“You do not even pretend it was something other than defiance.”
“I judged that it would make you angrier. Was I wrong?”
A muscle worked in Griffin’s cheek, briefly whitening his scar. “No,” he said finally. “You were not wrong.” He took a small step backward and jerked his chin at her. “Take off that ridiculous turban. What possessed you to wear it in the first place?”
“A desire for anonymity,” she said as she carefully unwound the pink silk shawl she’d fashioned into a headdress. “My hair is a rather singular color.”
It was, but Griffin did not support the observation. “So your reputation is more important to you than you would have me believe.”
“No, but I understand that preserving it seems to be important to you.” She folded the shawl and laid it on her lap. “I darkened my eyebrows and lashes also.”
He’d noticed. “And painted your cheeks and your mouth. Go wash it off.”
Flushing slightly, Olivia rose to her feet. She ducked her head slightly as she slipped sideways to get past him.
Griffin brought her up short, gripping her elbow. He put a finger under her chin, lifting it, and his eyes narrowed on her right cheek just beneath the corner of her eye. “The beauty patch as well.”
Olivia forced herself not to run. When she returned from scrubbing her face, Breckenridge was lounging comfortably in the chair she’d occupied. He merely pointed to the window bench, clearly expecting that she would comply. Recalling his threat, she did.
“You attracted a great deal of attention this evening,” Griffin said. “I don’t know that the faro table has ever had gentlemen three deep at every station.”
“It did seem they were eager to play.”
“They were eager to spend time in your company.”
“Then they are very foolish.”
“Perhaps.”
She had expected Breckenridge’s unequivocal agreement, so his less certain response surprised her. He was still studying her, though not as intently or coldly as he’d done earlier, but with more speculative interest. Not knowing what to make of that, she remained quiet, waiting for him to direct the conversation.
“I counted the winnings from the faro table,” he said. “Will you venture to guess what the house took in this evening?”
“I cannot speak for all of your profits. At my table I think it was just shy of six hundred quid.”
One of Griffin’s eyebrows kicked up. He did not imagine for a moment that her guess was lucky. “Five hundred ninety-three pounds exactly, but I think you knew that.”
She shrugged.
“Do you know what the punters won?”
“Some two percent less. Those are the odds in favor of the house in an honest game. It was an honest game, my lord. I did not employ sleight of hand or any trickery by distraction.”
Griffin had watched the players’ losses carefully and knew she hadn’t skewed the odds in his favor. “That was my observation also,” he said. “In regard to the sleight of hand, at least. Your presence was distraction enough for the players, I think, to support the fact the hell’s winnings were in excess of three percent.” He held up a hand to stay her protest. “I am not accusing you of cheating, merely of being a distraction. I don’t suppose that if I were to poll the gentlemen I would discover that any of them minded. Some of their lady friends, though, were made unhappy by the competition for their attention.”
When she seemed startled by this last, Griffin shook his head. “Come now. You were able to calculate the winnings within a hairsbreadth of dead-on accuracy, but failed to notice that more than one woman was cheerfully contemplating your demise? That is hard to credit.”
“You may believe what you like. I can only say that my own attention was all for the play at hand. You will perhaps understand that the wagers and winning were substantially more important to me than the petty dramas staged by some of your female guests. Pray, what did I have to fear from any of the women when your place at the head of the murder queue was already secured?”
Griffin’s smile became marginally less derisive. “And you should be glad of it, for I would do the thing quickly. Those women—all of them—would pluck out your heart with tweezers.”
She blanched, her hand coming up as if she could ward off such an attack.
“Just so,” he said, watching her narrowly. The urge was upon him to laugh, and he was hard-pressed not to give in to it. To make certain that he did not, he put another matter before her. “Did you see him tonight?”
The shift in subject was so abrupt that for a moment Olivia did not follow. When she realized what Breckenridge was asking, she let her hand fall to her lap. Her color did not return. “My attacker? No. I didn’t see him.”
“So your attention was notallfor the wagers and winnings.” When she offered no contradiction, he went on. “It was dangerous, what you did. Had you given the least thought to what you might do if you saw him again?”
