In other circumstances, Olivia would have taken umbrage with Mr. Fairley’s characterization of her as witless. The sad truth of the matter, she reflected, was that he had named the thing correctly. When Mr. Varah slipped a claw-and-ball-footed chair behind her knees, she dropped like a stone. The gentlemen hovered momentarily, uncertain, then backed away. She drew a deep, settling breath.
“Rest easy, sirs. I have no intention of fainting.” She glanced up in time to witness their relief. Clearly they were not prepared for any reaction from her save for acceptance and cooperation. It made her wish she were given to brief moments of blissful unconsciousness just to test their mettle. High drama did not suit her either, so there would be no wailing or wringing her hands. She resisted even the small urge to press one hand to her forehead, thinking it was precisely the sort of gesture that was overdone on the stage to convey moments of great anxiety.
“I must know about Alastair,” she said quietly. “The ring means nothing, the debt less than nothing, if you cannot tell me how he fares.”
Mr. Fairley cleared his throat, betraying his discomfort. “I can say, quite truthfully I promise you, that when last I saw your husband he was having a run of good luck at cards and in fine spirits.”
Olivia could not divine the exact meaning of that. It seemed to her there was a greater truth that Stephen Fairley was neatly sidestepping. The phrase “in fine spirits” resonated with her, prompting her to wonder if Alastair had been deep in his cups. “You are not from Bow Street, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Fairley said, bristling slightly at the suggestion.
As if to ward off a similar insult aimed at him, Mr. Varah interjected, “We are friends of your husband, come to do him a favor.”
“I doubt that,” Olivia said.
Fairley offered an alternative description. “Amiable acquaintances. I could not say whether your husband counts any man as his friend.”
Olivia pressed her lips together and nodded briefly, satisfied Mr. Fairley was in every way more accurate than his companion. “I imagine you play cards at the same table now and again. Mayhap place wagers on the horses.”
“Yes.”
Taking this in, Olivia tightened the hands folded in her lap. “Did you know him at Cambridge?”
“I did,” said Varah. “Fairley here was an Oxford man.”
“He told you he was married?” asked Olivia.
“Never breathed a word of it, Mrs. Cole. Fairley and I only learned of it this morning when we were called upon to perform this small service.”
“A service, is it? No longer a favor?”
“It can be both,” Fairley said. “And it is. I hope you will believe me when I say that your cooperation will be of considerable benefit to your husband. I imagine it is the very thing he is counting on.”
Olivia made no reply and allowed silence to settle heavily around her. She drew a modicum of comfort from it as though it were as tangible as the shawl about her shoulders.
After several long moments, Mr. Varah tread lightly into the quiet, tipping his head toward the door. “We should be off, Mrs. Cole. Shall I ring for the housekeeper? You really must dress for the weather. The hack can provide but a thin shield from the wind.”
Stoic and graceful, Olivia stood. She forbade to answer Mr. Varah but crossed the room and rang for Mrs. Beck herself. She made no attempt to leave their company in order to prepare for her departure. It occurred to her that she would not tolerate well the humiliation of not being allowed out of their sight. Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah had been unfailingly well mannered, but she did not mistake that it meant they trusted her. Indeed, she suspected they had been cautioned against it.
For Olivia it was further proof they did not comprehend the nature of her relationship with Alastair. Far from desiring to bolt, she was prepared to surrender herself in whatever manner was required. Alastair would have known that; whoever sent Fairley and Varah did not.
The ride in the hack was rather more brief than Olivia anticipated, lasting not above thirty minutes. She thought it probably seemed much longer to her companions, or at least she hoped that it did. Since leaving the comparative safety of her home, Olivia fancied Varah and Fairley were proving to be more like gargoyles than guards. They sat stonily on either side of her, crowding her with their shoulders and elbows and making no allowance for the fact that she was already occupying very little in the way of space. She ignored the hammering of her heart and tightness in her throat and told herself she was glad of the warmth their proximity provided.
Something good could come of something bad.
She held this thought, as she often did, until she believed it was so.
“What is this place?” Olivia asked, confronting a row of houses as she alighted from the hack. She stiffened a bit as she came to the answer herself. In the light of day there was nothing to obscure the genteel shabbiness of the street or the residences that lined it. The gray stone houses might have been home to gentry half a century earlier, but they were let out as business establishments now. Twin lanterns fitted with red glass were affixed to more than one dark entrance. Curtains were drawn while the occupants of those houses slept on, oblivious to the late hour of the morning.
Glancing on either side of her, Olivia saw that she and her escorts were alone. The hired hack was the only one of its sort on the street. Its noisy approach was probably most unwelcome even as the time was nearing eleven.
She imagined—and she had experience enough to imagine it well—that with a bank of fog rolling up from the river and the forgiving cloak of night, this particular street might present itself as infinitely more appealing, certainly more exciting. Gentlemen about town, especially young gentlemen, would gravitate to this place, called here by the intrigue of something illicit, the hope of something winning, and the promise of something adventurous. If they were fortunate, Olivia supposed, they would leave wiser for the experience without having to explain away the pox to their wives, empty pockets to their creditors, or the lump on their head to their physicians. All of that and more was to be had on a street like this when day gave itself over to night.
Olivia actually sighed, holding up one hand to stave off Mr. Fairley’s answer to her question. “It is of no import,” she said. “I can’t think that it matters where we are. One enterprise is very like another.”
Fairley looked pained. “That’s not quite so, Mrs. Cole, but it’s not for me to explain. We’re not much more than a well-pitched stone from Covent Garden. We’re standing in Putnam Lane off Moorhead Street.” He pointed to the unremarkable gray stone townhouse directly in front of them. “This is Breckenridge’s establishment. If it has another name, I’ve never learned it.”
“Pray, Mr. Fairley, how much information would you have felt compelled to impart if I had shown the least interest?” Olivia was gratified to see Stephen Fairley flush at her rebuke. It was a modest sign that she was regaining the use of her faculties.
Varah paid the driver and waved him on. “This way, Mrs. Cole. Mind the steps. I see a glaze.”
Olivia ignored the elbow he offered but took his advice to be careful. Mr. Fairley, she noticed, hung back a little. She hoped he was still stinging from her reproach. She swept past Mr. Varah when he threw open the door for her.
The entrance hall was lighted by a single stub of a candle in a wall sconce. It provided enough light for Olivia to avoid bumping into a table set just inside the door but was insufficient to prevent her from catching the toe of her boot on the fringed carpet and stumbling into the newell post. Straightening, she discreetly massaged her hip and fended off Mr. Varah’s concern.
The air was stale with the lingering scents of tobacco, alcohol, perfume, sweat, and something oddly sweet