“I should go to him,” she said quietly. “It will be better if he doesn’t have to send for me.”
Alastair turned on his heel. His hands were clasped behind his back, warming them at the fire. “Go? Go where? Did you read the notice, Olivia?”
“I…um…” She glanced at it again, tried to concentrate.
“Never mind,” said Alastair. “She’s being interred at Wright Hall. Today. Breckenridge is not in London. He is not anywhere you can go, which is just as well if your intention is to fly to him. You will have to stay here awhile longer yet, though I cannot say it is agreeable. You forget yourself if you think he would welcome you at this time. He is certain to be surrounded by family. How do you explain yourself to them?”
How indeed? Olivia set her elbow on the table and her head in her hand. She rubbed her temple. A tear dripped from beneath her lowered lashes, and she dashed it away. “Where is the ring, Alastair?”
The non sequitur caught him unaware. He required a moment before answering. “What has that to do with anything?”
“It’s the reason you set me in his path. But for your debt, but for the ring, I would have remained unknown to Breckenridge, and he to me. No explanations would be necessary. So, I will ask you again: where is the ring?”
“I told you.” He jutted his chin defensively. “It was stolen. I was cheated of it, if you must know. At faro. Johnny Crocker uses a rigged box in his establishment.”
“So I’ve heard.” It was precisely as Griffin had told her. Still, it was gratifying to have it from Alastair. He owed her the truth, and she owed him a reminder that he was not without responsibility. “So you cannot get it back?”
Alastair thought of where the ring resided now. Mrs. Christie took particular delight wearing it when they were together. She’d managed to relieve Johnny Crocker of it in a game of whist where she proved herself the better cheat. “I could get it back,” he said.
“Then do not ask me again how I will explain myself to his family when what explains your actions is no source of pride to me, nor, I hope, to you.”
Feeling the sting of her words as a slap, Alastair sucked in a short breath. “Do you want the ring, Olivia? Is that it?”
“It doesn’t belong to me,” she said, trying to make him understand. “Until you pay your debt, it belongs to him. I want you to make it right, Alastair. Not for my sake, but for yours.”
He frowned. “Why is this important now?”
“Because I am going back to him,” she said. “And it’s unlikely that you and I will have occasion to speak again. I should have said it before now, but now is when I’ve been moved to say it. I owe you something for taking me in when you did—both times. But I never owed you the whole of myself.” She stood up, carefully gathered the cards, and let the newspaper lie. “Make it right, Alastair.”
She was halfway across the room when he called to her. “Father said you’d land like a cat. And so you have. You’re so bloody in love with him that you should thank me for what I’ve done.”
Olivia faltered once, then walked on.
The doors of the hell were closed when she arrived. As it was well past nightfall, and the time when gentlemen and their lady escorts would normally be milling about the entrance hall and moving between the gaming rooms with a drink in their hands, Olivia waved to the hack driver to make certain he stayed while she tested the doors. They were not only closed, but locked and barred on the inside.
She’d had no one accompany her from Jericho Mews, and her trunks and valises were particularly vulnerable on the roof of the hired cab. A few passing gentlemen had slowed as they approached the steps to the hell. Aware of them, Olivia did not wish to call undue attention to herself. A woman alone on Putnam Lane at this hour was viewed in a very particular light, always red.
Olivia hurried down the steps, spoke briefly to the driver, then climbed back in. She breathed more easily when the gentlemen moved on, and the cab rolled forward. They circled the block and entered the alley from the cross street. Approaching from the rear, Olivia could see the servants’ hall was lighted. Even as she threw open the door and made to step down from the cab, she saw Beetle carrying out a bucket of wash water. He was preparing to toss it, most of it in her direction, when he took notice of the hack, and finally of her.
“Miss Cole!” He dropped the bucket, clipping his toe, and hopped toward her on one foot. “Oh, but it’s a pleasure to see you again, miss. What a time of it we’ve had. Missed you fierce. We all did.” He finally stopped hopping and took stock of the valises as the driver hefted the first one down. “Here, I’ll be getting that. Go on inside, let Mr. Truss know you’re here, and just see if the others don’t come running out to help.” The second valise he caught almost pitched him to the ground, and Olivia hurried off before his eagerness to help knocked him unconscious.
She asked for her old room, but her things were deposited in Griffin’s bedchamber. She didn’t insist they be moved, which she suspected Truss was counting on. She had never kept more than a few items of clothing in Griffin’s dressing room, but sometime during her absence the armoire she’d used had been moved here, and now stood ready to be filled.
She stared at it, wondering if Griffin had meant for it to be waiting for her, or whether his wife had used it. Had they shared the room while she was here? The bed? Olivia realized she didn’t know whether Mr. Gardner had ever delivered Lady Breckenridge to the hell. It was not the sort of detail that was mentioned in theGazette’s death notice.
Succumbed after a long illness.
Olivia had finally been able to make out those words. A long illness. Perhaps that was why there was no news of her returning to London or attending a single affair. If she had stayed at the hell, the secret had been closely guarded. If she had been cared for at Wright Hall, Griffin had not been at her side. He had never operated the hell from a distance.
Beetle and Wick appeared to help her unpack. Mostly they just sat on one of the trunks, beating a tattoo against the side with their heels, while she did the work. She could have asked them any one of the questions about Lady Breckenridge that occurred to her, but it felt like taking advantage and she let them chatter on about the things that were concerning to them.
Apparently Beetle’s mother was getting married to a decent enough bloke who promised she was done whoring. Beetle was happy enough about the marriage but miserable at the thought of leaving Wick.
“It’s a good thing you returned when you did, miss, else I might already be dragged off and have no chance to say farewell.”
“Then I’m very glad I came. I’d want to say farewell also. I’ll miss you, Beetle.”
His cheeks flushed a bright pink and he ducked his head, but not before he showed her his shy, gap-toothed smile. “Go on with you, miss. What am I to you but underfoot most times?”
