Someone to Watch Over Me bsr-1

by Lisa Kleypas

  "What are you reading?" Keyes inquired.

  Grant responded with a brief, humorless laugh. "It's not suitable for one of your tender years, Keyes."

  "I'll be the judge of that." The older man plucked the book from Grant's hand. As he opened the volume and read a page or two, his bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like a pair of ascending spiders. "Filthy stuff," he remarked, handing back the volume. "May I ask the identity of the author?"

  Grant smiled grimly. "You don't want to meet her, Keyes. She's a tormenting witch. One smile from her can twist your insides like a rag mop."

  Although Keyes's manner was deliberately causal, his hazel eyes were keen with interest. "This has to do with the bloat from the river, doesn't it? She's still alive--and you're harboring her in your own home. I've heard the rumors."

  Grant leaned back in his chair, slanting an impassive stare at the Runner. "You should know better than to listen to rumors, Keyes."

  "Who is she?" the other man persisted. "Has she named her assailant?"

  "Why such a fascination with my case?" Grant countered. "I merely wish to offer my assistance if it's needed," Keyes said. "You've helped me a time or two, after all. You seem a touch defensive, lad...A simple question or two, and you scowl at me like a baited bear."

  "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

  "See that you do," Keyes replied with a neutral smile, and left the office.

  Grant sat brooding in silence. Keyes was right--hewas defensive and ill tempered, as any other man in his position would be. When he was with Vivien, it was easy to forget who she really was and what she was capable of. Only when he was away from her did he see the situation in its true light. She was a courtesan, a woman who had proven herself incapable of love or fidelity. Someone had tried to kill her, most likely one of her legion of past lovers. His job was to find out who had assaulted her, and catch him. And then remove Vivien Duvall from his home and his life for good...before she ripped his heart out.

  Sir Ross reappeared in the office and headed for the earthenware jug of coffee. At the same time, his cat Chopper leisurely walked through the doorway, jumped up to the unoccupied corner of the oak desk, and reclined on her side, surveying Grant solemnly.

  "Good morning, Chopper," Grant murmured, reaching over to pet the broad, furry head. Chopper shrank back disdainfully, her eyes narrowing to slits. She endured the gentle pat with a flinch, and lowered her head to her paws. Grant couldn't help smiling at the long-suffering feline. "Just like a woman," he murmured. "You only give a fellow affection when you want something."

  Cannon poured a cup from the meager amount left in the bottom of the vessel. He made a face as he tasted the brew, which was tepid and filled with grounds. "Mrs. Dobson," he called, leaning his dark head outside the door, "my jug is empty."

  There was a protesting response from down the hall, containing the admonition "...your nerves, sir..."

  "My nerves are fine," he replied, a thread of annoyance working through his tone. "I have a great deal of work, Mrs. Dobson. I require another jug to see me through the morning." Cannon went to his chair and smiled briefly as he seated himself. The flash of amusement temporarily lightened the dark cast of his face. "May God spare us from women who think they know better."

  "Amen," Grant muttered in brief affirmation of the prayer.

  Cannon leaned back in his chair, his wintry gray eyes narrowing as he surveyed Grant. "You look like hell. Are you ill?"

  Such an unusual question from Cannon would be enough to send any of the Runners into a state of alarm. Cannon never took an interest in the personal lives of his men, as long as their jobs were being done. Grant frowned at the magistrate, resenting the personal inquiry.

  "I haven't been sleeping," he said curtly.

  "Trouble with Miss Duvall?"

  "Nothing of significance," he muttered. "How is her health?" Cannon inquired.

  "I believe she's almost fully recovered. But there's been no progress on recovering her memory."

  Cannon nodded, reaching out for the book that Grant extended to him. "What's this?"

  "It's a diary and appointment book. I found it in Miss Duvall's town house. I believe it might contain the name of whoever tried to kill her."

  As Grant watched him leaf through the small volume, he wondered what Cannon, who had taken what amounted to a vow of celibacy, would think of such sexually explicit material. It would be only natural for the magistrate to exhibit some sign of emotion but there was no telltale color, no tension, no mist of sweat. The man had astonishing mastery over himself.

  "Miss Duvall appears to have led a colorful life," the magistrate remarked blandly. "Why do you assume her assailant is listed in the journal?"

  "The attempted murder was a crime of passion," Grant said matter-of-factly. "Miss Duvall has no history of criminal dealings with anyone, no nefarious associates, no significant debts--she has always been well cared for. Only a long list of lovers, most of whom she was unfaithful to. She kept scrupulous track of them, however...and their particular tastes. It was a business to her, and as you can see, she was damned organized about it. Whenever a better opportunity presented itself, she left her current lover without a backward glance."

  "And you believe one of them became so incensed by her desertion that he tried to kill her?"

  "Yes."

  Cannon handed the journal back to him. "You'd best narrow down this list quickly, Morgan. In matters of this sort, one can't allow a suspect too much time to collect himself or the case is lost."

  Staring at the small book in his hands, Grant passed his thumbs over the smooth leather binding. "What I'd like to do," he said slowly, "is find a way of letting the public know that Vivien is still alive. Then whoever tried to kill her would know that he had failed."

  "And come after her again," Cannon murmured. "That would be putting Miss Duvall at great risk."

  "No," Grant said immediately. "She's under my protection now--and I'll be waiting for the bastard when he tries again."

  "Very well. Let's reveal Miss Duvall to London, then. Have you already decided on a place and time?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then allow me to make a suggestion. I have a friend, Lady Lichfield, who is giving a ball this very Saturday evening. Invitations to any event she hosts are greatly sought after, and a detailed account is always published in theTimes afterward. I'll prevail on her to send you an invitation, and include anyone you choose in her guest list."

  Grant grinned suddenly. "Bring Vivien to Lady Lichfield's estate?" "Why not?"

  "Vivien isn't readily accepted by so-called decent society. At least not the female half. She's slept with quite a few of their husbands."

  "So much the better, if any of her former lovers are attending," Cannon replied.

  Their conversation was interrupted as Mrs. Dobson appeared with a tray bearing a steaming jug of coffee and clean mugs. "You drink far too much of this brew," she said disapprovingly. "Both of you."

  "It stimulates the senses and promotes clear thinking," Cannon informed her, while she poured a large does of the black liquid for him. Eagerly he accepted the mug and wrapped his long hands around it.

  "And keeps you awake half the night," Mrs. Dobson scolded, shaking her head until her silver curls danced. She turned toward Grant as if he were an ally in her cause. "Sir Ross never sleeps more than four hours a night, never has time for a hot meal...and what for? The more work he does, the more it piles up around him."

  Ross gave her a swift scowl. "If Mrs. Dobson had her way," he remarked to Grant, "I'd soon become as fat and lazy as Chopper."

  The maligned cat resettled her stocky body on the corner of the desk and sent her master an insolent glance.

  Continuing to shake her head, Mrs. Dobson left the office.

  Cannon blew gently into his mug, causing steam to swirl up from the coffee. "Very well," he said, his gaze arrowing to Grant. "With your permission, I'll approach Lady Lichfield and ask to expand her guest list.
"

  "Thank you." Grant paused before adding thoughtfully, "There is one bit of news I haven't yet mentioned...something Lord Gerard said when I questioned him. I'm not certain whether to give it any credence, as it wasn't confirmed by Miss Duvall's diary or anyone else I've interviewed."

  "Well?" Cannon prompted.

  "Gerard said that he believed Miss Duvall was expecting to marry soon. Someone with a large fortune."

  "Hmm. What man of means would choose to 'buy old boots'?" Cannon mused aloud, using the popular phrase to describe someone marrying another man's mistress.

  "Exactly," Grant said. "As Lord Gerard pointed out, 'one doesn't marry soiled goods like Vivien Duvall unless he wants to be the laughingstock of England.' But it's possible she found someone in his dotage, willing to take her on."

  Despite Grant's effort to sound dispassionate, his tone was infected with a trace of bitterness that Cannon could hardly miss. Silently Grant cursed himself as he was subjected to Cannon's discomfiting scrutiny.

  "Tell me your opinion of Miss Duvall, Morgan," the magistrate said quietly. "My opinion has no relevance." Grant stood to brush imaginary dust from the legs of his trousers. "If you're referring to evidence--"

  "I asked for your opinion," Cannon said inflexibly. "Sit, please."

  Abruptly the office became stifling. Grant longed to ignore the request. Cannon's cool, perceptive gaze was a jabbing annoyance. He thought of putting off the question with an insolent reply or a convenient lie...but he would be damned if he would ever fear the truth, no matter what it was. Glowering, he eased back into his chair.

  "There are two women inside Miss Duvall," he said stonily. "There's the one you find in that book, experienced, jaded, greedy...a perverse bitch. And then there's the one who is currently residing in my house."

  "And what is she like?"

  "Intelligent...sweet...gentle. Most men's fantasy."

  "And yours?" Cannon murmured.

  Grant gripped the arms of his chair as if he were manacled to it. "And mine," he finally admitted gruffly.

  Cannon contemplated him with a hint of sympathy that was well nigh unendurable. "Take care, Morgan," was all he said.

  Grant thought of assuring him he would in his usual cocky manner...but somehow the words wouldn't come.

  "All right," Cannon murmured in dismissal, and Grant took his leave with ill-concealed relief.

  CHAPTER 8

  "Aball?" Vivien stared at Grant as if he had gone mad. They sat in the downstairs parlor, where he had told her of the plan he had devised with Sir Ross. Although Grant appeared sympathetic to her distress, he was obviously not giving her a choice in the matter.

  "You're asking me to appear in public," Vivien continued uneasily, "not merely in public, but at a large formalball, to let everyone in London know that I am alive. And then I'll be in danger at least ten times worse than now."

  "You'll be under my protection," Grant replied quietly, coming to sit beside her on the gold damask-upholstered settee. He took her small, knotted fist in his hand and chafed it gently until her fingers relaxed in his. "Trust me," he said, smiling faintly as he stared into her worried face. "I would never let anyone harm you."

  "I won't know anyone there," she said, clinging tightly to his hand. "I won't know what to do or say."

  "You don't have to do or say anything. All you have to do is make an appearance."

  "I don't want to," she pleaded, rubbing her forehead with her free hand to ease a throbbing ache. "I understand," he replied softly. "But it has to be done, Vivien. Now...I want to take you to your town house and find something for you to wear. You have at least two dozen ball gowns, and I would have the devil of a time picking one out for you. You've said you want to visit your home, and this is the perfect time to do it."

  Vivien frowned at their entwined fingers and took a deep breath, trying to settle her agitated nerves. Everyone would stare at her. How could she make small talk and smile and dance when she didn't remember a single person from her former life? She didn't want to mill among strangers who would undoubtedly think of her as odd or fraudulent, or something equally disagreeable. Most of all, she dreaded making herself a highly visible target. What if the man who had attacked her came back to finish the job he had started? And what if Morgan was hurt or even killed in the process?

  "It doesn't make sense," she said. "Why must I go to a ball and reveal myself in such a dramatic fashion? Why can't you leak the information in some other way? You have no idea who wants me dead, do you? This is a desperate attempt to draw him out because you can't decide on a suspect."

  "I want the bastard caught," Morgan said evenly. "This is the fastest way of accomplishing it."

  Drawing her from the settee, he guided her to the entrance hall and signaled the housekeeper to bring their coats. After fastening a cloak around Vivien's shoulders, he settled a velvet bonnet on her head. A veil of lilac gauze hung from the front brim, concealing her face behind a pastel haze.

  Vivien sent him a simmering glare from behind the veil. "This looks like a mourning bonnet," she said. "As if I'm going to attend a funeral. I only hope it won't be my own."

  He laughed softly. "It was the most concealing hat I could find. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you. The world would be a dull--albeit more peaceful--place without you."

  After Morgan donned his own coat, a footman accompanied them to a carriage waiting outside. Having expected that they would use a hired vehicle, Vivien was surprised to discover that the carriage was a handsome private curricle, painted with gleaming black lacquer and touches of matte gold, and pulled by two perfectly matched chestnuts. Vivien couldn't help but be impressed by the elegance of the vehicle. "I wouldn't have thought you possessed a carriage like this," she remarked. "I thought the Runners went everywhere on foot."

  His green eyes danced with amusement. "We can, if you'd rather."

  Responding to the gentle teasing, she gave him a small smile. "No, thank you," she said with an effort at lightness. "I'll make do with this."

  The footman helped her into the curricle and tucked a thick, cushiony cashmere robe around her. Vivien thanked him and snuggled back into the soft leather seat with an exclamation of pleasure. The wind was pleasantly crisp and biting, refreshing on her face after the past days of confinement. Climbing into the space beside her, Morgan took the ribbons in an expert grip. He waited until the footman ascended to the seat behind the vehicle, then snapped the ribbons and clicked to the horses. They started with a smooth, synchronous gait, the well-sprung carriage moving easily over the cobblestoned street.

  Vivien stared blankly at the array of sights spread before them, her gaze searching for any small detail that might strike her as familiar.

  Each street possessed its own character, one populated by printers and writers, another occupied by butchers and bakers, another featuring a stately row of churches. Gentlefolk cut through the meandering paths of prostitutes and beggars. Wealth and poverty were wedged together in sharp juxtaposition. The air was thick with the scents of animals, food, the brine of the river, sewage, dust...She soon lost the ability to distinguish smells as her nostrils were overwhelmed. They passed a group of urchins who were harassing a satin-clad fop...a libertine lurching drunkenly from a tavern with a trollop on each arm...peddlers carrying wooden boxes strapped around their necks and shoulders.

  Soon Vivien's attention transferred to Morgan, who deftly navigated the carriage among the carts, cattle, and pedestrians that clogged a section of the street. He was completely at ease amid the bustle of town life, familiar with every alley and corner. It occurred to her that Morgan was one of the few men in London who mingled with everyone from royalty down to the meanest pickpocket.

  They reached a row of elegant town houses, and stopped before one with a large bronzed door. "Is that mine?" Vivien asked hesitantly, staring at the grand arched doorway bordered with columns.

  Morgan gave her an inscrutable glance. "That is yours."


  The footman hurried to take charge of the horses, while Morgan helped Vivien from the carriage. He lowered her gently to the ground, bearing her weight until she gained her footing. Giving her his arm, he escorted her to the door and unlocked it.

  Vivien entered the town house cautiously, standing still in the entrance hall while Morgan proceeded to light lamps and wall sconces. The place, with its flowered French fabric panels and dainty Louis XIV furniture, was beautiful, feminine...and crushingly unfamiliar. She removed her hat and placed it on the end of a stairway banister.

  Light flooded the entrance hall. Slowly Vivien moved from a framed pier glass to a marble-topped giltwood table. Picking up a delicate piece of Staffordshire porcelain from the table, Vivien regarded it closely. Two figures, a gentleman and lady, were conversing while the lady reached forward to pluck wildflowers for a basket nestled in her lap. The scene was charming in its innocence. When Vivien turned the porcelain over, however, it showed the gentleman's hand intruding far beneath the lady's skirts. Frowning at the crude joke, Vivien set the figures down and glanced at Morgan. He was watching her with a strange mixture of amusement and resignation.

  "Remember anything yet?" he asked.

  She shook her head and went to the staircase. Morgan followed at once, his measured tread matched to hers as she made her way to the second floor. The lamp he carried threw misshapen shadows in their wake. Pausing at the top landing, Vivien wondered where to go.

  "The bedroom is this way," Morgan said. He took her elbow in a light grasp and led her to the last room on the right. They entered a room lined in dark green silk, with a richly carved bed set on top of a pavilion. It reminded her of a small stage, all prepared for a performance. Frowning in discomfort, Vivien stared at the bed while Morgan lit more lamps. Then she turned and saw the painting.