she had placed on the bedside table had extinguished itself while she slept. She had wondered if she would wake disoriented to her new surroundings, but this was not the case. She knew immediately where she was and found some comfort in that, though it was short-lived. It was tempting to mistake this sense of familiarity for a sense of well-being. She could not do it, of course. The circumstances of her life were such that the moment she believed she was safe she was at her most vulnerable.
Olivia turned on her side and faced the window. She’d pulled the drapes closed before she retired but was careful to leave a sliver of an opening between them. As she lay watching, a crease of morning light slowly filled the space. The diffusion of the light, as though it were being filtered through frost flowers that had formed on the window, made her think it might have snowed overnight. She hoped it had. There was no part of London, from the tenements in Holborn to the palace at St. James, that was not improved by a blanket of snow. While fog had the ability to shroud the city’s landscape and make every distinction of architecture disappear, it seemed to Olivia that snow both illuminated and softened it. The townhomes along Putnam Lane would look just as respectable as those bordering the park once they were iced like party tea cakes.
The impulse was upon her to take in that vision, but she resolutely quelled it. If she had awakened in her own bed, she would have already thrown off the covers and completed her morning ablutions. Molly Dillon would have arrived in her room—a bit sullenly perhaps because she so disliked early risings—and helped her dress and arrange her hair, then Olivia would have asked for her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves and left the house for a morning stroll before the snow was trampled and made black by the smoke and soot rising from thousands of chimneys.
Olivia snuggled deeper under the covers. She was struck anew by the silence of the residence. Now that she had experienced the din of activity that filled the hell at night, she imagined this quiet was greatly prized by Breckenridge and his staff. She had an appreciation for it as well, finding these moments were to be savored if one could concentrate on one’s breathing and not on the thoughts spinning like dervishes in one’s mind.
It was inevitable, though, that one thought would demand attention above all others.
Alastair.
Now that it seemed he had not come to physical harm, she could permit herself to be furious with him. And disappointed. He should have told her what was toward rather than attempt to settle his debt in this havey-cavey fashion. More to the point, he should not have been making wagers, especially when he knew he was extending himself beyond his means.
Olivia realized that Alastair had not considered he would lose, certainly not to the degree that he had. A loss now and again was inevitable, and he would have anticipated that, but his general optimism, and yes, his naïveté, would have blinded him to the reality of the deep losses he was sustaining. His good fortune would return because he believed it would, because it always had. He did not see what she saw, or rather he did not draw the same conclusions that she had.
It was Olivia’s view that her entry into Alastair’s life had turned the tide of his fortune, beginning with his falling out with their father. It was inevitable, she supposed, that Alastair would eventually come to it, and she did not want to think what his response would be.
The thought of Sir Hadrien darkened her mood. She flattened her lips, suppressing the small moan that would have otherwise escaped. She hoped that one day she would be able to think of him without this bitterness in her heart, for it afforded him too much influence over her, but apparently this morning was not the start of that day.
Drawing in a bracing breath, Olivia lifted the covers and made herself leave the warmth of her bed. She thrust her feet into her slippers and put on her robe, then dealt with the tinder and logs to build a modest fire in the fireplace. It was impossible to stay still for long—the cold was simply too penetrating. She hurried on tiptoes into the bathing room and prepared herself for the day.
Olivia did not miss her maid’s services until it came to dressing her hair. No elaborate knots were possible, so she simply wove a dark green ribbon into her hair as she refashioned her braid. She liked the weight of the plait at her back and decided then that it would be acceptable to wear her hair in such a manner until she was returned home. The likelihood that Truss would be able to secure the services of a maid for her seemed small. Olivia also deemed it unnecessary. She had many more years of experience doing for herself than she did having anyone do for her.
She had returned to warming herself at the fire when her door rattled gently at a knock from the hallway. She opened it cautiously, needing to assure herself it was not some late-night reveler still stumbling about Breckenridge’s hell looking for an exit. It wasn’t. Olivia recognized the footman as the one who’d carried the tea service into the viscount’s study yesterday morning. She nodded a greeting and bid him enter.
“It’s tea and a few points of toast, miss, just as the doctor bid us prepare for you. Cook allowed that you might be feeling more the thing this morning and added a bowl of porridge. You can eat it or not as you wish.”
“Thank you.”
He set the tray down on the bedside table nearest him. “It seems you should have a proper table in here, miss, and another chair to sit at it. I’ll see what I can find.” His face reddened as he was unable to stifle a yawn. He ducked his head. “Pardon me.”
“Of course. I feel quite certain this service falls outside the hours you typically keep.”
“It does that.”
“Then I’m the one who should beg your pardon. I have no liking for being a bother to others.”
“I didn’t mean it was a bother, miss.”
“I know.” And she did. “What is your name?”
“Foster.”
“And what are the names of those young lads I saw yesterday?”
“They’d be Wick and Beetle. Wick, because he cleans the lamps and sees after the candles, and Beetle…Well, that is because he scurries about like one.”
Wick and Beetle. Hardly the names their mothers would have given them. “Thank you, Foster. Will you come to take the tray or should I ring?”
“I’ll come back directly but ring if you require something. Mr. Truss informed us that we’d hardly know you were here, and he had that from his lordship. I don’t mind, though, if you come to realize there is a service I can do for you. Pulling on the cord will bring me here.”
“That is very generous, Foster, but I shouldn’t like to make trouble for you. I will manage, I’m sure.”
“Just the same,” he said, backing out of the room. “Truss says I’m to look after you and one pull will do it.”
“One,” she repeated, smiling gently. “That is good to know.”
Once she was alone, Olivia sat on the bed and ate. She was actually quite hungry and had to restrain herself from eating too quickly. The tea, toast, and milky porridge all settled reasonably well in her stomach. Had the cook provided a more generous serving of the last, she still could have eaten all of it.
She had removed herself to the chair and was reading from the Malthus when the door rattled again. Thinking it was Foster come to take away the tray, she bid him enter. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw it was Breckenridge’s valet.
“Mr. Mason,” she said, setting
