She smiled warmly and shed a decade off her fifty plus years. “I hope you are right, Breckenridge. I have it in my mind to win a perfectly vulgar sum of money tonight.”
Griffin chuckled. “What is your game so that I might show you to your table?”
“Conquian.” A gentleman some ten years her senior appeared at her side, a drink in either hand. She lifted the glass of wine meant for her. “Do you know Mr. Warner?”
“I have not had the pleasure.” He made a slight bow. “Welcome to my club.”
Before Mr. Warner could make a reply, Lady Rivendale offered a distinctly masculine snort. “Pray, Breckenridge, do not puff the thing up. It is a hell, a fine one to be sure, but still a hell. I shall be most disappointed to learn I’ve convinced Mr. Warner to provide escort to a respectable establishment. He has been to those. Tell me that you have not found religion. It would be too depressing.”
Griffin laughed heartily, as much at the hapless Mr. Warner’s expression of alarm as the countess’s eccentricity. “It is still very much a hell,” he assured her, and was rewarded by another of her merry smiles. She was in every way a beautiful woman, more so because of the energy with which she embraced life. He’d heard remark once that she’d earned the lines that fanned out from the corners of her eyes and mouth, so why would she hide them? Did a general hide his medals? Griffin had decided it was an excellent position from which to view one’s life, and he admired her for it.
“We had a bit of a dustup last week and a row between the punters at faro only two nights ago.”
“It has been a mannerly squeeze, then,” her ladyship said, disheartened.
“Do not fear. I promise, if no one begins a brawl this evening, I will start the thing myself. Shall I show Mr. Warner the rear exit in the event you have need of a hasty escape once the fists fly?”
“I can find it, not that I would. A brawl is just the sort of entertainment I crave.” She took Mr. Warner by the elbow. “Come along. Do not mind us. We are having you on a bit. Drink up and you will see that it is so or that it doesn’t matter. The conquian table is in the next room. I am quite certain they will make room for us.”
Griffin turned to watch her go, smiling encouragingly at Mr. Warner as the gentleman glanced back over his shoulder, uneasiness stamped on his countenance. If Mr. Warner proved himself a trepid escort, Griffin had no doubt he’d seen the last of the man. Lady Rivendale did not suffer the faint of heart.
Griffin moved among the patrons with an ease that belied the fact that his thoughts were otherwise occupied. He spoke to some, listened to few, and nodded politely when anyone caught his eye. He made a round of every table, caught tidbits of gossip, and showed a trio of high-stepping gentlemen to the door when he saw them produce their opium pipes. For a time after he’d bought the establishment he had tolerated the opium smokers while he was ridding the hell of its prostitutes. It was not unusual for someone to challenge his rule, and he did not employ his staff to purposely seek out the violators and eject them, but when it was blatantly done the guests were asked to leave or were removed.
No matter what aspect of the business engaged his attention, Griffin found he had gray matter enough to spare for the problem of Olivia Cole.
And she was a problem.
Until this morning her requests had been rather benign. He’d been very aware of the small ways in which she elicited the cooperation of his staff, and he’d made no move to interfere, but she hadn’t asked for the wardrobe he’d provided, and she hadn’t put the idea of a bath in anyone’s mind. If she remained in the hell much longer, they would all be tripping over themselves doing for her.
The fact that she was not at all helpless was no sort of deterrent. He…no, all of them…had been seized by an urge to protect her. He was fighting it. His staff, even the occasionally severe and skeptical Mason, had never thought to resist.
Olivia Cole was such a presence in his mind that when he turned to the faro table to watch the play, he immediately dismissed what his eyes revealed as a flight of fancy. It was not possible that it was she standing in the banker’s position at the table, smiling rather winsomely, slowly shuffling a new deck and monitoring the placement of the bets. Moreover, it was not possible that she had defied him.
“All wagers are down.”
It was the voice,hervoice, that made the incomprehensible suddenly quite certain.
Chapter Six
Olivia had a book open in her lap but had given up trying to read it. Her attention kept wandering each time she heard the echo of a footfall from the hall and stairway. It was difficult to imagine that Breckenridge would allow her defiance to pass without a confrontation. That he had not forcibly removed her from the faro table spoke to his ability to let a thing rest while he considered what course of action to take. It was not that he was patient, but that he was cunning. She was almost sick with the anticipation of his appearance at her door, though she could admit that it was no more than she deserved for disregarding his authority.
Olivia’s nerves grew more taut as the hell quieted. The diminished activity on the floor below her room was a sure sign that the servants were nearing the completion of their tasks. She had fled the faro table immediately after paying out the last of the winnings to the punters and passing the hell’s share to Breckenridge. Although he’d thanked her politely, she knew it was for the benefit of the patrons lingering around her table. There was naught but scorn in the dark, chilly glance he reserved exclusively for her.
When the knock at the door finally came, she still started with enough force to dislodge the book. She bent to pick it up only to have it slip from her nerveless fingers as Breckenridge entered.
“I thought we agreed you would keep the door locked,” he said, closing it behind him.
Olivia retrieved the book and placed it on a side table. As she made to rise, Breckenridge came to stand in front of her chair. She was forced by his proximity to lower herself once again and tilt her head back to look up at him. He was not going to be sympathetic to the crick in her neck as she had been to his.
“The patrons are gone,” she said. “There is no one here that means me harm.” She regarded him steadily. “Is there?”
He leaned forward and braced his arms on either side of her chair. The fact that she didn’t cower only served to incense him. “You are neither stupid nor naive. You know bloody well that I want to put my hands on you, and your apparent belief that I am, at my core, unwilling to do so is unwarranted. With very little more in the way of provocation I could be moved to turn you over my knee.”
Olivia’s breath hitched as her lips parted. Blood roared so loudly in her ears that she could not hear a single one of her scattered thoughts.
“Nothing to say?” he asked. “Good. I will assume that means I’ve persuaded you.” He straightened but did not give quarter. His gaze slid over her, registering for the first time that she had not readied for bed and was still wearing the clothes she’d worn to the gaming room. There was but one conclusion he could draw from that. “You were expecting me.”
“It seemed likely that you would want to discuss my decision to act in opposition to your wishes.”
