The Price of Desire

by Jo Goodman

Genres: Regency Romance; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A proper lady finds herself under the care of a sexy scoundrel in this Regency romance by the USA Today bestselling author of To Bedevil a Duke.

Olivia Cole is devastated to learn that her ne'er-do-well brother has promised her to the operator of a London gaming hall as payment of his debts. Olivia accepts her fate--even if it means that her reputation will suffer from living among rogues and gamblers. But when she meets the sexy and mysterious Griffin Wright-Jones, Viscount Breckenridge, Olivia has more than just her good name to worry about—for he rouses in her wanton thoughts she's never dared entertain—until now.

Griffin wears the scars of his life on his striking face. Although he wants Olivia like no other woman before, he could never force her to share his bed. But with each passing night, Griffin and Olivia's resolve weakens until finally they take their greatest gamble on one night of reckless pleasure

Release date: September 1, 2008

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 448

Sample

London
January 1823

“The debt is £1,000.”

Griffin Wright-Jones, Viscount Breckenridge, closed the book of accounts slowly, running his forefinger along the spine before he neatly squared it off so it was parallel to the edge of his desk. He set himself back just a fraction in his chair, inclining his back and resting his elbows on the wide, burnished leather arms. It was only then that he deigned to look up, one dark brow lifted in an expression of such mild curiosity that it could have been mistaken for indifference. He did not expect that the man standing at attention on the other side of the desk would make that error. Alastair Cole had too much at stake—£1,000, to be strictly accurate—to misjudge the situation.

“I admit that at long last you have impressed me,” Breckenridge said.

Alastair Cole said nothing. Did nothing.

“If you schooled your features so well at the table, you would have discharged this debt handily. Mayhap you would not have amassed it.”

“I will honor it, of course.”

“Of course.” Breckenridge paused deliberately, though not overlong. Still, it was enough time to observe Mr. Cole shift his weight ever so slightly from his right foot to his left. This infinitesimal movement was accompanied by a shift in Cole’s gaze. “You are a gentleman, after all,” Breckenridge said. “I would expect nothing less.”

“I am gratified you know it.”

Breckenridge nodded slowly. “Your reputation is important to you, I imagine.” He noticed that Alastair Cole did not flinch, but he did blink. Twice. Breckenridge’s hands closed soundlessly in an attitude of prayer. He pressed the tips of his fingers together, making a steeple of them as he continued to regard Cole, considering. “You will likewise be aware that my reputation is important to me.”

“My lord?”

Breckenridge was now quite certain that Cole’s voice box was as tautly stretched as his nerves. There had been an alarming squeak as the man had uttered these last words. Judging by the scarlet color that rose above the stiff points of Cole’s collar, he had heard it as well.

“I collect what is owed,” Breckenridge said. “That is my reputation. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Then you will not take offense when I ask how you plan to cover your losses.” Breckenridge permitted himself a small smile at Cole’s discomfort. Clearly the young man was offended at having the question put to him—a gentleman was taken at his word, after all—but he also seemed to sense that a toplofty tantrum was an indulgence he could ill afford. Breckenridge held up one hand, palm out, forestalling Cole’s answer just as the man’s lips parted around the lie he was about to tell. “And, pray, do not say you mean to ask for an advance on your quarterly allowance. We both know that such a request is unlikely to be granted.”

Alastair Cole brought his fist to his mouth as he cleared his throat. “Pardon me, my lord. A tickle in my throat.”

Breckenridge watched Cole’s eyes drop briefly to the tumbler of whiskey on the desk and the decanter beside it, but he did not offer libation and Cole did not ask for it.

“Unless you are in possession of facts unknown to me,” Cole said, “I have every reason to anticipate my request will be met favorably.”

Breckenridge made no response save for raising his arched eyebrow a fraction higher.

“Are you in possession of such facts?” Alastair Cole asked.

“I don’t believe so. I know what you know. Our opposing views suggest we interpret the facts differently.”

“I’m certain that is the case.”

Breckenridge thought Cole looked relieved. “I hope for your sake that you are in the right of it.” His expression remained unchanged as he added quietly, “You would not want to be wrong.”

Cole teetered slightly. The flush that had suffused his skin vanished, leaving him pale except for the sprinkling of freckles across his nose. “No, my lord. That is, I’m not wrong.”

The viscount nodded. He dropped his hands to the arms of his chair. “Then I can expect payment tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

The soprano note of panic had returned to Alastair Cole’s voice. It required effort of will for Breckenridge not to wince. He consulted his gold fob watch instead. “It is long after midnight already,” he said. “I did not realize. In that case I will expect payment in the morning. I am given to late risings. It is the hours I keep, I suspect. Let us say eleven, shall we? Something less than twelve hours from now. That should be sufficient.”

“Eleven? I couldn’t possibly.”

“I don’t believe I could have heard you correctly.”

Cole swallowed hard. The flush was back in his cheeks. “I require more time, my lord.”

“Do not keep it a secret, Mr. Cole. Out with it.”

“A day,” Cole said quickly. “A few days at the most.”

“A day? A few days? Which is it?”

“A few days.”

“Three? Four? Be specific, man.”

“Four.”

“Four days to secure an advance on your allowance seems excessive.”

“There are arrangements that must be made.”

Breckenridge considered this. “Travel arrangements, no doubt. In four days you could be in Liverpool. You could be in France.”

“No.” Alastair Cole shook his head vehemently. A lock of red-blond hair fell across his brow, making him look even younger than his twenty-one years. “That is not my intention. I swear to you, you shall have your money.”

“You would have me believe you are in earnest.”

“I am in earnest.”

Breckenridge did not respond immediately. He allowed silence to fill the space until it became as thick and cold as day-old porridge. It was an underrated tool, silence. At least Breckenridge had always found it so. People were often discomfited by it. Society sought to fill the void with chatter and tattle, tongues wagging as they were wont to do. Alastair Cole struggled to remain upright under the weight of it. Breckenridge could see that he was worrying his lower lip, probably drawing blood. God’s truth, there should be blood, Breckenridge thought, when gentlemen made wagers beyond their means to pay. No exception could be made for youth or inexperience, both of which afflicted Alastair Cole.

“Very well,” said Breckenridge. “You shall have your four days. Mark it well in your mind that I mean to have my money by this hour on Thursday.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Alastair bobbed his head. “Thank you.”

“And what do you propose to exchange for the four days?”

“What?”

“Quid pro quo. You know the phrase, do you not? Recently come down from Cambridge as you have.”

“Something for something. Yes, I know it.” Alastair Cole pushed the wayward lock of hair back into place. “But I thought I explained myself. I don’t have the money now.”

“That has been made clear to me, but I don’t have four days to surrender to you without something in return.”

“You want interest? Is that it?”

“I’m not a bloody moneylender, Cole. This is business.” Breckenridge knew the impact his dark, remote gaze had on gentlemen of Alastair Cole’s ilk. He used it now, not at all disappointed with the result. Small beads of perspiration formed on Cole’s upper lip, glistening in the firelight when the young man turned his head. Breckenridge allowed his glance to drop to the ring Cole was wearing on his right hand. “Tell me about that bauble.”

Cole jerked as if pulled from a trance. “Bauble?” He followed Breckenridge’s line of sight to stare at his own hand. “The ring?” he asked weakly.

“Yes, of course, the ring.”

“It was my father’s.”

Breckenridge waved that response aside and bid Cole come closer. “An emerald. Very nice. Solidly square cut. Unimaginative but suggesting strength. I make it to be set in a bed of—what?—twenty diamond chips?”

“Twenty-one,” Alastair said on a thread of sound.

“I 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?”

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 slightly as she took a deep breath. Releasing it slowly, she pronounced herself fit enough to greet strangers, though in no wise of a mood to converse at length. She hoped these runners—if that’s what they were—had come without expectations.

Although she approached the drawing room as she imagined the wrongfully condemned approached the gallows, upon opening the door Olivia managed a gracious though somewhat grave smile.

“Gentlemen,” she said easily, “I am consumed with curiosity as to your presence in my home. I hope you mean to enlighten me quickly as I am obliged to visit Lady Fontanelle for elevenses.”

Neither man spoke for a moment, although they did exchange unreadable glances. Olivia was not at all certain Mrs. Beck was correct in her estimation that they were from Bow Street. For one thing, they dressed rather better than the runners she’d seen mingling with crowds at Vauxhall Gardens or strolling in and around Drury Lane after the theatres released their patrons. These gentlemen wore clothing cut from a different cloth; frock coats that looked as if they’d been tailored to fit comfortably on broader shoulders, waistcoats that did not hang too loosely nor strain the fabric around Corinthian physiques.

The gentlemen were of an age and attitude that reminded her of Alastair. It occurred to her that they might be his intimates, though caution kept her from advancing this assumption.

“Mrs. Cole.” The gentleman with russet-colored hair and a nose that looked to have been broken, perhaps several times, made a slight bow as he stepped forward to separate himself from his companion. “I am Stephen Fairley. I was instructed most particularly to speak to you.”

Olivia wondered how that could be. He was under the misapprehension that she was Mrs. Cole. She did not correct him. “And so you are, Mr. Fairley.” She glanced in the direction of his partner. “You, sir? Were you similarly instructed?”

“I was. Patrick Varah, Mrs. Cole.” Mr. Varah’s clipped blond hair fell across his sloping brow as he bent his head to make his introduction.

Olivia had no intention of making them easy in her presence. She certainly was not easy in theirs. Crossing the room to the small tea table near the fireplace, she deliberately chose a path that forced her visitors to make way for her. Divide and conquer, she reasoned, was always a wise course, even if the effect was short-lived.

“Please state your purpose,” she said, turning on them.

“It’s thought that you’ll already have some notion of that,” Mr. Fairley said carefully. “But I was told that if it must be refined upon, I should say that we’ve come on the matter of a certain emerald ring and a debt of considerable consequence.”

Olivia was glad of her foresight to put the table at her side. By placing her right hand on the polished cherrywood top, she was able to keep herself upright. “I see,” she murmured. No other response occurred to her. Her mind had become a perfect blank slate.

“You’ll want to fetch your pelisse and bonnet,” Mr. Varah told her. “Gloves, also. The air is bracing. I shouldn’t be surprised if it snows this afternoon.” When she didn’t move, he prompted rather gently, “You understand we’ve come for you, don’t you? It’s expected that you’ll return with us.”

She nodded once, slowly, though there was no real comprehension behind the movement. Her head ached abominably.

Mr. Fairley took a small step toward her, one hand raised as though to offer support. “Perhaps you should sit.” He glanced at his companion. “It cannot hurt to wait for her to recover her wits.”

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 that she could not identify. A second sniff assured her that she did not want to apply herself to making that discovery.

When Fairley and Varah had finished stamping their feet and brushing off their hats, Olivia became aware of the inordinate quiet in the house. No one, it seemed, was stirring above or below stairs. No one had come forward from the back of the house to greet them. She regarded her escorts with a new wariness in her eyes, wondering far too late if she was safe to be alone with them.

“We’re expected upstairs,” Varah said.

Olivia shook her head. “I think I’d like to remain here.”

Both Varah and Fairley were prepared to present their argument against it, but they stopped even as their mouths began to shape the protest. Their gazes were drawn upward over the velvet crown of Olivia Cole’s bonnet to the top of the stairs.

Viscount Breckenridge nodded once in the way of dismissal. “You’ve discharged your debt, gentlemen. I can think of no reason we shall have to speak of it again. Ever. That’s clear enough, isn’t it?”

Olivia had turned her head to follow the line of sight of Varah and Fairley; now she twisted back to look at them. They were nodding in unison and already replacing their hats. They managed to look at once apologetic and deferential. It was unseemly how quickly they made their departure.

“Olivia Cole?”

Olivia lifted her face in the direction of the voice again. “That’s right.”

“Good. I’d hate to think they’d gotten it wrong, what with me having just let them go. It’s gratifying that my trust in them wasn’t entirely misplaced.” His dark eyes bore into hers. “It remains to be seen about you.”

Olivia wondered what reply she might make to that, but before one occurred to her he was gone and she was left staring at the space he’d occupied. She stood at the foot of the steps for several minutes, determining her course of action. She had the oddest sense that it was a test of sorts, but no sense of how he meant to take her measure. Leaving the townhouse seemed the only sure way she could fail.

Olivia unfastened the ribbons under her chin and removed her bonnet before she began to climb the stairs. She found him in a room that bore a passing resemblance to a place where one might conduct affairs of business and commerce. A large desk was central to the room. Much of its surface area was covered by ledgers, writing paper, and pots of ink. Bookshelves occupied two full walls, and many of the volumes lay on their side to make as much use of the available space as possible. Still, a stack of books rested beside one of the room’s two wing chairs, carelessly doubling as a side table complete with an empty cup and saucer on top. The teapot, cream pitcher, and sugar bowl remained on the silver serving tr