“And I brought you six hundred.”
“Five hundred ninety-three.”
“Of course. Five hundred ninety-three. And you would give me—”
“Three pounds,” he said. “I rounded up. I am prepared to be generous.”
“That is in no way generous. Five percent.”
“One.”
“Four,” she countered.
“One and one-half.”
Olivia shook her head. “Two percent.”
“Done.” It was a perfectly outrageous sum that he was promising her, but he reasoned it was far less than Mrs. Christie had been regularly stealing from him. “You have made a good bargain.”
“Five percent would have been a good bargain,” she said. “Two percent is only what is fair.”
Griffin chuckled. He inclined his head, saluting her. “I should take my leave before I am persuaded to offer you three.”
The faro table was crowded, just as he’d known it would be. Griffin had been wandering in and out of the room where Olivia was working since the hell opened its doors, and he’d never seen less than a dozen young bucks vying for a place at the table. As soon as one of them lost enough to force a move, another slipped into the vacated seat. If she simply managed to bring in the house at only a one percent profit, he estimated that the winnings would well exceed what she’d accomplished the previous evening.
He observed that her gown would not have been out of place at the theatre or a ball. If her dress lent her a certain elegance, then she lent it grace. The movement of her arms was fluid, her deft touch with the cards something to behold. She was a confection perfectly suited to a tray of iced tea cakes in a celestial blue satin gown with an overlay of tulle. The rounded bodice left her shoulders bare and her fine skin reflected the play of candlelight from the wall sconces. Her auburn wig fit her head snugly and was curled in a fall of clever ringlets that lightly brushed her neck whenever she turned. The hair was dressed with copper combs and seeded with pearls, the latter matching the pearls sewn in the bodice of her gown.
Her throat was bare and Griffin thought he should correct that oversight soon. She would wear pearls well, but he thought of her eyes and decided that an emerald would also do.
Her white elbow-length gloves were her most exquisite accessory. Although they fit her as well as her own skin, even she could not manipulate the cards with satin-covered fingertips. He was the one who had removed them and instructed Mason to cut the fabric back to her knuckles so her beautifully tapered fingers were free to do their very best work.
On impulse, after he’d helped her slip back into the gloves, he had lifted her hands to his lips and kissed those bare knuckles, watching her as he did so. Except for the soft parting of her lips, there had been no reaction that he could discern. No surprise. No tender fury. No resignation. She’d simply waited for him to be done, eased her hands from his light grasp, and brushed past him to make her way to the gaming rooms.
It might have been lowering if his heart had been attached to the gesture, but it was not that organ blinding him to good judgment. The blood pooling in his groin was a reliable indication of where the impulse had been born.
Griffin smiled politely in response to a tip of the head by one of the patrons, then moved to Foster’s side to prevent being pulled into a conversation for which he had little interest and even less time. The footman stood at attention at his post just inside the doorway. As Griffin had instructed on the day of his hiring, his eyes constantly roamed the room, alert to the shifts in the crowd and the first inklings of untoward behavior.
“What is your view, Foster?” Griffin asked. “Is she able to handle them?”
“As deftly as the cards, my lord.”
Griffin’s gaze drifted to the faro table, then past it. “What have you observed about their interest?”
“Respectful. She draws them in but keeps them at a distance. Not one among them has seemed to mind. Johnny Crocker played at her table for a while.”
“Was he now?” That the rival hell owner deigned to step outside his own establishment was hardly the usual thing. “He didn’t ask for me?”
“No. Came in and went straightaway to the faro table. I stood close by, just to make certain he didn’t trouble her.”
Griffin wasn’t certain what to make of Crocker’s interest, though he supposed it was possible that word had already spread regarding his new faro dealer. Perhaps Crocker wanted to estimate the potential damage to his own profits. “You’ll let me know if he returns, won’t you?”
“Immediately.”
“Good man.” He stepped away. “I’m going downstairs to observe the play at vingt-et-un.”
“Very good.”
Griffin chatted with several of his regular patrons in the hall and on the stairs before he reached another of the hell’s gaming parlors. The dealer for twenty-one was Drummond, another of his household staff with multiple duties, though in Drummond’s case it was generally acknowledged that he was a much better dealer than he was a footman. Truss tended to assign him the tasks that could not possibly be mismanaged.
