“Something like a scar, you mean?” Olivia wished she might pull the covers over her head as soon as the words left her mouth. She may as well have added:Like yours?
Griffin drew a forefinger along the length of his scar. One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Does he?” he asked.
She shook her head.
He let his hand fall. “More’s the pity.”
His ease with this conversation gave Olivia pause. “You don’t believe me,” she said. “You don’t believe that someone came to my room.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Aren’t you thinking it?”
He shrugged as if what he was thinking was unimportant. “What I know is that no one was in your room when I arrived, and no gentleman pushed past me to get to the door.”
“Then he escaped through the window.”
“Without you seeing him?”
“I was occupied.”
“Of course you were. Putting out the fire. I’ve not forgotten.” He sat back in his chair; his head tilted to one side so he could catch her eye again. This time he was able to hold it. “How did it start exactly?”
“Does it matter? You are not doubting there was a fire, are you?”
“It’s no good trying to be defiant. You haven’t the strength for it.” He reached for the folded blanket at the foot of the bed and snapped it open over her. “There. Better? You are not yet warm enough, I think. Should I add a hot brick or two?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me about the fire,” he said again. “What happened?”
“I’m not certain. I didn’t see it begin. I suppose it was when the table toppled.”
Griffin remembered the thud he’d heard. Had it been that? “Go on. How did it fall?”
“I must have knocked it over when I threw myself across the bed.” She observed his raised eyebrow. “To get away from him. He was backing me into a corner. I could think of nothing else to do. I thought if I could get to the window, I could make my own escape. It’s odd that I didn’t think he might take the same route out.”
“Yes,” he said. “Odd.”
“In the morning—when there’s light—you’ll be able to see that I’m telling the truth. You’ll see where he dropped to the roof below and then to the yard.”
Griffin thought of the mattress hitting the roof, then the ground. There wasn’t likely to be a sign left of Olivia’s gentleman. He could not be encouraging, but he offered, “I’ll look at first light.” She seemed satisfied with that, closing her eyes briefly. “Wick said there was someone,” he told her. “A gentleman villain, I believe, were the words he used, so you see, Olivia, I don’t discount what you’re telling me. I’m simply trying to make sense of it.”
She felt the prick of tears and blinked rapidly. “He had a key,” she said. “He showed it to me. How did he come by a key to my room?”
The same question occurred to Griffin, and he had no answer at the ready. “Did you think I’d given it to him?”
She shook her head. “No. Not at all.” She hesitated and answered truthfully, “Not then.”
“But later,” he prompted her gently. “But later you did.”
“Only when I thought you—”
He didn’t allow her to finish. “When you thought I was merely acting as if I didn’t understand. Damned by my ignorance, I suppose. Tell me, what do you think now?”
“The same as I did in the beginning: that you didn’t invite him to attend me, nor even turn your back so that he might do it with your tacit approval.”
“That’s right.” Leaning forward, Griffin rested his forearms just above his bent knees. His regard was steady, unflinching. “Will you know him?”
