“And a proposal to go with it, I’m thinking.” He bent his head and placed his mouth near her ear. He could feel her tremble. With anger. With lust. “What I mean to propose is of a decidedly different nature.”
“All bets are down.” Olivia scanned the table to memorize the placing of the wagers. Occasionally there was a gentleman who tested her with a bit of sleight of hand. Most efforts were clumsy, and she caught them right off. Sometimes, though, the effort was good enough to be worthy of her observation, and she tracked their cheating through several games before she settled with them privately.
Tonight she was intrigued by the deft play of a pair of gentlemen who looked as if they might be, if not brothers, then cousins. They were most excellent at diversion and delivery. One would draw attention, while the other dropped a chip—usually concealed in his palm or cuff—on the card that would match Olivia’s draw from the deck. They did not do it on every turn, but often enough that they were winning well in advance of the odds that they should do so.
She wasn’t particularly insulted that they tried their hand at it at her table. The mental diligence she applied to watching their antics kept her from entertaining thoughts of those things over which she had no control—the matter of Mrs. Christie and the gentleman villain being chief among them.
Griffin had called upon Mrs. Christie several times in the last two weeks and never found her at home. On his last visit, he’d been frustrated enough by the housekeeper’s protests and vague accounts regarding her mistress’s whereabouts that he’d made his own inspection of the property.
And discovered for himself that Mrs. Christie was indeed gone from home.
Thwarted, Griffin sent Misters Fairley and Varah, who once again were beholding to him for the forgiveness of certain debts, to bring Alastair around to the hell. That worthy was also gone from town, a situation Olivia found disturbing when it coincided with Mrs. Christie’s absence.
That her brother may have eloped to Gretna or conceived the notion that he might actually introduce his mistress to their father made Olivia’s stomach churn. She doubted her brother understood the complete folly of either of those actions. She’d hoped that by returning the ring, Alastair had meant to reconcile not only his debt with Griffin, but his relationship with her, yet she’d written to him twice and had no reply to either overture.
Olivia drew herself sharply to the present and looked over the table. Her inattention had been mere seconds, but she’d nearly missed the chip drop that put a wager on the ten. The card she’d turned over by rote was naturally a ten spot.
Smiling warmly, as if nothing untoward had just occurred, Olivia paid out the winnings. She caught Mason’s eye and indicated that she would need to be spelled soon. He began to make his way to the table by walking the perimeter of the room.
Olivia was so intent on completing the game and escorting the cheats to a private corner for a dressing down, that she missed the faint stir among the patrons as a new player was admitted to the room. It was only when there was a parting of gentlemen around her table that her attention was drawn to the cause of it.
Sir Hadrien Cole stood directly in her line of sight.
Olivia’s fingers closed more tightly over the cards she held, but she didn’t flinch. Her father regarded her without expression. She had forgotten how terribly difficult it was to keep her chin up and her eyes level when he looked on her in such a fashion. It was not a look that placed her beneath him, nor one that showed the least curiosity. She was nothing in his eyes. Nothing.
And the knowledge chilled her.
“Miss Shepard?” His voice had a deep, resonating timbre that was at odds with his slender, narrow frame. He stood taller than many of the men around him but could have slipped like a shadow among them. His eyes were not merely gray, but the cool, darker color of pewter, and an exact match for the hair at his temples. Those eyes were rather too closely set on either side of a blade of a nose, but it was a minor flaw in a countenance whose sharp definition made it arresting. “Miss Ann Shepard?”
He had a sensual mouth, wide and full, almost feminine in its line. It remained slightly parted after he spoke.My dearest girl. My own sweet Olivia.
Olivia realized that a dozen pairs of eyes were now turned in her direction, all of them expectant. They knew very well that she was not often at a loss for words and had never given any of them the cut direct. Mason sidled up to the table, but she expected no help from that quarter. He, like everyone else standing at hand, had not the slightest comprehension of the beast in their presence or its connection to her.
“I am Miss Shepard,” she said politely, inclining her head. The faintest smile played about her mouth. He would crush defiance, but he would not understand amusement. Far better to give him a reaction he could not comprehend. “But you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You are…?”
He did not respond to her inquiry. “It is a matter concerning your family that brings me here. A moment of your time, if you please.”
Her family indeed. She pretended to consider, though she knew she would allow it. Sir Hadrien would not insist that she accompany him, not publicly, but he was perfectly capable of lying in wait. Aware that interest in her exchange had intensified, she darted a sideways look at Mason, assured him that the odd encounter was acceptable to her, then passed the deck of cards to him.
“Of course,” she said, pleased that she could affect such ease in her manner. Where was Griffin? She cautioned herself against looking for him, unwilling to give Sir Hadrien the satisfaction of knowing he had put her off her stride. She rounded the table and the punters stepped aside for her, widening the breach that her father had made with his mere presence.
There were a few murmurs of disappointment as she left her station, but the pair of gentlemen cheats could barely contain their excitement. No one spoke to Sir Hadrien as he passed, and Olivia was struck again by the command he enjoyed in any situation. He was an unfamiliar face to those around him, yet he was shown deference by all. Sir Hadrien Cole did not frequent gaming hells, nor associate with those who did. If card play was his pleasure, then he arranged entertainments for his friends at Coleridge Park. He was rarely found in town, preferring country amusements to brushing shoulders with his current company.
He did not offer Olivia his arm, and for a brief moment she felt grateful toward him. The thought of taking his elbow, of touching any part of him, filled her with a dread so profound she experienced it as a sharp punch in her stomach.
“This way,” she murmured, and led him toward the stairs to Griffin’s private rooms. “Lord Breckenridge’s study is available to us.”
Upon entering the room, Olivia went immediately to the desk. She indicated the liquor decanters on the cherrywood table but made no offer to serve him refreshment. Except to raise an imperious eyebrow, he did not take issue with the slight. She watched him thread his way among Griffin’s carefully arranged clutter to the drinks table and pour himself three fingers of whiskey. Her insides were wrenched again when she saw the depth of his pour. It was his way to nurse a drink, and Olivia prepared herself for a lengthy interview.
She waited, and in the end proved that her tolerance for the drawn out silence was greater than his own. What she did not anticipate was how quickly he would turn it to his advantage.
“I despaired that you would ever learn how very becoming quiet is to one of your kind.” He raised his drink, watched her over the rim. “It seems you have. Kudos, my dear. It suits you well.”
Olivia decided she would bloody her own tongue before she’d take that bait.
Sir Hadrien smiled. “Very well indeed.” His cool pewter eyes traveled over Olivia slowly, the indifference of his public regard gone as he studied her with interest that was also insult. The cast of his features was no longer expressionless but bore the unmistakable stamp of attraction. “Miss Ann Shepard. The name is familiar, yet I cannot place it. How do I know it?”
“She was my nanny.”
