by Lisa Kleypas
Although many valets were called upon to assist their masters with their clothes, Grant preferred to dress himself. He found the notion of standing still while some other fellow dressed him as more than a little ridiculous. He was an able-bodied man, not some tot who needed help with his skeleton suit. When he’d expressed this view to one of his socially elevated friends, the friend had told him with amusement that this was one of the essential differences between the lower classes and the aristocracy.
“You mean only the lower classes know how to fasten their buttons?” Grant had asked wryly.
“No,” the friend had replied with a laugh, “it’s just that they have no choice in the matter. The aristocracy, on the other hand, can get someone else to do it for them.”
After tying his black silk cravat in a simple knot, Grant jerked the tips of his collar to neat standing points. He dragged a comb through his ruffled dark hair and gave a cursory glance in the looking glass. Just as he reached for his charcoal-gray coat, he heard a muffled sound from a few rooms away.
“Vivien,” he murmured, dropping the coat at once. He reached the master bedroom in a few strides, entering without bothering to knock. The housemaid had already visited and had stoked a small fire in the grate.
Vivien was attempting to get out of bed by herself, the linen shirt twisted around the middle of her thighs. Her long hair fell in wild straggles down her back. She was standing on one foot, maintaining a precarious balance. Her sprained ankle was bound and swollen, and the pain it caused was obvious as she took one limping step away from the bed.
“What do you need?” Grant asked, and she started at the sound of his voice. She didn’t look much better than she had the previous night, her face ghastly pale, her eyes still swollen, her throat bruised. “Do you want the privy?”
The blunt question clearly caused Vivien no end of mortification. A scarlet flush cascaded over her skin. The sight of a redhead blushing was not something to miss, Grant thought with a sudden flicker of amusement.
“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and strained. She took another cautious hobbling step. “If you could just tell me where—”
“I’ll help you.”
“Oh, no, really—” She gasped as he scooped her into his arms, her body small and light against his chest. Grant carried her the short distance to the privy, two doors down the hall, while Vivien tried in agonized modesty to pull the thin linen shirt farther over her thighs. The gesture struck him as odd for a courtesan. Vivien was known for her lack of sexual inhibition, not to mention her elegantly provocative style of dressing. Modesty had not been in her repertoire. Why did she seem so distressed now?
“You’ll be stronger soon,” he said. “In the meantime, stay in bed and keep off that ankle. If you want anything at all, ring for one of the maids.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Her small hands crept around his neck. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr.…” She hesitated, and he knew that she had forgotten his last name.
“Call me Grant,” he replied, setting her gently on the floor. “It’s no trouble.”
Vivien emerged from the privy a few minutes later, clearly surprised to find him still there. She seemed no bigger than a child, dressed in his shirt with the sleeves rolled back several times and the tail reaching below her knees. Her gaze lifted to his, and she returned his friendly smile with an abashed one of her own.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
He extended a hand to her. “Let me help you back to bed.”
She hesitated before hobbling forward. Carefully Grant reached around her slender body, hooking one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Although he lifted her with extreme gentleness, mindful of her injuries, Vivien gasped as he brought her against his chest. Of all the women he had held in his arms, none had ever possessed such lush, exquisite delicacy. Her bones were slender, but her flesh was pliant, voluptuous, utterly desirable.
Returning to the bedroom, Grant eased Vivien onto the mattress, fumbling to arrange a stack of pillows behind her. She tugged the blankets upward, bringing them high over her chest. In spite of her bedraggled condition, or perhaps because of it, he was struck again with the disconcerting urge to cuddle and caress her. He, who was known for possessing a heart of granite, or some similarly impermeable substance. “Are you hungry?” he asked gruffly.
“Not really.”
“When the housekeeper brings a tray, I want you to eat something.”
For some reason his tone of command made her smile. “I’ll try.”
Grant stood frozen in place by her smile…lucent and warm, a flash of magic that illuminated her delicate face. It was so unlike the self-absorbed woman he had met at Wentworth’s ball that he wondered briefly if she was the same person at all. Yet she was, unmistakably, Vivien.
“Grant,” she said hesitantly. “Please, would you bring a looking glass?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks in a self-conscious gesture. “I don’t know what I look like.”
Somehow managing to tear his gaze away from her, Grant went to the gentleman’s cabinet in the corner of the room. He rummaged through the narrow drawers and located a wooden nécessaire covered in leather. The case was designed to hold scissors, files, and grooming items, the lid fitted with a rectangular looking glass inside. Returning to the bedside, Grant opened the nécessaire and gave it to her.
Vivien tried to hold the case near her face, but her hands still trembled violently from her experience of the previous evening. Grant reached over and steadied the nécessaire as she viewed her reflection. Her hands were very cold beneath his, the fingers stiff and bloodless. Her eyes widened, and she barely seemed to breathe.
“How strange,” she said, “not to recognize one’s own face.”
“You have no cause for complaint,” Grant said huskily. Even bruised and pale and ravaged, her face was incomparable.
“Do you think so?” She stared into the looking glass without a trace of the self-satisfaction she had displayed at the ball. That Vivien had had no doubt of her many attractions. This woman was far less confident.
“Everyone thinks so. You’re known as one of the great beauties of London.”
“I don’t see why.” Catching his skeptical expression, she added, “Truly, I’m not fishing for compliments, it just…seems a very ordinary face.” She produced a comical, clownish expression, like a child experimenting with her reflection. A shaken laugh escaped her. “It doesn’t seem to belong to me.” Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and he realized with a flare of alarm that she was going to cry.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “I told you last night how I feel about crying.”
“Yes…you can’t stand a woman’s tears.” She wiped her wet eyes with her fingers. A wobbly smile touched her lips. “I didn’t think a Bow Street Runner would be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive,” Grant repeated indignantly. “I’m as hard-shelled as they come.” He gathered a handful of the linen sheet and swabbed hastily at her face.
“Are you?” She gave a last sniffle and peered at him over the edge of the sheet, and he saw a hint of laughter appearing behind the last glimmering tears. “You seem rather soft-shelled to me.”
Grant opened his mouth to argue, but realized suddenly that she was teasing him. With great difficulty, he tamped down an unexpected surge of warmth in his chest. “I’m about as sensitive as a millstone,” he informed her.
“I’ll reserve opinion on that.” She closed the nécessaire and shook her head ruefully. “I shouldn’t have asked for a looking glass. I look rather the worse for wear.”
Grant contemplated her dry, cracked lips with a frown. Reaching for a little glass jar of salve on the night table, he handed it to her. “Try some of this. Linley left a special mixture for bruises, dryness, scrapes, chafing…”
“I could use a barrel of it,” she said, fumbling with the hinged porcelain lid.
Retrieving the jar, Grant opened it for
her. Instead of handing it back, he held it in his palm and let his gaze wander over her. “The shaking is better this morning,” he observed quietly.
Vivien colored and nodded, seeming embarrassed by the involuntary tremors. “Yes, but I still can’t seem to get warm.” She rubbed her palms over the fair, chapped skin of her arms. “I was wondering…if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition—”
“A hot bath?”
“Oh, yes.” The throb of anticipation in her voice made him smile.
“That can be arranged. But you’ll have to move carefully, and let the servants help you. Or me, if you’d rather.”
Vivien stared at him, openmouthed at the suggestion. “I-I wouldn’t care to put you to such trouble—” she stammered.
“No trouble at all,” he said mildly. Only the glint in his green eyes betrayed the fact that he was teasing her.
Before she could suppress it, an image appeared in her mind, of herself soaking in a steaming tub while he bathed her naked body.
“What a blush,” Grant observed with a sudden smile. “If that doesn’t warm you up, nothing will.” He drew his fingertip over the velvety anisescented salve and brought it to her mouth. “Hold still.”
Vivien obeyed, her gaze locked on his face as he gently applied the salve to her lips. The sore, dry surface absorbed the preparation at once, and Grant dipped his finger into the jar again. The room was utterly quiet except for the sound of Vivien’s deep, trembling breath.
There was a tugging sensation in Grant’s chest that bothered him profoundly. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, comfort her as if she were a lost child. He would never have guessed that Vivien Duvall could be so endearing and vulnerable. Damn her, if this was somehow an act on her part, he would probably end up throttling her.
Obviously she had already driven some other poor bastard to it already.
Grant paused at that thought, and grimly warned himself not to be affected by her. Enjoy her, take what he wanted…but not for a minute would he allow himself to care for her. That much trouble, he didn’t need. He rubbed more of the salve between his fingers, until the cool scent of anise spiced the air. With the lightest possible touch, he spread the salve over her bruised, swollen throat. Vivien was very still beneath his hand, her gaze focused on his hard face.
“We knew each other before last night, didn’t we?” she whispered.
His lashes lowered, and he took his time about replying. “You could say that.”
Another soft pass of his fingertips over her skin, rubbing the salve deeper into her bruises.
Mired in confusion, she tried to analyze the sensation of his touch, the surprising sense of familiarity and comfort she found in his presence. Nothing in the world was familiar to her, not even her own face…but somehow he made her feel safe and reassured. She wouldn’t feel this way in the company of a stranger, would she?
“H-how well did we know each other?” Vivien asked unsteadily.
“We’ll discuss it later.” Exactly what he was going to say to her, and how he would present the situation, would take some consideration. In the meantime she would rest and heal, and remain under his protection. Although Vivien seemed none too pleased with his evasiveness, she refrained from pursuing the matter, and he guessed she was still too exhausted to debate. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he extracted his watch. The lateness of the hour made him frown. “I have to leave for Bow Street,” he said. “I’ll visit your town house today and fetch some clothes for you.”
She made an effort to smile, but her blue eyes were pleading. “Do I have family or friends to send for?”
“I don’t know about your family,” Grant admitted. “I’ll find out what I can. And yes, you have friends…but now isn’t the time for visiting. You need to rest.” Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out and traced one of the worry lines on her downy forehead. “Don’t worry, sweet pea,” he murmured.
Vivien settled back against the pillows, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. “So many questions,” she sighed.
“You’ll soon have all the answers you desire.” He paused, and some of the vibrant tenderness left his voice as he added, “Although you may not like some of them.”
She stared at him solemnly, her hand creeping to her throat. “What happened to me last night?”
“I intend to find out,” he replied in a grim tone that left no room for doubt.
The street shaped like a bow had been built in the mid sixteen hundreds. There had been a few famous residents of Bow Street in the last century. But after the turn of the century, there was only one name associated with Bow Street that truly mattered…Sir Ross Cannon.
It seemed at times that the attention of the entire world was focused on the narrow, four-story building and its famous inhabitant. Cannon directed his half dozen Runners and eighty other assorted officers like a master conductor. The Runners had gained worldwide fame as they suppressed riots, solved crimes, and protected the royal family.
At the death of one of Fieldings’s successors five years ago, many important men had been discussed as candidates for the new chief magistrate. However, a relative unknown was finally appointed to the position…Ross Cannon, who had previously served as a magistrate in the Great Marlboro Street office. Cannon had assumed the duties of chief magistrate as if he had been born to it. In no time at all he had left his own distinctive stamp on the Bow Street office, treating detective work as if it were a science, inventing methodology, testing theories, guiding and encouraging his officers with an infectious zeal. He was demanding and driven, and any one of his men would have gladly died for him. Including Grant.
Grant ascended the three front steps and gave a vigorous knock at the door. It was answered by Cannon’s housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson, a fat, motherly woman with a head of bobbing silver curls. Her pudgy face glowed with a smile as she welcomed Grant inside. “You without a hat again, Mr. Morgan…You’ll catch your death one of these days, with the wind blowing from the north like this.”
“I can’t wear a hat, Mrs. Dobson,” Grant replied, shedding his heavy black greatcoat and giving it to her. She was nearly smothered by the huge mound of wool. “I’m tall enough as it is.” The high-crowned hats that were currently fashionable made him look ridiculous, adding needless inches to his towering height until passersby stared openly.
“Well, not wearing a hat hardly fools anyone into thinking you’re short,” she pointed out.
Grant grinned and pinched her cheek, causing the housekeeper to gasp and scold him. Her reprimands, however, contained little heat—they both knew that of all the Runners, he was her favorite. “Where is Cannon?” Grant asked, his green eyes sparkling, and Mrs. Dobson indicated the magistrate’s office.
The property at number 4 Bow Street contained a house, a tiny yard, offices, a court, and a strong room to hold prisoners.
Having been born to a family of means, Cannon could have lived an indolent life in a far more luxurious place than this…but that was not his nature. He had a passion for justice, and with all that needed to be done, there was no time for laziness or frivolity.
To Cannon, life was serious business, and he lived it accordingly. Rumor had it that his young wife on her deathbed had made him promise never to remarry, and Cannon had been faithful to his word. His tremendous energy was expended on his work. Even the closest and dearest of his friends would readily swear that nothing could break the iron control Cannon held over his own secretive heart.
Striding down the narrow hallway that led to Cannon’s private office, Grant nearly collided with two Runners who were leaving…Flagstad and Keyes, the two oldest Runners, both of them fast approaching forty. “Off to guard the royal hind-quarters again,” Keyes remarked cheerfully, while Flagstad revealed that he had been given the more lucrative assignment of attending the Bank of England, as quarterly dividends were being paid.
“And what are you about this morning?” Flagstad asked Grant. His weathered face creased with good humor
. “No, don’t tell me…another bank robbery, or a burglary on the west side that you’ll charge a fortune to solve.”
Grant responded with an answering grin, having endured much ribbing from his colleagues on his hefty commissions. He forbore to point out that in the last year he had literally caught more thieves than the other five Runners put together. “I only take what they’re willing to pay,” he said mildly.
“The only reason the nobs demand your services is because you’re a bloody swell,” Keyes said with a chuckle. “Just the other day a lady said to me, ‘Of all the Runners, only Mr. Morgan looks the way one ought to look.’” He snorted at the statement. “As if a man’s appearance has a damned thing to do with how he does the job!”
“I’m a swell?” Grant asked incredulously, glancing at his own conservative attire, and then at Keyes’s dandified appearance…the carefully arranged “windswept” style of his hair, the gold pin in his elaborate cravat, the tiny silk flowers and fleurs-de-lis embroidered over his waistcoat. Not to mention the wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat worn carefully angled over one eye.
“I have to dress this way at court,” Keyes said defensively.
Chuckling, Flagstad began to guide Keyes away before an argument could brew.
“Wait,” Keyes said, an urgent note of interest entering his voice. “Morgan, I heard you were sent out last night to investigate a bloat found in the river.”
“Yes.”
Keyes seemed impatient at his terseness. “Talkative as a clam, aren’t you? Well, what can you tell us about it? Was the victim male or female?”
“What does it matter to you?” Grant asked, perplexed by the Runner’s interest in the matter.
“Are you going to take the case?” Keyes persisted.
“Probably.”
“I’ll take it for you if you like,” Keyes offered. “God knows you haven’t much interest in investigating a dead woman. I hear bloats aren’t paying much these days.”
Flagstad snickered at the lame jest.
Grant stared at Keyes with new alertness. “Why do you think it’s a woman?” he asked idly.