he? If he has, well...then we might have us a fighting chance of winning.”
Everyone seemed plumb perked up by the possibility. Olivia almost hated to disabuse them. “No. He hasn’t.” In fact, he’d seemed unaccountably unmoved by her looks overall. “But I—”
“That’s it, then. We’re done for!” the bellman moaned. “If he ain’t able to see how marriageable Miss Mouton is, I reckon he ain’t right in the head, anyhow. There’s no winnin’ that.”
A general murmur of assent rippled through the crowd.
Aghast, Olivia looked out at them. These were her friends and neighbors. They were practically her family. Yet even they didn’t believe she could take on Mr. Turner and win...at least not on the merits of her intelligence and ingenuity and fortitude.
Dismayed, she shifted her gaze to Mr. Grant. He had obviously read the situation as astutely as she had, because he’d already withdrawn a stack of pay envelopes from his valise.
“Do you all quit?” Mr. Grant asked, raising the envelopes. “Or will you get back to work under Mr. Turner’s management?”
Breath held, Olivia waited. But it was no contest at all. One by one, all the staff members made their way dispiritedly back to their posts. They began dealing with guests, carrying baggage and refilling oil lamps...in the new Lorndorff Hotel.
The one that didn’t feel like Olivia’s home anymore.
Left alone with Palmer Grant, she watched him return the pay envelopes securely to his valise, his head tactfully bowed.
“For a man who just won,” she said as she glanced at him, “you don’t seem particularly happy about your triumph.”
But Mr. Grant only shook his head. “This wasn’t a triumph.”
“Not for you, perhaps, but for Mr. Turner—”
“Not for him, either.” Mr. Grant lifted his solemn face to hers, then mustered a halfhearted smile. “But if you’re really as special as Griffin seems to think you are, you’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.” With surprising affability, he shook her hand. “Good luck, Miss Mouton. I think you’ll need it.”
Then Palmer Grant hefted his valise, cast one final look at the now bustling hotel and took himself off—leaving Olivia alone to figure out how she was supposed to regain her father’s hotel...whether anyone believed she could accomplish it or not.
* * *
Any minute now, Griffin figured as he lay in the darkness on his hotel suite’s bed, he would start to feel better.
Any minute now, the crushing weight on his chest would ease. The urge to grip a whiskey bottle would lessen. The compulsion to draw the curtains would disappear and the need to forget everything and everyone would vanish. Any minute now, a sliver of hopefulness would nudge its way into his hardened heart and carry him toward the next day and the next conquest, the way it always had in the past. The way it had to do today.
Under most circumstances, exercising his authority made Griffin feel better. That had been true for years. After his forced takeover of The Lorndorff Hotel yesterday, however, he felt...worse, if anything. He didn’t understand it. Flexing his influence and power and wealth had always improved his outlook.
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