from revealing their true selves to each other. How many men had been given the chance to know the real Vivien? Not one. He would bet his life on it.
A gentleman would not take advantage of the situation. But he was no gentleman.
He had once promised himself that Vivien would pay for her petty little game--and she would, with interest. Now that she was in his possession, she wasn't going to leave until his pride had been assuaged. He was going to amuse himself with her for as long as he wanted, or until her memory had returned. Whichever came first.
He smiled in satisfaction, the hot wistful ache in his chest seeming to ease.
After what seemed an unaccountably long time, Linley opened the door and welcomed him into the room. Vivien appeared calm but exhausted, her face as pale as the white linen pillow behind her head. An uncertain smile touched her lips as she saw Grant.
'Well?' Grant asked, while Linley bent over his medical case and latched it shut. Linley glanced up from his task. 'It appears Miss Duvall has suffered a concussion, though not a severe one.'
Grant's eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar term.
'A blow to the cranium,' Linley proceeded to explain, 'resulting in distress to the brain. The aftereffects usually last for a few weeks, perhaps a month, and may include confusion, nausea, and physical weakness. And also, in this particular case, amnesia.'
'How will you treat it?' Grant asked tersely.
'Unfortunately, the symptoms of concussion, including amnesia, must run their course. There's nothing I can do except prescribe rest. I don't think Miss Duvall will have any lasting problems from her experience tonight, although the next few days will be uncomfortable. I've left a few digestive powders to counteract the effects of the salt water she ingested, and a salve for the bruises and abrasions. I can't find evidence of fractured bones or internal injuries, just a mild sprain in one ankle.' He went to Vivien's side and patted her hand. 'Sleep,' he advised kindly. 'That's the best advice I can give.'
The doctor picked up his bag and crossed the room, stopping near the doorway to confer with Grant. His serious gray eyes met Grant's, and he spoke in a tone too low for Vivien to overhear. 'There are finger marks around her throat, and signs of a struggle. I assume you're going to investigate?'
'Of course.'
'Obviously Miss Duvall's amnesia will make your job more difficult. I don't have great experience in these matters, but I do know that the mind is a fragile instrument.' A warning note laced the doctor's matter-of-fact voice. 'I strongly suggest that Miss Duvall remain in a calm environment. When she feels better, perhaps she can visit some familiar places and people in an effort to aid her memory. However, you could possibly injure her by making her remember something she's not ready for.'
'I'm not going to harm her.' Grant's brows lowered in a scowl.
'Well, your skills at inquisition are well known. I've heard that you can obtain a confession from the most hardened criminals...and in case you were thinking of somehow forcing Miss Duvall's memory to return.--'
'Point taken,' Grant muttered, offended. 'Christ. One would think I went about kicking dogs and frightening small children.'
Linley chuckled in the face of his annoyance. 'I only know your reputation, man. Good evening--I'll be sending you a bill soon.'
'Do that,' Grant said, making no secret of his impatience for the sawbones to leave.
'One more thing...a patient with a concussion is quite vulnerable. A second trauma to the head, perhaps caused by a fall, could prove harmful or even fatal.'
'I'll take care of her.'
'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 ismy reputation?'
She fell asleep before he could reply.
CHAPTER 3
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.'
