most particularly, let such words drop that Olivia came to understand it as well.
Her own connection to the viscount was not a matter of easy comprehension for the household staff, especially as Breckenridge had nothing at all to do with her. Except for Mr. Mason, who knew the truth of it and wasn’t sharing, everyone else was left to wonder.
It amused her to think that the bath, the salts, and linens may all have been in aid of softening her own defenses so that she might answer their questions rather than have so many of her own. She had it from Wick that there was a small, friendly wager among the servants as to the nature of her presence in the gaming hell. The hypothesis that currently curried the most favor was that she was in fact a relation to his lordship, a distant cousin whose lack of marriage prospects and financial straits were an embarrassment to the family. Apparently she had been thrust upon Breckenridge as a punishment of sorts to both of them.
Olivia thought that if she’d had only one shilling to her name, she still would have been moved to place it in support of that particular theory. It seemed a more likely turn than what she knew the truth to be.
Olivia kept at the puzzle of the salts and linens while she washed and rinsed her hair, regretting for the first time that she did not have Dillon’s help with the task. The most likely candidate to have contributed the additional amenities was Beetle, she decided. The boy had informed her by way of making conversation that his mother was a whore at Mrs. Tittle’s fine house here in Putnam Lane. From the way he’d told her, she gathered it was an establishment of some renown, popular with a certain set of privileged gentlemen. Beetle had been wont to impress upon her the elegant fashion of the place. It was turned out as well, on the inside at least, as Breckenridge’s own establishment.
Although the salts and linens probably had been lifted by Beetle rather than willingly donated by Beetle’s mother, they were the bath’s defining touch. She supposed that thanks were in order also to the proprietor of the house. Mrs. Tittle obviously saw advantages to creating the illusion of a fine lady’s boudoir for her patrons rather than reminding them in every way that they were naught but among whores.
Olivia allowed that it was probably a good strategy.
She closed her eyes and rested the damp twist of hair that she’d made at the back of her head against the tub’s lip. The water cooled, but even then she was reluctant to leave her bath. It was not until gooseflesh appeared on her arms that she made to stand.
Towels had been placed for her on a footstool at the side of the tub. She chose one to wrap around her hair and the other to dry herself with. She shivered, feeling the cold in earnest now and quickly pulled her nightshift over her head. Her robe added another layer of welcomed warmth. She padded barefoot into her bedchamber and found her slippers, stood in front of the fire for a few moments, then began to gently rub her hair dry.
“I have your dinner, Miss Cole.”
The voice from the other side of the door startled her. She hadn’t heard a knock, and Breckenridge’s staff was scrupulous about knocking. An ember popped loudly in the fireplace, forcing her to step back. “A moment,” she called, quickly plaiting her hair. “I just need a moment to—”
Olivia froze, her fingers still wound in the tail of her braid, as the door was pushed open. The entry of anyone into the room should have been preceded by a tray. The absence of one was the first thing she noticed.
The unfamiliarity of the face was the next detail to have impact.
In moments the whole of it registered. The intruder was elegantly attired in evening clothes, not the livery the footmen wore when they were at post in the gaming rooms. The gentleman’s expression was not one of surprise at making the discovery of her presence, but rather satisfaction that he had arrived at this end expecting it. And finally there was the step he took into the room, a step both assured and deliberate. Here was a man whose arrogance did not allow him to conceive that his entry would be unwelcome.
Olivia understood that he presented every sort of danger to her because of it.
Unable to move, she watched him close the door. He stood with his back to it, his hands disappearing behind him as he fiddled with the knob. She frowned. “What are you—”
The voice she’d found was silenced when he brought his fists to the forefront and turned them over, unfolding them slowly. The right one held a key.
Olivia’s hands dropped to her side. The towel that had been folded around her neck fell to the floor. She didn’t know why she did it, but she found herself stooping to pick it up. Perhaps it was because she needed something to clutch, she thought, just as Lord Breckenridge had pointed out. She straightened and twisted the towel in her hands.
“You should leave,” she said. And as if it would make any difference to him, she added, “If you leave now no one has to know you were here.” Her eyes darted to the bell cord that would bring Foster or someone else from the servants’ hall to her room if she could reach it.
The gentleman followed her glance, understood its import, and merely shook his head. He unbuttoned his frock coat and slipped the key into a crescent pocket in his waistcoat. “I suspect that who knows I am here is more your concern than mine.”
He had a sweet, almost shy smile that Olivia found perfectly incongruous to the import of his words and the intention she could see in his eyes. He was of an age with her and handsome enough that young ladies of little experience were probably desirous of his attention. Whether his pockets were deep enough to attract the notice of their mothers and make him a truly desirable connection was not immediately apparent to Olivia. The cut and detail of his clothing suggested a living that was more than sufficient to set a standard in fashion, but she recalled that Alastair often went about similarly turned out, even as she was struggling to settle their account with the greengrocer.
“Please leave,” she said.
“You say it prettily.” He smiled. “Say it again.”
Olivia inched away as he approached. She felt the coal scuttle pressing against her leg and realized she could not go farther in that direction. She wondered if she could speak the words he wanted loudly enough to be heard above the noise below them. He’d apparently thought the same and dismissed it because he was shaking his head.
“You haven’t asked what I want,” he said pleasantly.
Olivia didn’t answer. To say that she already knew was to give something of herself away. He did not deserve even so little as that from her.
He beckoned her with a finger. “Come. Come closer. Would you make me pursue you into the corner?”
His question reminded her of the direction in which she was going. She changed course and sidled toward the bed. He could make what he liked of it but there was some avenue of escape by choosing that heading.
Olivia continued to twist the towel between her fingers.
“So you are for the bed after all,” he said, noting her move to the side. “That is agreeable.”
“You must leave.” Olivia’s voice was firmer now. “Lord Breckenridge will—”
“Not mind,” he said.
It was his mistake to suppose that she believed him, and Olivia did nothing to correct his assumption. She was judging the distance remaining between them instead. She required something a bit shorter than what existed now. With that in mind, she held her ground when he took one more step toward her.
Like a mongoose to his cobra, Olivia struck with feral speed. With a flick of her wrist she snapped the damp towel at his head, catching him at the corner of his eye. He roared in pain and clamped one hand over the injured eye and used his other hand to flail at her. Olivia reared back, avoiding his half-blind groping, and twisted the towel in midair. She snapped it again, this time at the bulge in his trousers that he had taken no pains to hide.
This second application of the linen made him yowl. It also angered him beyond reason. Olivia had a glimpse of his red and watering eye as he dropped