Someone to Watch Over Me (15 page)

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Only that I intend to make your job easier for you.”

She squared her shoulders and left the gallery with determined strides, plunging back into the drawing room like a gladiator. Grant followed more slowly, his gaze locked on her small, trim form. Any trace of shame or timidity had left her. She moved among the guests with a straight spine and a regal tilt to her head. It seemed as if the Vivien he had remembered was now back, as alluring and coquettish as ever.

Openly flirting and teasing, Vivien began to attract men like flies to a honey pot. Before long a circle of five had gathered around her. Three of them were former paramours, and by all appearances more than willing to renew their previous arrangements with her. Clasping a goblet of wine in her delicate fingers, Vivien finished it far too quickly and accepted another.

Grant moved forward, feeling like a starving man being forced to watch as others feasted at
his
picnic. At that moment he felt Sir Ross’s restraining clasp on his shoulder. “Let her be,” came Cannon’s cool murmur. “She’s doing exactly what needs to be done. A clever woman, your friend.”

“Vivien is merely reverting to type,” Grant said bitterly. “She can’t rest until she’s made every man in the room want her.”

“Really.” Cannon’s voice turned dry and chiding. “Take a closer look, Morgan, and tell me what you see.”

“A courtesan, enjoying the hell out of herself.” Grant drank deeply of his brandy.

“Oh? I see a woman with perspiration on her forehead, holding her wineglass in a death grip. I see the tension of a woman attending to an unpleasant duty regardless of the embarrassment it causes her.”

Grant snorted. “She isn’t capable of embarrassment.”

Cannon regarded him speculatively. “If you say so. Though at the moment I haven’t much faith in your objectivity.”

Grant waited until the magistrate left him before he replied under his breath, “Neither do I.”

He continued to watch Vivien while jealousy and anger swirled in a fomenting mass inside him. This was what it would be like for any man fool enough to care about Vivien. He watched her flirting and talking with her former lovers, and he couldn’t help recalling the sickening details of what she had done with each and every one of them. He wanted to smash, pummel, skewer, mangle someone…anything to release this welling violence. He hadn’t known he was capable of such irrational rage, and he was appalled by it.

Until now, Vivien hadn’t known it was possible to present a facade of pleasure and gaiety when she was abjectly miserable. It was the worst kind of torture to stand here and pretend sexual interest in
any and all the men that surrounded her, when all she wanted was to be alone.

She did not look directly at Grant, but she saw him from the corner of her eye, a grim giant who looked as though he had swallowed a bellyful of wasps. She couldn’t help thinking of him as the cause of her problems…though that wasn’t quite fair. If she hadn’t led the kind of life that had resulted in this unholy mess, she wouldn’t need his protection. She was to blame for the entire situation. But he, damn his arrogant hide, didn’t have to treat her with such ambivalence, being kind and caring one moment and sarcastic and superior the next. It would be easier for them both if he would either like or hate her, instead of tormenting her with his mercurial moods.

Lord Gerard caught her eye from afar. He was standing near the glass-paned doors that led to the outside gardens. Inclining his head questioningly, he gestured to the door.

Realizing that he wanted her to meet him outside, Vivien gave him an agreeable wink, though her heart shriveled in dread at the prospect. No doubt he would attempt to seduce her…either that or try to strangle her. As her former protector, and reputedly jealous by nature, he might very well have been the one to throw her into the Thames. She was afraid to be alone with him. But Grant had said that she would be safe, and she believed him.

Recognizing the need to separate herself from the crowd that had accumulated around her, she glanced about for Grant. Her gaze was momentarily
caught by a tall, elderly man with a shock of iron-gray hair and a long, angular face. He was staring at her intently. Although he was not handsome, he was undeniably distinguished in appearance. What attracted her notice the most was the hatred in his eyes.

Uncomfortable, she tore her gaze from him and continued to look for Grant. Finding his tall, familiar form in the crowd, she sent him a meaningful glance. The subtle signal was all Grant required. He was at her side in an instant, shouldering through the besotted herd. Ignoring the group’s protests, he jerked her out of their midst.

“What is it?” he muttered, bending his head to catch her soft murmur.

“Dance with me.”

He scowled at the request. “I don’t dance well.”

“Lord Gerard has indicated that he would like to meet with me in the garden. I was hoping you would dance with me to the doors at the other side of the room, and help me to slip outside discreetly.”

Grant hesitated, his gaze flickering to the outside doors. It was highly likely that a meeting between Gerard and Vivien would yield valuable information. The fact that Vivien was willing to confront the ex-lover who might have killed her, and to face him without the aid of her memory, was proof of her courage. However, he didn’t want her to do it. He was jealous, and concerned for her safety, and at the moment there was nothing in the world he wanted more than to be alone with her.

“What about your ankle?” he asked.

“I’ll manage,” she said immediately. “I only feel a little twinge now and then.”

“When you go outside, you’ll stay in view of the house,” he said quietly. “You won’t venture past the doors leading to the lower lawns. Agreed?”

“Yes, of course.”

Reluctantly he pulled her into the swirl of dancers as a waltz began. Despite the tension that had gripped each of them, or perhaps because of it, Vivien was tempted to giggle. Grant had not been falsely modest—he was definitely
not
a good dancer. He was proficient but hardly graceful, handling her as if she were a rag doll.

Gamely they struggled on, making slow but steady progress to the other side of the room. Grant stared at the shiny flame-hued curls on the top of Vivien’s head, mechanically drawing her through the figures of the waltz. He was terrified of stepping on her. One misplaced foot and he could cripple her for life. Vivien was silent, apparently as uncomfortable as he…and then he heard a smothered sound that sounded like weeping. He broke their rhythm long enough to shove his fingers beneath her chin and force her face upward. Her lips quivered violently, and her deep blue eyes glimmered with laughter.

“This is dreadful,” Vivien gasped, and bit her lip to control an eruption of amusement.

Grant was offended and relieved at the same time. “I told you,” he growled.

“The fault isn’t yours. Really. You would do much better with a taller partner. We’re so unsuited to each other.” She shook her head, and a
wistful softness swept through her tone. “We’re a mismatch.”

“Yes.” But Grant didn’t agree, or more precisely, didn’t care. He loved her short legs and high waist and little hands…loved the way she felt in his arms…loved every detail of her, perfect and imperfect. The knowledge spread inside him like an opiate, the kind that caused the senses to soar dizzyingly high and then crash with sickening speed. Of all the women he had known…why did it have to be her?

The music rose to a crescendo, and as the ballroom spun with color and light, Grant shoved Vivien toward the door that led outside. “Go,” he muttered. “Gerard is waiting.” And he shielded her with his back while she slipped out to meet her former lover.

T
he slope at the back of the manor had been cut in a succession of three terraces. A wide, gently angled flight of steps led to the velvety expanse of lower lawn, bordered by carefully clipped yews. It was an old-fashioned garden, perfectly manicured with geometrically shaped flower beds and box-edged paths. A wrought-iron gate admitted entrance to the lower lawns, its towering stone gate piers topped with bronze urns.

Seeing no trace of Lord Gerard, Vivien descended the stairs. Grant had warned her about not going to the lower lawns, but it appeared she had no choice. Suppressing a tense sigh, she turned full circle. The garden rustled, and a night owl hooted gustily.

“Vivien.” She heard Lord Gerard’s thick whisper. “This way.” A hand wormed between the
wrought-iron scrolls of the gate, and his finger waggled at her.

The lower gardens it would be, then. Shivering in the cool darkness, Vivien slipped past the gate and confronted Gerard. In the blue wash of moonlight, his face was as pale and formless as blancmange. He was average in height and build, his hairline beginning an inevitable recession to the top of his head. Vivien studied him, thinking that if she had indeed been lovers with this man, she should remember something, anything about him. However, the sight of his face and the sound of his voice had not summoned any ghosts from the void of her memory.

He made a move to embrace her, and she drew back at once.

Gerard laughed low in his throat and shook his head admiringly. “Vivien, you tease,” he murmured. “You’re as splendid as ever. God knows my eyes have missed the sight of you.”

“I won’t stay long,” she replied, forcing herself to pout prettily. “I don’t want to miss a word of gossip at the ball, as I’ve been away from town much too long.”

“Where have you been the past month? Come, you can confide in your old friend.”

“Are you my friend?” she countered softly.

“If I am not, then you have none.”

Unfortunately that could very well be true. Tilting her head, Vivien affected a coquettish pose, twirling a stray tendril of hair around a slender finger. “Where I’ve been is none of your concern, my lord.”

He paced in a half circle around her. “I believe there are a few questions I’m entitled to ask, pet.”

“You have five minutes. Then I will return to the ball.”

“All right, then, let us begin with the subject of our dear friend Morgan. What is he to you? Surely you can’t have accepted him as your latest protector—or have your standards fallen so low since last we met? Oh, I suppose he has a primitive appeal for some women…but he’s a commoner. A thief-taker, for God’s sake. What sort of charade are you playing at?”

“No charade,” she replied with veiled contempt. How dare this soft-waisted, indolent creature insult Morgan’s lack of blue blood? Oh, Morgan had his faults, to be sure…but he was a hundred times more of a man than Gerard could ever hope to be. “He’s an attractive man.”

“An oversized ape,” Gerard scoffed.

“He amuses me. And he can afford my tastes. That is enough for now.”

“You’re much better suited to me,” Gerard remarked quietly. “And we both know it.” His obsidian gaze swept over her with ill-concealed greed. “Now that the problem that separated us is apparently resolved, I don’t see why we can’t resume our former relationship.”

Problem? What problem? Vivien stifled a leap of curiosity behind a delicate yawn. “You talked to Morgan about me,” she said idly.

Apology colored his tone. “I thought you were dead, otherwise I wouldn’t have said one word to the bastard.”

“Did you confide in him about our ‘problem’?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t tell a soul about it, and besides…in light of your disappearance, I feared it would cast me in a rather suspicious light.” He paused and asked almost sheepishly, “How did it end, by the by?”

“How did what end?”

“Don’t be obtuse, darling. The pregnancy, of course. Obviously you’ve miscarried, or perhaps deliberately…” He stopped uncomfortably. “After much reflection, I admit I was wrong to refuse to acknowledge the babe, but you know the relationship between my wife and me. Her health is delicate, and the knowledge of your pregnancy would have distressed her too greatly. And there is no proof that the child was mine.”

Vivien turned away, her mind on fire.
Pregnancy
. She had been carrying a child. Slowly her hand crept to her flat abdomen, and trembled as it pressed there. It couldn’t be true, she thought frantically. Oh, dear Lord, if she had been pregnant, what had become of the child? A series of hot and cold shivers rippled through her as she mulled the possibilities. It must have resulted in miscarriage, because the alternative was not something she cared to contemplate.

She closed her eyes, squeezed them tight in horror. She wouldn’t have aborted the babe…would she? The hows and whys of the question flew around her like attacking birds, pecking and shredding until she flinched.

“I see,” Gerard said, reading her obvious discomfort and deducing that she had indeed deliberately
terminated the pregnancy. “Well, no need to blame yourself, darling. You’re hardly the mothering kind. Your talents lie elsewhere.”

Her lips parted, but she couldn’t produce a sound. In her guilt and pain, she could only focus on one overwhelming fact. Grant must not find out. If he knew what she had likely done, his contempt for her would know no bounds. He would despise her for eternity…but no more than she would despise herself.

“Vivien.” Gerard’s voice penetrated the desperate whirl of her thoughts. He approached her from behind and grasped her gloved arms, his hands sliding in a downward caress. “Vivien, leave Morgan and come back to me. Tonight. He’s only flash gentry. He can’t do for you what I can. You know that.”

Poisonous, angry words flooded her mouth, but somehow she held them back. It would be best not to make an enemy of him…He might eventually be of further use to her. She turned a tremulous smile on him. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “However, don’t expect me tonight. Now…we’ll go back to the drawing room separately. I won’t embarrass Morgan by appearing there with you.”

“One kiss before we go,” Gerard demanded.

Her smile lingered teasingly. “But I couldn’t stop at one, darling. Just leave, please.”

He caught her hand and squeezed, pressing a kiss to the back of her glove. As soon as he walked away, Vivien’s smile disappeared. She passed the backs of her fingers over her cold, sweaty brow and fought the urge to cry. Taking a separate path from
Gerard’s, she wandered back to the manor house.

Consumed by regret and bitter fear, Vivien paused by a thick hedge bordering a massive stone statue of Father Time. A welcome breeze fanned over her. She felt feverish, dazed, and she knew she had to compose herself before entering the drawing room. She did not want to face the crowd inside, and she especially did not want to face Grant.

“Harlot.” A man’s hate-thickened voice darted through the silence, causing her to start. “
I won’t rest until you’re dead
.”

Stunned, Vivien whirled in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. Shadows danced around her. Her heart thudded with sickening speed. The sound of footsteps caused her to bolt like a frightened rabbit. Grabbing handfuls of her skirts, she let out a muffled sob and raced up the stone steps, stumbling, scrambling toward the lights from the manor. Her foot slipped on a patch of moisture, or perhaps a stray leaf, and she fell heavily, banging the front of her shin on the edge of a step. Crying out in pain, she gathered herself to run again, but it was too late—a pair of arms had already begun to close around her.

“No,” she whimpered, flailing out in selfdefense, but she was firmly restrained in an iron grip.

A harsh voice rumbled in her ear, and it took several seconds for her to recognize the familiar sound. “Vivien, be still. It’s me. Look at me, dammit.”

Blinking, she stared at him until the panic cleared from her vision. “Grant,” she said between
hard spurts of breath. He must have seen her from the house, and started for her the instant she panicked. Sitting on the stone steps, he held her, his dark face only inches from her own. The moonlight shimmered over the long plane of his nose and threw shadows from his thick lashes down his cheeks. Vivien clutched at him in shivering relief, her arms wrapped tightly around his neck. “Oh, thank God—”

“What happened?” he demanded curtly. “Why did you run?”

She licked her dry lips and struggled to speak coherently. “Someone spoke to me from behind the statue.”

“Was it Gerard?”

“No, I don’t th-think so—it didn’t sound like him, but I don’t—Oh, look!” She pointed as a dark shape moved past the statue and disappeared around the hedges.

“That’s Flagstad,” Grant muttered. “One of the Runners. If there’s a man in the area, he’ll find him.”

“Shouldn’t you be chasing after him, too?”

Grant toyed with one of the pinned curls atop her head that had come loose, and tucked it gently back in place. Suddenly a caressing smile touched his lips. “Are you suggesting I leave you alone?”

“No,” she said immediately, her arms tightening around his neck. “Not after what he said to me.”

His smile vanished at once. “What did he say, Vivien?”

She hesitated, sharply aware of her own need for caution. Nothing about the pregnancy must be
mentioned…at least not until she discovered more about it. Settling deeper into his arms, relishing the solid muscularity of his body, she replied cautiously. “That he won’t rest until I am dead.”

“Did the voice sound familiar?”

“No, not at all.”

Gently Grant pulled one of her sagging gloves back in place, his thumb coming to rest against the intimate softness of the hollow beneath her arm. Though his own hand was gloved, the touch was solid and reassuring. “Are you injured?” he asked,

“My leg…I hit the front of it, but I think it’s only a bruise—” She squeaked in protest as he began to hike the front of her skirt upward. “No, not here!
Wait
—”

“The skin doesn’t appear to be broken.” Grant inspected the swelling bruise intently, ignoring her determined wriggling. “Hold still.”

“I will not hold still while you expose my—Oh, do let go!” Mortified, she realized that someone else had joined them on the steps. Grant pulled her skirt back down, concealing the injured leg, but not before Sir Ross Cannon had reached them. Vivien pressed her crimson face against the front of Grant’s coat and peered up at Cannon.

“Flagstad couldn’t make out the man’s face in the darkness,” Cannon said without expression. “However, he did say our fellow is tall, gray-haired, and lean of build. And by an interesting coincidence, a carriage belonging to Lord Lane, who matches that description, is departing the estate as we speak.”

“Lane,” Grant repeated with a quizzical frown. “He’s not on the list of suspects.”

“Was he mentioned in Miss Duvall’s book?”

“No,” Grant and Vivien said in unison.

Tentatively Vivien tugged at the front of Grant’s coat. “There was an elderly man staring at me in the drawing room…He looked as if he hated me. He had a nose like a hawk’s beak. Could that have been Lord Lane?”

“It could have been,” Grant replied thoughtfully. “But I’ll be damned if I can figure out what connection he has to you. No one has mentioned him before.”

“Allow me to investigate what relevance he might have to Miss Duvall’s case,” Cannon said. Although the words were phrased as a question, he was clearly not asking for permission. “Lane happens to have led the opposition to my bill on the expansion of my night-watch patrols.” He smiled grimly. “I would like to repay the favor.”

“By all means,” Grant replied. He moved Vivien from his lap and helped her to stand. She was grateful for the partial concealment of darkness around them, acutely aware of her disheveled condition and the way Grant’s hands lingered on the rise of her hips.

“May I go home now?” she asked softly, and Sir Ross answered.

“I don’t see why not. You did well tonight, Miss Duvall. In my opinion, it shouldn’t be long before the case is concluded. Soon you’ll be free to return to your old life.”

“Thank you,” Vivien said in a hollow voice. Perhaps
she was being ungrateful, but the prospect of returning to her former life was hardly something she looked forward to. And what of her lost memory? How and when would it come back? Or would it come back at all? What if she had to flounder through the rest of her days without a past, without any of the secrets and memories that made a person complete? Even if Cannon and Grant solved the mystery of her would-be killer and made her safe from further assault, she would face her own future with dread. She didn’t know who she was, who she should be. What a strange punishment, to be robbed of the first half of her life.

Perhaps sensing her inner despair, Grant took her arm in a gentle grip. He guided her toward a path that led around the manor to the row of carriages parked along the circular drive.

“What will Lady Lichfield and the others think if we disappear without saying good-bye?” Vivien asked.

“They’ll assume that we left early so I could take you home and bed you.”

She blinked at his flat statement, while prickles of heat and cold chased over every inch of her skin. Wondering at his mood, she was tempted to ask if that was indeed what he planned to do. But the words clashed together and clumped in one huge, choking ball…because it occurred to her that she wished him to do exactly that. It had something to do with recklessness, and hopelessness, and the simple need for a few moments of pleasurable closeness. Whom would it harm if she gave herself to him? They had already done it before. She just
couldn’t remember it. Why shouldn’t she let it happen again? It wasn’t as if she had a reputation to protect. She felt empty, lonely and afraid…She wanted to please him…and herself.

She should have recoiled from the direction her thoughts were taking. Instead she felt wild and unpleasantly giddy, as if she had already committed herself to a course from which it was too late to retreat.

The footman saw them approach the carriage and hastened to fetch the movable step for Vivien. He was too well trained to show surprise at their early departure, nor did he ask questions, other than making a brief inquiry about their destination. “Home,” Grant said gruffly, handing Vivien into the carriage himself and gesturing for the footman to tell the driver.