“I will arrange it,” Griffin said dryly, “if you will promise never to assume the managing of my hell again. Don’t you have a nephew who is a duke or some such title that should give me pause?”
“Godson,” she said. “And he is a viscount, like you, not a duke. A blessing, really, as Sherry is high enough in the instep to make even me uncomfortable. But you shouldn’t worry that he will call you out. He does not do that sort of thing any longer. A messy business, I believe he finds it, and really, he indulges me when I embrace certain unconventional pastimes as I have tonight.”
Griffin darted a glance through the doorway to the faro table. His view of Olivia was entirely obstructed by the gentlemen making their wagers. “It is gratifying to learn that I will not have to face Sheridan, but is there not another relation who might come to take up cudgels?”
The countess frowned. “You cannot mean the Earl of Ferrin.”
“Ferrin. Yes. He’s the one.”
She laughed. The rich, hearty sound of it turned heads, but she gave this no notice. “Do not be such a noddy. Ferrin is the very last person you should fear. He is married to my dear Cybelline, but more importantly he is Mr. Restell Gardner’s brother, and Mr. Gardner frequents this hell. I know it for a fact.”
Griffin had an urge to pluck a feather from her ladyship’s hat and go fly fishing. “I am in no way relieved that you are so well set in society. The wags will have it on the morrow that you were greeting my patrons and counting my profits. I should not be surprised that they will put you at the center of some row and credit you with tossing out the two gentlemen yourself.”
“Oh, I hope not. Mr. Warner should have the credit there. A pair of your footmen were standing close to assist, but he didn’t know that, and truly, he was everything Wellington in his uncompromising authority.”
Everything Wellington? Griffin could not help himself. She’d managed to coax a smile from him, which he suspected had been her goal from the outset. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Bending near her ear as though to whisper something, he lightly kissed her cheek.
“You’re a scoundrel, Breckenridge,” she said, flushing as prettily as a schoolgirl. “And I adore scoundrels. Go on. I know you want to speak to Miss Shepard.” She caught the sleeve of his frock coat and held him fast another moment. “I hope you will be easy with her. She had your best interests uppermost in her clever mind, and naturally, I would not have agreed if I were not intrigued by the idea of managing an establishment such as this. Women have so few opportunities to make their mark in business, don’t you think?”
“If we have that discussion, my lady, I will never get to Honey’s side, and well you know it.”
“Honey.” Lady Rivendale pursed her lips disapprovingly. “That is on no account a name that should be attached to a woman with her acumen. Do you know what I would call her?”
Still smiling, though somewhat distractedly, Griffin took the bait. “Do tell.”
“I would call her Olivia.” The countess had the pleasure of seeing all of his attention return to her and his smile falter. She patted his cheek lightly. “A consequence of being so well set in society.” With that parting shot, Lady Rivendale excused herself by calling out to one of her many acquaintances across the way.
Griffin stood in his fixed position a few moments longer, then turned slowly on his heel and took his leave of the gaming rooms for the sanctuary of his bedchamber.
Olivia saw him go but could not leave the table to follow. She had fully expected him to draw her to some private corner and have words with her, so his exit gave her pause. She played out two more full deals and was prepared to begin a third when she spied Mason’s silver-threaded head above the others and called him over to take her place.
Griffin was lying on his bed when she found him. He had removed his frock coat, loosened his cravat, and pulled off his boots, all of it accomplished on his way to the bed without benefit of his valet or the use of his dressing room. Olivia collected his leavings as she crossed the floor and carried them away for Mason to deal with later.
Griffin rested with one arm cradling his head and the other thrown across his eyes. He lifted the latter just enough to spy her activity. “What are you doing?”
“Helping Mr. Mason. He is spelling me at the table.” She left the dressing room and came to his bedside. “Can I get you something? Refreshment? Beetle and Wick will draw you a bath, if you like. Everyone else is engaged at the moment.”
“So I observed. A veritable beehive of activity. Odd, that, since I gave no instructions to open in my absence.”
“And gave none to suggest we shouldn’t.” Olivia sensed he was spoiling for a quarrel and since her ground was shaky at best, she opted for delaying the inevitable. “You are weary, my lord, and unlikely to be at peak form to set forth your best argument. Why not allow me to provide for your comfort first? You will thank me in the morning when you are feeling more the thing.”
“Your approach is novel, Olivia. I will give you that. I confess I’ve had no dinner, nor any appetite until now. Can you find something in the kitchen?”
“Of course.” When she would have turned to go, Griffin’s hand snaked out and captured her wrist. She glanced down at his fingers curled around hers, then at him. “Yes?”
“A bath would be most appreciated.” When she nodded, he squeezed her hand once, then released it. “Thank you.”
Olivia merely walked from the room, but in her heart she knew she was fleeing.
Griffin was most definitely feeling more the thing after a long soak to wash away the dust of the road and a repast of beef stew, applesauce, and warm, crusty bread. He read by the fire until he recognized the change in the activity on the floors below and heard Olivia’s tread on the stairs. He stepped outside his room and indicated she should join him. He accepted the strongboxes as she came abreast of him, then stepped back and allowed her to precede him into his bedchamber.
He opened the upholstered lid of the window bench and set the boxes inside.
“You don’t want to make entries in your books this evening?” asked Olivia.
“No. That, too, can wait until morning.”
“You are certain? Are you unwell?” The change in his routine troubled her, and his faint smile was not reassuring.
