Читать книгу The Price of Desire - Jo Goodman - Страница 9

Embarrassment flushed Olivia’s cheeks. She stared at the mess she’d made, some of it on the black wool waistcoat of his lordship, and thought she might be sick again. Apparently Breckenridge thought so too, because he quickly pushed her back into a chair, grabbed the silver dome used earlier to cover her plate of baked eggs and toast, and, turning it over, pressed it into her lap like a bowl.

She clutched it against her midriff, lowered her head, and was sick a second time. Breckenridge did not leave her side, though she wondered how he was able to stand there. Perhaps he’d closed his eyes. She risked a glance upward and saw that, no, he hadn’t. His concern seemed genuine, then she remembered she was worth £1,000 pounds to him, more in fact if he expected to collect interest. Olivia had a suspicion that he did.

She accepted the handkerchief he held out to her but retained her possession of Alastair’s marker. Although she’d memorized the contents, she was not eager to part with it.

Olivia pressed the handkerchief against her mouth, blotted her lips, then offered it back. The gesture was refused.

“You may keep it,” Griffin said.

When Olivia glanced up a second time, she saw he had already removed his frock coat and was carefully unbuttoning his ruined waistcoat. Once he’d shrugged out of it, he held it by the collar between his thumb and forefinger and carried it to the door. He released the waistcoat, allowing it to fall in a heap on the floor, then rang for assistance.

Olivia’s embarrassment grew as she watched Breckenridge remove his stained chitterling and discard it on top of the waistcoat. She found a soupçon of comfort in the fact that she had missed his boots and trousers. He might very well have stripped to his linen and stockings if she had not.

“You should not have insisted that I eat,” she said, her tone more defensive than accusatory.

“You neglected to mention that you are unwell.”

“I am not unwell.”

Griffin cast a dubious glance in her direction. “Then it was your intention to serve me breakfast, I take it.”

She flushed. “Do not be ridiculous.” Leaning forward, Olivia placed the overturned cover carefully on the floor. It tipped a bit to one side but its contents were not lost. She looked away and sat up slowly so that she would not be sick again. “It gives me no pleasure to admit it, but the room simply tilted on its axis and I had no bearings. That is what made me ill.”

“Perhaps.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“On the contrary. As an explanation, though, it begs the question of what caused the room to tilt. I could advance my theory, but I will wait to hear what my physician thinks.”

“Physician?” It required considerable effort for Olivia to remain seated. “I do not think a physician is at all necessary.”

“Then it is a good thing you have no say in the matter.” Griffin gave her his back as he opened the door for the approach of his valet. “Mason. Good man.” He stepped aside to permit his manservant’s entry. “I’m afraid there’s been a bit of a—” Griffin was not certain how he wanted to describe it, so he merely pointed to the discarded items of clothing and allowed Mason a moment to make his own assessment.

“I see, sir. I’ll take care of it.” He made a sweep of the room with a glance that missed nothing, barely resting on either his lordship’s guest or the bits of vomitus on the Aubusson rug near her feet. The overturned dish cover gave him brief pause, then he quickly moved to see that all else was in order. “I’ll send one or two of the lads to make short work of the rest.” Stepping closer to Breckenridge, he made a discreet inquiry. “Is the lady still unwell?”

“All evidence to the contrary, she says she was never unwell in the first place.” Unlike his valet, Griffin did not set his voice at a pitch that could not be overheard. “She says the room tilted.”

“Foxed, then,” Mason said without inflection.

“I had not considered that.” Behind him, Griffin heard Olivia’s sharp intake of breath. He smiled, but it was for Mason alone. “Send for Pettibone anyway and have someone prepare a room for our guest. It is a certainty that she will be with us for at least a few days, possibly as long as a fortnight.”

Mason’s rounded features showed the first hint of discomfort. “I feel I must remind you that there are no females among the staff here. You said you didn’t want—”

“Yes, yes. I recall what I said. God’s truth, but this is an inconvenience I have no liking for.” He glanced back at Olivia and asked somewhat impatiently, “Do you require your maid?”

Surprised in equal parts by his question and his tone, Olivia’s lips parted around an indrawn breath even as her chin came up. Neither action served to provide an answer.

Griffin plowed a hand through his hair, deepening the furrows. “It’s a certainty that she will require clothes and sundries. You may as well arrange for her maid to be brought here along with whatever—”

Now Olivia did come to her feet. “No!”

Although it was Griffin’s tendency to arch one dark eyebrow, the effect of Olivia’s outburst was to cause him to raise both. If she continued in such a manner the effort required to restrain himself would likely exhaust him. His look pinned her back, and while she did not sink into the chair she’d vacated, neither did she step away from it or voice a second protest. Watching her still, he spoke to his valet. “The physician only for now. I will let you know about the other later.”

“Very good, my lord.” Mason stooped to pick up the clothing and backed out of the room, leaving a lingering impression that he was glad to do so.

Griffin waited until Mason’s steps receded before he advanced on Olivia. He pointed to the chair at her back. “Sit.” While his voice made it clear he would brook no argument, he noticed that she was slow in complying. He chose to believe it was the last vestige of her illness that made her so. The thought that she would prove to be difficult at every turn was not one he wanted to entertain.

“I do not want you to bring my maid here,” Olivia said, staring at her hands.

“No one has ever accused me of being a slow top. I gathered that was what you meant when you said no.”

Olivia did not have to look up to know that he was still out of patience with her. “She would not manage herself well in your establishment.”

“She only has to manage you,” said Griffin. “I don’t care—” He stopped because in point of fact he did care. “Not manage herself well how? Speak plainly, Miss Cole, else I will put my own construction upon it.”

“It pains me to speak ill of her, but she is a gossip and engages in flirtations.” She could have added that Molly Dillon was barely adequate as a lady’s maid, but it seemed a harsh judgment and Breckenridge was sure to inquire why she hadn’t been dismissed already. Olivia did not want to tell him that she simply hadn’t the heart for it. It did not bear thinking what he would make of that aspect of her character. “Dillon might prove to be an unsettling presence.”

That would make two of them, Griffin thought. Bloody hell. “Very well. I will ask Truss to inquire after a more circumspect female, though where he will find one in this part of London is a mystery to me. It is my good fortune that it will be his problem. As butler, it falls on him to make those choices.”

“How convenient for you.”

Nothing in her tone suggested sarcasm, and Griffin allowed that she was able to make her point without it. It was his unhappy observation that too often people were compelled to underscore their meaning with a certain heaviness of inflection, especially those of his acquaintance who mistook sarcasm for witticism. He made a point to avoid their company as the comments from those impoverished minds failed to amuse him.

The door rattled, drawing his attention to it. “Enter!” A pair of lads from the kitchen hurried into the room. “So it fell to the two of you to manage this bit of business. You have must have sorely displeased Cook.”

They ducked their heads in unison and mumbled something about a meat pie as they set about wiping the floor and carrying off the dish cover. The younger one, a boy of ten with a gap-toothed smile and a smudge of freckles and something else across his cheeks, politely asked Olivia to set her right foot forward. “It’s just that I’m noticing a bit of muck here, miss. Don’t want you bothered by it later.”

Olivia raised her hem just enough that she could see what he did. Cheeks flaming, she pushed the foot forward as he’d asked. It was quickly wiped clean.

“Thank you, miss.” The gap-toothed grin was gone as he made a last swipe at the floor and folded his large rag around the offending bits of egg and toast. He took a brush from the water pail he’d carried in and just as efficiently dealt with the stain on the carpet. “Like it never happened,” he said. “Once the water dries, that is.” He turned his shoulder so Breckenridge could cast a glance at the spot. “Is it all right by you, m’lord?”

“It is.” Griffin tipped his head toward the door. “Go on. Both of you. Leave the teapot, though. And both cups. Take the rest.”

The second lad pushed his tongue to the corner of his mouth as he carefully balanced the tray while removing the delicate teapot and china. That little pink tongue disappeared once he’d accomplished the task. He bobbed his flaxen head in acknowledgment of his dismissal and hurried to follow his compatriot into the hallway.

Olivia thought she spied a hint of amusement in the shape of Breckenridge’s mouth. She couldn’t be certain as she only caught it in profile as the boys were taking hasty leave of him. The speed of their retreat probably had something to do with the stolen meat pie, but whether they were hurrying away from his lordship’s discipline or racing for the pie while it was still warm was something Olivia did not expect that she would ever know.

Griffin returned to the chair behind his desk and lifted his teacup. “I would consider it a rare piece of luck in this morning’s work if we were not visited by another interruption until the physician arrives.”

It put Olivia in something of a bind to make any response at all. She would welcome a series of interruptions as long as none of them was the physician. She suspected he knew it well enough, so she forbade to comment.

“Will you take tea now?”

“I believe I will.”

“Whiskey?” Griffin rescinded the offer when he saw her blanch. “Perhaps not.” He poured her a cup without benefit of cream or sugar and slid it across the desk toward her.

Olivia reached for it, tempted to push her tongue to the corner of her mouth to aid in balancing the saucer and cup in the same way the kitchen lad had sought to balance the tray. “Thank you.” She was gratified to see the cup didn’t tremble as she lifted it to her lips. The taste of it was welcome, washing away the unpleasantness that lingered in her mouth and throat.

“I should like to discuss your brother’s marker,” Griffin said. “You realize that’s what it is, don’t you?”

She nodded. “I’m familiar with the term. I’m afraid I don’t understand the whole of what happened. He lost money at your games, that much is clear, though why you permitted him to amass such a debt is not. Did you not make a point earlier that you knew your patrons?”

“I wasn’t present, else it would not have occurred. I had to be away from town that evening. It was upon my return that Mrs. Christie informed me of what had transpired.”

“Mrs. Christie?”

“A friend,” he said shortly. “She is sometimes called upon to observe the play in my absence.”

Olivia thought she should refrain from advancing any observations regarding Mrs. Christie. Though she dearly wondered if the woman was a partner in Breckenridge’s business, she did not put the question to him either.

“She did not know the extent of Mr. Cole’s existing debt until she laid the whole of the evening’s play before me. I take responsibility for the oversight, but not responsibility for the debt. That is your brother’s.”

Olivia did not argue the point. He was right. “It is difficult to imagine that Alastair willingly parted with the ring. As he mentioned, it is an heirloom.”

“He told me it belonged to his father.”

“Yes. And his father before, and so on. That is what qualifies it as an heirloom.”

Griffin thought she delivered her darts with a gentle touch. He would check himself for wounds later. “Yes, well, he didn’t precisely offer,” he admitted. “He didn’t resist either.”

“Were you threatening to cut off his finger?”

“It didn’t come to that.”

But it might have. The thought came so strongly to her that Olivia wondered if she’d spoken it aloud. Breckenridge’s unapologetic, matter-of-fact expression told her that she may as well have. He’d plucked the thought just that easily from her head.

“As I recall,” Griffin said, “I admired the ring, he protested for form’s sake, I asked for it, and he held out his hand for me to take it. It was accomplished with a minimum of fuss. I wore it until he left the room, then I put it away.” He held up his hands to show they were bare. “I gave your brother four days to come up to snuff. He benefited by the fact that I was called away again so that I did not discover the ring had been exchanged for his marker until very late last night. You benefited because I waited until this morning to make you account for it.”

Olivia trusted that was so. His anger was well checked today, but she did not think she would have cared to witness it last night when every one of her own nerves was so tautly stretched. She acknowledged his restraint. “It was a kindness that you waited. Thank you.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

She nodded. “I know, but it’s true I benefited.”

A small crease appeared between Griffin’s eyebrows as he continued to regard her closely. “Are you being clever, I wonder. If so, you should know that I am not easily taken in.”

“I thought I was being honest. If you think there is something clever in that, I will not attempt to dissuade you.”

He raised his cup once more to his lips, wishing—not for the first time—that he had more whiskey in the thing than tea. He drank, set the cup down, and allowed himself a small admission. “I cannot say that you have met or exceeded my expectations, Miss Cole, since I conceived of none, but I think there is no harm in telling you that I find you to be a most singular individual. I offer no judgment as to the good or bad of it. It is simply that I want to acknowledge a certain peculiarity of character about you that I find more intriguing than annoying.”

Olivia tilted her head a fraction as she took in the import of his words. “Then I have missed the mark, my lord, for I did so wish to be annoying.”

A glimmer of a smile played along his mouth. “It is my perversity, I’m afraid, not yours, that makes it thus. We shall have to, both of us, endeavor to go forward. Now, I should like to have your brother’s marker returned to me. It is crushed in one of your fists, I believe.”

Olivia saw no merit in pretending to be surprised by his observation. She would have liked to destroy Alastair’s marker, true, but she also would have liked to have accomplished the thing without being caught out. It was borne home to her once more that very little escaped his lordship’s notice. She stood and handed over the note.

“You show considerable restraint yourself, Miss Cole. For a moment I thought you might dunk it in your tea.”

She might have, had it occurred to her. “It’s yours,” she said simply.

“So was the ring…briefly.” He ran the side of his hand over the note, smoothing it out so he could then fold it neatly. When he was done he returned it to the cubby he’d taken it from, then sat back in his chair and made a steeple of his fingers as he considered what must be done.

“I presume you know your brother better than I. What do you predict he will do?”

“He will speak to our father.”

“Will he? You don’t think he’ll run off? I had the sense that he was almost pleading with me to take you. I considered that he wanted to relieve himself of the responsibility, though how he can be your caretaker or guardian surpasses my understanding. He is an unlikely candidate for the role since he is in no fashion responsible for himself.”

“He won’t run off.”

“Even if Sir Hadrien refuses his request?” Griffin saw her hesitate and knew he had hit the mark directly. “You are not so certain now, are you? Has Mr. Cole any other means of raising so much of the ready?”

“I cannot say.”

“Which means he doesn’t.”

“It means I cannot say. My brother does not confide everything to me.”

“Why not? He writes that you are clever and resourceful. Vastly clever. Why does he not avail himself of such intelligence as you are alleged to possess?”

“Although I am older by three years, Alastair has recently come to fancy himself my protector.”

So she was four and twenty. He’d wondered. “God help you, then.”

Olivia set her mouth in a disapproving line. “You tell your sisters all, I collect.”

Hoist by his own petard, Griffin admitted that he did not. His exact words were, “Perish the thought.”

“Just so. My brother determines what I must know. It is frustrating and worrisome, but telling him that changes nothing. He promises he will do better, but he is a man, and thinks he must have his secrets from me.”

Griffin considered this, uncertain what he could believe. “Would regularly visiting this establishment and others like it be one of his secrets?”

“In a manner of speaking. I knew he enjoyed making wagers and participated frequently in the sort of silly speculations that young men take into their heads. You must be familiar with such things. Will the hack driver turn right or left at the next crossroads? How many pitchers of ale can the serving girl balance on her tray without mishap? Will it rain before noon, do you think? Snow? Hail? Can a certain gentleman deep in his cups still have his way with the—”

Raising one hand, Griffin stopped her. “I am familiar,” he said dryly. “The hack driver, by the way, usually turns left, and four pitchers is generally as many as a serving girl can manage.”

“It is good information to have.” Given a tray large enough, she could carry six pitchers. That peculiar talent was not something she intended to share with the viscount. “My point is that I was aware of Alastair’s wagering. That he was frequenting your establishment or any other hell was unknown to me.”

“You lived in the same house.”

“Yes.”

“Where did you think he was going of an evening?”

Olivia’s eyes dropped to her hands. The teacup she was holding between them was growing cold. There was little enough of the tea left, and she determined that she must drink the last of it.

“Your avoidance of an answer can only be temporary at best,” Griffin pointed out. “I will have the truth—or some version that passes for it—from you.”

Olivia smiled politely, if somewhat coolly, and finished her drink. She replaced the cup in the saucer and moved both to the desk, resting them on top of a short stack of papers so there would be no risk to the finely polished wood grain. “Is it your practice to use thumbscrews?” she asked, sitting back once more. “Or must I steel myself for the rack?”

Griffin said nothing for a moment. His sigh conveyed more in the way of disappointment than frustration. “You are least amusing when you are trying be.”

Olivia felt her cheeks warming. Effort was required not to flinch in response to his dark, unwavering gaze. With a stare such as he possessed, thumbscrews and the rack were superfluous.

“If you must know, and apparently you must,” she said, “I believed my brother was visiting a lady friend.”

This was a bit of intelligence that Griffin had not anticipated. The larger question for him was if it had any basis in fact. “What made you think so?”

“Small things. His attention to his appearance. His restlessness of an evening as the hour grew late. The time he spent at his desk dealing with correspondence. I don’t believe he was ever so diligent as he appeared to be recently. It may be that he was only preparing markers similar to the one he left for you. I couldn’t know that, naturally. I imagined he was writing sonnets.”

“Sonnets.”

“Do young men not compose them any longer?”

“Not since Byron set the standard beyond what mere mortals can put to paper.”

“Well,” Olivia said flatly, “I thought he was writing sonnets.”

“Let us pursue what you thought a bit longer. Was there a particular female you considered a candidate for your brother’s affections?”

She shook her head. “No one, I’m afraid. There were no introductions. I am…I am not often about in society.”

Griffin wondered at her hesitation. There was a moment there when he was certain she was choosing her words carefully. He decided not to press further into the reasons for her isolation. It was true enough, he knew, else how had she not come to his attention when he’d first made inquiries about her brother? Neither had those inquiries revealed evidence of a paramour or mistress. The absence of such information was troubling, although he allowed that Olivia Cole’s assumptions could be without foundation. It did seem possible, however, that Alastair Cole’s evenings out were occupied with more than visiting the gaming hells, and Griffin realized that in addition to everything else he was confronting of late, he now had to concern himself with the reliability of his sources. If he could not trust that he was being given all the information, then he could trust none of it.

“It may be that your brother did not consider his lady friend suitable for introduction,” Griffin said. “That must have occurred to you.”

It was just as likely that the reverse was true, but Olivia did not offer that. “It did enter my mind that Alastair had set up a mistress. I suppose that when I noticed there were less funds to deal with the household accounts, I considered it more acceptable that he would squander his allowance on love of a woman than love of gaming or drink.”

Griffin’s narrow, crooked smile held a hint of derision. “You are a romantic, then.”

“No. Not at all. But I hold out hope that others might be.”

She had surprised him again. Intrigued him, really. “I confess this day is turning out as nothing I could have foreseen.”

Did he imagine it was any different for her? In spite of Alastair’s note stating his intentions and her own words to the contrary, she was not convinced that her brother was on his way to Sir Hadrien’s. If he’d thought of some other scheme to raise the money, he would be engaging in it now rather than journeying to their father’s.

“Can you tell me what your brother meant by the turn of phrase: she will reward you in ways you cannot imagine?”

Olivia saw that Breckenridge did not consult her brother’s marker. Evidently he had memorized the contents as well. She sought out a place of tranquility in her mind—this time a wheat field made golden by sunshine—and lay herself down at its very center. With panic momentarily quelled, she answered with preternatural calm. “You must not make too much of it. It is the sort of hyperbole that Alastair is wont to make when the truth does not serve.”

“And the truth in this case would be…?”

“That I am of no particular value to anyone, my lord. I have no funds, nor any hope of securing them. I have no happy talents. My interests are pedestrian and unlikely to change. I cannot say that I have any particular accomplishments. I do not play the pianoforte. Neither do I sing, paint, embroider, or ride. It would take considerable time to name all the things I cannot do, do not want to do, and will not do, so I hope you will spare us both that exercise.”

Griffin was silent a moment, taking it in. “I see. Then tell me why I should keep you here.”

“I can think of no reason.” She all but leapt to her feet.

“You are not an exclamation point, Miss Cole. Sit down.”

She sat. Slowly. “It seemed you were on the point of dismissing me.”

“You would do well not to assume you know the bent of my mind.” He leaned forward in his chair and set his forearms and folded hands on the desk. Tapping his thumbs lightly, he regarded Olivia Cole without expression. He owned that she suffered his direct study without demonstrating the least discomfort. Judging by the angle of her chin and the brightness in her eyes, she was preparing to challenge him if he gave her cause.

“Let us be clear, Miss Cole, that even if you are the single most unaccomplished female of my acquaintance, you are still worth a sum of £1,000. That your brother would have me believe you are worth something more than that, I am willing to credit to his affection for you and a healthy regard for his own skin. He could hardly say you were worth less, then offer you—however temporarily—in place of his debt. You can agree with that, can’t you?”

Although it was reluctantly offered, Olivia nodded shortly.

“It is also true, though perhaps not so obvious, that the longer you remain under my roof, the larger your brother’s debt grows and your worth increases. I cannot conceive that you are less expensive to accommodate than any other of the females that I know.”

“Perhaps you will be pleasantly surprised, my lord. I do not require that you accommodate me. In deference to my brother’s predicament, you can rest assured that I will ask for as little as necessary to assure my survival.”

“Then I will be surprised. It is my experience that women who begin by having the fewest needs soon come to a place where they must needs have it all. If you prove to be the exception, your brother and I will both have cause to thank you.”

“Might I know what your intentions are?” asked Olivia.

“My intentions? Yes, I suppose they are uppermost in your mind. I believe I mentioned that you will have a room prepared for you, be attended by a physician, eat a meal that you can keep down, and have the comfort of your own possessions as they will be brought here. Other than the visit by the physician, I imagine every day will be like every other. You will eat, rest, entertain yourself, and stay well away from the activities in this house.”

Olivia listened to this and knew a profound sense of relief. It struck her that perhaps she should have had more faith in Alastair’s judgment. He had been in desperate straits, true enough, to suggest that Breckenridge accept her in place of the ring, but he hadn’t precisely sent her into a lion’s den. The viscount was not without scruples, it seemed, and he appeared to have no designs upon her person. She was under no illusions that Alastair’s admonition to Breckenridge that he show more care for her than he’d shown for the ring carried the weight of threat with his lordship. He would do as he pleased.

“I should like to return to my residence to pack my things,” Olivia said. She held out no real hope that he would allow it, but it was not an unreasonable suggestion.

“No. Your maid, or someone you deem better able to make decisions regarding your wardrobe, will have to do it. Otherwise, the task will fall upon someone of my choosing.”

“As you wish. I think I should offer some explanation for my absence, don’t you?”

“And so it begins,” he said under his breath. “She who has no needs is already asking for paper, pen, and ink.” He pushed all of it in her direction. “You may compose your missive here. Be certain that I intend to read it.”

Pulling her chair closer to the edge of his desk, Olivia murmured her agreement. With Breckenridge poised to take the paper immediately from her possession, she had little choice but to be brief and believable. She considered several different introductions, then decided that bold was best.

Olivia barely lifted the quill as she wrote, waiting until her words disappeared to nothingness before she deigned to dip her pen in the ink. She scratched out five sentences, read them over for legibility and accuracy, then signed her name. The ink had not yet dried when Breckenridge took it from her.

“Who is Mrs. Beck?” he asked, glancing up at her.

“Our housekeeper.”

“She will not question this?”

“I don’t believe so. She suspected Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah were from Bow Street, and she is aware we spent very little time together before I left with them. I think she will be relieved to learn that they were friends of Alastair come to take me to him. As he has been gone from the house most of this last sennight, it seems reasonable to suggest that he has fallen ill and that I am to attend him.”

“You make no mention of where that is precisely.”

“I thought you might suggest something. It is not appropriate that I should put this residence.”

Griffin conceded the point. “Very well. To allay the concerns of your staff and avoid any true confrontation with Bow Street, let us agree your brother is recuperating at Wright Hall in Surrey.”

“Really?” she asked. “Surrey? Why there?”

“Because that is bloody hell where I say he is.”

She blinked.

Ignoring her startled look, Griffin bent to the task of adding the address as a postscript. He glanced over the missive and decided it would do. Tempering his impatience to be done with this thing, he said, “You have requested only one trunk. Will that be sufficient?”

“I will not be here long.”

He made a sound at the back of his throat that she was meant to take for skepticism and put the letter aside. “Someone will show you to your room directly. It should be ready by now, and you will wait there for my physician.”

It was the butler Truss who escorted Olivia to her room. He hadn’t much to say as he was clearly discomfited by her presence. Her bedchamber, he told her, was on the same floor as the viscount’s, but at the rear of the townhouse. He mentioned it only because he wanted her to know that he hadn’t put her in the servants’ quarters as it didn’t seem fitting. He made a point to explain that every other room in the establishment had a most particular purpose and that she wasn’t to be in any one of them without the express consent of Breckenridge himself.

Olivia had no reservations about agreeing to that.

The bedchamber was more than adequate for her needs. She was surprised to find that a small bathing room adjoined it. The copper tub was of such ridiculously large dimensions that she was sure the water would be cooled before it could be sufficiently filled. She had to squeeze around the tub to reach the washstand. Bracing her arms on the marble top, she confronted her reflection once again. In spite of her embarrassing bout of sickness, she could see that her color had improved since earlier this morning. Such was the influence of the viscount. Olivia counted it as a good thing she would not have to endure another interview with him during her stay. He was as desirous of ignoring her presence as she was desirous of being ignored.

All things considered, it could be much, much worse.

Olivia removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair. She glanced around and saw that no brush had been provided. Using one of the combs and her fingers, she managed to weed the small knots from her hair and finally tamed it in a thick braid. To secure the plait, she removed the ribbon that defined her bodice and wrapped it around the tail. Satisfied, she poured water into the washstand bowl and applied a damp flannel to her face and throat.

Moderately improved in spirit, if only temporarily, Olivia returned to the bedchamber. It was comfortably appointed with a neatly made bed and night tables on either side of the plump pillows. A blue-and-brown plaid wool rug lay folded at the foot of the bed. A fire had been laid and there was a stack of logs on the marble apron. The armoire was sufficiently large to store what belongings would be brought for her and a narrow chest of drawers would hold incidentals and sundries.

There was only one painting and it hung on the same wall as the door. She would be able to see it when she woke and the thought cheered her. The artist had used the brightest colors in his palette to create a scene of kites flying in the park. It was easy to imagine the dizzying motion of the kites and the children who ran after them, arms stretched, clutching their strings in small fists. She thought it was an odd choice for a room that probably rarely saw visitors, but then it was also safe here, and it was unlikely to have drawn the notice or approval of Breckenridge’s gamers.

The bedroom’s sole window overlooked the small garden and alley beyond. Olivia tied back the heavy velvet drapes to allow the modest light of an overcast sky to enter. There was but a single chair and it was situated too close to the bed and not close enough to the fire. Olivia changed that, turning it so she could have all the benefit of the flames, then tested it for comfort.

When she sat down she did not imagine she could fall asleep, or even that she would want to, yet once she had fit herself between the wings of the chair and curled her feet under her it was as if the choice had been taken from her. She did not recall her head tipping to one side or her eyes drifting closed. Sleep came upon her surely and deeply and led her to a place without dreams, without cares, but also without hope.

“She didn’t rouse easily,” Dr. Pettibone said. “I didn’t know what to make of it at first.”

“Exhaustion,” Griffin told him.

The doctor nodded. “I did not assume that she was drugged.” He was slight of stature but had an air of great consequence about him. It was not without reason. His reputation was one of caring and competence, and he confounded his colleagues by his willingness to enter the brothels and gaming hells on Putnam Lane. “That is what she said as well, though she gave me cause enough to wonder if she was lying.”

Griffin turned away from pouring the doctor a small whiskey. “How so?”

“She was adamant that she did not want to be examined.”

“I warned you.” He finished pouring the drink and carried it to Pettibone. “I hope you did not let her protestations sway you.”

“No, but I was ever mindful of her modesty. I found her to be peculiar in that regard. The ladies here in the lane are rather more indifferent to stripping to their chemises. I’m afraid I expected the same from her. You did not tell me she was no whore.”

“Bloody hell, Pettibone. I didn’t tell you she was.”

The doctor knocked back half of his drink. “Yes, well, as I mentioned, I was able to make my examination, though not as thoroughly as I might have otherwise done. You understand, don’t you? I cannot say with complete confidence that she is or is not pregnant. I believe that was your first concern.”

Griffin actually closed his eyes and put a hand to his temple. “I don’t believe I voiced my concern. I said she became violently ill after breaking her fast. I sent for you so that I would know the cause.”

The thin line of Pettibone’s lips disappeared as he flattened his mouth. The expression was equal parts defensive and disapproving. “Pregnancy is a cause of such sickness. I had to consider it.”

“Then give me your considered opinion,” Griffin said wearily. “Not what you know or can prove, but what you think.”

“That is rather backward from the way one normally arrives at these things, but for you, Breckenridge, I will make an exception. Your guest—and I do take umbrage that neither you nor she saw fit to share her name—is likely suffering from nerves. I concluded this after eliminating drink and opium use as other possibilities. She owned that she has not slept well these last few evenings and that she has very little appetite. She has also had headaches. A small one today; a violent one only yesterday. These are often the physical manifestations of a nervous condition.”

Pettibone finished his drink and set his glass aside. “She masks it well in some regards, though it is probably not in her best interest to do so. Such anxieties as she has will express themselves whether she wishes it or not. Straightforward or sideways. She cannot hope to contain all her apprehensions without suffering for it.”

Frowning, Griffin set himself on the edge of his desk. “You entertain the most singular notions, Pettibone.”

Not at all offended, the physician nodded. “I do not bleed my patients either. You will want to know what is to be done, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I gave her a small bottle of laudanum. Used sparingly it will help her sleep—which sets the stage for her recovery—and relieve such megrims as she has from time to time. Naturally, you must insist that she eats. Toast and broth at first, I think, then as her appetite improves she may have whatever she likes that her stomach will tolerate.”

Griffin watched Pettibone shift slightly in his chair, unwittingly signaling his discomfort with what must be said next. “Out with it,” Griffin said. “I am paying you to hear it all.”

Pettibone cleared his throat. “If I understood correctly, then she is to be your guest for several days. Truss informed me it could possibly stretch a fortnight.” When Breckenridge did not interject information to the contrary, Pettibone continued. “She will not be improved by being confined to a single room. I believe—”

“Did she complain?” Griffin asked sharply.

“No. No, not at all. Quite the opposite. She remarked that she found her accommodations perfectly agreeable and was untroubled by your insistence that she should not leave her room.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The problem is that she must leave from time to time. It is critical for her condition that she take regular exercise. That cannot be accomplished by taking a turn about a room so small as the one she is in. Fresh air will do remarkably well for her. Once a day will be sufficient. Twice would be ideal.”

Griffin had thought the headache he was nursing could not become worse. Here was proof that he was wrong. “She said it was out of the question, didn’t she?”

“What she said was that she would do whatever I recommended, but that permission for such daily outings was only yours to give.”

“Good lord,” Griffin said, more to himself than the doctor. “But she can make a thing turn back on itself.”

“How is that again?”

Griffin shook his head. “It is unimportant. What else came of your examination?”

“It is just as critical that she have some means of occupying herself, else she will have no thoughts but the ones that are troubling her. The nervous condition will worsen. She won’t sleep, eat, or—”

“Yes, doctor, I see the picture you are painting; however, she has already informed me in words plain and firm that she has no interests or accomplishments one might associate with her sex.”

“She indicated as much to me, though she did mention rather reluctantly that she likes to read.”

Griffin very nearly rolled his eyes. He remembered her studying his library, tilting her head first one way, then the other, to read the titles of the books he’d stuffed on the shelves on their sides. “She mentioned this reluctantly, did she?”

“When I pressed, yes. She seemed a bit embarrassed by it.”

“Indeed.”

“You might consider allowing her to choose some books.”

“I’ll choose the books.” With that statement he realized he had given in. Truly, Olivia Cole was proving herself resourceful.

“I am certain that will be agreeable.”

“It will have to be,” Griffin said shortly. “I am not feeling in any way charitable toward her.”

“That did not go unnoticed by me, although I confess I see no reason for it. In spite of her distrust for physicians, I found we were able to establish a mutual regard. Under the circumstances, her affability is remarkable.”

“Circumstances?”

“The state of her nerves.”

Griffin found himself on the receiving end of Pettibone’s rather sharp stare. It was so pointed in fact that the doctor may as well have been wagging a finger at him. Griffin was forced to acknowledge to himself that the state of his own nerves could most politely be described as frayed. It was also no reason to be out of sorts with Pettibone.

“Is there anything else?” Griffin asked.

“Not about my patient.”

Griffin waited.

“You had news from Paris. You were gone from town, I heard. Did it raise your hopes?”

Trust Pettibone to examine the open wound. Griffin harbored some regret that he’d ever confided in the doctor. It was not that the scandal that touched his life was unknown in society, only that Pettibone was one of the few privy to Griffin’s own telling of events. “Briefly. And dashed them again. Nothing came of it. Nothing ever comes of it.”

“It doesn’t stop you, I’ve noticed.”

“No,” Griffin said quietly. “It doesn’t.” He visibly shook off the feeling of hopelessness, rolling his shoulders and rubbing the back of his neck. His mouth curled to one side, an expression rife with self mockery. “Is it madness, do you think?”

“A fine one, if it is.”

He nodded. “As it should be then.” He stood and thanked the doctor. “Truss is prepared to pay your account in full.”

“Very good.” Pettibone gathered his small black case and was on the point of showing himself out when the viscount called his name. He turned. “Yes?”

“I was wondering how you learned about Paris.”

“Mrs. Christie.”

Griffin showed no surprise because he felt none.

“Was she wrong to mention it to me, my lord?”

“No. In some manner it concerns her as well.” Or at least she believed it did. Griffin had not been able to convince her otherwise, and perhaps she wasn’t wrong to disbelieve him, because with this last bit of information from the well-meaning Dr. Pettibone, Griffin resolved he must end his arrangement with his mistress.

Olivia had not considered how loud and raucous the hell might be with the onset of evening and the tide of patrons spilling in from the street. To be fair, not all of the noise came from below stairs. Even situated at the rear of the house as she was, she could hear boisterous laughter and drunken rough play and challenges coming from Putnam Lane.

She added more logs to the fire and stood warming her hands. The house vibrated with the steady movement of those below. She felt the tiny trembling of the floorboards under her. Occasionally there was a thump that she liked to imagine was a young man falling on his face from too much drink.

It was not only the drone of male voices that she heard. Olivia was easily able to pick out the feminine vocals as well. Breckenridge insisted that he did not operate a brothel, but she believed there were gradations of the truth in that assertion. If no money exchanged hands within the establishment it seemed a certainty that money was exchanged elsewhere. Mistresses. Courtesans. Adventurous widows. Eccentric and free-thinking women of a certain age. Olivia supposed these were the sorts of females who accompanied their gentlemen of an evening.

She was relieved to be well out of it.

Even as she thought it she heard the tread of footsteps in the hall. One pair light, the other with a distinctive cadence that signified a limp. A man and woman, for that is what she presumed the steps to represent, passed her door after the briefest of pauses, and continued a short distance to the stairwell at the end of the hall. Olivia could hear them climbing the steps, then followed their progress across her ceiling. Silence fell for a few blessed moments, but it was broken with a shudder that rippled her drapes.

Olivia supposed it meant the couple had found the bed.

She closed her mind to it, glad for the books one of the servants had delivered earlier in the day. She’d permitted herself a small smile when they arrived, though with her back turned to the man who’d carried them in. It seemed the cautious thing to expect that Breckenridge might quiz him. Certainly, given the titles the viscount had provided, Olivia had reason to question his generosity and his motives.

Thomas Brown’s “Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human Mind,” the selected essays of T. R. Malthus, and a slim volume of three plays by Shakespeare—all of them tragedies—seemed to suggest that Breckenridge was getting a little of his own back or providing her with the means to sleep without benefit of Pettibone’s laudanum.

Olivia plucked the wool rug from the foot of the bed and carried it and the Malthus essays to the chair. In very little time reading acted as a barrier against all the distractions of her surroundings. She ceased to hear the rhythmic thumping of the bed above her, or the cries of the coupling participants as they urged each other on. She did find it darkly humorous that by the time they would come to crisis, she would be deep into reading the edifying “Essay on the Principle of Population.”

“You permitted them to go up to the rooms?” Griffin demanded. “I thought I was clear on that point, Mrs. Christie. I do not want my patrons coming upon her on their way to the private rooms.”

“You told her not to leave her room, didn’t you? I fail to see that it’s a cause for so much displeasure. The gentlemen expect to have a private place for an interlude if they’re so inclined.”

“And I am not inclined to provide it at the moment. That is cause for displeasure.”

Alys Christie’s nostrils flared. She was never served well by an angry countenance as it flushed her complexion unevenly and creased her brow. Because she had good reason to know it, she strove mightily to tighten the reins on her temper. It was never an encouraging sign when Breckenridge called her Mrs. Christie. It not only meant that he was put out with her, but that he was once again contemplating ending their arrangement. Hanging on seemed to be what she’d done these last two months, and after nearly a year under his protection, and the experience of having three previous gentlemen protectors and a husband besides, she knew the signs that she was about to be cast aside.

Arguments over trivial matters were the death knell, she had learned, and there could be no subject as inconsequential to her as the offended sensibilities of one Miss Olivia Cole.