No Ordinary Gentleman

“Why?” His brows pull down. Distrust or confusion?

“Because you left me in the dark lane with her. She was . . . discomforted. And she mentioned she needed a better job than one that left her outside with strange men.”

“That had to be you she was talking about.”

“Of course, because no one would find you strange.”

“Did you fuck her?” he repeats.

“You’re not in court now. I’ve just told you the extent of what happened that night.” This kind of lie the least of my sins.

“But how would you have the number for an employment agency with you, your grace?” The latter he adds as a very pointed afterthought.

“I didn’t. I gave her George’s number. What happened after that, I’ve no clue.” And that, at least, is the truth. I put down my barely touched drink. “You’re staying?”

By contrast, Griffin takes a deep drink from his, his manner and expression changes almost immediately. “Yes,” he mutters, his gaze flicking around the room. “I’m staying for the changing of the guard.”

My face must reflect my confusion because the changing of the guard is a military procession performed with much pomp and circumstance at various residences of Her Majesty the Queen. Not in a lifestyle club where clothing is optional.

“You’re out of touch,” he retorts smugly. “Either that, or you’ve never been on one end of a posh threesome.”

Uncivilised? More like deranged.

“My lord?” At the high and breathy voice, I turn without bothering to correct her form of address because I don’t plan on being here again. The face of an angel stares back at me. Blue eyes and pink cheeks, waves of burnished copper tumbles around her shoulders. She may have the face of an angel, but judging by her clothes, or lack of them, she has particularly devilish habits. “Did I get that right?” she asks, her eyes wide and guileless. She’s a good actress, I’ll give her that much. And nothing else. Depravity paid for by the hour really isn’t my thing.

“Can I help you?” I ask pointedly.

“Van sent me.” She trails her hand along the back of the armchair. “He wondered if you might like a little company.”

“That’s very kind of him,” I answer, laughing under my breath, because this isn’t a gesture of kindness on his part. More like provocation. “Thank you, but no.” I’ve never held an interest in fucking the help.

“You can keep me company, if you like.” Griffin makes a grab for her hand, lifting it to his lips. “I’m not a lord, but I’m better company than him.”

So much for his pining for Holland.

“Are you now?” One step and the girl stands in front of him, running her fingers through his hair. She giggles as Griffin pulls her into his lap and he looks like the cat with a canary between his teeth. “If you’re not a lord,” she purrs, beginning to loosen his tie, “what are you?”

Not wealthy enough to afford a night with you, I think sardonically. I wouldn’t have thought Griffin would be the kind that paid for sex, either. Perhaps he doesn’t know the only bulge in his pants she’s truly interested in is the one from his wallet.

“Why don’t you guess,” he says, settling himself back in the chair.

This is a scene I require no part in, so I stand.

“Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,” she murmurs, stepping her fingers up his chest. “Rich man, poor man—”

“Either of the following two suit him nicely,” I assert, striding away.

Beggar man. Thief.

After leaving Griffin to his diversions, I take the rear stairs to the room that was once my office. A room, were it not dark, would afford expansive views over the gardens. I open the door without knocking, surprised to see the décor hasn’t changed. Original wood panelling, Persian carpets, and the original fireplace. Even the desk is the same. The wall of TV screens showing footage from a number of security cameras isn’t.

“Alexander.” Van places a theatrical emphasis on pronunciation of my name. His heritage might be Russian, but he’s never spoken with anything but an Oxbridge accent. The bar he stands at is new, set into an alcove on the far side of the room. But it isn’t vodka he’s pouring. “Coffee?”

“No. Thank you,” I reply, taking a seat on the opposite side of the desk than I once sat. Van carries his coffee across the room, perching himself on the edge of the desk. In his hand, the demitasse cup looks like it belongs to a child’s tea set. “Thank you for the invite,” I murmur pointedly.

“You never need an invite to visit, Alexander.” With a smile, he inclines his head, then lifts the cup to his lips. Turkish coffee as black as night, as I recall.

“I must say, I’m flattered.” Settling back in the chair, I cross one knee over the other. “If you’d wanted me here tonight, you should’ve said.”