“By all means, help yourself. You have news, I take it. Finally.”
“Finally? You wound me. I have been about your particular business only a fortnight and have concluded it far and away more satisfactorily than all of your hirelings before me.”
“I didn’t hire you. You are doing me a favor, remember?”
“As you will do for me.” His eyes swiveled to Olivia, though the question in them was for Griffin.
“You may say whatever you’ve come to say in front of Miss Cole.”
Restell Gardner’s clear blue eyes went from questioning to speculative. “Very well, then,” he said, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “It concerns Lady Breckenridge, of course. I have found her.”
Chapter Ten
Mason accompanied Olivia on her late-morning walk, then again a few hours before the hell was opened for the patrons. He was unaware he’d been very close to being replaced as her walking companion. Olivia was glad Griffin had not gotten around to telling him. His countenance was visibly morose today, his mood leaning toward the same black humor as his employer’s.
Olivia had politely excused herself upon hearing Mr. Gardner’s news. She did not expect that Griffin would try to stop her, nor did he. For once he was not able to conceal every nuance of feeling. She observed surprise, but not shock; resignation, but no rejoicing. There was only an infinitesimal pause as he raised his cup of coffee to his lips, while she had not been able to breathe. It had been impossible to know what it all meant, and Griffin had not sought her out following Mr. Gardner’s departure to explain. In fact, not long after his friend’s exit, Griffin had also left and no one, not even Mason, knew when he might return.
Olivia prepared for dealing faro, though she was uncertain if Griffin would want her at the table if he weren’t present. He might appreciate that she and his staff could operate the hell in his absence, or he might decide she had put herself in harm’s way. As the time neared to open the doors and neither Griffin nor any of his trusted friends arrived to oversee the gaming, Olivia became aware that the staff was looking to her to make a decision.
Olivia had every confidence in their ability to manage the hell’s tables; it was the hell’s guests that concerned her. Who among them could assert calm, reason, and authority if the patrons proved difficult? It was not solely a matter of physicality. There were footmen hired specifically for their ability to escort unruly guests from the premises, but their particular skills were rarely on display because of Griffin’s talent for defusing all manner of tense situations. She did not pretend she was possessed of that same talent, and even if she was, Olivia also recognized she would not be accorded the same respect.
Standing at the window of Griffin’s study, Olivia could monitor the traffic as night settled on Putnam Lane. She was anticipating Griffin’s last-minute arrival, but also trying to gauge how much income he would lose if they did not open. She watched a carriage slow in front of the hell and the driver make a nimble descent to assist the passengers. A gentleman alighted first, his manner somewhat stiff but thoroughly unobtrusive. Following him was a woman who could not help but call attention to herself with her expansive gestures and energetic stride. She wore a black velvet mantle trimmed in ermine and a hat sporting a veritable fountain of snow-white ostrich plumes. Her companion had to hurry to keep up with her as she swept up the stairs.
There could be no mistake as to her identity. Griffin had described her bearing, style, and every one of her eccentricities in amused and admiring detail. This woman was easily one of his favorite patrons, perhaps the one he liked above all others, and she was charging toward the front doors of the hell as if she meant to take no prisoners.
Olivia knew then that the Countess of Rivendale was the answer to the question that had been plaguing her.
It was shortly after midnight when Griffin’s carriage turned the corner from Moorhead Street to Putnam Lane. He noted there was little in the way of pedestrian traffic. Those who were walking did so with their heads down and their gloved hands bunched into fists. An icy wind spiraled along the lane, lifting skirts and hats that were not anchored. Candlelight winked in all of the windows; red lanterns swung in most of the doorways.
Anyone with a modicum of sense and a few shillings to spare was already in one of the hells or hurrying purposefully toward one. February was always good for forcing the players indoors. It was unfortunate, but unavoidable, that his own establishment would not benefit from the reliably bitter north wind.
Griffin leapt from the carriage without assistance and dropped his head to butt the elements like every other passerby. His posture, his fatigue, and the distracting nature of his own thoughts conspired to keep him from noting the activity in his hell until he crossed the threshold and was confronted by the crush of guests in the entrance hall.
Mason’s dour expression eased upon seeing his employer arrive unaccompanied. He squeezed through the crowd with a slight spring in his step and still managed to keep his dignity intact. He took Griffin’s hat, gloves, and greatcoat. “You are well, my lord?”
“I have no idea. Do I look well?”
“Peaked. You look peaked.”
Griffin drew his valet into a corner where a pair of large potted ferns shielded them from curious glances. “Explain this.”
“You will find it is all in hand.”
“That is not an explanation. Whose hand is it in, exactly?”
“That would be the countess.”
“The countess?” Griffin’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline. “Lady Rivendale? Never say you mean that—” He stopped because he saw it was quite clearly what Mason meant. “Whose idea was—” And he stopped again as the obvious answer occurred to him. “Where is she?”
“Her ladyship?”
Griffin set his jaw and waited.
Mason sniffed. “Miss Shepard is at her station.” He was going to add that she was doing very well indeed, but Griffin was already pushing through the crush.
Lady Rivendale stepped into his path just as he entered the faro gaming room. Her interference was so smoothly made that he had to believe she’d placed herself near the door for just such a purpose.
“La! Breckenridge! What an excellent evening I am having!” She slipped her arm through his and steered him into the adjoining card room and away from the faro table. It was only necessary to tug a little, and she observed that he was good enough to give her his polite attention, though a glower might have been more apt for the situation. “Mr. Warner has shown a surprising facility for command tonight, and I can tell you I am thankful to learn of it. You will want to know that he has kept a keen eye on all activity at roulette and vingt-et-un while I have seen to the cards, dice, and faro, of course. Your patrons as a whole have been sadly well-mannered this evening, so there was cause to eject only two.” She sighed heavily. “It’s been a disappointment, really, that they should behave themselves. I cannot think when I will have opportunity to watch Mr. Warner act with such delicious authority.”
