“I confess, Alys, that your stand surprises me. I had not thought you cared so much for principle and so little for your face.” Griffin simply lifted the pistol in a way that suggested he meant to backhand her with it. He barely had any momentum built into the gesture when she threw up her own hands and blurted out a name.
“Burton. Neville Burton.”
Griffin’s attention swung to Sir Hadrien, but there was no recognition of the name in the man’s face that he could see. For himself, Griffin tried to recall if there had ever been an introduction to Burton. The name was wholly unfamiliar. “Tell me about him. Does he work for Crocker?”
“Not in the sense that he’s paid, I shouldn’t imagine. I don’t know the particulars. I’mnothis partner. I suppose it’s an arrangement like you have with Fairley or Varah. They step too deeply into debt, and you offer them an opportunity to clean the muck off their shoes in exchange for certain services.”
Griffin lifted the hem of Mrs. Christie’s gown just enough to make a deliberately insulting examination of her slippers. “What of the muck on your own finely shod feet? How much do you owe Mr. Crocker?”
Mrs. Christie yanked on the folds of her gown and drew her feet back under the hem. She glared at Griffin. “I don’t owe him a farthing.”
“Were you already beholding to him when you came under my protection, or did the debt occur later? I think perhaps it was later, around the time you began to steal from me. I can’t fix the date in my mind without consulting my accounts, but it seems to me it was some four months in the past. Would that be about right?”
Griffin watched the full line of Mrs. Christie’s mouth flatten. Her refusal to reply did not bother him in the least. “You stole the ring from me, replaced it with Alastair’s marker, all of it done as if to help your young lover. Then you set him up to lose it to Crocker. I imagine Johnny was not entirely happy when you bested him by winning it back, or perhaps it was done of a purpose, and he meant that you should have it as a gift. He would have believed it was not entirely out of his possession if it was in yours, but then Alastair confounded you both by returning it to me. Have I got it right, Alys?”
She pressed her lips together, offered nothing.
Griffin stole a glance at Sir Hadrien. “At last I understand how quiet is becoming.” Satisfied by Sir Hadrien’s start of recognition at this sentiment, he returned his attention to Mrs. Christie. “The attack on Alastair’s sister was in every way about you. Your petty jealousies. Your rage at being turned out. You conceived the notion that she was to blame. You sent Neville Burton to Olivia’s room not only to punish her, but to punish me as well. Burton might be Crocker’s man, but you had the use of him. It doesn’t matter to me whether today’s bit of business was planned by you or Crocker. Neither of you is blameless. Both of you are responsible.”
Satisfied that she’d heard him, Griffin fell silent. Out of the corner of his eye he saw they were approaching Crocker’s hell. He tapped the barrel against the roof to alert the driver that they were coming to their destination. The carriage slowed immediately.
“I expect nothing less than your cooperation,” he said. “Both of you. You can trust that Crocker will see to his own well-being first and on no account will he be concerned for yours. As I am of a similar mind, you will precede me to the door.”
Sir Hadrien alighted first, then Mrs. Christie. Griffin followed them up the stone steps and remained behind them while their knock was being answered.
Johnny Crocker’s establishment did not cater to the fashionable crowd. They came, though, especially the younger set, to rub elbows with the rough trade. Too frequently it was because they had something to prove, either to themselves or their friends, or even more often, to the society of their parents. As a consequence, Crocker’s hell served up regular brawls that broke furniture and jaws in equal measure. Crocker was known to tolerate opium smokers and did not fuss overmuch if that activity spilled out of the rooms designated specifically for it. He did not operate a brothel but allowed women to ply their trade within the house as long as they were comely and did not expect him to provide protection.
He paid the local constabulary well and expected little enough for it. He didn’t call upon them to settle disagreements that arose at the tables and among the opium eaters, and he didn’t welcome their interference when he settled such things in his own way. Doing nothing, it was the easiest money they earned.
Griffin and his companions were shown into the entrance hall by a man who would have seemed equally in his element on the docks. He had a thick neck and hands like paddles. He looked them over, nodded politely to Mrs. Christie, and asked Griffin, “What’s your business?”
“Tell your employer that Breckenridge is here on the matter of a debt that’s owed him. He’ll see me.”
The manservant nodded, turned his back to seek out Crocker, and was felled like the great oak he was when Griffin caught him in the back of the skull with the butt of his pistol.
“What was that?” Olivia asked. The bottles shuddered once and were still. “Did you feel it?”
Alastair’s head came up. He frowned, realized Olivia couldn’t see his confusion, and said, “Don’ know. S’not the same as it usually is. Goes on for hours most times.”
Olivia returned to her brother’s side and sat down. “I’ve been thinking, Alastair. There’s something yet that we might do.”
Griffin directed Sir Hadrien and Mrs. Christie to drag the body to the front parlor and close the pocket doors. He didn’t expect that the man would be coming around any time soon. His skull had cracked like the shell of a soft-cooked egg.
He gestured to his companions to climb the stairs to Crocker’s rooms. It was impressive that neither of them had done more than startle when the big man went down. Apparently he’d made himself convincing. All to the good, since he’d meant every threat.
Johnny Crocker was a large man himself, given to expansive gestures and raising his voice in a manner that made him seem larger. He jumped to his feet and threw his arms wide when he saw Alys Christie step into the room.
“Alys, m’love, so you’ve come. Couldn’t stay away, could—” He stopped, thick, copper-colored eyebrows coming together over a pair of sharply leveled green eyes as Sir Hadrien followed on Mrs. Christie’s heels. “Who’s the toff sniffin’ your skirts, Alys? Can’t say that I like you bringin’ him here.”
“Sir Hadrien Cole,” she said. “Sir Hadrien, Mr. Johnny Crocker.”
“Cole? I’ll be damned.” He folded his arms across his chest so they rested comfortably on the shelf of his protruding hard belly. “I’m at a loss here, Alys. Damned, if I’m not at a loss.”
Griffin stepped over the threshold behind them. “A loss? That is unlike you, Crocker.”
“Bloody hell.” He eyed Griffin’s raised weapon. “For God’s sake, lower your pistol, Breckenridge. I ain’t of a mind to lay you out, though your manners make it tempting. What the hell do you want? If I have it, it’s yours.”
“Olivia Cole.”
