Page 13 of Someone to Watch Over Me
Gerard was known for his bad temper, given to violent tantrums when deprived of something he wanted. Although a gentleman was supposed to take his gambling losses with good grace, Gerard cheated and lied rather than accept defeat. It was rumored that he took out his frustrations on his servants, proving such a poor master that it was difficult to hire domestic help for his various households.
Grant mounted the steps of the classically styled manor with its columned pediment and statue-filled niches. A few strong raps on the door with his gloved fist, and one of the double portals was opened to reveal a butler’s dour face.
“Your business, sir?” the butler inquired.
“Inform Lord Gerard that Mr. Morgan is here to see him.”
Grant saw the instant of recognition on the butler’s face, and a faint wariness threaded through the man’s tone. “Sir, I regret to inform you that Lord Gerard is not at home. If you will leave your calling card, I will see that he receives it later.”
Grant smiled wryly. “Not at home” was a phrase used by butlers to convey that a particular lord or lady might very well be in the house, but was unwilling to receive visitors. But if Grant wanted to question someone, social niceties were the last things to stand in his way.
“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.
