Someone to Watch Over Me (19 page)

V
ictoria
. Finally he had discovered his beloved’s name. Grant had repeated it to himself at frequent intervals during his journey back to London.

Victoria and Vivien were indeed twins. Vivien had changed her last name to Duvall when she had begun her career as a courtesan. Victoria had remained in Forest Crest with her father.

There had been a feeling of warmth and coziness about White Rose Cottage, though it was clear that the Devanes had been genteelly poor. The place had been piled with books in every conceivable corner, ancient volumes with ragged covers. Small paintings of village scenes had covered the walls, executed in an amateurish but cheerful style. They had all been signed by the same person. Victoria Devane.

After talking with Vivien this afternoon, Grant
still found it impossible to believe that two women who were identical on the outside could be complete opposites in every other way. Victoria was an innocent country gentlewoman who spent her time reading, teaching the local children, painting, gathering armfuls of heather in the meadow. Vivien, by contrast, was pleasure-loving and self-serving…with a moral compass that was most definitely skewed. A remnant of their conversation lingered in Grant’s mind, the moment when he had accused Vivien of intentionally luring her innocent sister to London in the hopes of deflecting the danger from herself.

“You threw her to the wolves to save yourself,” Grant had said with chilling matter-of-factness. “You wanted her to be mistaken for you, and she was. And after conveniently disposing of her, you decided to live here and pretend to be her.”

The ugly accusation had caused the muscles of Vivien’s face to work angrily. She had sounded like a hissing feline as she replied. “I chose to stay here because I’m hardly in a condition to go search for my missing sister. I’ve been worried sick about where she has been and what might have happened to her. I thought for certain that if she went to London to discover I wasn’t there, she’d come home. And for your information, I sent a message warning her
not
to come to town!”

“This one?” he had sneered, withdrawing the letter from his breast pocket.

Receiving the folded parchment, Vivien had read it quickly. “How did you get this?”

“You left it at Dr. Linley’s office.”

“I did not!” she had said heatedly. “I posted it as soon as…” She had stopped suddenly, her fingers fluttering to her lips, and her voice had dwindled away. “I must have,” she had eventually whispered. “I’m almost positive I sent the letter, but…there were so many things to worry with…Oh, God!” She had dropped the letter as if it were a snake, and stared at it sullenly. “I never wanted Victoria to come to town. It was her own fault for intruding where she wasn’t wanted. I refuse to feel guilty for what happened to her, when she should have had the sense to stay here.”

“No one’s asking you to feel guilty,” Grant had returned evenly. “All I’m asking you to do is help me—and your sister—by answering a few questions.”

Vivien had complied at once, making it clear that she was more than ready to dispel the threat hanging over her head. “I’ll tell you everything you want to know,” she had said. “However, after we’re finished, there is someone else you will want to talk to. Lord Lane.”

Unfortunately Lord Lane was not to be found at his London residence this evening. Having managed to pry his whereabouts from the butler, Grant had learned that Lane spent most of his spare time at his club, Boodles, a haven for titled country gentlemen who preferred to discuss hunting over politics.

With the sky rumbling moodily and darkness descending, Grant drove his carriage to St. James Street. He was impatient and tired of traveling, and
more than anything he wanted to return to Victoria.

He was filled with anticipation as he considered the moment when he would finally reach her and explain everything…her name, her identity, the hows and whys of all that had happened to her. He wanted to make her feel safe and secure. She had been through so much, and he wanted her to understand that the worst was over. From now on he would make her life comfortable, pleasurable, if only she would allow him.

Grant had never felt like this before, his head filled with plans for the future, his mood damned close to optimistic. He would conclude the mess involving Vivien Duvall, and then he was going to set about making himself happy with Victoria. After years of serving as a Runner, he was getting damned tired of alley fights and subduing riots, and chasing criminals through rookeries and cess-trenches. It was time to let some other poor bastard do the footwork…time for him to find some enjoyment and pleasure in life.

Boodle’s, named after the club’s original head-waiter, was an intentionally dull place where gentlemen could find peace and relaxation. They sat in heavy upholstered chairs, held cigars and brandies, and viewed the paintings of hunting, shooting, and other country pursuits. The only sounds in the benign atmosphere were the occasional rustle of a newspaper and the murmur of a servant attending the gentlemen in the coffee room. It was the kind of place that would never voluntarily admit Grant. He might have sufficient fortune, but he didn’t
have the distinguished family name or the country estate, and his hunting was usually confined to catching human prey.

As Grant entered the club, he paused to glance in the famous bow window where gentlemen sat and smoked. He was immediately approached by a butler who seemed none too pleased to see him.

“Sir?” The butler’s face had all the expressiveness of a sea bass. “May I ask your business?”

“I was told I could find Lord Lane here. I’m Morgan, from the Bow Street office.”

A tiny glint of surprise appeared in the butler’s eyes. Clearly it was inconceivable that a patron of Boodle’s could be involved in any way with Bow Street affairs. “Is Lord Lane expecting you, Mr. Morgan?”

“No.”

“Then you will have to seek him out at some other time, sir. And in some other place.” Dismissively the butler reached for the edge of the door, preparing to usher Grant out.

A large, booted foot was planted firmly in the door’s path, and Grant smiled insolently at the butler. “Forgive me, I’ve given you the wrong impression. You seem to think I was asking for permission. The fact is, I’m
going
to see Lord Lane. Tonight. Here. Now…will you tell me which room he’s in, or shall I search the place myself? Mind you, I’m not always tidy in my searches. Things sometimes get broken.”

The butler’s face stiffened with panic as he envisioned the havoc one large, irritable Bow Street Runner could wreak in the quiet club. “This is most
untoward,” he gasped. “You mustn’t disturb the patrons. Most appalling. I believe Lord Lane is in the coffee room. If you are capable of exercising the least amount of discretion, I beg you—”

“I’m the most discreet man I know,” Grant assured him with a flashing grin. “Settle your feathers—I’ll have a chat with Lane and be gone before your patrons have even noticed me.”

“I doubt that,” the butler said, watching in dismay as the intruder strode into the hallowed terrain.

Clusters of silent gentlemen sat at the round tables, reclining in Hepplewhite chairs upholstered in horsehair. A chandelier with chunky crystal drops was suspended from the white-paneled, vaulted ceiling. A somber painting of a stag hunt loomed over the mantelpiece, lending a solid masculine ambience to the room. Heads turned as Grant entered the coffee room, and a score of judgmental glances passed over his travel-dusty clothes and short, rumpled hair. Refusing to look gracefully abashed by his own appearance, Grant stared speculatively at each table, until he saw one man sitting alone near the fire.

The gentleman was lean and long-limbed, with iron-gray hair and an angular, deeply lined face. Staring down the length of his hawklike nose, he concentrated on a newspaper. A plate set before him contained biscuits, a spoonful of ripe Stilton, and a dab of red preserves.

Grant approached his table with a measured stride. “Lord Lane,” he said quietly. The man did not look up from his paper, though he surely had
heard. “I’m Morgan, of the Bow Str—”

“I know who you are,” Lane murmured, appearing to finish one last paragraph before deigning to set aside the paper. His voice was cultured but exceptionally dry and brittle, like the sound of old bones rubbing together.

“I want to talk with you.”

Lane’s oddly colorless eyes surveyed him coldly. “How dare you approach me in my club!”

“We can go somewhere else if you like,” Grant offered, in an overly polite manner that was unmistakably mocking.

“What I would like, Morgan, is for you to leave.”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you, my lord. What I have to discuss can’t wait. Now…shall we talk here in front of your friends, or in one of the private rooms?”

Lane glanced at a nearby servant, who surveyed them anxiously from the side of the room. The servant was clearly at a loss to know how to handle the unexpected intrusion. “I believe I’ll have the club management arrange for your removal from the premises,” Lane said, snapping his fingers at the servant, who approached them with alacrity.

Grant held up one hand in a restraining gesture and waved the servant back to his place by the wall. He smiled at Lane without warmth. “I’m not in the mood to play games, my lord. In fact, I’m this close”—he indicated a space of a quarter inch between his thumb and forefinger—“to dragging you out of here and taking you to the Bow Street holding room for questioning.”

A flush of outrage crested Lord Lane’s slanted cheeks. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I would,” Grant assured him. “I’m vastly entertained by the notion of arresting a member of Boodle’s right in the coffee room—just to show the club patrons that it can be done. But I’ll restrain myself, milord, if you make an effort to be accommodating and provide the answers I’m seeking.”

Lane’s eyes blazed with impotent fury. “You filthy piece of gutter scum—”

“I know, I know.” Grant signaled to the servant, who crept forward uneasily. “A carafe of coffee, please. Black.” He paused and arched an expectant brow at Lane. “Where shall we talk, my lord?”

“Is room number four vacant?” Lane growled at the servant.

“I believe so, milord.”

“Number four it is,” Grant said. “I’ll take my coffee there.”

“Yes, sir.”

With the attention of the entire room on them, the two men walked past the tables and crossed the threshold. They went down a hallway to a succession of private rooms.

“You have no idea of the extent of my influence,” Lane sneered. “I can have your chief magistrate replaced in a day, if I so desire. I can have you placed in chains for your insolence, you ignorant mongrel!”

“Let’s discuss Vivien Duvall,” Grant suggested softly.

Lord Lane’s color, which was not good to start with, faded to a shade of aged parchment. “What
in God’s name are you talking about?”

The servant entered the room with a tray of coffee and biscuits, poured a cup of the brew for Grant, and departed speedily. When the door was firmly closed, Grant downed half the coffee in a single swallow and lifted a steady gaze to Lane’s watchful face. “Someone attempted to murder her a month ago,” he said. “I suspect you may be able to shed some light on the matter.”

The name caused the elderly man to grit his teeth angrily. “I refuse to say anything in connection with that malicious slut.”

“She’s not on my list of favorites, either,” Grant replied. “But you have more cause to hate her than most, don’t you? You blame her for causing your son’s suicide.”

“She is responsible for Harry’s death,” Lane acknowledged. “I’ve said as much to many others.”

“Responsible in what way?”

Though Lord Lane made an effort to conceal his emotions, his voice contained betraying tremors of grief and fury. “My son suffered from melancholy for years. It caused him to turn to all manner of excessive behavior. He was easy prey for gamblers and thieves…and women such as the Duvall creature. She had an affair with Harry, and when she ended the relationship, my son shot himself.”

“That isn’t all you have against her,” Grant said. “After Harry’s death, Vivien then seduced his son Thomas—your only grandson—and schemed to marry him.”

There was a long silence, during which Lane struggled to mask his emotions. “I’m aware of no
schemes concerning my grandson,” he said, his voice cool and dry.

Lane was a fairly good liar, Grant reflected—but the issue was too close to the old man’s heart, and his rage was too great to conceal the truth for long.

“You bought Thomas a commission and packed him off on the first ship to India when you found out Vivien was after him,” Grant continued. “I suppose you thought he’d be safer braving heathens, wild game, and exotic disease than to be exposed to Vivien’s influence. God knows you may have been right. But you should have stopped it there, my lord. Hiring someone to murder Vivien was going a bit too far.”

“Nonsense,” Lane said curtly. “Had I wanted the harlot dead, I would have done it myself.”

“Men in your position never do it themselves. But I am surprised that you apparently hired an idiot to take care of your dirty business. He didn’t finish the job. The clumsy ass couldn’t manage to kill one small, defenseless woman—something you learned about on the night of the Lichfield ball, when you saw that Vivien was still alive. And you became understandably keen on having the bastard finish what he was paid to do.”

The barely suppressed outrage on Lane’s face was infused by cunning and smugness. “What proof do you have of any of this?”

“I’ll have proof enough when my investigation is concluded and I’ve caught your hired killer.”

And then something strange happened…something that had never occurred in Grant’s previous years of detective work. The defensive barrier suddenly
broke, and Lane stared at him with a gaze of glittering, triumphant malice. And he made a four-word confession.

“You won’t catch him.”

The admission of guilt was completely unexpected. Had Grant been in Lane’s position, he would have prevaricated indefinitely and hid behind a shield of age, respectability, and political influence. There was no reason for Lane to confess anything. However, later Grant would reflect that it was understandable in light of Lane’s sense of invulnerability. Lane must have been certain that a man in his position—a peer of the realm—would never have been tried for the death of a whore. And moreover, Lane was so enraged over his son’s suicide that deep inside he wanted someone to know that Harry’s death had been properly avenged. He was an old man with very few years left, and he had been robbed of his only son.