Читать книгу The Price of Desire - Jo Goodman - Страница 8

Olivia Cole caught her reflection in the cheval glass and paused to take account of herself. She was not by nature a vain woman, but circumstances were such in her life that she could ill afford to present herself in a poor light. It was not possible to hide every aspect of her worry from the servants. She had no illusions that she would ever trod the boards at Drury Lane, but she had hoped she was offering a more untroubled countenance than the one she observed now.

There was no disguising the fact that she had been weeping earlier. Her eyelids were still faintly swollen and the lashes clumped in small, dewy spikes. Swiping at her eyes did not diminish the effect. Her knuckles left pronounced color in an otherwise pale complexion, emphasizing violet shadows beneath her eyes and lending them a bruised, injured look.

Her ginger-colored hair, a fiery problem to be contended with on any given day, had escaped the moorings of all three tortoiseshell combs so that far too many strands were licking at her temples, forehead, and nape like flaming tongues. She raised one hand to make an adjustment, intending to smooth and secure the firestorm, but let her hand fall back to her side when it occurred to her it was too small a gesture and far too late in coming.

The scratching at the door was insistent. Olivia moved slowly in that direction. It was disconcerting to realize that her palms were damp, a condition she noticed when she attempted to press out a wrinkle in the bodice of her day dress. The fold only existed because the incongruously bright, apple-green gown hung on her frame in a way it had not done since she stood for its fitting. She unfastened the grosgrain ribbon beneath her breasts and tied it again, this time more ruthlessly than her maid had done earlier. With the bodice snugly secured, she squared her shoulders and made to reach for the door handle. At the last moment she stopped and reached for the shawl that had been thrown carelessly across a nearby chair. She could pretend at least that she was chilled, when in truth she had a need to hide the collarbones that four days of almost no nourishment had made prominent.

Olivia steeled herself as she opened the door. It was in every way a condition of the mind. Her limbs were in fact trembling.

“Yes, Mrs. Beck?”

The housekeeper bobbed her head once. “Begging your pardon, but there’s gentlemen come to inquire after you. I thought I should tell you myself.”

“Thank you. That was good of you.” Olivia’s own maid, to demonstrate her self-importance, had a regrettable tendency to say things she ought not in the servants’ hall. Chastisement had had little effect on Molly Dillon, placing Olivia in a position of releasing the girl from service or guarding her own tongue in Molly’s presence. Against the advice of Mrs. Beck, Olivia had become more circumspect and Molly remained employed.

“Gentlemen, you say?” asked Olivia. Her mouth was dry, but she resisted the urge to lick her lips. “How many exactly?” Had her father sent them? It was the question uppermost in her mind, and she couldn’t pose it to Mrs. Beck without giving more of herself away than she ever had to Molly Dillon.

“Two.” There was a small hesitation. “I can’t be certain, but I think they might be from Bow Street.”

“Runners?” Olivia was glad she’d had the foresight to keep one hand on the door frame and the other resting on the handle. The tenacity of her grip made her knuckles briefly turn white. “Alastair, then. They’ve come about Alastair.” She felt no relief at the thought. As much as she feared they’d come for her, that outcome was preferable to the one that seemed more likely.

“I’m thinking that’s so.”

Olivia nodded absently while she considered what she must do. “Show them to the drawing room. I will receive them there.”

“As you wish.” Mrs. Beck bobbed her head again and turned to go, only to be brought up short by Olivia’s entreaty.

“Have you a sense of what their purpose might be?”

The housekeeper had drawn up her apron and was twisting the hem in her hands. Anxiety deepened the careworn lines around her eyes and mouth. “I can’t say. I tried to get a word from them, but they are like the sphinx, all stone and silence. They don’t seem entirely comfortable, I know that. I can’t make out what it means, though.”

Olivia’s breath caught, imagining the very worst.

Mrs. Beck shook her head vehemently. “And you shouldn’t make it out to be something that it is not. Oh, I wish I’d left well enough alone.” She turned on her heel and this time fled.

Olivia closed the door and leaned against it. There was nothing for it but that she would have to meet her visitors. She might fear what they would say to her, but she had to hear it nevertheless.

Returning to the cheval glass, Olivia made the adjustments to her hair that she had been too weary—no, too discouraged—to make earlier. Fixing the combs in their proper position did not greatly improve her appearance, but at least she no longer looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. In truth, she’d never been to it, having spent the night sitting in a chair by the fireplace with her feet resting on a hassock.

Olivia applied a bit of powder to her nose and made a swipe under her eyes. The bruised look was marginally erased. She pinched her cheeks to good effect and pressed her lips together to raise a modicum of color.

Her nostrils flared slightly as she took a deep breath. Releasing it slowly, she pronounced herself fit enough to greet strangers, though in no wise of a mood to converse at length. She hoped these runners—if that’s what they were—had come without expectations.

Although she approached the drawing room as she imagined the wrongfully condemned approached the gallows, upon opening the door Olivia managed a gracious though somewhat grave smile.

“Gentlemen,” she said easily, “I am consumed with curiosity as to your presence in my home. I hope you mean to enlighten me quickly as I am obliged to visit Lady Fontanelle for elevenses.”

Neither man spoke for a moment, although they did exchange unreadable glances. Olivia was not at all certain Mrs. Beck was correct in her estimation that they were from Bow Street. For one thing, they dressed rather better than the runners she’d seen mingling with crowds at Vauxhall Gardens or strolling in and around Drury Lane after the theatres released their patrons. These gentlemen wore clothing cut from a different cloth; frock coats that looked as if they’d been tailored to fit comfortably on broader shoulders, waistcoats that did not hang too loosely nor strain the fabric around Corinthian physiques.

The gentlemen were of an age and attitude that reminded her of Alastair. It occurred to her that they might be his intimates, though caution kept her from advancing this assumption.

“Mrs. Cole.” The gentleman with russet-colored hair and a nose that looked to have been broken, perhaps several times, made a slight bow as he stepped forward to separate himself from his companion. “I am Stephen Fairley. I was instructed most particularly to speak to you.”

Olivia wondered how that could be. He was under the misapprehension that she was Mrs. Cole. She did not correct him. “And so you are, Mr. Fairley.” She glanced in the direction of his partner. “You, sir? Were you similarly instructed?”

“I was. Patrick Varah, Mrs. Cole.” Mr. Varah’s clipped blond hair fell across his sloping brow as he bent his head to make his introduction.

Olivia had no intention of making them easy in her presence. She certainly was not easy in theirs. Crossing the room to the small tea table near the fireplace, she deliberately chose a path that forced her visitors to make way for her. Divide and conquer, she reasoned, was always a wise course, even if the effect was short-lived.

“Please state your purpose,” she said, turning on them.

“It’s thought that you’ll already have some notion of that,” Mr. Fairley said carefully. “But I was told that if it must be refined upon, I should say that we’ve come on the matter of a certain emerald ring and a debt of considerable consequence.”

Olivia was glad of her foresight to put the table at her side. By placing her right hand on the polished cherrywood top, she was able to keep herself upright. “I see,” she murmured. No other response occurred to her. Her mind had become a perfect blank slate.

“You’ll want to fetch your pelisse and bonnet,” Mr. Varah told her. “Gloves, also. The air is bracing. I shouldn’t be surprised if it snows this afternoon.” When she didn’t move, he prompted rather gently, “You understand we’ve come for you, don’t you? It’s expected that you’ll return with us.”

She nodded once, slowly, though there was no real comprehension behind the movement. Her head ached abominably.

Mr. Fairley took a small step toward her, one hand raised as though to offer support. “Perhaps you should sit.” He glanced at his companion. “It cannot hurt to wait for her to recover her wits.”

In other circumstances, Olivia would have taken umbrage with Mr. Fairley’s characterization of her as witless. The sad truth of the matter, she reflected, was that he had named the thing correctly. When Mr. Varah slipped a claw-and-ball-footed chair behind her knees, she dropped like a stone. The gentlemen hovered momentarily, uncertain, then backed away. She drew a deep, settling breath.

“Rest easy, sirs. I have no intention of fainting.” She glanced up in time to witness their relief. Clearly they were not prepared for any reaction from her save for acceptance and cooperation. It made her wish she were given to brief moments of blissful unconsciousness just to test their mettle. High drama did not suit her either, so there would be no wailing or wringing her hands. She resisted even the small urge to press one hand to her forehead, thinking it was precisely the sort of gesture that was overdone on the stage to convey moments of great anxiety.

“I must know about Alastair,” she said quietly. “The ring means nothing, the debt less than nothing, if you cannot tell me how he fares.”

Mr. Fairley cleared his throat, betraying his discomfort. “I can say, quite truthfully I promise you, that when last I saw your husband he was having a run of good luck at cards and in fine spirits.”

Olivia could not divine the exact meaning of that. It seemed to her there was a greater truth that Stephen Fairley was neatly sidestepping. The phrase “in fine spirits” resonated with her, prompting her to wonder if Alastair had been deep in his cups. “You are not from Bow Street, are you?”

“Certainly not,” Fairley said, bristling slightly at the suggestion.

As if to ward off a similar insult aimed at him, Mr. Varah interjected, “We are friends of your husband, come to do him a favor.”

“I doubt that,” Olivia said.

Fairley offered an alternative description. “Amiable acquaintances. I could not say whether your husband counts any man as his friend.”

Olivia pressed her lips together and nodded briefly, satisfied Mr. Fairley was in every way more accurate than his companion. “I imagine you play cards at the same table now and again. Mayhap place wagers on the horses.”

“Yes.”

Taking this in, Olivia tightened the hands folded in her lap. “Did you know him at Cambridge?”

“I did,” said Varah. “Fairley here was an Oxford man.”

“He told you he was married?” asked Olivia.

“Never breathed a word of it, Mrs. Cole. Fairley and I only learned of it this morning when we were called upon to perform this small service.”

“A service, is it? No longer a favor?”

“It can be both,” Fairley said. “And it is. I hope you will believe me when I say that your cooperation will be of considerable benefit to your husband. I imagine it is the very thing he is counting on.”

Olivia made no reply and allowed silence to settle heavily around her. She drew a modicum of comfort from it as though it were as tangible as the shawl about her shoulders.

After several long moments, Mr. Varah tread lightly into the quiet, tipping his head toward the door. “We should be off, Mrs. Cole. Shall I ring for the housekeeper? You really must dress for the weather. The hack can provide but a thin shield from the wind.”

Stoic and graceful, Olivia stood. She forbade to answer Mr. Varah but crossed the room and rang for Mrs. Beck herself. She made no attempt to leave their company in order to prepare for her departure. It occurred to her that she would not tolerate well the humiliation of not being allowed out of their sight. Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah had been unfailingly well mannered, but she did not mistake that it meant they trusted her. Indeed, she suspected they had been cautioned against it.

For Olivia it was further proof they did not comprehend the nature of her relationship with Alastair. Far from desiring to bolt, she was prepared to surrender herself in whatever manner was required. Alastair would have known that; whoever sent Fairley and Varah did not.

The ride in the hack was rather more brief than Olivia anticipated, lasting not above thirty minutes. She thought it probably seemed much longer to her companions, or at least she hoped that it did. Since leaving the comparative safety of her home, Olivia fancied Varah and Fairley were proving to be more like gargoyles than guards. They sat stonily on either side of her, crowding her with their shoulders and elbows and making no allowance for the fact that she was already occupying very little in the way of space. She ignored the hammering of her heart and tightness in her throat and told herself she was glad of the warmth their proximity provided.

Something good could come of something bad.

She held this thought, as she often did, until she believed it was so.

“What is this place?” Olivia asked, confronting a row of houses as she alighted from the hack. She stiffened a bit as she came to the answer herself. In the light of day there was nothing to obscure the genteel shabbiness of the street or the residences that lined it. The gray stone houses might have been home to gentry half a century earlier, but they were let out as business establishments now. Twin lanterns fitted with red glass were affixed to more than one dark entrance. Curtains were drawn while the occupants of those houses slept on, oblivious to the late hour of the morning.

Glancing on either side of her, Olivia saw that she and her escorts were alone. The hired hack was the only one of its sort on the street. Its noisy approach was probably most unwelcome even as the time was nearing eleven.

She imagined—and she had experience enough to imagine it well—that with a bank of fog rolling up from the river and the forgiving cloak of night, this particular street might present itself as infinitely more appealing, certainly more exciting. Gentlemen about town, especially young gentlemen, would gravitate to this place, called here by the intrigue of something illicit, the hope of something winning, and the promise of something adventurous. If they were fortunate, Olivia supposed, they would leave wiser for the experience without having to explain away the pox to their wives, empty pockets to their creditors, or the lump on their head to their physicians. All of that and more was to be had on a street like this when day gave itself over to night.

Olivia actually sighed, holding up one hand to stave off Mr. Fairley’s answer to her question. “It is of no import,” she said. “I can’t think that it matters where we are. One enterprise is very like another.”

Fairley looked pained. “That’s not quite so, Mrs. Cole, but it’s not for me to explain. We’re not much more than a well-pitched stone from Covent Garden. We’re standing in Putnam Lane off Moorhead Street.” He pointed to the unremarkable gray stone townhouse directly in front of them. “This is Breckenridge’s establishment. If it has another name, I’ve never learned it.”

“Pray, Mr. Fairley, how much information would you have felt compelled to impart if I had shown the least interest?” Olivia was gratified to see Stephen Fairley flush at her rebuke. It was a modest sign that she was regaining the use of her faculties.

Varah paid the driver and waved him on. “This way, Mrs. Cole. Mind the steps. I see a glaze.”

Olivia ignored the elbow he offered but took his advice to be careful. Mr. Fairley, she noticed, hung back a little. She hoped he was still stinging from her reproach. She swept past Mr. Varah when he threw open the door for her.

The entrance hall was lighted by a single stub of a candle in a wall sconce. It provided enough light for Olivia to avoid bumping into a table set just inside the door but was insufficient to prevent her from catching the toe of her boot on the fringed carpet and stumbling into the newell post. Straightening, she discreetly massaged her hip and fended off Mr. Varah’s concern.

The air was stale with the lingering scents of tobacco, alcohol, perfume, sweat, and something oddly sweet that she could not identify. A second sniff assured her that she did not want to apply herself to making that discovery.

When Fairley and Varah had finished stamping their feet and brushing off their hats, Olivia became aware of the inordinate quiet in the house. No one, it seemed, was stirring above or below stairs. No one had come forward from the back of the house to greet them. She regarded her escorts with a new wariness in her eyes, wondering far too late if she was safe to be alone with them.

“We’re expected upstairs,” Varah said.

Olivia shook her head. “I think I’d like to remain here.”

Both Varah and Fairley were prepared to present their argument against it, but they stopped even as their mouths began to shape the protest. Their gazes were drawn upward over the velvet crown of Olivia Cole’s bonnet to the top of the stairs.

Viscount Breckenridge nodded once in the way of dismissal. “You’ve discharged your debt, gentlemen. I can think of no reason we shall have to speak of it again. Ever. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

Olivia had turned her head to follow the line of sight of Varah and Fairley; now she twisted back to look at them. They were nodding in unison and already replacing their hats. They managed to look at once apologetic and deferential. It was unseemly how quickly they made their departure.

“Olivia Cole?”

Olivia lifted her face in the direction of the voice again. “That’s right.”

“Good. I’d hate to think they’d gotten it wrong, what with me having just let them go. It’s gratifying that my trust in them wasn’t entirely misplaced.” His dark eyes bore into hers. “It remains to be seen about you.”

Olivia wondered what reply she might make to that, but before one occurred to her he was gone and she was left staring at the space he’d occupied. She stood at the foot of the steps for several minutes, determining her course of action. She had the oddest sense that it was a test of sorts, but no sense of how he meant to take her measure. Leaving the townhouse seemed the only sure way she could fail.

Olivia unfastened the ribbons under her chin and removed her bonnet before she began to climb the stairs. She found him in a room that bore a passing resemblance to a place where one might conduct affairs of business and commerce. A large desk was central to the room. Much of its surface area was covered by ledgers, writing paper, and pots of ink. Bookshelves occupied two full walls, and many of the volumes lay on their side to make as much use of the available space as possible. Still, a stack of books rested beside one of the room’s two wing chairs, carelessly doubling as a side table complete with an empty cup and saucer on top. The teapot, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl remained on the silver serving tray that rested on a more traditional oval table near the fireplace.

A mirror almost as long as the mantelpiece hung above the hearth. It was mounted in an elaborately carved gold leaf frame and served no purpose that Olivia could divine except to reflect the light of the three silver candelabra situated at evenly spaced intervals on top of the mantel. Their positioning seemed to be exact: three points of order in a room that might kindly be spoken of as comfortable or cozy, but could more accurately be described as cluttered. Olivia followed the cast of light reflected in the mirror and discovered it brightened an area around one of the reading chairs where a footstool had been overturned and a book lay open on the floor. A wool rug also lay discarded in a heap beside the stool.

The tableau suggested to Olivia that her host was more eager for her arrival than his disinterest at the top of the stairs indicated. Of course it was entirely possible that the stool, rug, and book had been lying there for days and had nothing at all to do with her presence in the townhouse.

She was aware of her host’s interest now. He was comfortably ensconced in the leather armchair behind his desk. Except to raise one dark eyebrow when she entered the room, he gave no other indication that he’d noticed her presence. Nevertheless, she felt his gaze following her as she took a turn about the room. If he expected her to speak before he did, he was sadly out of it there. Olivia knew her place, knew that she could remain silent until she understood the purpose he had in mind for her.

Alastair would be depending upon nothing so much as her circumspection.

“Is it your nature to be so tolerably composed?” he asked. “Or must I anticipate that you will fly into the boughs at any moment?”

“Fly into the boughs?” she said, turning to face him. “No. That is not done. Not by me.”

He stood suddenly, taking note that she held her ground. If she flinched, it was quite literally only in the blink of an eye. “Griffin Wright-Jones.” Coming around the desk, he made a small bow. “You look puzzled, Olivia Cole.”

“I understood this place to be Breckenridge’s establishment.”

“It is.”

“But you’re not Mr. Breckenridge.”

“That might be a comfortable fit, but alas, I am not. You must try not to judge me too harshly when you hear the truth of it. It is my dubious honor to be the Viscount Breckenridge. Ahh, yes, well, there you have flinched. It is not an exalted title as these things go, so I don’t allow myself to believe you are intimidated by it. You’ve had some experience with members of rank, I expect, and it did not go well for you.”

His glance dropped to her hands. She had long, beautifully tapered fingers that had whitened where she was gripping her bonnet. “You are clutching.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Clutching.” He indicated the black velvet brim of her bonnet. “Is that why you removed it? So that you might have something to do with your hands? Or did you think that by making a display of your hair I would be persuaded not to look elsewhere?” He watched her stir a bit uncomfortably as his deliberately narrowed gaze made a slow assessment of her person. “I am credited to have an eye for a woman’s true beauty, and I judge that on a day less fraught with tension than this one, your hair is the very least of it.”

It was a pretty compliment in a peculiarly left-handed fashion, Olivia thought. She gave it the credence it deserved, which was to say she gave it none at all. He might just as well have picked up a stick and poked her with it. The only recourse she had to spite her tormentor was to relax the grip on her bonnet. To remain unaffected in the aftermath of such a casual and demeaning study was the best revenge.

“Please, won’t you be seated?” he asked. “While I applaud your effort, you are not so steady on your feet as you would have me believe.”

Olivia would like to have denied it, but being caught in an obvious lie always had unpleasant consequences. Although her pride was wounded, it was relatively unimportant that he correctly surmised that she had yet to get her feet firmly under her.

“Allow me to take your coat,” he said. “And the bonnet. You are yet wont to crush it.”

Olivia was afraid that even the thought of flinging it at his head would be revealed in her face. She made herself think of jonquils instead, picturing the slim green stems and yellow buds just as they might be moments before flowering. At peace with this vision in her mind’s eye, she released the bonnet and permitted him to help her remove her pelisse. Her kid gloves fell out of the pocket where she’d stuffed them earlier, and she almost collided with him in her haste to pick them up.

It was too much to hope that he would not notice the loose stitching on the seams of the second finger and thumb, or that he would not see the palms were shiny with wear. “I was asked to make a rather hurried departure,” she said by way of explanation for the poor condition of her gloves. “I took what I was given, I’m afraid. A pair of old favorites.”

Olivia watched, vaguely disturbed as he turned them over and touched the back of one with his fingertips. The sensation was such that he might well have been brushing her own hand.

For the second time in the matter of an hour, Olivia dropped heavily into a chair behind her. She followed her host’s progress to the door where he pulled the bell cord. In just under a minute a footman appeared in the doorway. Breckenridge gave him the pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and some instructions that Olivia could not properly hear before sending the servant away again.

She had not given a thought to servants before Breckenridge’s man made his appearance. Although she had no intention of calling upon one to lend assistance in any circumstance, she was moderately calmed by the knowledge that she and the viscount were not alone in the house.

She’d made her own study of the viscount as he’d stood waiting for the bell to be answered. If he’d noticed her stealing glances in his direction, he’d given no indication that he was the least bothered by it.

Olivia was certain that she’d never seen him before, not that there would have been many opportunities to cross paths. Alastair did not introduce her to his friends, or even his amiable acquaintances, of whom she was now sure Breckenridge was not one.

He did not cast his profile in a way that made him an imposing figure, merely an intimidating one. His dark, chestnut-colored hair was longer than was the current fashion and carelessly furrowed by the fingers he’d plowed through it. His eyes were darker yet and given to narrowing so they did not simply gaze upon the object of his study, but secured it. His features were strong, angular, and except for a pale, thin scar bisecting his left cheek from the temple to the corner of his mouth, perfectly symmetrical. The scar saved him from the beauty that was the marble work of master sculptors and lent him something that was at once more striking and more human, the work of God twisted by man.

Olivia judged him to be not yet thirty, though it was a narrow thing. There was a weariness in his expression as he waited that he had taken pains to hide from her earlier. Even as she wondered at its source, it vanished. If it were not for the fact that she’d glimpsed a similar look in her own mirror, she could have been convinced that she’d imagined it. This commonality did not cheer her in the least. There was no conceiving of what harm might be done by two people with these unfortunate dispositions.

She thought he held himself in a posture of such correctness that it was most likely the product of the combined efforts of nannies, tutors, and a martinet of a mother. His stance lent him height and a certain polish. He made to carry himself in a manner that looked supremely natural, without a hint of the tension, superiority, or self-consciousness that she’d had occasion to observe in others of privilege and formidable education. Then, just as if to dismiss Olivia’s notion that he was uncommonly unconstrained, he rolled one of his shoulders and rubbed the nape of his neck with his palm.

The scar was proof that he’d been vulnerable once. His brief massage of corded muscle reminded her that he was vulnerable now. It struck her that it was little enough advantage knowing this fact, but she would accept every scrap he gave her.

When Griffin returned to his desk, he took up a position in front rather than behind it. He pushed aside a stack of ledgers and made room enough for him to rest one hip on the edge. Bracing himself by extending his other leg, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded Olivia Cole with a frankness that had been absent in his earlier scrutiny.

“Have you arrived yet at the reason you are here?” he asked.

“If I am to judge by the interview thus far, I would say it is because you are singularly self-indulgent.”

He actually smiled. The impact of the scar was visible now as the left corner of his mouth lifted a bit higher than the right, tugging his grin at a decidedly rakish angle. “Given your experience, it’s a fair observation,” he allowed. “It is also incorrect, but it is of no consequence to me if you choose to believe differently. Mr. Varah and Mr. Fairley were permitted to give you enough information to secure your cooperation. What did they tell you?”

“Mr. Fairley, I believe it was, informed me it was regarding the matter of a ring and a debt.”

“And so it is, and here you are.” His eyebrows knit slightly as he continued to regard her. “You’re not Alastair Cole’s wife, though, are you?”

“No.”

His expression cleared as he nodded. “I wasn’t certain. The note in my possession only references Olivia. When my sources learned that you shared a residence with Mr. Cole, it seemed the most respectful course to assume you were his wife.”

Olivia volunteered no information.

“It occurs to me now that you are also not his mistress.”

“No, I am not.”

“A relative, then. There are similarities of appearance. His hair is a pale imitation of yours, but the proper coloring is there. The shape of the eyes, I think, is also somewhat alike. Yours are green, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t say that I recall his. Perhaps green also, like the emerald he was wearing.”

Olivia realized she was gently worrying the inside of her bottom lip with her teeth. She released it and affected a calm she did not feel.

“You are rather tall, also like him, though I believe it attracts more attention when a woman is of a certain height, especially when she is of such a narrow frame that a willow branch could hide her figure. When did you last eat, Miss Cole?”

She blinked, startled by the question. Had she taken more than tea at breakfast? And what of supper yesterday?

“Never mind. Your hesitation speaks for itself.” He pushed away from the desk and pulled on the bell cord again. This time his summons was answered by a different servant. He gave instructions for a repast of baked eggs and toast, but before he let the young man go, he asked Olivia, “Do you care for hot cocoa?”

It was an extravagance she rarely indulged. The thought of it made warmth and sweetness settle lightly on her tongue. She had to press her arm against her stomach to quell the rumbling sound.

“Bring the cocoa. Tea as well. Here, take the tray.” He stepped aside to permit the servant to enter and remained there until the lad had carried out the task of collecting the service. After closing the door, he returned to his perch on the desk and assumed the exact position he’d had before. “You look as if a draft could move you from that chair.”

“You needn’t have troubled yourself or your staff,” Olivia said. “I’m not hungry.”

“A matter of no account. It remains that you’ll eat.”

“High-handed,” she said.

“There you have me.” Shrugging, he picked up the conversational thread as if he’d never abandoned it. “Would I be correct that you are Alastair Cole’s cousin?”

“No.”

“His sister, then. I should have trusted my first notion. I gave too much weight to the physical differences.”

Olivia thought he seemed disappointed in himself. A game played and lost. She wondered at it, wondered how much he’d played to amuse himself and how much was done to unsettle her. Perhaps doing both was the point of it all.

“Though why I should have done so,” he went on, “does not make practical sense. I have sisters of my own. Three, in fact, and we could not be more dissimilar in appearance or inclination. I take by your expression that you consider it a fortunate turn for my sisters. You would be right, of course. They are wholly respectable, while I…” He lifted his hands, palms up, to indicate the entirety of his establishment. “While I, for reasons that are obvious to the meanest intelligence, am not.”

As Breckenridge had correctly divined the bent of her thoughts, Olivia decided that saying nothing was the wiser course.

“I should like to hear your opinion on a particular matter, Miss Cole. It is Miss Cole, is it not?” When she nodded, he continued. “I’d like you to tell me in which of these three respects the gentleman is the most complete bounder. He surrenders his wife to a man he owes payment. He gives over his mistress to discharge his debt. Or he sacrifices his sister to spare himself a very bad end. I confess, I cannot work it out myself, but it occurs that you might have a cogent position.”

Olivia realized she was worrying her bottom lip again. This time she didn’t attempt to stop. She drew blood instead.

Her silence did not deter him. “It’s a puzzler, isn’t it? I have been thinking that if I could arrive at some clever answer, it might make an acceptable teaser in society. Riddles are popular with a certain crowd and their parlor games. It would be a thing oft repeated. The wife. The mistress. The sister.” He feigned disappointment when Olivia offered no reply. “It seems nothing occurs to you either. That is too bad. It will have to remain between us, I’m afraid. At least for the nonce. Is your standing in society a concern to you, Miss Cole?”

“I have no standing in society.”

“Then perhaps you are fortunate.”

“I have never thought about it.”

“Truly? Then you are singular. Standing and reputation account for the greatest part of what passes for thinking among the ton.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I believe your brother would, though. He has cut a wide swath in society since he’s finished university.”

“Your sources again, I collect.”

“Yes. I have many at my disposal. Knowing one’s patrons is part and parcel of operating this establishment.”

“If you say so,” she said, her tone carefully neutral.

“I do. There are patrons with deep pockets that will never go owing the house. Others whose pockets are considerably lighter and want credit to compensate. Some enjoy long runs of good fortune, and there are those who seem to take perverse pleasure in losing time and again. Both present problems in their own right. Then there are the cheats. Attention must be paid, of course. The surest way of keeping out the deep-pocketed players is to entertain the cheats. So, yes, I find it important to learn something about the gentlemen who frequent my establishment. Prudence dictates it.”

“You speak only of gaming.”

“And why would I speak of anything else? You do know you’re in a gaming hell, don’t you?”

“I feel certain that is the least of it.”

“Do you? Are your first impressions never wrong?”

“I saw the red lanterns. I know their purpose.”

“You did not see them on my door, did you?”

“No.”

“But you concluded you were being escorted to a brothel anyway.”

She had. “It was not an unreasonable assumption.”

“Perhaps not, but it is not my business. Did someone tell you otherwise?”

“No.”

He nodded once, satisfied that he had impressed the truth of the matter upon her. “Do you want to know the size of your brother’s debt?”

“If you’d like to tell me. In truth it doesn’t matter if it’s one pound or one thousand. I have no money of my own to compensate you.”

“As it happens, it is £1,000.”

Olivia felt herself in the grip of a chill as color drained from her face. She wished she had chosen a chair closer to the fire.

“If you think you might faint,” Breckenridge said, “lower your head to the level of your knees.”

She thought people were inordinately worried about her fainting today. “I am not going to faint.” She noticed he was as skeptical of her assertion as Varah and Fairley had been.

“My sister Jenny requires almost no provocation to swoon. It’s fascinating, really, how she has mastered the art of it. The physicians say they can find nothing to account for it, but then they are forever examining her without her corset. Her husband shares my opinion that she instructs her maid to pull the strings too tight.”

“She would not thank you for imparting that information.”

“It is by way of educating you. Jenny approves of education. She has a prodigious intellect.” One side of his mouth twitched. “Which we all support since she has little in the way of common sense.”

“It must gratify her,” Olivia said dryly. “Your support, I mean.”

The grin deepened momentarily, then was gone. “As it is now a certainty that you will not faint, let us return to the problem of the £1,000. Your brother volunteered that he could pay the debt with an advance on his allowance. I knew that such a large advance would not be forthcoming. Your father is by reputation a clutch-fisted individual, and there appears to be support for the rumor that Alastair has fallen out of favor with him.”

“You think you know rather quite a lot.”

“I do not require that you confirm or deny anything I am telling you, so ease your mind on that score. I merely present the whole of it as a caution. You will be pleased, I think, to know that as much as I learned about Alastair, I never once received any particulars about you. The most surprising thing to learn about you being Alastair Cole’s sister is that it makes you Sir Hadrien Cole’s daughter. I wonder that it is not common knowledge.”

“I fell out of favor with my father some years ago.” Olivia offered Breckenridge this small bone to keep him from digging for a bigger one. She was careful not to hold her breath as she waited to see if it would be enough for him.

“Perhaps that is why your brother came to the conclusion that he could offer you in his stead.”

Olivia was on the point of seizing this opportunity to inquire after Alastair when the door opened and the lad who’d removed the tea service appeared on the threshold with a large tray laden with the repast the viscount had ordered.

Griffin Wright-Jones pushed aside more items on his desk and dropped a short stack of account books onto the floor. He pointed to the clearing and removed himself, then he indicated to Olivia that she should take up the chair behind the desk. When she didn’t move quickly enough to suit him, he said, “I will not hesitate to put you in it.”

Olivia saw the young man bobble the tray on his way to setting it down as he regarded his employer with surprise mixed with wariness. She took that as an indication that the viscount was not in the habit of making threats. She wished she might know better if it was Breckenridge’s habit to carry them out. Olivia came to her feet in what she hoped was a dignified manner. It was important to her that her host did not mistake cooperation for intimidation. She had a kind smile for the bearer of the tray as she skirted the desk, but she waited until he was gone before she took her seat.

Aware of Breckenridge’s narrowed gaze, Olivia picked up a fork before she was ordered to do so and stabbed at the yellow curds of baked egg. “To spare you from feeding me as well,” she said before placing the egg in her mouth.

Griffin slipped into the chair she had occupied and watched her eat. She had no enjoyment of the food, of course, but that was not the point. The point was that she truly looked as if a sudden draft would lift her off her feet.

She wore a shawl about her shoulders, but it had slipped when he’d helped her out of her pelisse and he’d seen the unnaturally prominent line of her collarbones. It was true that her figure did not lend itself to the fullness of sensual beauty, but judging by the bruised shadows beneath her eyes, she had recently acquired an appearance that suggested starvation.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“Am I?”

Of course he was, and he knew it. “Yes. Has anyone commented that it’s impolite to do so?”

“I find that women are glad for the attention.”

Olivia thought she might choke on the bite of toast she’d just taken. She managed to push it down with a sip of the cocoa. “You find that…” She stopped, unable to repeat the whole of it even to be certain she had not mistaken the words. She simply shook her head and took another sip of her hot drink, nearly closing her eyes with the pleasure of it.

“I may have overstated it,” he allowed. He observed that she was not proof against the sweet cocoa. A thin mustache of liquid chocolate appeared just above her upper lip, and even as he wondered if she would raise her serviette or lick it away the tip of her tongue appeared to do the deed. He knew himself to be most grateful. “There are naturally exceptions.”

“I wish to be in the category of exceptions.”

Griffin gave in easily, but only because the fire was in want of tending and he’d already witnessed the flicker of her tongue along her lip. He rose and crossed to the fireplace where he poked at the coals, then added more from the scuttle. He stood there wondering what he might reasonably expect from Olivia Cole while she cleaned her plate and tipped her cup to swallow the last mouthful of cocoa.

“Will you take tea with me?” he asked when he returned to remove the tray.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

He did not insist. “Very well. You may remain there. It is a comfortable chair, is it not?”

It was, but the soft leather also held the faint scent of him. There was nothing comfortable about that. “I think I would prefer a turn about the room.”

“As you wish.” He set the tray on a side table and poured himself a cup while Olivia picked her way among the detritus that was the evidence of his work. “The servants dust and polish only. I don’t allow them to move anything.”

It was unnerving the way he seemed to respond to her thoughts as if she’d spoken them aloud. “It seemed that might be the case. There is some method, I expect, to your placement of papers and journals and accounts.”

“I begin a new pile and never move it.”

“I suppose that system has merit.”

“Do not tempt fate by shifting even so much as the quills on my desk. The one servant who disobeyed me was summarily discharged.”

“Then I beg of you, make me your servant.”

Her quick response reminded Griffin that Alastair had written that she was both clever and resourceful. She had given him ample proof of the former. He decided to accept her brother’s word on the latter.

He added a dram of whiskey to his tea before settling in the leather chair she’d given up. Observing her interest in the wall of books, he said idly, “In truth, I haven’t determined what use I might make of you, but you can be confident it will not be as my servant. I am a generous employer, still, you would have to give over the rest of your life to service if there were to be a prayer of repaying your brother’s debt.”

Olivia was not unaffected by his words. She adjusted the shawl about her shoulders to retain some semblance of warmth. “You have not told me where Alastair is.”

“You have not asked.”

She thought she could wait him out, but he was sipping contentedly from his toddy and appeared in no wise ready to offer information. “Where is my brother?”

“I haven’t a notion.”

“He’s not here?”

“I know everyone who is under my roof; if he was one, I would have a notion, wouldn’t I?”

Olivia frowned. “Then you don’t mean to exchange me for my brother?”

“Is that what you thought? I hadn’t realized. You’re here because your brother expressly said you should be. You don’t believe me? Come. Read this for yourself.”

Griffin set his cup down and opened the hidden cubby in his desk where he’d secreted Alastair Cole’s ring. What he drew out was not that piece of exquisite jewelry, but a slip of neatly creased tri-folded paper. He held it out to Olivia. Hesitation was evident in every one of her steps. “You don’t look particularly eager to read it. I can find no fault with that. Would you rather I summarize?”

Shaking her head, Olivia took the last few steps to the desk and removed the paper from his hand. To afford herself some small privacy, in spite of the fact that he knew the contents very well, she gave him her back as she read.

Dear Breckenridge,

I pray that you will understand that I could not abandon the ring. It is an heirloom entrusted to my care. When I learned that you were not wearing it, I knew what I must do. If there is to be the slightest hope that my allowance will be advanced, I must make the request in person, and I cannot do that without the ring in my possession.

In place of the ring, I suggest you seek out Olivia at my Jericho Mews residence. While the ring’s value can be measured, Olivia’s cannot. She is vastly clever and resourceful, a gem rarer than the one I bear once again on my finger. Take her to your hell, but show her more care than the disdain you showed for my bauble. She will reward you in ways you cannot imagine. You have my word that I will come for her with every shilling owed.

Your servant,

Alastair Clark Cole, Esq.

It was on Olivia’s second reading of her brother’s missive that her hands began to tremble. She dropped the paper, and when she stood up from retrieving it, she felt peculiarly light-headed. The floor listed, then the wall of books shifted in a like manner. The volumes lying on their sides suddenly stood upright. The mirror tilted at an angle that should have sent it crashing to the floor. The logs in the fireplace were vertical while the flames flickered on the horizontal.

The perspective that guided her steps, controlled her balance, and made it possible for her to know up from down failed her in every conceivable way.

Griffin acted quickly, reaching her side in time to prevent her from hitting the floor in the event she fainted. True to her word, though, Olivia Cole did not faint.

She surrendered the most recent contents of her stomach instead.