see. Not at all the usual thing. Meant to mark an anniversary?”
“A birthday.”
“Even better. I believe it will do.” He put his palm out to accept the ring and waited.
Alastair Cole did nothing at first. “I don’t think—”
“No, you don’t,” Breckenridge said, interrupting. “Perhaps in the future you will.”
Flushing deeply, Cole nevertheless managed to mount an argument. “The ring is worth a good deal more than my debt.”
“I hope so, else where is the incentive for you to return with my money?”
“I couldn’t possibly give it to you.”
Breckenridge sighed. He did not fail to notice that Cole made no move to withdraw his hand. “So that it is the way it is to be. I had hoped for more, some evidence of backbone, mayhap.” He removed the ring from Cole’s finger and slipped it onto his own. “We are of a size. That is good.”
Except for a hand that trembled slightly now, Cole did not move.
Breckenridge glanced once in the younger man’s direction, evincing mild surprise that Cole was still there. He said nothing, merely inclined his head toward the door.
Alastair Cole’s hesitation only lasted a moment, and he exited the room a moment after that.
Griffin Wright-Jones waited to hear the door click into place and Cole’s heavy footfalls recede before he removed the ring and placed it in a cleverly hidden drawer in his desk. It was then that he permitted himself the luxury of slumping back in his chair. Closing his eyes, he rubbed them gently with his thumb and middle finger in an attempt to ease the ache that had grown steadily behind them.
His lips moved the smallest fraction around words that were merely an expulsion of air. “God’s truth, do they never learn?”
Chapter One
Olivia Cole caught her reflection in the cheval glass and paused to take account of herself. She was not by nature a vain woman, but circumstances were such in her life that she could ill afford to present herself in a poor light. It was not possible to hide every aspect of her worry from the servants. She had no illusions that she would ever trod the boards at Drury Lane, but she had hoped she was offering a more untroubled countenance than the one she observed now.
There was no disguising the fact that she had been weeping earlier. Her eyelids were still faintly swollen and the lashes clumped in small, dewy spikes. Swiping at her eyes did not diminish the effect. Her knuckles left pronounced color in an otherwise pale complexion, emphasizing violet shadows beneath her eyes and lending them a bruised, injured look.
Her ginger-colored hair, a fiery problem to be contended with on any given day, had escaped the moorings of all three tortoiseshell combs so that far too many strands were licking at her temples, forehead, and nape like flaming tongues. She raised one hand to make an adjustment, intending to smooth and secure the firestorm, but let her hand fall back to her side when it occurred to her it was too small a gesture and far too late in coming.
The scratching at the door was insistent. Olivia moved slowly in that direction. It was disconcerting to realize that her palms were damp, a condition she noticed when she attempted to press out a wrinkle in the bodice of her day dress. The fold only existed because the incongruously bright, apple-green gown hung on her frame in a way it had not done since she stood for its fitting. She unfastened the grosgrain ribbon beneath her breasts and tied it again, this time more ruthlessly than her maid had done earlier. With the bodice snugly secured, she squared her shoulders and made to reach for the door handle. At the last moment she stopped and reached for the shawl that had been thrown carelessly across a nearby chair. She could pretend at least that she was chilled, when in truth she had a need to hide the collarbones that four days of almost no nourishment had made prominent.
Olivia steeled herself as she opened the door. It was in every way a condition of the mind. Her limbs were in fact trembling.
“Yes, Mrs. Beck?”
The housekeeper bobbed her head once. “Begging your pardon, but there’s gentlemen come to inquire after you. I thought I should tell you myself.”
“Thank you. That was good of you.” Olivia’s own maid, to demonstrate her self-importance, had a regrettable tendency to say things she ought not in the servants’ hall. Chastisement had had little effect on Molly Dillon, placing Olivia in a position of releasing the girl from service or guarding her own tongue in Molly’s presence. Against the advice of Mrs. Beck, Olivia had become more circumspect and Molly remained employed.
“Gentlemen, you say?” asked Olivia. Her mouth was dry, but she resisted the urge to lick her lips. “How many exactly?” Had her father sent them? It was the question uppermost in her mind, and she couldn’t pose it to Mrs. Beck without giving more of herself away than she ever had to Molly Dillon.
“Two.” There was a small hesitation. “I can’t be certain, but I think they might be from Bow Street.”
“Runners?” Olivia was glad she’d had the foresight to keep one hand on the door frame and the other resting on the handle. The tenacity of her grip made her knuckles briefly turn white. “Alastair, then. They’ve come about Alastair.” She felt no relief at the thought. As much as she feared they’d come for her, that outcome was preferable to the one that seemed more likely.
“I’m thinking that’s so.”
Olivia nodded absently while she considered what she must do. “Show them to the drawing room. I will receive them there.”
“As you wish.” Mrs. Beck bobbed her head again and turned to go, only to be brought up short by Olivia’s entreaty.
“Have you a sense of what their purpose might be?”
The housekeeper had drawn up her apron and was twisting the hem in her hands. Anxiety deepened the careworn lines around her eyes and mouth. “I can’t say. I tried to get a word from them, but they are like the sphinx, all stone and silence. They don’t seem entirely comfortable, I know that. I can’t make out what it means, though.”
Olivia’s breath caught, imagining the very worst.
Mrs. Beck shook her head vehemently. “And you shouldn’t make it out to be something that it is not. Oh, I wish I’d left well enough alone.” She turned on her heel and this time fled.
Olivia closed the door and leaned against it. There was nothing for it but that she would have to meet her visitors. She might fear what they would say to her, but she had to hear it nevertheless.
Returning to the cheval glass, Olivia made the adjustments to her hair that she had been too weary—no, too discouraged—to make earlier. Fixing the combs in their proper position did not greatly improve her appearance, but at least she no longer looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. In truth, she’d never been to it, having spent the night sitting in a chair by the fireplace with her feet resting on a hassock.
Olivia applied a bit of powder to her nose and made a swipe under her eyes. The bruised look was marginally erased. She pinched her cheeks to good effect and pressed her lips together to raise a modicum of color.
Her nostrils flared
