He thought she might flinch, but she was already too frozen to do that. Still, she answered him, though he had to strain to hear it.
“Twelve,” she said. “I was twelve.” Defiance covered the wounds. “And though you did not ask, I will answer the companion question. I was six.”
Griffin was the one who flinched.
Olivia heaved herself out of the chair. “You should have considered your question more carefully. There are some things that no one should know.” She brushed past him and made a quiet, dignified exit.
Olivia woke with a head as thick as paste and thumping like a drum. Moaning softly, she pushed herself upright, though nothing was improved for it. She reached for the glass of water at her bedside and realized simultaneously that the thumping was not entirely in her head. She recognized Wick as the one industriously beating on her door. One could be forgiven for concluding there had been a general call to arms announced by Wellington himself.
He strode directly to the bed after she bid him enter. “His lordship requests your company at breakfast,” he announced importantly. “He said I should tell you it would be a kindness to him.”
Remembering how they parted, Olivia was uncertain if she wished to do him any kindness. Before she could decide, however, Wick was lining up her slippers and holding out her robe.
“He will have scones, miss. Cook made them fresh this morning. And he requested hot cocoa as well. That’s to please you because he never drinks it when he’s dining alone.”
Griffin’s strategy was obvious, but effective. Using Wick to deliver the message was probably his best tactic since Olivia did not like to think of sending the boy back to Griffin with her refusal. “Go,” she said, waving him off. “Tell him I will be there shortly. Wait. Leave my robe. Thank you.”
She joined Griffin a half hour later after performing her ablutions, braiding her hair, and choosing a simple hunter green day dress from her wardrobe. He was also dressed and looking very fine in a black frock coat and trousers, a pewter gray waistcoat, a startling white linen, and a precisely knotted neckcloth. He rose when she entered the bedroom suite and made a short bow. It was almost ridiculously formal, and it rather made her feel like weeping because he was trying so hard.
“Will you join me?” he asked when she hesitated just inside the doorway.
“Yes, of course.” He held out a chair for her and eased her toward the table as she sat. “Thank you.”
Griffin returned to his seat. “May I serve you?”
“Yes, if you like, but do not fill my plate. I haven’t the appetite for it.”
He wasn’t surprised. Except for the transparent violet shadows beneath her eyes, her complexion was wan. It was obvious she had slept no better than he last night. He cut a warm scone in half, added a dollop of sweet butter, and placed it on her plate. He indicated the eggs, but she shook her head. He gave her a rasher of crisp bacon instead and poured a cup of cocoa for her.
It was only when she bit delicately into her bacon that he buttered the other half of the scone for himself. “I wonder if you will permit me to escort you on your daily walks. Mason will be devastated, of course, but I have had my fill of the green-eyed monster and wish to take a turn with you myself.”
She blinked. Twice. She held the strip of bacon like a dart that she might toss at any moment.
Eyeing the bacon warily, Griffin continued. “I understand if you would prefer my valet’s company. He has his faults, but prying into the affairs of others is not one of them.”
Green-eyed monster? she wondered. He wasjealousof Mason? He might have confessed to any number of failings more believable than that. But what if he’d meant it? “May I assume that you are done protecting my reputation?”
“At your peril. We can hardly put Miss Ann Shepard to rest, can we?” He paused a beat. “Honey.”
“I so dislike the hairpieces,” she said on a sigh.
Griffin had no liking for them either. Even confined in a braid, he preferred the natural, dramatic fire of her hair to the more conventionally colored wigs. “A necessary evil. There is still your father to consider.”
Olivia understood much better now how Sir Hadrien could impede Griffin’s financial recovery. Her father would do it, too, if her position in the hell became known publicly. All he had ever required of her was anonymity, and until she moved in with her brother, she’d never challenged him. “Very well,” she said. “I am agreeable. Will you walk with me this morning?”
“I will. I shall have to inform Mason directly, but we can leave in—” He cocked his head toward the door, frowning at the interruption. “Go away.”
Olivia hid her smile behind her hand when the door opened and Mason slipped through a narrow opening as though stealth would make his entry less disagreeable.
“It is Mr. Gardner, my lord,” Mason said. “He begs a moment of your—”
The door opened wider. “Be clear, man, did you hear me beg? Do I look as if I’m begging?” Restell Gardner removed his hat and revealed a thatch of flaxen hair gilt with sunshine. He tore off his scarf, passed it and the hat to Mason, then removed his coat and gave it as well. “Tell him, Breckenridge, I do not—” He noticed Olivia for the first time. “Miss Cole. That is you, is it not? I did not realize you were here.”
Olivia had never been introduced to Mr. Gardner during the brief time he managed the hell in Griffin’s absence, so she was surprised that he not only recognized her, but knew her name. Griffin’s trust in the gentleman must be absolute. “Mr. Gardner. It is a pleasure.”
“It is not,” said Griffin. “Not at all. What are you doing here at his ungodly hour?”
Restell Gardner strode into the room as Mason slipped out of it. He did not wait for Griffin to extend an invitation to sit, but dragged a chair over to the table and put himself in front of the platter of scrambled eggs. “May I? I have not yet been home, therefore I have not yet had my breakfast.”
