Someone stumbling hard on the stairs caused a vibration to shudder through the house. Curious, she went into the hall to investigate and more clearly heard the sounds of a scuffle. The hell was hours yet from opening its doors to the rich and the rabble, but she could not fathom that any of the servants were exchanging blows. Even allowing for the high spirits of Wick and Beetle it was difficult to imagine.
Prepared to put a period to the fisticuffs, Olivia ran to the top of the stairs. She was glad for the support of the banister when she got there.
Her brother had finally come for her, although from the white-knuckled hold Griffin had on Alastair’s throat, it appeared he was returning most reluctantly.
Olivia charged down the steps and wedged herself between the combatants. Several of the servants were already clustered at the foot of the stairs in anticipation of being called to lend assistance. Griffin, however, required none. It was her brother who was going to die.
“Release him,” Olivia said, pulling on Griffin’s hand. She tried to slip a finger under his palm. “You’re choking him. He cannot breathe! Can’t you see? He cannot breathe.”
“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight,” Griffin said. There was only a hint of strain in his voice. “Show your sister you can breathe, Mr. Cole.”
Alastair sucked in a wheezing, labored breath.
“There. You see? Your brother can breathe.”
Olivia gripped Griffin’s thumb and pulled on it. “Let him go, my lord.” Squeezed as she was between the two men, her own words sounded breathless. “Please.”
Over the top of Olivia’s head, Griffin made certain Alastair saw his displeasure and took note that what he would do was for Olivia, not for him. “As you wish.” He released Alastair and stepped back against the rail, then gestured that they should precede him up the stairs. Olivia offered her shoulder to her brother, who looked as if he might simply slide down the wall. Griffin watched them go, then after he was certain the staff dispersed, he followed.
“My study,” Griffin said when Olivia would have turned her brother toward her room.
She nodded jerkily and pointed out the room to Alastair, quite forgetting that he’d had occasion to visit it before. Once inside, she indicated the chaise and nudged her brother in that direction when his feet took root just beyond the threshold.
“May I pour him a whiskey?” she asked Griffin.
“No liquor,” he said flatly. “I am not convinced he is yet sober. You may ring for whatever else you like.”
Olivia glanced back at Alastair. She’d not smelled alcohol on his clothes or breath, but he sat like a man nursing a sore head, his shoulders hunched almost to the level of his ears.
“I cleaned him up,” Griffin said, divining her thoughts.
Frowning, Olivia pulled the cord. She waited by the door for the footman while Griffin crossed the room to his desk. He hitched one hip at the front rather than taking up his chair. Olivia noticed his attention was all for Alastair and that her brother had yet to look up. She wondered that she did not feel at all sorry for him.
The footman arrived and she asked for a pot of tea. The silver tray, the china cups, the detail to pouring, all of it would lend an air of civility to whatever was to come. At least Olivia hoped it was so. She was not certain that Griffin could be moved a second time to release Alastair from his throttling grip.
Olivia went to the foot of the chaise but did not sit. Alastair, she noted, did not look at her. Neither man said anything, waiting, it seemed, for her to end the silence.
“You are uninjured?” she asked her brother.
Alastair kept his head down, the weight of it supported by his hands. He nodded, though it was an effort to do so.
“You look as if you might be ill. Shall I fetch a pail?”
Alastair merely grunted softly.
“That is an Aubusson rug beneath your feet, Alastair.” She did not mention that she had reason to know because she’d been sick on the very edge of that rug. “His lordship is likely to have some affection for the thing. We already know he has none for you.”
“I’m all of a piece,” he said.
“Then you will do me the favor of sitting up. If there is an explanation, I should like to see your face as you make it.”
Alastair straightened. He jerked his chin in Breckenridge’s direction. “Apply to him for an explanation.”
The corners of Olivia’s mouth sagged with disappointment. “Would you embarrass yourself further, Alastair? Would you embarrass me? I am entitled to hear something from you, am I not? You might begin, for example, with why his lordship had you by the throat.”
“It is obvious by now, is it not? I did not want to see you again. I was trying to avoid just this end.”
Griffin was more than a little surprised by Alastair Cole’s capitulation. For all that he made a querulous offering, it was nonetheless a confession. Of course, Griffin thought, he may have well given in as easily beneath Olivia’s take-no-prisoners gaze. He folded his arms over his chest and waited for her next volley, prepared to enjoy himself at Alastair’s expense. Instead, Olivia lobbed it at him.
