The Price of Desire. Jo GoodmanЧитать онлайн книгу.
eat, rest, entertain yourself, and stay well away from the activities in this house.”
Olivia listened to this and knew a profound sense of relief. It struck her that perhaps she should have had more faith in Alastair’s judgment. He had been in desperate straits, true enough, to suggest that Breckenridge accept her in place of the ring, but he hadn’t precisely sent her into a lion’s den. The viscount was not without scruples, it seemed, and he appeared to have no designs upon her person. She was under no illusions that Alastair’s admonition to Breckenridge that he show more care for her than he’d shown for the ring carried the weight of threat with his lordship. He would do as he pleased.
“I should like to return to my residence to pack my things,” Olivia said. She held out no real hope that he would allow it, but it was not an unreasonable suggestion.
“No. Your maid, or someone you deem better able to make decisions regarding your wardrobe, will have to do it. Otherwise, the task will fall upon someone of my choosing.”
“As you wish. I think I should offer some explanation for my absence, don’t you?”
“And so it begins,” he said under his breath. “She who has no needs is already asking for paper, pen, and ink.” He pushed all of it in her direction. “You may compose your missive here. Be certain that I intend to read it.”
Pulling her chair closer to the edge of his desk, Olivia murmured her agreement. With Breckenridge poised to take the paper immediately from her possession, she had little choice but to be brief and believable. She considered several different introductions, then decided that bold was best.
Olivia barely lifted the quill as she wrote, waiting until her words disappeared to nothingness before she deigned to dip her pen in the ink. She scratched out five sentences, read them over for legibility and accuracy, then signed her name. The ink had not yet dried when Breckenridge took it from her.
“Who is Mrs. Beck?” he asked, glancing up at her.
“Our housekeeper.”
“She will not question this?”
“I don’t believe so. She suspected Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah were from Bow Street, and she is aware we spent very little time together before I left with them. I think she will be relieved to learn that they were friends of Alastair come to take me to him. As he has been gone from the house most of this last sennight, it seems reasonable to suggest that he has fallen ill and that I am to attend him.”
“You make no mention of where that is precisely.”
“I thought you might suggest something. It is not appropriate that I should put this residence.”
Griffin conceded the point. “Very well. To allay the concerns of your staff and avoid any true confrontation with Bow Street, let us agree your brother is recuperating at Wright Hall in Surrey.”
“Really?” she asked. “Surrey? Why there?”
“Because that is bloody hell where I say he is.”
She blinked.
Ignoring her startled look, Griffin bent to the task of adding the address as a postscript. He glanced over the missive and decided it would do. Tempering his impatience to be done with this thing, he said, “You have requested only one trunk. Will that be sufficient?”
“I will not be here long.”
He made a sound at the back of his throat that she was meant to take for skepticism and put the letter aside. “Someone will show you to your room directly. It should be ready by now, and you will wait there for my physician.”
It was the butler Truss who escorted Olivia to her room. He hadn’t much to say as he was clearly discomfited by her presence. Her bedchamber, he told her, was on the same floor as the viscount’s, but at the rear of the townhouse. He mentioned it only because he wanted her to know that he hadn’t put her in the servants’ quarters as it didn’t seem fitting. He made a point to explain that every other room in the establishment had a most particular purpose and that she wasn’t to be in any one of them without the express consent of Breckenridge himself.
Olivia had no reservations about agreeing to that.
The bedchamber was more than adequate for her needs. She was surprised to find that a small bathing room adjoined it. The copper tub was of such ridiculously large dimensions that she was sure the water would be cooled before it could be sufficiently filled. She had to squeeze around the tub to reach the washstand. Bracing her arms on the marble top, she confronted her reflection once again. In spite of her embarrassing bout of sickness, she could see that her color had improved since earlier this morning. Such was the influence of the viscount. Olivia counted it as a good thing she would not have to endure another interview with him during her stay. He was as desirous of ignoring her presence as she was desirous of being ignored.
All things considered, it could be much, much worse.
Olivia removed the tortoiseshell combs from her hair. She glanced around and saw that no brush had been provided. Using one of the combs and her fingers, she managed to weed the small knots from her hair and finally tamed it in a thick braid. To secure the plait, she removed the ribbon that defined her bodice and wrapped it around the tail. Satisfied, she poured water into the washstand bowl and applied a damp flannel to her face and throat.
Moderately improved in spirit, if only temporarily, Olivia returned to the bedchamber. It was comfortably appointed with a neatly made bed and night tables on either side of the plump pillows. A blue-and-brown plaid wool rug lay folded at the foot of the bed. A fire had been laid and there was a stack of logs on the marble apron. The armoire was sufficiently large to store what belongings would be brought for her and a narrow chest of drawers would hold incidentals and sundries.
There was only one painting and it hung on the same wall as the door. She would be able to see it when she woke and the thought cheered her. The artist had used the brightest colors in his palette to create a scene of kites flying in the park. It was easy to imagine the dizzying motion of the kites and the children who ran after them, arms stretched, clutching their strings in small fists. She thought it was an odd choice for a room that probably rarely saw visitors, but then it was also safe here, and it was unlikely to have drawn the notice or approval of Breckenridge’s gamers.
The bedroom’s sole window overlooked the small garden and alley beyond. Olivia tied back the heavy velvet drapes to allow the modest light of an overcast sky to enter. There was but a single chair and it was situated too close to the bed and not close enough to the fire. Olivia changed that, turning it so she could have all the benefit of the flames, then tested it for comfort.
When she sat down she did not imagine she could fall asleep, or even that she would want to, yet once she had fit herself between the wings of the chair and curled her feet under her it was as if the choice had been taken from her. She did not recall her head tipping to one side or her eyes drifting closed. Sleep came upon her surely and deeply and led her to a place without dreams, without cares, but also without hope.
“She didn’t rouse easily,” Dr. Pettibone said. “I didn’t know what to make of it at first.”
“Exhaustion,” Griffin told him.
The doctor nodded. “I did not assume that she was drugged.” He was slight of stature but had an air of great consequence about him. It was not without reason. His reputation was one of caring and competence, and he confounded his colleagues by his willingness to enter the brothels and gaming hells on Putnam Lane. “That is what she said as well, though she gave me cause enough to wonder if she was lying.”
Griffin turned away from pouring the doctor a small whiskey. “How so?”
“She was adamant that she did not want to be examined.”
“I warned you.” He finished pouring the drink and carried it to Pettibone. “I hope you did not let her protestations sway you.”
“No, but I was ever mindful of her modesty. I found