Someone to Watch Over Me bsr-1

by Lisa Kleypas

  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'mgoing 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 vo
ice 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.

  Motionless, Grant stared at Lane as the old man continued with a quiet certainty that sent chills down his spine. "Vivien Duvall will soon be deep in her grave, her killer will disappear from England--and you can do nothing to stop it."

  Inwardly unnerved, Grant had to remind himself that Victoria was safe in his own house, with a Runner to protect her.

  "The imbecile you hired won't get anywhere near Vivien," Grant said softly. "So far he's never managed to lay a finger on her. From the beginning of your damnable bargain, he's been pursuing the wrong woman.The wrong one, do you understand? The woman he attacked and threw into the Thames--the same woman I escorted to the Lichfield ball--isn't Vivien Duvall. It's her sister. Vivien's been in hiding all this time, and your hired man has been trying to kill her innocent sister."

  "It isn't true!" Lane shot to his feet so quickly that his chair toppled backward. Clearly the suggestion that Vivien Duvall was healthy and out of harm's way was enough to make him insane. Even the ends of his coarse gray hair seemed to crackle with fury. "Lying cur! Only a fool would believe such a cock-and-bull claim--"

  "Vivien's sister has been put through hell because of your stupidity," Grant said, his own anger welling in an ungovernable flood. "And the nightmare she's been living is going to end tonight." Before he was quite aware of what he was doing, he felt his hands close around the other man's throat in a threatening vise. "Shall I do to you what was done to her?" he asked thickly. "Let's see how you feel after a good throttling and a nice long swim in the Thames--"

  "Take...your hands...offme..." the other man wheezed.

  "Tell me your man's name, so I can put a stop to this damned nonsense," Grant said grimly. "Tell me, you bastard."

  Lord Lane's face purpled, and his eyes bulged with bitter fury. "If it's true," he choked, "if there are two of them...I'll have both of them destroyed, just to make certain--"

  "Never. It'sfinished, do you understand?" Deliberately he tightened his fingers on Lane's windpipe. "His name," he repeated grimly, staring like an angel of vengeance into the old man's watery eyes.

  Lane spat out the name with a force that sprayed flecks of spittle over Grant's face.

  Suddenly Grant's hands loosened, and he stared at the gasping, choking man before him. "What did you say?" he demanded, trying to hear above the sudden annoying buzz in his own ears.

  Staggering backward, Lord Lane repeated the name as if it were a profanity. "Keyes," he spat. "Neil Henry Keyes...one of your damned comrades. ARunner. " He laughed harshly. "He had need of the money. He assured me the task would be easy. I should have known one of your ilk would prove to be incompetent for the job. But I'll hire someone else, do you hear me? Vivien Duvall will never be safe!"

  Shaking his head, Grant made his way to the door, feeling as if he were wading through quicksand. He was suffocating, fighting to breathe...

  "My God," he gasped, as horror stole every coherent thought. For the first time in his life, he experienced a panic so great it made him momentarily unable to act. Keyes was the Runner who had been assigned to watch over Victoria this evening. Victoria had been delivered into the hands of her own murderer, with Grant's approval. "If anything happens to her," he whispered hoarsely to Lane, "your life is over."

  And so was his. He ran, stumbled, tore his way out of the tomblike atmosphere of the club and into the cold shock of rain outside.

  "My life ended when Harry's did," Lane cried, rushing after Grant, his voice echoing in the astonished silence that had settled over Boodle's. A tremendous pain settled in his chest, squeezing, pressing, but he ignored it in his mounting rage. "The only thing I live for now is to see that slut dead! I will never rest until she dies, do you understand? If I have to crush the last bit of life from her...with my own hands..."

  Lane stopped in the center of the great saloon, while servants and patrons hurried toward him. He was surrounded by a dark blur, and he shouted into the thickening haze, while the crushing pain in his chest increased and spread. Hands were on him now, a myriad of voices tried to calm him, but that infuriated him all the more. His shouts faded to insistent gasps of vengeance, and the floor rose inexorably as he began to fall...He felt himself dissolving in the sea of hatred he would never, could never, relinquish.

  CHAPTER 15

  "The Runner is here, my dear." Mrs. Buttons stood at the library door. "His name is Mr. Keyes, and he's a good, kind gentleman--the most experienced man Sir Cannon could offer. Mr. Morgan esteems him highly. We've been left in good hands, to be sure."

  "Give Mr. Keyes my thanks for looking after things during Mr. Morgan's absence," Vivien murmured. She paused before the library window with a book in hand, gazing at the gathering storm outside. A blanket of clouds had made the afternoon as dark as night, while gusts of wind sifted through the trees and garden. A few patters of rain began to fall, the plump, heavy drops heralding worse to come.

  "Shall you thank him yourself, miss?" the housekeeper asked. "He is waiting in the entrance hall, and he seems intent on speaking to you right away."

  "Of course," Vivien said reluctantly. "Would you show him in here?"

  "Yes, miss."

  Holding the poetry book against her midriff, Vivien splayed her fingers over the embossed leather cover and heaved a great sigh. She didn't want to make conversation with Mr. Keyes, she wanted Grant to come home right away. Knowing that he was temporarily out of reach made her feel strangely uneasy. She had come to rely on him so completely that she hated the thought of being separated from him, even for a day and night.

  But she couldn't allow herself to give in to such feelings. Their relationship, such as it was, would end all too soon, and she must retain some vestige of dignity when they parted. To reveal how she craved his attention, his smiles, his companionship, wou
ld only embarrass them both. She faced a lifetime bereft of Grant Morgan, and she had better accustom herself to doing without him. Making her breathing quiet and deep, Vivien loosened her anxious grip on the book and turned just as Mrs. Buttons brought the Runner into the room. Mr. Keyes was an average-sized man wearing an obviously costly salmon-colored coat. A wide-brimmed gray hat was clasped in one hand. He was attractive and rather dashing, his silver hair fluffy and windswept. Vivien couldn't take her eyes from him. His dandyish appearance contradicted her notions of what a Bow Street Runner should look like. Shaping her mouth in a polite smile, Vivien curtsied as he approached her. Mrs. Buttons began to leave with a small murmur.

  Keyes stopped her with a light touch. "Wait, if you please, Mrs. Buttons," he said. "You may as well hear what I have to tell Miss Duvall."

  "Yes, sir." Folding her hands together, the housekeeper stood obediently, her brow knitting with a touch of perplexity.

  "To begin with, Miss Duvall," the Runner said with old-fashioned courtliness, "I am gratified, to say the least, to be assigned the duty of protecting you."

  "Thank you," Vivien said, noting that the rain outside had begun to slow, its heaviness suspended high and full in the sky. "Mrs. Buttons assures me that you are greatly esteemed by my--" She stopped in a sudden shock of confusion, and prickly color inched over her face and neck. "By Mr. Morgan," she managed to choke out. What other betraying words would have slipped out had she not caught herself? My...She had no right to apply that word to Grant, denoting possessiveness and attachment. He was not hers in any sense. How could she forget herself so easily?

  Ignoring the slip, Keyes apparently sought to cover her confusion. His attractive, weathered face creased with a smile. "I will do everything in my power to justify Mr. Morgan's confidence in me."