“Yes.”
Taking this in, Olivia tightened the hands folded in her lap. “Did you know him at Cambridge?”
“I did,” said Varah. “Fairley here was an Oxford man.”
“He told you he was married?” asked Olivia.
“Never breathed a word of it, Mrs. Cole. Fairley and I only learned of it this morning when we were called upon to perform this small service.”
“A service, is it? No longer a favor?”
“It can be both,” Fairley said. “And it is. I hope you will believe me when I say that your cooperation will be of considerable benefit to your husband. I imagine it is the very thing he is counting on.”
Olivia made no reply and allowed silence to settle heavily around her. She drew a modicum of comfort from it as though it were as tangible as the shawl about her shoulders.
After several long moments, Mr. Varah tread lightly into the quiet, tipping his head toward the door. “We should be off, Mrs. Cole. Shall I ring for the housekeeper? You really must dress for the weather. The hack can provide but a thin shield from the wind.”
Stoic and graceful, Olivia stood. She forbade to answer Mr. Varah but crossed the room and rang for Mrs. Beck herself. She made no attempt to leave their company in order to prepare for her departure. It occurred to her that she would not tolerate well the humiliation of not being allowed out of their sight. Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah had been unfailingly well mannered, but she did not mistake that it meant they trusted her. Indeed, she suspected they had been cautioned against it.
For Olivia it was further proof they did not comprehend the nature of her relationship with Alastair. Far from desiring to bolt, she was prepared to surrender herself in whatever manner was required. Alastair would have known that; whoever sent Fairley and Varah did not.
The ride in the hack was rather more brief than Olivia anticipated, lasting not above thirty minutes. She thought it probably seemed much longer to her companions, or at least she hoped that it did. Since leaving the comparative safety of her home, Olivia fancied Varah and Fairley were proving to be more like gargoyles than guards. They sat stonily on either side of her, crowding her with their shoulders and elbows and making no allowance for the fact that she was already occupying very little in the way of space. She ignored the hammering of her heart and tightness in her throat and told herself she was glad of the warmth their proximity provided.
Something good could come of something bad.
She held this thought, as she often did, until she believed it was so.
“What is this place?” Olivia asked, confronting a row of houses as she alighted from the hack. She stiffened a bit as she came to the answer herself. In the light of day there was nothing to obscure the genteel shabbiness of the street or the residences that lined it. The gray stone houses might have been home to gentry half a century earlier, but they were let out as business establishments now. Twin lanterns fitted with red glass were affixed to more than one dark entrance. Curtains were drawn while the occupants of those houses slept on, oblivious to the late hour of the morning.
Glancing on either side of her, Olivia saw that she and her escorts were alone. The hired hack was the only one of its sort on the street. Its noisy approach was probably most unwelcome even as the time was nearing eleven.
She imagined—and she had experience enough to imagine it well—that with a bank of fog rolling up from the river and the forgiving cloak of night, this particular street might present itself as infinitely more appealing, certainly more exciting. Gentlemen about town, especially young gentlemen, would gravitate to this place, called here by the intrigue of something illicit, the hope of something winning, and the promise of something adventurous. If they were fortunate, Olivia supposed, they would leave wiser for the experience without having to explain away the pox to their wives, empty pockets to their creditors, or the lump on their head to their physicians. All of that and more was to be had on a street like this when day gave itself over to night.
Olivia actually sighed, holding up one hand to stave off Mr. Fairley’s answer to her question. “It is of no import,” she said. “I can’t think that it matters where we are. One enterprise is very like another.”
Fairley looked pained. “That’s not quite so, Mrs. Cole, but it’s not for me to explain. We’re not much more than a well-pitched stone from Covent Garden. We’re standing in Putnam Lane off Moorhead Street.” He pointed to the unremarkable gray stone townhouse directly in front of them. “This is Breckenridge’s establishment. If it has another name, I’ve never learned it.”
“Pray, Mr. Fairley, how much information would you have felt compelled to impart if I had shown the least interest?” Olivia was gratified to see Stephen Fairley flush at her rebuke. It was a modest sign that she was regaining the use of her faculties.
Varah paid the driver and waved him on. “This way, Mrs. Cole. Mind the steps. I see a glaze.”
Olivia ignored the elbow he offered but took his advice to be careful. Mr. Fairley, she noticed, hung back a little. She hoped he was still stinging from her reproach. She swept past Mr. Varah when he threw open the door for her.
The entrance hall was lighted by a single stub of a candle in a wall sconce. It provided enough light for Olivia to avoid bumping into a table set just inside the door but was insufficient to prevent her from catching the toe of her boot on the fringed carpet and stumbling into the newell post. Straightening, she discreetly massaged her hip and fended off Mr. Varah’s concern.
The air was stale with the lingering scents of tobacco, alcohol, perfume, sweat, and something oddly sweet that she could not identify. A second sniff assured her that she did not want to apply herself to making that discovery.
When Fairley and Varah had finished stamping their feet and brushing off their hats, Olivia became aware of the inordinate quiet in the house. No one, it seemed, was stirring above or below stairs. No one had come forward from the back of the house to greet them. She regarded her escorts with a new wariness in her eyes, wondering far too late if she was safe to be alone with them.
“We’re expected upstairs,” Varah said.
Olivia shook her head. “I think I’d like to remain here.”
Both Varah and Fairley were prepared to present their argument against it, but they stopped even as their mouths began to shape the protest. Their gazes were drawn upward over the velvet crown of Olivia Cole’s bonnet to the top of the stairs.
Viscount Breckenridge nodded once in the way of dismissal. “You’ve discharged your debt, gentlemen. I can think of no reason we shall have to speak of it again. Ever. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”
Olivia had turned her head to follow the line of sight of Varah and Fairley; now she twisted back to look at them. They were nodding in unison and already replacing their hats. They managed to look at once apologetic and deferential. It was unseemly how quickly they made their departure.
