Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(60)

"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 hernot 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'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--"