The Price of Desire. Jo GoodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
could carry six pitchers. That peculiar talent was not something she intended to share with the viscount. “My point is that I was aware of Alastair’s wagering. That he was frequenting your establishment or any other hell was unknown to me.”
“You lived in the same house.”
“Yes.”
“Where did you think he was going of an evening?”
Olivia’s eyes dropped to her hands. The teacup she was holding between them was growing cold. There was little enough of the tea left, and she determined that she must drink the last of it.
“Your avoidance of an answer can only be temporary at best,” Griffin pointed out. “I will have the truth—or some version that passes for it—from you.”
Olivia smiled politely, if somewhat coolly, and finished her drink. She replaced the cup in the saucer and moved both to the desk, resting them on top of a short stack of papers so there would be no risk to the finely polished wood grain. “Is it your practice to use thumbscrews?” she asked, sitting back once more. “Or must I steel myself for the rack?”
Griffin said nothing for a moment. His sigh conveyed more in the way of disappointment than frustration. “You are least amusing when you are trying be.”
Olivia felt her cheeks warming. Effort was required not to flinch in response to his dark, unwavering gaze. With a stare such as he possessed, thumbscrews and the rack were superfluous.
“If you must know, and apparently you must,” she said, “I believed my brother was visiting a lady friend.”
This was a bit of intelligence that Griffin had not anticipated. The larger question for him was if it had any basis in fact. “What made you think so?”
“Small things. His attention to his appearance. His restlessness of an evening as the hour grew late. The time he spent at his desk dealing with correspondence. I don’t believe he was ever so diligent as he appeared to be recently. It may be that he was only preparing markers similar to the one he left for you. I couldn’t know that, naturally. I imagined he was writing sonnets.”
“Sonnets.”
“Do young men not compose them any longer?”
“Not since Byron set the standard beyond what mere mortals can put to paper.”
“Well,” Olivia said flatly, “I thought he was writing sonnets.”
“Let us pursue what you thought a bit longer. Was there a particular female you considered a candidate for your brother’s affections?”
She shook her head. “No one, I’m afraid. There were no introductions. I am…I am not often about in society.”
Griffin wondered at her hesitation. There was a moment there when he was certain she was choosing her words carefully. He decided not to press further into the reasons for her isolation. It was true enough, he knew, else how had she not come to his attention when he’d first made inquiries about her brother? Neither had those inquiries revealed evidence of a paramour or mistress. The absence of such information was troubling, although he allowed that Olivia Cole’s assumptions could be without foundation. It did seem possible, however, that Alastair Cole’s evenings out were occupied with more than visiting the gaming hells, and Griffin realized that in addition to everything else he was confronting of late, he now had to concern himself with the reliability of his sources. If he could not trust that he was being given all the information, then he could trust none of it.
“It may be that your brother did not consider his lady friend suitable for introduction,” Griffin said. “That must have occurred to you.”
It was just as likely that the reverse was true, but Olivia did not offer that. “It did enter my mind that Alastair had set up a mistress. I suppose that when I noticed there were less funds to deal with the household accounts, I considered it more acceptable that he would squander his allowance on love of a woman than love of gaming or drink.”
Griffin’s narrow, crooked smile held a hint of derision. “You are a romantic, then.”
“No. Not at all. But I hold out hope that others might be.”
She had surprised him again. Intrigued him, really. “I confess this day is turning out as nothing I could have foreseen.”
Did he imagine it was any different for her? In spite of Alastair’s note stating his intentions and her own words to the contrary, she was not convinced that her brother was on his way to Sir Hadrien’s. If he’d thought of some other scheme to raise the money, he would be engaging in it now rather than journeying to their father’s.
“Can you tell me what your brother meant by the turn of phrase: she will reward you in ways you cannot imagine?”
Olivia saw that Breckenridge did not consult her brother’s marker. Evidently he had memorized the contents as well. She sought out a place of tranquility in her mind—this time a wheat field made golden by sunshine—and lay herself down at its very center. With panic momentarily quelled, she answered with preternatural calm. “You must not make too much of it. It is the sort of hyperbole that Alastair is wont to make when the truth does not serve.”
“And the truth in this case would be…?”
“That I am of no particular value to anyone, my lord. I have no funds, nor any hope of securing them. I have no happy talents. My interests are pedestrian and unlikely to change. I cannot say that I have any particular accomplishments. I do not play the pianoforte. Neither do I sing, paint, embroider, or ride. It would take considerable time to name all the things I cannot do, do not want to do, and will not do, so I hope you will spare us both that exercise.”
Griffin was silent a moment, taking it in. “I see. Then tell me why I should keep you here.”
“I can think of no reason.” She all but leapt to her feet.
“You are not an exclamation point, Miss Cole. Sit down.”
She sat. Slowly. “It seemed you were on the point of dismissing me.”
“You would do well not to assume you know the bent of my mind.” He leaned forward in his chair and set his forearms and folded hands on the desk. Tapping his thumbs lightly, he regarded Olivia Cole without expression. He owned that she suffered his direct study without demonstrating the least discomfort. Judging by the angle of her chin and the brightness in her eyes, she was preparing to challenge him if he gave her cause.
“Let us be clear, Miss Cole, that even if you are the single most unaccomplished female of my acquaintance, you are still worth a sum of £1,000. That your brother would have me believe you are worth something more than that, I am willing to credit to his affection for you and a healthy regard for his own skin. He could hardly say you were worth less, then offer you—however temporarily—in place of his debt. You can agree with that, can’t you?”
Although it was reluctantly offered, Olivia nodded shortly.
“It is also true, though perhaps not so obvious, that the longer you remain under my roof, the larger your brother’s debt grows and your worth increases. I cannot conceive that you are less expensive to accommodate than any other of the females that I know.”
“Perhaps you will be pleasantly surprised, my lord. I do not require that you accommodate me. In deference to my brother’s predicament, you can rest assured that I will ask for as little as necessary to assure my survival.”
“Then I will be surprised. It is my experience that women who begin by having the fewest needs soon come to a place where they must needs have it all. If you prove to be the exception, your brother and I will both have cause to thank you.”
“Might I know what your intentions are?” asked Olivia.
“My intentions? Yes, I suppose they are uppermost in your mind. I believe I mentioned that you will have a room prepared for you, be attended by a physician, eat a meal that you can keep down, and have the comfort