Chapter One
From the moment Grant Morgan saw the woman, he knew that—
despite her beauty—she would never be any man's bride.
He followed the waterman through the swirls of fog,
cold mist clinging to his skin and forming beads on his
wool coat. He kept both hands shoved deep in his pockets,
while his gaze chased restlessly around the scene. The
river looked oily in the dull glow of lamps hung on the
massive blocks of granite near the landing. Two or three
tiny boats ferried passengers across the Thames, bobbing
like toys on the water. Chilly waves lapped against the
steps and face of an embankment wall. A wintry March
breeze
curled around Grant's face and ears and slipped
persistently beneath the edge of his cravat. He
suppressed
a shiver as he stared at the sloshing black river. No one
could survive much longer than twenty minutes in water
that
cold.
"Where is the body?" An impatient frown tugged at
Grant's brow. He reached inside his coat, fingering the
case of his pocket watch. "I don't have all night."
The Thames waterman stumbled as he twisted his head
to
glance at the man following him. The drifting mist
surrounded them in a yellow-gray haze, causing him to
squint in the effort to see better. "Ye're Morgan, aren't
ye? Mr. Morgan hisself ... Why, no one will believe it
when
I tell 'em. A man who guards the king ... I would ha'
thought you above such dirty business as this."
"Unfortunately not," Grant muttered.
"This way, sir ... and mind yer step. The stairs is
awful slick by the water, specially on a dampnight like
this."
Stiffening his jaw, Grant made his way down to the
small, soaked form that had been hauled onto the landing
stairs. In the course of his detective work he often saw
dead bodies, but drowning victims were surely among the
most unpleasant. The body had been left facedown, but it
was clearly female. She was spread akimbo like a rag doll
abandoned by a careless child, the skirts of her dress
heaped in a dripping mass around her legs.
Crouching beside her, Grant clasped the woman's
shoulder with a leather-gloved hand and began to turn her
over. He recoiled instantly, startled, as she began to
cough and retch salt water, her body spasming.
The waterman yelped in terror behind him, then drew
nearer. "I thought she was dead." His voice shook with
amazement. "She was cold meat, I swear it!"
"Idiot," Grant muttered. How long had this poor woman
been left in the bitter cold while the waterman had sent
for a Bow Street Runner to investigate? Her chances of
survival would have been far greater had she been taken
care of immediately. As it was, her odds weren't good. He
flipped the woman over and lifted her head to his knee,
her
long hair soaking his trousers. Her skin was ashen in the
murky light, and there was a swelling lump on the side of
her head. Even so, the delicate, distinctive features
were
recognizable. He knew her.
"My God," Grant breathed. He made a point of never
being surprised by anything ... but to find Vivien Rose
Duvall here, like this ... It was inconceivable.
Her eyes half opened, dull with the knowledge of her
imminent death. But Vivien was not the kind of woman to
slip away without a struggle. She whimpered and reached
upward, her hand brushing the front of his waistcoat in a
feeble attempt to save herself. Spurred into action,
Grant
locked his arms around her and hauled her upward. She was
small and compact, but the skirts of her waterlogged gown
nearly doubled her weight. Grant held her high against
his
chest, giving a grunt of discomfort as the icy salt water
soaked through his own clothes.
"Will you take 'er to Bow Street, Mr. Morgan?" the
waterman chattered, hastening to follow Grant as he took
the steps two at a time. "I 'spect I should go too, an'
give my name to Sir Ross. I done someone a favor, didn't
I,
finding the lady afore she croaked. I wouldn't take no
thanks, o' course ... just to do the right thing is
enough ... but there might be a reward, mightn't there?"
"Find Dr. Jacob Linley," Grant said harshly,
interrupting the man's eager speculation. "He's usually
at
Tom's coffeehouse this time of night. Tell him to come to
my residence at King Street."
"I can't," the waterman protested. "I 'as to work, ye
know ... Why, I could earn five shillings yet tonight."
"You'll be paid when you bring Linley to King
Street."
"But what if I can't find 'im?"
"You'll bring him there within a half hour," Grant
said
curtly, "or I'll have your boat confiscated—and I'll
arrange a three-day stay for you in a prison hulk. Is
that
motivation enough?"
"I always thought you was a fine fellow," the
waterman
said sourly, "until I met you. You're not a-tall like
they
write you in the papers. Hours I've spent in the taverns
whilst they read aloud about yer doings ... " He trotted
away, disappointment evident in every line of his squatty
form.
Grant's mouth curved in grim amusement. He was well
aware of the way his exploits were described in the
papers.
Editors and writers had exaggerated his accomplishments
until he was made to seem superhuman. People regarded him
as a legend, not as a normal man with flaws.
He had made the job of Bow Street Runner into a
highly
profitable one, earning a fortune from recovering stolen
property for banks. He had, on occasion, taken other
kinds
of cases—locating an abducted heiress, serving as a
personal guard to a visiting monarch, tracking down
murderers—but banks were always his preferred clients.
With
each case solved, his name had garnered more celebrity,
until he was discussed in every coffee shop and tavern in
London.
To Grant's amusement, the ton had taken him to its
bejeweled bosom, clamoring for his presence at their
social
functions. It was said that a ball's success was assured
if
the hostess was able to write "Mr. Morgan will attend" at
the bottom of the invitation. Yet for all his apparent
popularity with the nobility, it was clear to all that he
was not one of them. He was more a figure of
entertainment
than an accepted member of the high social circles he
frequented. Women were excited by the notion that he was
a
potentially dangerous character, and men wanted his
friendship in order to appear more brave and worldly
themselves. Grant was aware that he would never be
accepted
except in the most superficial way. And he would never be
trusted by the ton ... He knew too many of their dirty
secrets, their vulnerabilities, their fears and desires.
A gust of frosty air whirled around him, making the
woman in his arms moan and tremble. Clutching his
unwieldy
burden more tightly, he left the embankment and crossed a
cobblestoned street coated with mud and manure. He strode
through a small, square court filled with stagnant water
barrels, a fetid pigsty, and a cart with broken wheels.
Covent Garden was littered with courts like these, from
which dark, winding rookeries spread out in disease-
ridden
webs. Any gentleman in his right mind would be terrified
to
venture in this area of the city, rife with thieves'
kitchens, whores, bullies, and criminals who would kill
for
a few shillings. But Grant was hardly a gentleman, and
the
London underworld held no terrors for him.
The woman's head lolled on his shoulder, her weak,
cool
breath hitting his chin. "Well, Vivien," he
murmured, "there was a time I wanted you in my arms ...
but
this wasn't exactly what I had planned."
He found it hard to believe he was carrying London's
most desirable female past Covent Garden's tumbledown
booths and open stalls. Butchers and peddlers paused to
stare curiously as he passed, while prostitutes ventured
from the shadows. "Here, laddie," a sunken-cheeked
scarecrow of a woman called, "got a nice fresh cream pot
for ye!"
"Some other time," Grant said sarcastically, ignoring
the whore's eager cawing.
He crossed the northwest corner of the square and
reached King Street, where the decaying buildings turned
abruptly into a row of tidy town houses, coffeehouses,
and
a publisher or two. It was a clean, prosperous street
with
bow-fronted houses inhabited by the upper class. Grant
had
purchased an elegant, airy three-story air town house
there. The busy headquarters at Bow Street was only a
short
step away, but it seemed far removed from this serene
location.
Swiftly Grant mounted the steps of his town house and
gave the mahogany door a resounding kick. When there was
no
response from within, he drew back and kicked again.
Suddenly the door opened and his housekeeper appeared,
spluttering with protests at his cavalier treatment of
the
polished wood paneling.
Mrs. Buttons was a pleasant-faced woman in her
fifties,
kind of heart but bottled-up, steel-spined, and possessed
of stern religious convictions. It was no secret that she
disapproved of Grant's chosen profession, abhorring the
physical violence and corruption he dealt with as a
matter
of course. Yet she tirelessly received the wide
assortment
of underworld callers who came to the town house,
treating
all with equal parts of politeness and reserve.
Like the other Bow Street Runners who worked under
the
direction of Sir Ross Cannon, Grant had become so
immersed
in the world of darkness that he sometimes questioned how
much difference there was between himself and the
criminals
he pursued. Mrs. Buttons had once told Grant of her hopes
that he would someday step into the light of Christian
truth. "I'm beyond saving," he had replied
cheerfully. "You'd better direct your ambitions toward an
attainable goal, Mrs. Buttons."
As she beheld the dripping burden in her employer's
arms, the housekeeper's normally unflappable face went
slack with amazement. "Good Lord!" Mrs. Buttons
exclaimed. "What happened?"
Grant's muscles were beginning to tire from the
strain
of carrying the woman's limp weight so far. "A near
drowning," he said curtly, pushing past the housekeeper
as
he headed for the stairs. "I'm taking her to my room."
"But how? Who?" Mrs. Buttons gasped, making a visible
effort to recover herself. "Shouldn't she be brought to a
hospital?"
"She's an acquaintance of mine," he said. "I want her
seen by a private doctor. God knows what they would do to
her at a hospital."
"An acquaintance," the housekeeper repeated, hurrying
to keep pace with his rapid strides. It was clear she was
burning to know more, but wouldn't presume to ask.
"A lady of the evening, actually," Grant said dryly.
"A lady of the ... and you've brought her here ..."
Her
voice reeked with disapproval. "Sir, once again you have
outdone yourself."
A brief grin crossed his face. "Thank you."
"It was not a compliment," the housekeeper informed
him. "Mr. Morgan, wouldn't you prefer to have one of the
guest rooms prepared?"
"She'll stay in mine," he said in a tone that quashed
further argument.
Frowning, Mrs. Buttons directed a housemaid to wipe
up
the puddles they had left on the inlaid floors of the
amber
marble entranceway.
The town house, with its long windows, Sheraton
furniture, and English hand-knotted carpets, was the kind
of place Grant had once never dared to dream of living
in.
It was a far cry from the crowded flat he had occupied as
a
small child, three rooms crammed with the eight offspring
of a middle-class bookseller and his wife. Or the
succession of orphanages and workhouses that had come
later, when his father had been thrown into debtor's
prison
and the family had fallen to pieces.
Grant had eventually found himself on the streets,
until a Covent Garden fishmonger had taken pity and given
him steady work and a pallet to sleep on at night.
Snuggled
up against the heat of the kitchen stove, Grant had
dreamed
of something better, something more, though his dreams
had
never taken precise shape until the day he met a Bow
Street
Runner.
The Runner had been patrolling the jostling market
square and had caught a thief who had snatched a fish
from
the fishmonger's stall. Grant had stared wide-eyed at the
Runner in his smart red waistcoat, armed with cutlass and
pistols. He had seemed larger, finer, more powerful than
ordinary men. Grant had immediately known that his only
hope of escaping the life he had been consigned to was to
become a Runner. He had enlisted in the Foot Patrol at
age
eighteen, was promoted to the Day Patrol within a year,
and
a few months later was chosen by Sir Ross Cannon to
complete the elite force of a half dozen Bow Street
Runners.
To prove his worthiness, Grant had hurled himself
into
his work with unflagging zeal, treating each case as if
it
required a personal sense of vengeance. He went to any
lengths to catch a culprit, once following a murderer
across the Channel to apprehend him in France. As success
mounted on success, Grant had begun to charge exorbitant
fees for his private services, which had only made him
more
sought-after.
Acting on advice from a wealthy client who owed him a
favor, Grant had invested in shipping and textile
companies, purchased a half interest in a hotel, and
bought
several choice pieces of property on the west side of
London. With some luck and determination, he had climbed
far higher than God or man had intended. At age thirty,
he
could retire with a comfortable fortune. But he couldn't
bring himself to resign from the Bow Street force. The
thrill of the chase, the lure of danger, were strong,
almost physical needs he could never seem to satisfy. He
didn't care to dwell on exactly why he couldn't settle
down
and lead a normal life, but he was certain it didn't
speak
well of his character.
Reaching his bedroom, Grant brought Vivien to the
massive mahogany tester bed with draped swags carved at
the
headboards and foot. Much of his furniture, including the
bed, had been specially made to suit his proportions. He
was a tall, big-framed man, for whom the tops of
doorframes
and ceiling beams posed a frequent hazard.
"Oh, the counterpane!" Mrs. Buttons exclaimed as
Vivien's clothes saturated the heavy velvet embroidered
with gold and blue silk. "It will be ruined beyond
repair!"
"Then I'll buy another," Grant said, flexing his sore
arms and stripping off his drenched coat. He dropped his
coat to the floor and bent over Vivien's still form.
Intent
on removing her clothes as quickly as possible, he tugged
at the front of her gown. A curse escaped his lips as the
buttons and hooks remained obstinately entrenched in the
shrunken wet wool.
Grumbling about the damage that was being done to the
velvet counterpane, Mrs. Buttons endeavored to assist
him,
then pulled back with a frustrated sigh. "They'll have to
be cut off her, I suppose. Shall I fetch the scissors?"
Grant shook his head and reached for his right boot.
In
a smooth move born of long habit, he extracted an ivory-
handled knife with a six-inch spearpoint blade.
The housekeeper gaped as he began to cut through the
gown's thick woven bodice as if it were butter. "Oh, my,"
she faltered.
Grant focused intently on the work at hand. "No one
can
wield a knife like a former Covent Garden fishmonger," he
remarked dryly, spreading the sides of the gown wide to
reveal a wealth of white linen undergarments. Vivien's
chemise was soaked and plastered to her snowy skin,
revealing the rose-colored points of her nipples beneath.
Although Grant had seen countless female bodies,
something
about Vivien's barely clad form made him hesitate. He
struggled with the unaccountable feeling that he was
violating something—someone—tender and virginal.
Ludicrous,
considering the fact that Vivien Duvall was an
accomplished
courtesan.
"Mr. Morgan," the housekeeper said, fidgeting with
the
edges of her large white apron, "if you would prefer, I
can
have one of the housemaids assist me in removing Miss ...
"
"Duvall," Grant supplied softly.
"Miss Duvall's garments."
"I'll see to our guest," Grant murmured. "I'll wager
at
least a regiment's worth of men have had the privilege of
seeing Miss Duvall naked She'd be the first to say, `Get
the job done and modesty be damned.'" Besides, after the
trouble he'd gone to tonight, he was entitled to this one
small pleasure.
"Yes, sir." She gave him an odd, considering look, as
if he weren't quite behaving like himself. And perhaps he
wasn't. A strange feeling suffused him, the chill from
the
outside mingling with a heat that burned at his core.
Stone-faced, Grant continued to cut away the wet
clothes, slicing through one sleeve and then the other.
As
he lifted Vivien's slim upper torso and yanked the sodden
wool from beneath her, someone walked through the half-
open
door and gasped loudly.
It was Kellow, his valet, a dignified young man with
a
prematurely balding head and a pair of round spectacles
settled firmly on his nose. His eyes seemed to fill the
spectacle lenses as he beheld his employer standing with
a
knife over the half-clad body of the unconscious
woman. "Oh, dear God!"
Grant turned to fix him with a ferocious scowl. "Try
to
be of some use, will you? Get one of my shirts. And some
towels. And now that I think of it, some tea and brandy.
Now, hurry."
Kellow started to reply, appeared to think better of
it, and proceeded to fetch the required articles.
Carefully
averting his eyes from the woman on the bed, he handed a
fresh shirt to Mrs. Buttons and fled the room.
Grant's growing need to have Vivien clothed and warm
overrode any desire to see her naked. He caught only a
brief glimpse of her body as he and the housekeeper
worked
to pull Vivien's arms through the long linen sleeves ...
but his brain gathered the image greedily and kept it to
savor later.
Vivien wasn't perfect, but the promise of delight was
captured in her imperfections. She was charmingly short-
waisted, as so many petite women were, with gorgeous
round
breasts and softly dimpled knees. Her smooth abdomen was
crowned with a triangle of spicy red hair just a few
shades
darker than the sunset locks on her head. No wonder she
was
the most highly paid prostitute in England. She was lush,
pretty, dainty ... the kind of woman any man would want
to
keep in bed for days.
They weighted Vivien with linens and heavy blankets,
and Mrs. Buttons wrapped her stiff, salt-tainted hair in
one of the towels Kellow had brought. "She's a lovely
woman," the housekeeper said, her face softening with
reluctant pity. "And young enough to change her life for
the better. I hope the Lord will choose to spare her."
"She won't die," Grant said shortly. "I won't allow
it." He touched the pure ivory curve of Vivien's
forehead,
using his thumb to brush a tendril of hair beneath the
towel. Carefully he laid a cold cloth over a bruise at
her
temple. "Though it seems someone will be disappointed by
her survival."
"Pardon, sir, but I don't follow ... oh." Her eyes
widened as Grant's fingertips swept gently over Vivien's
throat, indicating the shadowy bruises that encircled her
slim neck. "It looks as if someone tried to ... to ... "
"Strangle her," he said matter-of-factly.
"Who would do such a thing?" Mrs. Buttons wondered
aloud, her forehead creased with horror.
"Most often in the case of a murdered woman, it's a
husband or lover." His lips twitched with a humorless
smile. "Females always seem to fear strangers, when it's
usually the men they know who do them harm."
Shaking her head at the ugly thought, Mrs. Buttons
stood and smoothed her apron. "If it pleases you, sir,
I'll
send up some salve for Miss Duvall's bruises and scrapes,
and wait downstairs for the doctor's arrival."
Grant nodded, barely aware of the housekeeper leaving
the room as he stared at Vivien's expressionless face.
Gently he rearranged the cloth on her forehead. He
stroked
the curve of her pale cheek with a single fingertip, and
made a sound of grim amusement in his throat. "I swore
you
would rue the day you made a fool of me, Vivien," he
murmured. "But the opportunity has come a hell of lot
sooner than I expected."