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, bigframed 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 rosecolored 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.
