Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(61)

"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."