Page 43 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
So instead, during the late hours, he’d wandered aimlessly through his residence, detecting her fragrance in far too many rooms. He cursed the chit for not leaving him be. He was tempted to call on her, simply to ensure she was well. What would that accomplish, except to make her all the harder to forget?
Time, he needed time—
“Sir?”
With a growl for the interruption, he lowered the weighted object to the floor, grabbed a linen, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “What is it, Perkins?”
“An Inspector Swindler from Scotland Yard wishes a word. He’s waiting for you in the library.”
Mallard was no doubt pressing charges, the little shite. Turning, he gave his butler a nod. “Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taking the back stairs to his bedchamber, Bishop washed up quickly and changed into the proper attire that reflected a gentleman to be reckoned with. With a last glance in the mirror, he adjusted his neckcloth and headed down.
In the library, a tall, broad-shouldered older man was perusing Bishop’s bookshelves. “Inspector, would you care for some scotch?”
He took his time swiveling about. “No, thank you. I’m here on urgent business.”
“Tea then?”
“No, thank you.”
“Very well.” Bishop strode over to his desk and pointed to the chair in front of it. “Please.”
Once his visitor had settled into place, Bishop dropped into the chair behind his desk, because it signaled a position of power. But studying the man across from him, he couldn’t help but believe Swindler wouldn’t relinquish any ground. “How might I be of service?”
“I’ve been told that on Tuesday last, you went to the Cerberus Club and promptly punched one Mr. Bertram Mallard in the jaw.”
“Yes, I did. He’d smacked his wife about, and I don’t tolerate that sort of behavior.”
The inspector steadfastly held his gaze. “What is her relationship to you that you would hear of his actions or would care about her well-being?”
“She and I are... involved.”
“How long have you had a relationship with her?”
“A couple of weeks.”
Swindler nodded as though he’d already known the answer, and Bishop suspected he had. “You have a reputation for having affairs with married ladies.”
He shrugged indolently. “They’re convenient. A married woman isn’t going to look to me for marriage, and I have no desire to be shackled.”
“Where were you Thursday last?”
Bishop furrowed his brow. “What has that to do with this matter?”
“Please answer the question.”
Leaning back, Bishop tapped his index finger on his desk, noting the inspector’s gaze dropping briefly to his bruised knuckles. The direction of the inquiry was troubling. “I was at a brothel.”
“Were you there throughout the night, until dawn?”
“What bloody hell difference does that make?”
“Were you there until dawn?”
“No. I arrived around half eight and departed a little after half ten, I believe. I didn’t check my timepiece.”
