Someone to Watch Over Me (22 page)

“I watched her from the window as she left.”
Mary interceded. “She was heading to the market, it looked like. With Mr. Keyes going right after her.”

“She’s going to Bow Street,” Grant muttered. As far as Victoria knew, it was the only place of safety other than this house. He snapped out a command for one of the footmen to take a horse and ride hell-for-leather to Bow Street. “Tell Cannon to call out every man available. Tell him to cover every inch of Covent Garden and the surrounding streets with constables, Runners, and watchmen until Miss Duvall and Keyes are both found. Now,
hurry
—I want your arse in Cannon’s office in less than five minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” The footman headed for the back of the house in an outright run, taking the shortest possible route to the stables.

Grant charged outside, barely aware of the rain that soaked his hair and clothes. A strange feeling had taken hold of him, a fear he had never experienced before. He had never given a thought to his own safety, had known that he possessed sufficient wits and physical strength to muddle through whatever danger he found himself in. But this fear for someone else, this blend of love and terror and fury, was the worst kind of agony.

He ran toward Covent Garden at a breakneck pace, while animals and carriages sloshed through the wet, dirty streets and pedestrians scattered for cover from the storm. If anything happened to Victoria…The thought caused a hellish pain in his chest, making his lungs feel as if they were filled with fire rather than air.

He passed the churchyard of St. Paul’s, the sacred ground layered with two centuries worth of human remains. The charnel scent of accumulated bones greeted him as he cornered the eastern portico of the church. Covent Garden spread before him, a massive intermingling of traffic and squalor. Pickpockets, procurers, thieves, bloods, and bullies wandered freely about the place…and all of them would take a great interest in an unaccompanied woman with a pretty face and red hair. Panic welled inside him as he debated whether Victoria might have skirted around the Garden and traveled through the dark alleys filled with vagrants and criminals, or possibly gone straight through the market square. He had to find her before Keyes did.

“Victoria, where are you?” he said beneath his breath, his frustration doubling with each minute that passed. It took all his self-control to keep from bellowing the question aloud.

Blinking hard against the deluge, using both hands to wipe the streaming water from her face, Victoria blundered down a side street that branched from Russell, and realized in despair that she was heading in the wrong direction. She should have reached Bow Street by now. If only she knew the way. If only a few more minutes had passed before Keyes had learned of her absence.

The hem of her rain-soaked skirts tangled around her ankles as she ran farther into an accretion of dilapidated buildings. As everywhere else in London, there was a jumble of whorehouses,
thieves’ kitchens, and slum cottages tucked behind the clean, well-fronted high streets. Without pausing to glance over her shoulder, Victoria darted into the nearest place of refuge. She hurried down the basement steps of a two-story building, with signs outside identifying it as a betting shop.

Struggling to catch her breath, she opened a wooden door and plunged into the shadowy, lamplit basement room. It was filled with at least a dozen men, all of them too engrossed in the proceedings to immediately notice her presence. Gentleman and louts alike huddled at a counter lined with tobacco jars and cigar bundles, studying lists of odds on the back wall. A bookmaker wearing heavy leather pouches at each hip swaggered behind the counter and conducted transactions at a rapid pace. “…got an ‘eavy bag against all comers…” he was proclaiming, stroking the ends of his curly sideburns with thumb and forefinger, then jotting down bets with a stubby pencil.

There was a rank masculine smell in the air, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, and rain-dampened wool and broadcloth. Shrinking into a corner, Victoria yanked her hood down low over her face and waited with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She prayed silently that Keyes would pass the betting shop and continue searching for her elsewhere. However, she feared the hope was futile. This area of London was well known to Keyes, as all the Runners were routinely assigned to comb through the rookeries in search of criminals. This was what the Runners excelled at—hunting and catching their prey.

“Well, now.” A gentleman’s cultured voice interrupted her thoughts, and a pair of black Hessian boots approached her. “It seems a pretty little bird has found a dry place to perch during the storm.”

The betting was temporarily interrupted as Victoria’s presence became noticed. Biting her lower lip, she steeled herself not to flinch as the man pulled away her concealing hood. She heard his breath catch, and a meaty hand reached for a damp lock of her glowing red hair. “A lovely bit of goods,” he said thickly, and laughed while his gaze roved over her. “What business are you about, little bird? Searching for an evening’s companion? You’ve found your man, then. I’ve got a nice big coin in my pocket for you.”

“That’s not all ‘e’s got in ‘is pocket, I’ll wager,” someone said, and a rumble of masculine laughter ensued.

Miserably aware that she was becoming the focus of all attention, Victoria stared steadily into the man’s face. He had the appearance of a gentleman, perhaps even a member of the lower nobility, his round face clean-shaven, his stocky form clad in coffee-brown breeches, a high-collared broadcloth coat, and a fancifully tied cravat.

“Someone was bothering me in the marketplace,” she said in a low voice. “I though to avoid him by hiding here for a few minutes.”

He clucked his tongue in false sympathy and slid an arm around her back in an insultingly familiar manner. “Poor dove. I’ll give you all the protection you desire.” He reached for the bodice of her premise and began to pluck at the fastenings, ignoring
her outraged gasp. “No need to protest—I just want to have a look at the goods.”

Now the full attention of the room was on them. Even the bookmaker had taken pause to watch the goings-on, joining in the shouts of encouragement as the men clamored to see what was concealed beneath the premise.

“I came here to avoid being molested by one man,” Victoria said, pushing his hands away and retreating farther into the corner. “I’m not looking for another.”

The oaf merely grinned at the comment, clearly thinking she was playing a game with him. “I’m offering you a night with a randy stallion, and a generous reward for your services,” he said. “What more could any woman want?”

“I’ll give
you
a reward if you help me to Bow Street,” she countered. “Surely you’ve heard of Mr. Grant Morgan, the Runner. I know he would consider it a personal favor if you would take me there safely.”

Some of the lust seemed to fade from his expression, and he looked at her with new interest. “Yes, I’ve heard of Morgan. What connection do you have with him?”

A tendril of relief broke through her agitation. Grant’s name had definitely captured his attention. If this man could somehow be persuaded to take her to Bow Street, she would be safe from Keyes. In her eagerness to convince him to help her, she caught at his sleeve and held it tightly. Before she could say a word, however, someone entered the betting shop.

After one glimpse of the man’s gray hat, Victoria gave a muffled exclamation of fright. “It’s him,” she said shakily.

“The man who was bothering you?” her selfstyled protector asked.

Victoria nodded, her throat closing as she stared at Keyes. He was breathing rapidly from exertion, his face set and furious. As soon as he saw her, his eyes gleamed with mean-spirited triumph.

“I’m a Bow Street Runner in pursuit of a suspect,” he said in a cold, clear voice. “Give the woman to me.”

The announcement of a Runner on the premises caused a hubbub of consternation throughout the small crowd. The bookmaker came out from behind the counter and began an angry rant. “I’m running a straight business, I am! What will it take to keep you pigs out o’ my lister?” It was well known that bookmakers and Runners despised each other, as the authorities were often wont to sift through the betting shops in search of criminals. Runners considered the bookies to be one small step above actual criminals, and usually treated them as such.

“I’m about the Crown’s business,” Keyes said sharply, coming toward Victoria. “I’ll thank you to hand over the wench, as she is wanted for questioning.”

“He’s lying,” Victoria cried, throwing herself at the gentleman beside her; grabbing at whatever meager protection she could find. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“What crime is she accused of?” the man asked, one arm closing around Victoria.

“I haven’t time to enumerate the offenses,” Keyes replied. “Now, release the woman and go about your business.”

“Do as ‘e says,” the bookmaker commanded tersely. “Let ‘im ‘ave the goods and take ‘is leave. ‘Tis bad for business to ‘ave a Runner about the place.”

The man sighed and gently began to urge Victoria forward. “Well, you have a wish to go to Bow Street, dove. It seems you have your escort.”

“He won’t take me there,” she cried, clutching at him. “He’s going to kill me. Don’t let me go!”

“Kill you?” the man repeated, chortling at what he clearly perceived as a wild exaggeration. “Come, dove, whatever you’ve done, it can’t be all that bad. When you go to the bench, just give the magistrate your prettiest smile, and I’ve no doubt he’ll let you off easy.”

“Please,” she said desperately, “help me to reach Sir Ross Cannon. Or Mr. Morgan. I…I’m begging for my life.”

Uncertainty skittered across the man’s face as he stared down at her. It seemed that whatever he read in her eyes convinced him. The arm around her strengthened. “All right,” he said. “No doubt I could do worse than rescue a damsel in distress this soggy evening.” He looked up at Keyes with an affable, condescending smile. “Surely it would do no harm if I accompany the girl to Bow Street,” he said. “That’s where you want her taken, yes?
What difference does it make if I bring her there on your behalf?”

Victoria tensed as Keyes approached them, his eyes dark and lethal in his calm face. He appeared to be considering a response, in the manner of a man carrying on a reasonable conversation. “I’ll show you what difference it makes,” he said quietly. At the same time he spoke, he withdrew an object from inside his coat and raised it in a swift, high arc. In a flashing instant, Victoria saw that it was a neddy, a small weighted cudgel the Runners used to subdue unruly criminals. She let out a sharp cry and turned away just as Keyes struck the man about the head and shoulders, three times in rapid succession. She felt the shock of the blows resound through the man’s heavy frame, and he collapsed in a moaning heap on the ground, his arm dropping away from her.

Keyes snatched her, seizing one arm and twisting it behind her until a shaft of pain seared through her back and shoulder. Victoria grunted through her clenched teeth and bent forward to ease the piercing ache. A burst of angry cries echoed throughout the room, and Keyes’s voice cut through the cacophany. “If anyone else wishes to tangle with me, I’ll have you charged with interfering with an officer’s execution of his duty. Care for an evening’s stay at Newgate?” He laughed contemptuously at the suddenly subdued crowd. “I thought not,” he sneered. “Carry on, gentlemen, and put this little piece of mutton out of your minds.”

“Get yer arse out o’ my lister!” the bookmaker
snapped, and joined the small gathering around the injured man on the floor.

“Gladly,” Keyes said, tugging and pushing Victoria up the steps, back into the downpour.

“You can’t kill me now,” she cried, blinking against the sheet of rain that struck her in the face. “There are witnesses…they’ll all say you were the one who took me away. You’ll be tried…hanged…”

“I’ll be long gone before an investigation has even begun,” Keyes sneered, continuing to twist her arm as he ushered her along the street, around a flooding cess-trench dug in the middle.

Victoria glanced frantically about the street in the hope of finding someone to help her. Hopeless gazes stared out from the depths of crammed cellar homes. The stench of an underground slaughterhouse surrounded them as they passed the doorway, where the pelting rain was doing little to wash away layers of dried blood and fat. She felt her eyes aching and stinging, her leaking tears mingling with the rivulets of rain that coursed down her cheeks.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she cried.

Surprisingly, Keyes heard her through the tumult of the storm. “I’m too bloody old to be a Runner, and I’ve only a few pounds to retire on. I’ll be damned if I live like a dog for the rest of my days.”

“Wh-who paid you to kill me—” She broke off with a pained cry as he pushed her arm another inch upward.

“Enough yapping,” he said. They turned a corner and ventured deep into a rookery. Rapidly they
strode toward a deserted factory. The walls of the building appeared so decayed and unstable that no one dared occupy it, not even the poor who were tightly packed in nearby slums like rabbits in a warren. Victoria screamed and dug in her heels as Keyes tried to force her past the doorway.

A sharp pain exploded on the side of her head, and she realized dimly that he had just hit her, hard enough to subdue her resistance. Sagging against him, her mind buzzing, she fought to collect her wits. He gagged her efficiently, using his own cravat, and she recoiled at the taste of starch and sweat. Drawing her hands behind her back, Keyes snapped the cold metal rings of handcuffs around her wrists.

Helplessly Victoria stumbled forward as the Runner shoved her toward a set of broken stairs. The remnants of the steps groaned and splintered as they ascended. It would have been pitch-black in the building, except that a good part of the roof had rotted away, and there were holes and gaping fissures in the walls. The air was foul and still, every visible surface covered with oily dust that barely stirred when gusts of rain-filled wind blew inside.