Olivia tugged on the tails of Griffin’s frock coat. “Can we go? I’d really like to go.”
Griffin nodded. He stood, backed out, and closed the door. The wooden bar stood precisely where Crocker left it. Griffin hefted it in one hand and slid it into place just as Crocker threw his considerable weight and one formidable shoulder against it. It shuddered, but then so did Crocker. The sound of his retching was muffled but easily identifiable.
Griffin felt his own stomach curdle. He took another step back and turned, giving Olivia a sideways grimace. “Clever and resourceful, indeed. A force of nature is more like it.”
She managed a modest smile. “I supplied the force. Alastair supplied the nature, if you take my meaning.”
Because the odor and contents of the slop bucket were still very much with them, Griffin had no difficulty comprehending. “I do.” The door shuddered again as Crocker threw himself against it a second time. Griffin ignored it, though he saw Olivia and Alastair look toward it with some trepidation. “Your father’s carriage is outside. You can take it back to Putnam Lane. We’re not far from there, but I don’t think walking is advisable for either of you.” This time when the door vibrated, Griffin casually knocked back at it with the butt of his pistol. “They can’t get out, any more than you could. Go on. I won’t be long. Can you find your way?”
Olivia nodded. “Come, Alastair. Do you require my shoulder?”
“Have the bottles for balance,” he said pleasantly. “Just the thing.”
Rolling her eyes, Olivia turned to go. She’d taken only half a step forward before she felt herself being hauled back into Griffin’s arms. She was wrapped in a hard embrace that nearly squeezed the breath from her lungs. What remained, he stole with a quick, hard kiss. She still bore the stamp of it on her mouth when he set her from him.
“Marry me, Olivia Cole.”
She stared up at him, and because her balance was a bit off from the fierceness of that kiss and the perfect beauty of his smile, she said yes.
He nodded once, satisfied. “Now go.”
Olivia turned, took Alastair by the sleeve, and began to lead him down the hall.
Griffin set his shoulder against the cellar door, rapped it twice with his pistol, and called for quiet. It took several moments, but it was achieved in the main. “Crocker!”
“You have my attention, Breckenridge.”
It was a more reasoned response than Griffin had dared hope for. “Tell me where I can find Neville Burton.”
“Don’t know him.”
“Not what I want to hear. Tell him, Mrs. Christie. Make him understand that it’s not what I want to hear.”
Trembling in the aftermath of being so violently ill, Alys Christie weakly raised her head. She was on her knees, nearly surrounded by her own sickness and afraid to move in any direction. “He knows about Burton. He forced me to tell him.”
“I don’t imagine there was much force involved,” Crocker said, disgusted. “You have no tolerance for pain, Alys, above a bit of slap and tickle. Always been a disappointment in that regard.” Crocker paid no heed to the sharp hiss of her breath and leaned against the door. “He’s around, Breckenridge. I can’t tell you more than that, and rest assured that I would, conditions here being what they are.”
“Griffin?”
Olivia’s soft interjection jerked Griffin away from the door. She was standing in front of him when she should have been gone. Alastair, too, was in the hall, listing slightly as he was no longer in possession of his wine bottles. Behind them was the young man instantly recognizable to Griffin as the gentleman villain.
“Mr. Burton’s here,” Griffin announced to Crocker.
“Is he? Not surprised. I don’t suppose he ever left after bringing Miss Cole around.” His deep rumbling laughter filtered through seams in the door. “Damned if he ain’t made himself a useful sort. Get me out of here, Burton.”
Griffin saw the villain shrug almost sheepishly, but his arctic blue eyes held nothing that could be confused for remorse. “What do you want, Mr. Burton?”
“Let us begin with your pistol on the floor.”
Griffin hesitated. He saw Burton poke at Olivia with what he imagined was a pistol of his own. He put his weapon down slowly and raised his palms as he straightened. When Burton indicated he should slide it toward him, he did so with the toe of his boot.
Burton pushed Olivia forward, then set Alastair on the same path. Griffin now stood as a clear target for his pistol. The gentleman villain merely smiled when Griffin set Olivia at his back. “I only have to get through you,” he said. “I’ll take my time with her once I clean her up.” He produced the cravat that he’d used to tie Olivia’s hands. “She had this tucked in her sleeve. I believe she thought she might have use for it. Around my neck, perhaps. I think it will look lovely around hers. Did you know that cutting off the airway heightens the moment of crisis? I shall enjoy watching her then.” He smiled at Griffin, then jerked his chin toward the door. “Open it.”
Griffin lifted the bar carefully, aware of Burton’s steady aim and fierce concentration on his movements. The distraction he provided was deliberately slow and calculated toward a single purpose.
He’d always admired the deftness of Olivia’s touch, and no more so than when she neatly reached under his frock coat and lifted the pistol he’d shoved between his trousers and the small of his back. He stepped clear of her as she raised her arm.
Seeing the movement out of the corner of his eye, Burton twitched. It was enough for Griffin to seize the moment. He swung the wooden bar up hard, shattering Burton’s wrist and knocking the pistol out of his grip. “Alastair!” he shouted. “The door!”
