Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(34)

In the meantime, Grant sat in the chair next to Cannon's desk. Reaching into his coat pocket, he extracted the small leather-bound book he had found at Vivien's town house and regarded it morosely. He had scanned every page repeatedly, searching for information. By now the lurid details should have lost their ability to shock, but the acts conveyed by the lines of delicate feminine script still gave him an uncomfortable crawling sensation. Every inflammatory word was stuck in his memory as if it had been nailed there.

"What are you reading?" Keyes inquired.

Grant responded with a brief, humorless laugh. "It's not suitable for one of your tender years, Keyes."

"I'll be the judge of that." The older man plucked the book from Grant's hand. As he opened the volume and read a page or two, his bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like a pair of ascending spiders. "Filthy stuff," he remarked, handing back the volume. "May I ask the identity of the author?"

Grant smiled grimly. "You don't want to meet her, Keyes. She's a tormenting witch. One smile from her can twist your insides like a rag mop."

Although Keyes's manner was deliberately causal, his hazel eyes were keen with interest. "This has to do with the bloat from the river, doesn't it? She's still alive--and you're harboring her in your own home. I've heard the rumors."

Grant leaned back in his chair, slanting an impassive stare at the Runner. "You should know better than to listen to rumors, Keyes."

"Who is she?" the other man persisted. "Has she named her assailant?"

"Why such a fascination with my case?" Grant countered. "I merely wish to offer my assistance if it's needed," Keyes said. "You've helped me a time or two, after all. You seem a touch defensive, lad...A simple question or two, and you scowl at me like a baited bear."

"If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"See that you do," Keyes replied with a neutral smile, and left the office.

Grant sat brooding in silence. Keyes was right--hewas defensive and ill tempered, as any other man in his position would be. When he was with Vivien, it was easy to forget who she really was and what she was capable of. Only when he was away from her did he see the situation in its true light. She was a courtesan, a woman who had proven herself incapable of love or fidelity. Someone had tried to kill her, most likely one of her legion of past lovers. His job was to find out who had assaulted her, and catch him. And then remove Vivien Duvall from his home and his life for good...before she ripped his heart out.

Sir Ross reappeared in the office and headed for the earthenware jug of coffee. At the same time, his cat Chopper leisurely walked through the doorway, jumped up to the unoccupied corner of the oak desk, and reclined on her side, surveying Grant solemnly.

"Good morning, Chopper," Grant murmured, reaching over to pet the broad, furry head. Chopper shrank back disdainfully, her eyes narrowing to slits. She endured the gentle pat with a flinch, and lowered her head to her paws. Grant couldn't help smiling at the long-suffering feline. "Just like a woman," he murmured. "You only give a fellow affection when you want something."

Cannon poured a cup from the meager amount left in the bottom of the vessel. He made a face as he tasted the brew, which was tepid and filled with grounds. "Mrs. Dobson," he called, leaning his dark head outside the door, "my jug is empty."

There was a protesting response from down the hall, containing the admonition "...your nerves, sir..."

"My nerves are fine," he replied, a thread of annoyance working through his tone. "I have a great deal of work, Mrs. Dobson. I require another jug to see me through the morning." Cannon went to his chair and smiled briefly as he seated himself. The flash of amusement temporarily lightened the dark cast of his face. "May God spare us from women who think they know better."

"Amen," Grant muttered in brief affirmation of the prayer.

Cannon leaned back in his chair, his wintry gray eyes narrowing as he surveyed Grant. "You look like hell. Are you ill?"

Such an unusual question from Cannon would be enough to send any of the Runners into a state of alarm. Cannon never took an interest in the personal lives of his men, as long as their jobs were being done. Grant frowned at the magistrate, resenting the personal inquiry.

"I haven't been sleeping," he said curtly.

"Trouble with Miss Duvall?"

"Nothing of significance," he muttered. "How is her health?" Cannon inquired.

"I believe she's almost fully recovered. But there's been no progress on recovering her memory."

Cannon nodded, reaching out for the book that Grant extended to him. "What's this?"

"It's a diary and appointment book. I found it in Miss Duvall's town house. I believe it might contain the name of whoever tried to kill her."

As Grant watched him leaf through the small volume, he wondered what Cannon, who had taken what amounted to a vow of celibacy, would think of such sexually explicit material. It would be only natural for the magistrate to exhibit some sign of emotion but there was no telltale color, no tension, no mist of sweat. The man had astonishing mastery over himself.

"Miss Duvall appears to have led a colorful life," the magistrate remarked blandly. "Why do you assume her assailant is listed in the journal?"