Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(12)

She made an effort to smile, but her blue eyes were pleading. "Do I have family or friends to send for?"

"I don't know about your family," Grant admitted. "I'll find out what I can. And yes, you have friends...but now isn't the time for visiting. You need to rest." Unable to resist the temptation, he reached out and traced one of the worry lines on her downy forehead. "Don't worry, sweet pea," he murmured.

Vivien settled back against the pillows, her eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "So many questions," she sighed.

"You'll soon have all the answers you desire." He paused, and some of the vibrant tenderness left his voice as he added, "Although you may not like some of them."

She stared at him solemnly, her hand creeping to her throat. "What happened to me last night?"

"I intend to find out," he replied in a grim tone that left no room for doubt.

The street shaped like a bow had been built in the mid sixteen hundreds. There had been a few famous residents of Bow Street in the last century. But after the turn of the century, there was only one name associated with Bow Street that truly mattered...Sir Ross Cannon.

It seemed at times that the attention of the entire world was focused on the narrow, four-story building and its famous inhabitant. Cannon directed his half dozen Runners and eighty other assorted officers like a master conductor. The Runners had gained worldwide fame as they suppressed riots, solved crimes, and protected the royal family.

At the death of one of Fieldings's successors five years ago, many important men had been discussed as candidates for the new chief magistrate. However, a relative unknown was finally appointed to the position...Ross Cannon, who had previously served as a magistrate in the Great Marlboro Street office. Cannon had assumed the duties of chief magistrate as if he had been born to it. In no time at all he had left his own distinctive stamp on the Bow Street office, treating detective work as if it were a science, inventing methodology, testing theories, guiding and encouraging his officers with an infectious zeal. He was demanding and driven, and any one of his men would have gladly died for him. Including Grant.

Grant ascended the three front steps and gave a vigorous knock at the door. It was answered by Cannon's housekeeper, Mrs. Dobson, a fat, motherly woman with a head of bobbing silver curls. Her pudgy face glowed with a smile as she welcomed Grant inside. "You without a hat again, Mr. Morgan...You'll catch your death one of these days, with the wind blowing from the north like this."

"I can't wear a hat, Mrs. Dobson," Grant replied, shedding his heavy black greatcoat and giving it to her. She was nearly smothered by the huge mound of wool. "I'm tall enough as it is." The high-crowned hats that were currently fashionable made him look ridiculous, adding needless inches to his towering height until passersby stared openly.

"Well,not wearing a hat hardly fools anyone into thinking you're short," she pointed out.

Grant grinned and pinched her cheek, causing the housekeeper to gasp and scold him. Her reprimands, however, contained little heat--they both knew that of all the Runners, he was her favorite. "Where is Cannon?" Grant asked, his green eyes sparkling, and Mrs. Dobson indicated the magistrate's office.

The property at number 4 Bow Street contained a house, a tiny yard, offices, a court, and a strong room to hold prisoners.

Having been born to a family of means, Cannon could have lived an indolent life in a far more luxurious place than this...but that was not his nature. He had a passion for justice, and with all that needed to be done, there was no time for laziness or frivolity.

To Cannon, life was serious business, and he lived it accordingly. Rumor had it that his young wife on her deathbed had made him promise never to remarry, and Cannon had been faithful to his word. His tremendous energy was expended on his work. Even the closest and dearest of his friends would readily swear that nothing could break the iron control Cannon held over his own secretive heart.

Striding down the narrow hallway that led to Cannon's private office, Grant nearly collided with two Runners who were leaving...Flagstad and Keyes, the two oldest Runners, both of them fast approaching forty. "Off to guard the royal hind-quarters again," Keyes remarked cheerfully, while Flagstad revealed that he had been given the more lucrative assignment of attending the Bank of England, as quarterly dividends were being paid.

"And what are you about this morning?" Flagstad asked Grant. His weathered face creased with good humor. "No, don't tell me...another bank robbery, or a burglary on the west side that you'll charge a fortune to solve."

Grant responded with an answering grin, having endured much ribbing from his colleagues on his hefty commissions. He forbore to point out that in the last year he had literally caught more thieves than the other five Runners put together. "I only take what they're willing to pay," he said mildly.

"The only reason the nobs demand your services is because you're a bloody swell," Keyes said with a chuckle. "Just the other day a lady said to me, 'Of all the Runners, only Mr. Morgan looks the way one ought to look.'" He snorted at the statement. "As if a man's appearance has a damned thing to do with how he does the job!"

"I'ma swell?" Grant asked incredulously, glancing at his own conservative attire, and then at Keyes's dandified appearance...the carefully arranged "windswept" style of his hair, the gold pin in his elaborate cravat, the tiny silk flowers and fleurs-de-lis embroidered over his waistcoat. Not to mention the wide-brimmed, cream-colored hat worn carefully angled over one eye.