Page 8 of Someone to Watch Over Me
“All right, Morgan.” The doctor sent a warm smile toward Vivien. “Au revoir,Miss Duvall. I’ll visit again in a few days.”
Mrs. Buttons popped her head around the door, her gaze fixed on Grant. “Sir? Is there anything you require?”
“Nothing right now,” Grant murmured, and watched as the housekeeper accompanied the doctor to the main staircase.
“What is your reputation?” Vivien asked feebly, apparently having caught the last of the doctor’s comments.
Grant went to her and sat in the bedside chair. He wove his fingers together and extended his long legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Damned if I know.” He shrugged irritably. “I’m a Bow Street Runner. In the course of my work people are always lying, hiding things, evading questions. I just have a way of cutting to the truth, and that makes them uncomfortable.”
Despite her weariness, a spark of amusement appeared in Vivien’s blue eyes. “You ‘have a way,” she repeated drowsily. “What does that mean?”
He grinned suddenly, unable to keep from leaning forward and smoothing a straggling tendril away from her face. “It means I do whatever’s necessary to find out the truth.”
“Oh.” She yawned, fighting to stay awake, but her exhaustion was clearly overwhelming. “Grant,” she whispered, “what ismyreputation?”
She fell asleep before he could reply.
Three
Grant awoke as the weak morning sunlight began to filter through the windowpanes. Perplexed, he stared at the ice-blue ceiling of the guest room, expecting to see the wine-colored canopy over his own bed. Suddenly he recalled the events of the previous evening. There had been no sound from Vivien’s room. He wondered how she had fared the night. After all she had been through, she would likely sleep for most of the day.
Fitting his hands behind his head, Grant lay there for another minute, pondering the knowledge that Vivien was here, in his house, only a few rooms away from him. It had been a long time since a woman had slept beneath his roof. Vivien Duvall, at his mercy…The thought entertained him prodigiously. The fact that she didn’t remember what had happened between them only heightened his enjoyment of the situation.
Yawning, Grant sat up and scratched his fingers through the pelt of dark hair on his chest. He rang for his valet, padded to a nearby chair, and dressed in the linens and pale gray trousers that had been laid out for him. His morning routine had been established by years of habit. He was always out of bed at sunrise, had finished his personal ablutions and dressed within twenty minutes, spent the next half hour devouring a huge breakfast and scanning theTimes, and left on foot for Bow Street. Sir Ross Cannon required all Runners who weren’t on duty to report by no later than nine.
In fewer than five minutes, his valet, Kellow, appeared with a ewer of hot shaving water and all the necessary implements. At the same time, a housemaid quickly laid the fire and tidied the grate.
Grant poured steaming water into a washbowl and sluiced handfuls of it onto his face, trying to soften what had to be the most obstinate beard in London. When his shaving was concluded, Grant put on a white shirt, a patterned gray waistcoat, and a black silk cravat. The official uniform of the Bow Street Runners included a red waistcoat, blue coat and navy trousers, and tall black boots polished to an immaculate shine. Grant detested the garb. On an average-sized man the brightly colored clothes—which had inspired the public to nickname the Runners “Robin Redbreasts”—were somewhat foppish. On a man of his height, the effect was startling.
Grant’s personal taste favored dark, well-tailored clothes in shades of gray, beige, and black, with no personal adornment save his pocket watch. He kept his hair conveniently short and was sometimes compelled to shave twice a day when a formal occasion called for him to remove another layer of his encroaching beard. He bathed every evening, as he was unable to sleep well otherwise. The physical exertion of his job, not to mention the foul characters he often associated with, often made him feel unclean within and without.
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.”
