Someone to Watch Over Me (23 page)

No one would find her now, Victoria thought dully, gasping for breath as Keyes pushed her into a second-story factory. The floor was pebbled with rodent droppings, and the fractured walls were coated with grime and webs and bird nests. There were squeaking, flapping noises as the current occupants of the factory fled their perches. Rain leaked from the broken roof and puddled in the
center of the floor. Dragging her to a corner, Keyes thrust her down until she fell back in a heap, the hem of her skirts sliding to her knees.

Then he was still, staring at her wet stockings. His face tautened in a way that made her ill. “I was planning to finish you off quickly,” he said. “Now I want something extra for my pains, you troublesome bitch. I wouldn’t mind a cut of what Morgan had.”

Suddenly nothing seemed real. Victoria thought dazedly that she must be having a nightmare, that very soon she would awaken and Grant would be there, telling her that everything was all right. Her mind turned inward, and she concentrated desperately on the idea that it was all a horrible dream. She didn’t even cringe as Keyes crouched over her and began to jerk at the fastenings of his breeches. “You’ll be no loss to the world,” he muttered. “I’ve seen thousands of your kind. I’ll give you one thing—you’re a hardy little bitch. No woman should have lived through what you did.” His tone was suddenly scored with jealousy. “Only the best for Morgan…Aye, you’re a choice piece of mutton.” Continuing to mutter angrily, he pulled up handfuls of her skirts, while Victoria began to wish she were already dead.

A
s Grant had demanded, Covent Garden and its environs were soon swarming with foot patrols, captains, Runners, and watchmen. Horse patrols comprised of retired calvary soldiers divided the area into sections and covered them with military precision. Cannon, of course, remained at Bow Street with the command that all developments be reported to him immediately.

Grant knew that Cannon’s desire for Victoria and Keyes to be found went beyond personal concern. A suspicious public was ever on the lookout for signs of corruption among the Bow Street force. If there had been wrongdoing on Keyes’s part, it would be used against Cannon—against all of them—to hinder Cannon’s planned reorganization and expansion of the policing system. It was likely that this concern weighed on all the Runners’
minds, spurring them to search even harder.

“Morgan,” Flagstad said worriedly, angling the brim of his hat against a cascade of raindrops, “for the life of me, I can’t come up with a sound reason for Miss Duvall to run from Keyes like that. She must have simply lost her head, panicked…but why? We all know for certain that Keyes is a good man.”

Grant shook his head, walking toward the opera house. He found it difficult to force a reply through his clenched teeth. “I don’t know anything for certain,” he said roughly.

“But of course you do,” Flagstad persisted, hurrying to match his ground-covering strides. “Keyes has done nothing out of order—he’s merely looking for Miss Duvall as we are, to bring her back to safety!”

Flagstad’s testimony on behalf of his longtime friend should have touched Grant. The man’s weathered face was fraught with distress over the inexplicable events of the evening. Flagstad had known Keyes for years, and would be sorely troubled over any implications that Keyes had done something wrong.

Grant knew he should have reacted with understanding, perhaps said a word or two to ease Flagstad’s obvious worry. Instead, he found himself stopping to seize the other man by his coat front. “Then where the hell is he?” His temper, tightly repressed until this moment, exploded in a bonfire of frustration. “Don’t tell me what kind of man Keyes is—just help me find the bastard!”

“Yes…yes…” Flagstad’s hands came over his,
prying them loose from his coat. He stared at Grant with bewildered dismay. “Calm yourself, Morgan. My God, I’ve never seen you so…Well, you’ve always kept a cool head, even during a riot!”

Grant released him with a grunt of muted fury. Yes, he had always been cool during riots, mobs, battles, and skirmishes of every kind. This was different. Time was running out for Victoria. She was in mortal danger, and not being able to reach her was causing something inhuman to disperse inside him and rise to the surface. He realized suddenly that he had to keep control of himself or he could quite possibly kill someone. Machinelike, he forced himself to continue to the opera house, where a captain of the foot patrol had gathered two men.

“You don’t think they’ve run away together, do you?” Flagstad mused aloud. “I mean, the ladies do seem to like Keyes, and Miss Duvall has a definite reputation in that regard—”

“Get away from me.” Grant’s voice was low and deadly. “Before I slaughter you.”

Flagstad seemed to understand it was not an idle threat. Paling, he stopped and edged away hastily. “I think I’ll get a report from Captain Brogdon on the progress of his foot patrol.”

“Morgan! Morgan!” A breathless shout caused Grant to look about alertly. A constable was running neck-or-nothing alongside the opera house, coming from the streets north of the marketplace. “Mr. Morgan…they sent me to tell you…”

Grant reached him in three strides, nearly knocking the young man over. “What is it?”

“The betting shop on the alleyway off Russell…
something you’ll want to hear about…” Gasping frantically, the constable paused and hung his head in the struggle for more air.

“Tell me, dammit!” Grant snapped. “You can breathe later.”

“Yes, sir.” The constable nodded jerkily and forced himself to continue. “The list-maker and some of his customers claim”—he paused for another gulp of air—“a girl came into the shop tonight, asking for someone to help her to Bow Street. They say a Runner came in and forced her to come away with him.”

“Praise God,” Flagstad exclaimed, having lingered to hear the report. His face was transformed with relief. “It’s Keyes and Miss Duvall, obviously. He found her! Everything is all right now.”

Grant ignored the Runner’s excitement and questioned the constable grimly. “How long ago did it happen?”

“It appears to be less than ten minutes, sir.”

Flagstad interrupted eagerly. “I’ll go directly to Bow Street and await them. No doubt Keyes will have her there momentarily.”

“You do that,” Grant said, and took off at a dead run toward Russell.

The betting shop was easy to locate. A cluster of constables had gathered outside the basement steps, while a squatty, imperious figure stood beneath the questionable shelter of a tattered umbrella and uttered loud complaints to all and sundry. The bookmaker wore heavy leather pouches that made him instantly identifiable.

The constables straightened and backed away a
step en masse as Grant reached them. They looked at him strangely—no doubt he presented an odd appearance with his hair plastered over his skull, his face stiff and bloodless beneath the falling rain, and his lips drawn back from his teeth in a sort of frozen snarl he couldn’t erase.

The bookmaker squinted at him speculatively. “Bloody big bastard, you are,” he commented. “You must be Morgan. She was asking for ye, the wench that came in my place an’ started the ‘ole bloody rucktion.”

“Tell Mr. Morgan what happened,” one of the constables urged.

“The Runner came in my shop for ‘er, an’ she wouldn’t go wiv ‘im. The addlepate said ‘e was going to kill ‘er.”

“And then there was a fight,” the constable prompted.

“Aye,” the bookmaker said sourly. “One ow my customers tried to claim the wench, an’ the Runner knocked the piss out ow my customer, ‘e did.” He spat in contempt at the thought of the departed runner. “Bloody Robin Redbreast, trying to ruin a man’s honest business!”

Grant experienced an excruciating mingling of panic and pain that rose higher and higher until he felt hot pressure in the center of his head.

“What direction did they go in?” he heard himself ask hoarsely.

The question produced a sudden sly smile that stretched from one curling sideburn to the other. “I may know,” the bookmaker said diffidently, “or I may not.”

One of the constables seized him impatiently, giving him a brief shake that elicited an angry squawk. “Rough me again,” the bookmaker threatened, “an’ I won’t tell ye where they went! ‘Ow’d ye like to put the wench to bed wiv a shovel?”

“What the hell do you want?” Grant asked softly, staring at the bookmaker with a savage intensity that seemed to rattle him.

The bookmaker blinked uneasily. “I want ye stinkin’ Redbreasts to keep yer arses out o’ my lister from now on!”

“Done.”

“But, Mr. Morgan…” the constable said, protesting the hastily struck bargain. His voice trailed away meekly as Grant’s murderous gaze swerved to him for one chilling instant.

The bookmaker regarded Grant suspiciously. “‘Ow do I know ye’ll keep yer word?”

“You don’t,” Grant replied, his voice rising to a thunderous pitch that rivaled that of the storm outside. “But you know for certain that I’ll kill you in the next ten seconds if you don’t tell me
where the hell they went!”

“Awright,” the bookmaker said, and began to call for someone named Willie. Instantly a small, skinny lad of eleven or twelve appeared, dressed in ragged clothes that were far too big for him, and a cap that nearly engulfed his small, stubby head. “Me bookie’s runner,” the bookmaker said with pride. “I sent ‘im to follow the bastard when ‘e took the wench.”

“They went to an’ old building not far from here,” the boy said breathlessly. “I’ll show ye, Mr.
Morgan, sir.” He began to scamper along the street at once, looking over one shoulder to see if Grant would follow. Grant was at his heels at once. “I know ‘xactly where ‘tis, sir,” the boy cried, and quickened his pace to a run.

The building, or rather the remains of one, stood like a ragged sentinel on the corner, its walls perforated with yawning holes and jagged slivers of glass. “There,” Willie cried, stopping well short of the entrance, staring at it mistrustfully. “That’s where they went. But I wouldn’t go inside, sir…‘Tisn’t a sound stick o’ wood in the ‘ole place.”

Grant barely heard him as he stepped across the threshold. The factory groaned and creaked around him, as if the entire structure would collapse any second. Rain trickled from the gaps in the walls and roof, its clean scent doing little to freshen the rank atmosphere. There were no sounds of voices, no signs of a struggle, and it seemed impossible that Victoria was here. For a moment Grant wondered if the boy had been mistaken in bringing him here, or if he had been directed by the bookmaker to play a trick on him. If this was the wrong place, it was a waste of precious time. However, a pattern of scuffs and arcs on the floor drew his attention, and his gaze shot to the stairs. There was freshly splintered wood on the third and fourth steps, and more higher up. Someone had just been here.

The sight was a visceral shock. All at once Grant found himself hurtling up the stairs, ignoring the wood cracking beneath his weight, scrambling upward with hands and feet. He had never known real desperation until now, had never felt it racing
like hot oil through his veins until every inch of his skin seemed to burn. He had to reach Victoria before it was too late…and if it was…he knew that he could not live in a world without her.

Half running, half crawling up the fragmenting stairs, he reached the second floor. Through a red blur of rampant fury, he saw two figures directly across the factory space…Keyes, crouching over Victoria’s prostrate form, fumbling at her skirts while a crack of lightning threw a harsh, brilliant glare through the broken roof. The only color in the room was Victoria’s hair, rich as rubies, pooling brightly beneath her head. She was gagged. Eyes closed, motionless, she lay flattened beneath the Runner without a hint of movement.

An unholy noise came from Grant’s throat, a devil cry that erupted from the bottom of his soul. No longer aware of his own actions, he sprang at Keyes, his entire being occupied with the need to attack and kill. The other man had only a split second to look up before Grant was on him. A curse exploded from Keyes as he was thrown halfway across the room. He rolled, fumbled for his brace of pistols, but just as he grasped the butt of a weapon, Grant seized his arm and slammed it against the floor with a force that broke bones. Screaming with pain, Keyes struck out with his other fist, ramming it into Grant’s jaw. Grant barely felt the blow, so intent was he on murder.

“She’s
nothing,
you bloody animal!” Keyes screamed, glaring into Grant’s savage, pitiless face. “You wouldn’t kill me over a whore!”

Grant didn’t reply, only hammered brutally until
no more words came from the Runner’s mouth. Gradually Keyes stopped fighting and brought up his arms to defend his face and head. When the Runner was subdued to a groaning heap, Grant reached into his boot and extracted his knife, relishing the feel of it in his hand. He would be satisfied only with death, and nothing would stop him now. All the things he believed in, the strictures of law, fairness, justice, had disappeared like dust in the wind. Nearly demented with bloodlust, he raised the knife in the air.

But a muffled sound made him pause. Panting in harsh, irregular bursts, he looked in the direction of the sound. Victoria was on her side, watching him, her throat working silently, her eyes wide and staring above the gag in her mouth. Grant tensed until he shook from repressed force. He couldn’t take his gaze from her face. Victoria’s blue eyes seemed to imprison him, preventing him from moving. A thread of sanity penetrated through the first few layers of warlike rage, but he resisted fiercely.

“Turn your face away,” he said in a voice that didn’t seem to belong to him.

Victoria shook her head immediately, understanding that he could not bring himself to kill a man while she was watching.

“Damn you, look away,” Grant growled.

She did not. Their gazes held, his demonic, hers insistent, until finally she defeated him. He acceded with a low groan and slid the knife back into his boot. Delivering one last blow to Keyes, he knocked the man unconscious and searched his
pockets rapidly. He found the key to the handcuffs that tethered Victoria’s arms and brought it to her, dropping to his knees by her side. She quivered as the key turned in the handcuffs and the manacles dropped away from her bruised wrists.

As soon as the gag was removed from Victoria’s tear-ravaged face, Grant dragged her into his lap and crushed her against his body. The feel of her, soft and small and alive, caused him to groan with tortured relief. His hands raked over her, his mouth dragging hungrily over her hair, skin, clothes, as if he would devour her whole.

“Grant,” she gasped, flinching from the force of his kisses.

He gave an animal growl of pleasure and need, crushing his lips hard over hers.

He felt her arm slide around his neck, and her breath puffed against his ear as she spoke. “I thought I would die here. I thought…his face would be the last thing I saw in this lifetime.”

“
My
face is the last one you’ll see in this lifetime,” he said gruffly.

“I remembered everything…that man, Keyes…he tried to kill me before.”

Grant knew he was holding her too tightly, but he couldn’t seem to loosen his arms. “I’m sorry,” he finally managed. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault—”

“No, no. Please don’t say that.” Her hands clasped the hard nape of his neck. “How did you find me? How did you know?”

“I found out about Keyes from Lord Lane. For the last half hour I’ve been insane, thinking I wouldn’t reach you in time.” He buried his face
against her bodice with a groan. “Oh, God.”

He felt her fingers slide gently through his wet hair, and she murmured something soft and indistinguishable.