Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(15)

"I don't leave cards," he said flatly. "Go tell your master that Mr. Morgan is here. This is not a social call."

The butler's face remained impassive, but he reeked of disapproval. Without offering a response, he left Grant at the doorstep and disappeared into the house. Grant shouldered his way inside and closed the heavy door with a hard nudge of his boot. Rocking back on his heels, he surveyed the entrance hall. It was lined with gleaming marble columns, the walls painted a soft matte shade of a fashionable color called "Parisian gray." Cool white plasterwork covered the upper portion of the walls, rising to a lofty ceiling. Directly opposite the front door was an apse containing a small statue of a winged female figure.

Approaching the statue, Grant touched one of the delicate feathery wings, admiring the elegant work.

The butler reappeared at that moment, frowning in bristling hauteur. "Sir, that is part of Lord Gerard's prized collection of Roman statuary."

Grant drew back and replied matter-of-factly, "Grecian, actually. The original sits in the hand of Athena in the Parthenon."

"Well..." The butler was clearly nonplussed. "It's not to be touched. If you would care to follow me, Lord Gerard is at home now."

Grant was shown into a large drawing room with walls covered in creamy white woodwork and octagonal panels of red damask. The ceiling was remarkable, inset with red and gold panels that spread outward from a central golden sun. Between a pair of diamond-paned windows, a series of medallion portraits displayed the fleshy, dignified faces of the past five Earls of Norbury.

"Care for a drink, Morgan?"

Lord Gerard entered the room, clad in an embroidered green velvet dressing gown. His uncombed hair sprung untidily around his heavy-cheeked face, and his skin was florid from strong drink. Holding a snifter of brandy in one hand, Gerard made his way to a massive wing chair with ball-and-claw feet, and lowered himself gingerly. Although Gerard was in his early thirties, a life dedicated to self-indulgence had made him look at least ten years older. He was relentlessly average in appearance, neither fat nor thin, neither tall nor short, neither handsome nor ugly. His only distinctive feature was his eyes, dark, small, and intense.

Gerard gestured with his snifter. "A damn fine Armagnac," he commented. "Shall you take some?"

"A bit early in the day for me," Grant said with a slight shake of his head.

"I can think of no better way to begin the day." Gerard drank deeply of the bloodred liquid.

Grant kept his expression pleasant, but something dark and ugly stirred inside him as he watched Gerard. The image of Vivien with this man, servicing him, pleasuring him, passed before Grant in a disquieting flash. She had been Gerard's whore, and would undoubtedly sell herself to the next man who could meet her price. Jealous and repulsed, Grant sat in the chair adjacent to Gerard's.

"Thank you for agreeing to talk with me," Grant murmured.

Gerard tore his attention away from the snifter long enough to manage a sour smile. "As I understood it, I hadn't much choice."

"I don't expect this will take long," Grant said. "I only have a few questions for you."

"Are you conducting an investigation of some sort? What and whom does it concern?"

Grant sat back in his chair, appearing relaxed, but his gaze did not swerve from Gerard's face. "I'd like to know your whereabouts last evening, around midnight."

"I was at my club, Craven's. I have several friends who will verify my presence there."

"When did you leave the club?"

"Four o'clock, perhaps five." Gerard's thick lips curved with a self-satisfied smile. "I had a run of luck at the hazard tables and then took a flier with one of the house wenches. An excellent evening all around."

Grant launched abruptly into the next question. "What was the nature of your relationship with Miss Vivien Duvall?"

The name seemed to puncture Gerard's sense of well-being. The flush on his face deepened, and the dark, narrow eyes resembled chips of obsidian. He leaned forward, holding his snifter in both hands. "This is about Vivien, then? What happened? Has she landed in some kind of trouble? Bloody Christ, I hope it's nasty and unholy expensive, whatever it is. Tell her that I won't lift a finger to help her, even if she comes crawling. I'd sooner kiss the pope's toe."

"Your relationship with her," Grant repeated quietly.

Gerard finished his Armagnac in a slurping swallow and blotted his mouth with his sleeve. The liquor seemed to calm him, and his face split with a crafty smile. "I believe you already know that, Morgan. You once displayed a bit of interest in her yourself, didn't you? And she wouldn't have you." He chortled, tickled by the notion, then sobered quickly. "That hellcat Vivien. Two years I had with her. I paid her bills, gave her the town house, jewelry, a carriage, horses, anything she desired. All for the exclusive right to bed her. At least, it was supposed to be exclusive. I didn't delude myself into thinking she was faithful to me, however. Vivien isn't capable of fidelity."

"Is that why your arrangement ended? Because she was unfaithful?"

"No." Gerard stared moodily at his empty glass. "Before I divulge anything further,you can explain something...Why the hell are we talking about Vivien? Has something happened to her?"