“You beat out a fire that might have consumed every one of us. That is not the act of a coward.”
“It was easier to fight it than him.”
A smile tugged at one corner of Griffin’s mouth. “Sometimes it does not matter which enemy you choose to fight. What matters is that you fought. It is my opinion that you acquitted yourself admirably against both.” He watched her stir uneasily, though whether she was discomfited by his praise or his proximity he didn’t know. He drew back and removed the basin from her lap. The water was gray with the sooty residue from her face. He tilted the bowl a bit, drawing her attention to it. “You haven’t a smut left.”
She smiled faintly and made to touch her cheek. He caught her wrist when it was halfway to her face and shook his head. Olivia examined her hand and saw that his good work would have been for nothing if she’d touched any part of her face. When he cast his eyes at the basin, she obligingly dipped her hands in the water.
“It seems that a bath was wasted on me this evening,” she said as he cleaned her fingers.
“What do you mean?”
“The lads prepared a bath for me tonight, though I suppose Truss or Mr. Mason supported the idea of it. I fear I am dirtier now than I was before my first soaking. Still, it was a bit of good luck to have so much water nearby.” She glanced at him. “How did you imagine I was able to put out the fire?”
“I didn’t imagine. It was almost entirely out by the time Truss and I entered. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how you’d done it. I’m afraid I was more concerned that you survived it.”
She nodded. “The £1,000. Yes, it’s understandable that you would want to protect Alastair’s marker.”
“Bloody hell,” he said feelingly. “My concern had nothing to do with the debt.” He finished wiping down her palms with brisk, almost agitated swipes, then stood and carried the basin back to the dressing room.
“You’ll sleep here this evening,” he said when he returned. He staved off her protest by lifting a hand. “There really is no other room available. I will stay in my study, of course. Did you have any supper?”
“No, but—”
“I’ll send Foster with it. I have to see to my other guests. Mypayingguests, I suppose you’d say.”
Olivia had quite a lot she’d like to say, but she was ignored when she called out to him. She knew better than to suppose he hadn’t heard her. Her voice was still hoarse and husky from the effects of the smoke, but she’d seen the slight hesitation in his step and did not mistake the cause of it.
She’d poked at a tender spot and he’d dismissed her because of it.
It was gone three when the last of the patrons were finally steered from the gaming hell. Footmen cleared the rooms of empty glasses and sneaked a sip now and again from the ones that weren’t quite so empty. Wick and Beetle swept the floors and kept an eye out for stray coins. The drinks cabinet was refilled, the wine cellar locked, and the tables cleared of the detritus of gaming: ashes, snuff, unclaimed markers, dice, and cards. It fell to Mr. Truss to sort through the cards to make sure none had been marked. Each time he found one with a suspicious crease on the corner, he tossed it, then made up new decks to be used the following evening.
As was his habit at the end of each evening, Griffin carried the money box to his study. While his staff worked to set the hell to rights, he counted the night’s earnings and recorded it in his account book, separating the income into columns based on the origin of the revenue. The roulette wheel did well for him most nights, and this one was no exception. His earnings for vingt-et-un were steady, a fact that he found interesting as Mrs. Christie was no longer a presence at the table. She always managed to draw in players, so he had expected to see less income once he released her from his protection. That this was not the case merely underscored the other damning revelations about her involvement in his business.
The competitive card games between players, either as individuals or partners, brought him no money. The drink that these players consumed, though, brought him a great deal, and it was not unusual for a player who’d had a good run of luck to leave some of his winnings on the table for the house. He noticed that that particular column showed a marked increase, as it had every evening since Mrs. Christie’s departure. He’d been right to suspect that she regularly helped herself to the winnings when she’d cleared the tables. She’d also been pleased to accept a modest percentage of the winnings she gave him each night. Alys Christie had taken her share, then taken it again. The figures he recorded now were sufficient to prove her cheating to his satisfaction.
Griffin closed his eyes briefly, rubbing them with a thumb and forefinger. He stifled a yawn and the figures in the ledger blurred. He shook off the fatigue and added the columns again. When he arrived at the same sum three times over, he replaced his quill, stoppered the inkwell, and sat back in his chair waiting for the page to dry before he closed the book.
He was all for his bed.
That was when he remembered that Olivia Cole was sleeping in it.
He had several thoughts concerning that turn of events, none of them particularly gallant or charitable.
Bloody hell.
Griffin glanced at the chaise longue situated at an angle between two walls of books. He never used it, but it filled the space nicely and served to hold the overflow of books that always seemed to be present in the room. He’d have to clear it before he could lie down.
He rubbed his eyes again. The mere thought of moving those books wearied him. When he considered that he would have to retrieve linens and blankets from the hall cupboard and nightclothes from his own bedchamber, he wondered if he might just be able to sleep in his chair.
It was the possibility that he might wake her that settled him on the matter. He could send Mason or even Truss to get what he needed, but the same end concerned him. He could not imagine that she would have no questions. Mason and Truss could not answer them, and he was of no mind to do so at this hour.
In truth, there was little enough to tell her, and Griffin allowed that perhaps his internal argument was simply in aid of avoiding her. That insight, if accurate, did not set particularly well with him as he’d always believed it was in his nature to go at a thing head on.
He’d done just that with his staff, gathering them in small groups at different times so the hell’s routine and service would not be interrupted and his own absence would not be remarked upon. He asked them about the keys—which were primarily in Truss’s care but not inaccessible to others—and had them account for their use throughout the evening. The most valuable keys—those to the wine cellar, liquor cabinets, meat locker, silver drawers, and linen cupboards—were all kept on a ring that Truss carried with him. The keys to other rooms were seldom used and hung on pegs in the servants’ hall. If it was determined that there was a need to lock a particular room, then Truss added that key to his ring or delegated responsibility for it.
It was no surprise to discover the key that turned Olivia’s lock was missing from its peg.
No single key opened everything, but there existed one key that opened many of the doors to the bedchambers. Truss held this key as well and was able to produce it when called upon to open Olivia’s door.
