It changes nothing.” In contrast to his eyes, which were hard, his voice was dangerously soft. “She is already dead to me, and it makes no difference. I will not marry you, Mrs. Christie.”

“Have I spoken of marriage?”

“Even you have moments of restraint.”

Alys’s nostrils flared. He’d raised the point of restraint at the very moment she was rearing back her hand to throw her glass at him. She caught herself and drank half of what she’d poured instead. Above the rim of the tumbler her pale blue eyes glittered. It was rare that there was heat in her anger. What she invariably felt was ice cold, and this was no exception. The whiskey did not warm her.

“What of your business?” she asked. “Have you considered at all what I said last night? We are partners, Breckenridge. You cannot deny that I have been an asset to you in the operation of the hell.”

“I do not deny it. It does not make us partners. Your contribution was not financial, and it was not asked for.”

“God’s truth, but it was not refused,” she snapped. “You appreciated my presence in your place. You even were moved to remark that your patrons wagered in a most excellent fashion when I was in the room. That was more of the ready in your pockets, Breckenridge.”

“And you were recompensed handsomely for it. Never say to me that you did not benefit from our arrangement. You have a house for which you owe nothing. Fine clothes. Jewelry that you may keep or sell at your pleasure. Your staff receives their wages from me and your allowance defines the very word generous.”

Hearing his voice begin to rise, Griffin took a leveling breath. “The house. The clothing. The jewelry. All of it is yours, Mrs. Christie. I will see that your allowance continues throughout this quarter, but you will have to pay your household accounts and staff out of it. It is still a most liberal settlement, I believe.”

It was not enough, not nearly enough. What she said was, “It is nothing! What you offer is an insult!”

“Do not pretend that you haven’t been preparing for this day, Mrs. Christie. You may have allowed yourself to hope for a different end, but you are an intelligent woman who is well able to assess the risk of doing naught but hoping. I cannot help but think you have made some profitable investments. Certainly you asked for such advice as I was able to give on a number of occasions. If you but heeded half of it, you will have amassed a tidy sum. It also occurs that you will have already set your sights on another gentleman to take my place, and I do not fault you for it. If you can bring him up to snuff and put yourself in the society you crave, then I will be happy to dance at your wedding.”

Griffin picked up his coat and folded it over his arm, then retrieved his hat and gave it a tap against the side of his knee. “Our arrangement has never been more than what it is, Mrs. Christie. It was predicated on a mutual appreciation for what we can do for each other, not for what we can be to each other.”

There was no mockery in the slight bow he made her. He gave her this final respect as her due, then began walking toward the door.

“Bastard!” She flung the tumbler at his back and was angry when it missed him, angrier still that he must have anticipated she would do it and didn’t trouble himself to flinch. “You will regret putting me aside, Breckenridge.”

He paused on the point of leaving to glance back at her. “I know you believe that, but I am certain now of exactly the opposite.” His dark eyes narrowed briefly on her frozen attitude of outrage. “It was the ring, Mrs. Christie. Or did you think I didn’t know?”

He stepped over the fallen tumbler and puddle of whiskey and let himself out.

Olivia appreciated that her second and third day in the gaming hell proceeded uneventfully. Mason escorted her on a walk twice each day, making certain that she went unmolested. He was not given to many words and after she had exhausted the topics of weather, Malthus, and the butler’s frustrating, ultimately fruitless search for a suitable maid for her, there was nothing he cared to talk about.

The snow ceased to fall on the second afternoon. As much as she had appreciated it, she was concerned that it would delay Alastair’s return. If he meant to return at all. That niggling thought would not be permanently quelled. She hated that the viscount must be thinking it also. He had to have already calculated the length of the journey Alastair would make to reach Sir Hadrien as well as the time it would require. Sir Hadrien detested town and spent almost the whole of the year at his estate in Sussex. With no mishaps, she could expect Alastair to be gone at least five days. If their father proved difficult—and it was almost a given that he would—it seemed unlikely that her brother could return before a full sennight had passed.

She finished the essays by Malthus and began Brown’s. Soon after she mentioned to Mason that it might be pleasant to write down her own thoughts on the philosophy of the human mind, Foster appeared at her door bearing paper, quills, and a full bottle of ink. The small table he’d procured for her earlier so that she might take her meals in comfort also served well as a desk. She wasn’t sure what she might put to paper concerning philosophy, but she heard enough coming from the floor below each evening to venture some thoughts about the human mind.

On the evening of her fourth day, Olivia had a surprise waiting for her when she returned from her late outing with Mr. Mason. It had not occurred to her during the walk that the valet’s rather jovial mood—which regarding Mason meant that he tipped his hat and ventured a smile when he greeted her—had anything to do with his knowledge of what would be taking place during their brief absence.

Immediately upon her arrival at the threshold to her room, she knew something was different. She could quite literally smell it in the air. The breath she drew was changed by the scent of lavender and moist with steam from—could it truly be?—the water-filled hip bath.

Olivia had been so moved by this gift, knowing what pains had been taken to haul so much heated water to the tub, that she was possessed by the urge to throw her arms about Mr. Mason’s shoulders and plant a kiss on his cheek. Had she given into the impulse it would have been a novel experience for both of them, but her own natural restraint was reinforced when Mason, having some sense of how she might be moved to express her gratitude, cautiously stepped back out of arm’s reach.

As she thought about it later, a smile tugged at Olivia’s lips. She slipped lower in the tub. She doubted Breckenridge had ever known an urge to hug his valet.

In the end she had never properly thanked Mr. Mason. Although she felt as if she were dancing in place with excitement, she had in fact simply stood in the doorway unmoving. What she offered him was a watery smile, hardly an adequate demonstration of the gratitude that was in her heart.

The scent of lavender rose deliciously from the bath as Olivia stirred the water with her fingertips. She tried to imagine whose idea it had been to add bath salts. Similarly, someone had thought to line the copper tub with linens. Sitting almost shoulder deep in warm and fragrant water was as decadent a luxury as she had known.

Olivia picked up a sponge and sliver of soap and made a lather that she applied to her arms. She set her mind once again to wondering at the origin of the salts and linens. Owing to the fact that she was a curiosity, she’d had brief contact with most of the staff. It wasn’t that a woman had never stayed in the gaming hell that made her an unusual guest and the subject of speculation. It was the mystery surrounding her presence that created the stir.

Mrs. Christie, the woman whom Breckenridge had named as a friend, Olivia had learned was a frequent visitor to the hell but only occasionally remained there until morning. That she was his lordship’s mistress was understood, and the servants, Beetle most particularly, let such words drop that Olivia came to understand it as well.

Her own connection to the viscount was not a matter of easy comprehension for the household staff, especially as Breckenridge had nothing at all to do with her. Except for Mr. Mason, who knew the truth of it and wasn’t sharing, everyone else was left to wonder.

It amused her to think that the bath, the salts, and linens may all have been in aid of softening her own defenses so that she might answer their questions rather than have so many of her own. She had it from Wick that there was a small, friendly wager among the servants as to the nature of her presence in the gaming hell. The hypothesis that currently curried the most favor was that she was in fact a relation to his lordship, a distant cousin whose lack of marriage prospects and financial straits were an embarrassment to the family. Apparently she had been thrust upon Breckenridge as a punishment of sorts to both of them.

Olivia thought that if she’d had only one shilling to her name, she still would have been moved to place it in support of that particular theory. It seemed a more likely turn than what she knew the truth to be.

Olivia kept at the puzzle of the salts and linens while she washed and rinsed her hair, regretting for the first time that she did not have Dillon’s help with the task. The most likely candidate to have contributed the additional amenities was Beetle, she decided. The boy had informed her by way of making conversation that his mother was a whore at Mrs. Tittle’s fine house here in Putnam Lane. From the way he’d told her, she gathered it was an establishment of some renown, popular with a certain set of privileged gentlemen. Beetle had been wont to impress upon her the elegant fashion of the place. It was turned out as well, on the inside at least, as Breckenridge’s own establishment.

Although the salts and linens probably had been lifted by Beetle rather than willingly donated by Beetle’s mother, they were the bath’s defining touch. She supposed that thanks were in order also to the proprietor of the house. Mrs. Tittle obviously saw advantages to creating the illusion of a fine lady’s boudoir for her patrons rather than reminding them in every way that they were naught but among whores.

Olivia allowed that it was probably a good strategy.

She closed her eyes and rested the damp twist of hair that she’d made at the back of her head against the tub’s lip. The water cooled, but even then she was reluctant to leave her bath. It was not until gooseflesh appeared on her arms that she made to stand.

Towels had been placed for her on a footstool at the side of the tub. She chose one to wrap around her hair and the other to dry herself with. She shivered, feeling the cold in earnest now and quickly pulled her nightshift over her head. Her robe added another layer of welcomed warmth. She padded barefoot into her bedchamber and found her slippers, stood in front of the fire for a few moments, then began to gently rub her hair dry.

“I have your dinner, Miss Cole.”

The voice from the other side of the door startled her. She hadn’t heard a knock, and Breckenridge’s staff was scrupulous about knocking. An ember popped loudly in the fireplace, forcing her to step back. “A moment,” she called, quickly plaiting her hair. “I just need a moment to—”

Olivia froze, her fingers still wound in the tail of her braid, as the door was pushed open. The entry of anyone into the room should have been preceded by a tray. The absence of one was the first thing she noticed.

The unfamiliarity of the face was the next detail to have impact.

In moments the whole of it registered. The intruder was elegantly attired in evening clothes, not the livery the footmen wore when they were at post in the gaming rooms. The gentleman’s expression was not one of surprise at making the discovery of her presence, but rather satisfaction that he had arrived at this end expecting it. And finally there was the step he took into the room, a step both assured and deliberate. Here was a man whose arrogance did not allow him to conceive that his entry would be unwelcome.

Olivia understood that he presented every sort of danger to her because of it.

Unable to move, she watched him close the door. He stood with his back to it, his hands disappearing behind him as he fiddled with the knob. She frowned. “What are you—”

The voice she’d found was silenced when he brought his fists to the forefront and turned them over, unfolding them slowly. The right one held a key.

Olivia’s hands dropped to her side. The towel that had been folded around her neck fell to the floor. She didn’t know why she did it, but she found herself stooping to pick it up. Perhaps it was because she needed something to clutch, she thought, just as Lord Breckenridge had pointed out. She straightened and twisted the towel in her hands.

“You should leave,” she said. And as if it would make any difference to him, she added, “If you leave now no one has to know you were here.” Her eyes darted to the bell cord that would bring Foster or someone else from the servants’ hall to her room if she could reach it.

The gentleman followed her glance, understood its import, and merely shook his head. He unbuttoned his frock coat and slipped the key into a crescent pocket in his waistcoat. “I suspect that who knows I am here is more your concern than mine.”

He had a sweet, almost shy smile that Olivia found perfectly incongruous to the import of his words and the intention she could see in his eyes. He was of an age with her and handsome enough that young ladies of little experience were probably desirous of his attention. Whether his pockets were deep enough to attract the notice of their mothers and make him a truly desirable connection was not immediately apparent to Olivia. The cut and detail of his clothing suggested a living that was more than sufficient to set a standard in fashion, but she recalled that Alastair often went about similarly turned out, even as she was struggling to settle their account with the greengrocer.

“Please leave,” she said.

“You say it prettily.” He smiled. “Say it again.”

Olivia inched away as he approached. She felt the coal scuttle pressing against her leg and realized she could not go farther in that direction. She wondered if she could speak the words he wanted loudly enough to be heard above the noise below them. He’d apparently thought the same and dismissed it because he was shaking his head.

“You haven’t asked what I want,” he said pleasantly.

Olivia didn’t answer. To say that she already knew was to give something of herself away. He did not deserve even so little as that from her.

He beckoned her with a finger. “Come. Come closer. Would you make me pursue you into the corner?”

His question reminded her of the direction in which she was going. She changed course and sidled toward the bed. He could make what he liked of it but there was some avenue of escape by choosing that heading.

Olivia continued to twist the towel between her fingers.

“So you are for the bed after all,” he said, noting her move to the side. “That is agreeable.”

“You must leave.” Olivia’s voice was firmer now. “Lord Breckenridge will—”

“Not mind,” he said.

It was his mistake to suppose that she believed him, and Olivia did nothing to correct his assumption. She was judging the distance remaining between them instead. She required something a bit shorter than what existed now. With that in mind, she held her ground when he took one more step toward her.

Like a mongoose to his cobra, Olivia struck with feral speed. With a flick of her wrist she snapped the damp towel at his head, catching him at the corner of his eye. He roared in pain and clamped one hand over the injured eye and used his other hand to flail at her. Olivia reared back, avoiding his half-blind groping, and twisted the towel in midair. She snapped it again, this time at the bulge in his trousers that he had taken no pains to hide.

This second application of the linen made him yowl. It also angered him beyond reason. Olivia had a glimpse of his red and watering eye as he dropped his hand away from it and lunged for her. She threw herself sideways across the bed. The flanking tables were knocked about, but only one teetered enough to fall. Unfortunately, it was the one that held the lighted candelabra. Two of the candles were extinguished as they fell, but the third landed on the bed where the flame immediately began licking at a lace pillow sham.

Neither Olivia nor her attacker noticed.

Still holding the towel, Olivia came to her feet on the opposite side of the bed. She feinted toward the door and when he did the same, she ran to the window. She had just time enough to throw it open and make a cry for help before she was caught by the waist and roughly hauled back inside. The back of her head collided hard with the sash and for a moment her vision was filled with bright light.

Griffin’s glance was drawn to the ceiling of the card room by a distinctive thud. He shook his head, permitting himself a moment to wonder what Olivia was about before returning his attention to the play at the table. He’d made it a rule not to join any games in his own establishment. Suspicion of his play would invariably become a factor if he won and his pockets would suffer if he did not. The better course was to oversee the games and make certain they were fairly played. He had no desire for his hell to secure a reputation for supporting cardsharps and their marks.

It was not quite six months ago that the Allworthy cousins had taken liberties with the cards at this very table and nearly begat an incident with the French ambassador’s son. On that occasion Mr. Restell Gardner had been present to manage the situation and keep it from spilling over into scandal.

The thought of Gardner set Griffin to wondering what had become of him. He hadn’t seen him for some time, though he supposed that was to be expected given his relatively newly married state. One edge of Griffin’s mouth lifted in a mildly amused smile. It wasn’t as if Gardner could ask his wife to accompany him to the hell. Again.

Griffin schooled his features as he moved around the table slowly, taking in the hands that he was allowed to see without giving away what he thought of them. When he caught sight of a furtive movement just outside the entrance to the card room, he was careful not to frown and send some signal that had nothing at all to do with the game. He nodded politely to the players and excused himself just as Wick came into view again. The lad was not trying to attract his attention but appeared to be wanting Foster’s eye. The footman was staring straight ahead, unaware of the gyrations that were being employed to garner his notice.

Bloody hell.

Griffin stepped into the hallway, snatched Wick by his collar, and carried the boy away from the patrons mingling outside the card room to servants’ stairs at the end of the corridor. The boy did not struggle, but he did keep his hands tightly over his ears as if he expected Griffin to give them a good boxing.

“Explain,” Griffin said, setting him down.

Wick, still with his hands over his ears, launched into an explanation that was delivered so hurriedly that Griffin could not follow it. At the conclusion, the lad tried to make a run around him and dash up the stairs. Griffin hauled him back and kept him in place with one hand on each of the boy’s bony shoulders. It was the child’s distress that kept Griffin from launching into a lecture that included all of the reasons why Wick was not permitted to move among the patrons. “Again, if you please. This time with some respect for the cadence of proper speech.”

On the second telling Griffin caught words like help and Miss Cole and gentleman villain. There was no making sense of it, but at the end Griffin gave Wick his head and let him charge up the stairs.

Unlike the floor below, this short hall was deserted, and Griffin could hear sounds coming from Olivia Cole’s bedchamber that had been undetectable in the card room.

And…Oh, dear God above—was that smoke he smelled?

Wick came upon the door a beat before Griffin and rattled the knob. When the door didn’t open he beat his fists against it. Griffin reached around him and tried the knob himself, calling out for Olivia at the same time. When she didn’t respond, he pounded the heel of his hand against the door.

“Miss Cole!” Griffin rapped the wood hard. “Miss Cole!” He put a restraining hand on Wick’s efforts. “Find Truss. Tell him to bring the key. Hurry!” Griffin punctuated the order by throwing his shoulder into the door. Except for compression of his own muscle and bone, there was no give. Griffin ignored the pain and rammed it again. The door held and he went back to pounding. “Miss Cole!” Dammit! “Olivia!”

Olivia couldn’t move. She was pinned by the weight of the man on top of her. Over his shoulder she could see small flames spreading slowly across the pillow sham, fed by the draft from the open window. She tried to make him understand there was danger here, but he merely pressed a forearm across her throat and she was silenced. Every frantic look she cast in the direction of the fire, he seemed to interpret as merely an effort on her part to avoid looking at him.

His features, the ones she had briefly thought as handsomely molded, were twisted in a rage so profound that he was deaf and blind to everything at the periphery of his senses. She was not merely the center of what he saw. She was all that he saw.

He yanked at her shift. When the narrow blue ribbon sewn into the scooped neckline thwarted his attempt to rend the material, he shoved his hand under it. He groped for her breast, then finding it, squeezed with a viciousness that brought tears to Olivia’s eyes and the air rushing from her lungs. She tried to draw another breath, but his forearm lay too heavily across her throat. It seemed he was pressing harder now. She pushed at his shoulders and tried to turn on her side to break his hold. It took only moments for her to understand he would not be moved.

Her hands fell back to the floor. If she did not panic, if she did not exhaust herself, she knew he would need the hand on her breast or the arm across her throat to assist him in what was ultimately his intent. If he killed her first it would be because there was madness in his rage, not because it had been his aim to do so at the outset. He might kill her afterward, to silence her, but it was just as likely that they would die together, consumed by the flames that were now twisting and leaping across the bed.

Olivia sucked in a deep lungful of air as the pressure on her throat was lifted. She coughed hard, breathing in the first acrid eddies of smoke to reach her. She managed to gasp a warning between the choking breaths. “The bed!”

“So you do want it,” he fairly growled in her ear. “And comfort besides.” He mashed his mouth against hers.

She blinked. He had completely misunderstood. She tasted blood on her lip as he ground his mouth on hers and felt him separating her robe at her thighs. He lifted his hips slightly as he grabbed fistfuls of her shift and raised it to her hips. She tried to keep her legs together, but he jammed a knee between them. She beat her heels on his calves and at the back of his thighs as he fumbled with the flies of his trousers. At her sides her fingers scrabbled on the floor, searching…searching…

Griffin pressed his ear to the door, trying in vain to hear something above the sound of his own harsh breathing. Frustrated, he kicked at it. Once. Then again. Bloody hell. Where was Wick? Where was Truss? Where was the goddamn key?

Olivia’s fingertips found the edge of the towel that had been wrested from her hands. She tugged on it, first finding a finger’s worth, then a handful. She whipped it across the back of his neck and found the opposite tail with her free hand. Beyond his shoulder she could see tiny tongues of fire lapping up the bedcover and applied all of her resolve to this last effort.

Before he could guess what she was about, she quickly crossed the tails of the towel and exchanged them in her hands so that she could pull them as tightly as her strength would allow.

The immediate effect was to make him release his cock so he could try to break her hold. When he grasped her wrists and pushed he only succeeded in tightening the noose she’d fashioned. He clawed at the linen towel, his eyes bulging, but could not get even so much as a fingernail between his skin and the damp fabric.

Olivia applied steady pressure. The muscles in her arms and across her back trembled with the strain required to sustain it. From the hallway she heard someone call her name again. When she’d heard it before she’d had no voice to cry out. Now she hadn’t any strength to spare for the effort.

His face was ruddy, but no less so than hers. Olivia’s temples throbbed as the hot blood of exertion collected in her head. Her knuckles were nearly as white as the towel she was gripping. There was a similar whiteness at his neck where his skin was pulled taut by the linen garrote.

He was able to heave himself up but not able to dislodge her hold. The space he created, though, gave her the freedom to move out from under him. The towel twisted on his neck as she shifted to one side. When his arms gave way he collapsed face down on the floor, and as quick as that she was on his back, holding the tails of the linen like reins on a horse that she meant to bring to an abrupt halt.

It might have been hearing her name yet again that gave her pause. It could also have been the heat at her back that finally stayed her hands. She gave it no thought at the time. She simply released both ends of the towel and stood, but not without first pressing one knee hard into his spine as she did so.

His groan satisfied her that he was alive, but also made her wary.

Olivia grabbed the towel as she leapt away from him, afraid he would recover the strength to pull her down again. Her attention was drawn to the door as it shuddered hard in the frame.

“Olivia! For God’s sake…. Olivia!”

She spun on her heels and ran toward the sound of that voice. It was Breckenridge. She met his pounding by placing the flat of one hand against the door panel. Throwing the towel over her shoulder, she twisted the knob with her other hand. When nothing happened she remembered all the reasons that was so.

Glancing back, she saw that not only was her attacker beginning to stir, but the fire was slipping over the edge of the bed. “I can’t get the key! Go! Go away! Get everyone out!”

She was not at all certain she was heard. She slapped the door and yelled the one word she hoped would garner his full attention.

“Fire!”