She’d made her own study of the viscount as he’d stood waiting for the bell to be answered. If he’d noticed her stealing glances in his direction, he’d given no indication that he was the least bothered by it.
Olivia was certain that she’d never seen him before, not that there would have been many opportunities to cross paths. Alastair did not introduce her to his friends, or even his amiable acquaintances, of whom she was now sure Breckenridge was not one.
He did not cast his profile in a way that made him an imposing figure, merely an intimidating one. His dark, chestnut-colored hair was longer than was the current fashion and carelessly furrowed by the fingers he’d plowed through it. His eyes were darker yet and given to narrowing so they did not simply gaze upon the object of his study, but secured it. His features were strong, angular, and except for a pale, thin scar bisecting his left cheek from the temple to the corner of his mouth, perfectly symmetrical. The scar saved him from the beauty that was the marble work of master sculptors and lent him something that was at once more striking and more human, the work of God twisted by man.
Olivia judged him to be not yet thirty, though it was a narrow thing. There was a weariness in his expression as he waited that he had taken pains to hide from her earlier. Even as she wondered at its source, it vanished. If it were not for the fact that she’d glimpsed a similar look in her own mirror, she could have been convinced that she’d imagined it. This commonality did not cheer her in the least. There was no conceiving of what harm might be done by two people with these unfortunate dispositions.
She thought he held himself in a posture of such correctness that it was most likely the product of the combined efforts of nannies, tutors, and a martinet of a mother. His stance lent him height and a certain polish. He made to carry himself in a manner that looked supremely natural, without a hint of the tension, superiority, or self-consciousness that she’d had occasion to observe in others of privilege and formidable education. Then, just as if to dismiss Olivia’s notion that he was uncommonly unconstrained, he rolled one of his shoulders and rubbed the nape of his neck with his palm.
The scar was proof that he’d been vulnerable once. His brief massage of corded muscle reminded her that he was vulnerable now. It struck her that it was little enough advantage knowing this fact, but she would accept every scrap he gave her.
When Griffin returned to his desk, he took up a position in front rather than behind it. He pushed aside a stack of ledgers and made room enough for him to rest one hip on the edge. Bracing himself by extending his other leg, he folded his arms across his chest and regarded Olivia Cole with a frankness that had been absent in his earlier scrutiny.
“Have you arrived yet at the reason you are here?” he asked.
“If I am to judge by the interview thus far, I would say it is because you are singularly self-indulgent.”
He actually smiled. The impact of the scar was visible now as the left corner of his mouth lifted a bit higher than the right, tugging his grin at a decidedly rakish angle. “Given your experience, it’s a fair observation,” he allowed. “It is also incorrect, but it is of no consequence to me if you choose to believe differently. Mr. Varah and Mr. Fairley were permitted to give you enough information to secure your cooperation. What did they tell you?”
“Mr. Fairley, I believe it was, informed me it was regarding the matter of a ring and a debt.”
“And so it is, and here you are.” His eyebrows knit slightly as he continued to regard her. “You’re not Alastair Cole’s wife, though, are you?”
“No.”
His expression cleared as he nodded. “I wasn’t certain. The note in my possession only references Olivia. When my sources learned that you shared a residence with Mr. Cole, it seemed the most respectful course to assume you were his wife.”
Olivia volunteered no information.
“It occurs to me now that you are also not his mistress.”
“No, I am not.”
“A relative, then. There are similarities of appearance. His hair is a pale imitation of yours, but the proper coloring is there. The shape of the eyes, I think, is also somewhat alike. Yours are green, are they not?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say that I recall his. Perhaps green also, like the emerald he was wearing.”
Olivia realized she was gently worrying the inside of her bottom lip with her teeth. She released it and affected a calm she did not feel.
“You are rather tall, also like him, though I believe it attracts more attention when a woman is of a certain height, especially when she is of such a narrow frame that a willow branch could hide her figure. When did you last eat, Miss Cole?”
She blinked, startled by the question. Had she taken more than tea at breakfast? And what of supper yesterday?
“Never mind. Your hesitation speaks for itself.” He pushed away from the desk and pulled on the bell cord again. This time his summons was answered by a different servant. He gave instructions for a repast of baked eggs and toast, but before he let the young man go, he asked Olivia, “Do you care for hot cocoa?”
It was an extravagance she rarely indulged. The thought of it made warmth and sweetness settle lightly on her tongue. She had to press her arm against her stomach to quell the rumbling sound.
“Bring the cocoa. Tea as well. Here, take the tray.” He stepped aside to permit the servant to enter and remained there until the lad had carried out the task of collecting the service. After closing the door, he returned to his perch on the desk and assumed the exact position he’d had before. “You look as if a draft could move you from that chair.”
“You needn’t have troubled yourself or your staff,” Olivia said. “I’m not hungry.”
“A matter of no account. It remains that you’ll eat.”
“High-handed,” she said.
“There you have me.” Shrugging, he picked up the conversational thread as if he’d never abandoned it. “Would I be correct that you are Alastair Cole’s cousin?”
“No.”
“His sister, then. I should have trusted my first notion. I gave too much weight to the physical differences.”
Olivia thought he seemed disappointed in himself. A game played and lost. She wondered at it, wondered how much he’d played to amuse himself and how much was done to unsettle her. Perhaps doing both was the point of it all.
“Though why I should have done so,” he went on, “does not make practical sense. I have sisters of my own. Three, in fact, and we could not be more dissimilar in appearance or inclination. I take by your expression that you consider it a fortunate turn for my sisters. You would be right, of course. They are wholly respectable, while I…” He lifted his hands, palms up, to indicate the entirety of his establishment. “While I, for reasons that are obvious to the meanest intelligence, am not.”
As Breckenridge had correctly divined the bent of her thoughts, Olivia decided that saying nothing was the wiser course.
“I should like to hear your opinion on a particular matter, Miss Cole. It is Miss Cole, is it not?” When she nodded, he continued. “I’d like you to tell me in which of these three respects the gentleman is the most complete bounder. He surrenders his wife to a man he owes payment. He gives over his mistress to discharge his debt. Or he sacrifices his sister to spare himself a very bad end. I confess, I cannot work it out myself, but it occurs that you might have a cogent position.”
Olivia realized she was worrying her bottom lip again. This time she didn’t attempt to stop. She drew blood instead.
Her silence