Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(36)

"Intelligent...sweet...gentle. Most men's fantasy."

"And yours?" Cannon murmured.

Grant gripped the arms of his chair as if he were manacled to it. "And mine," he finally admitted gruffly.

Cannon contemplated him with a hint of sympathy that was well nigh unendurable. "Take care, Morgan," was all he said.

Grant thought of assuring him he would in his usual cocky manner...but somehow the words wouldn't come.

"All right," Cannon murmured in dismissal, and Grant took his leave with ill-concealed relief.

CHAPTER 8

"Aball?" Vivien stared at Grant as if he had gone mad. They sat in the downstairs parlor, where he had told her of the plan he had devised with Sir Ross. Although Grant appeared sympathetic to her distress, he was obviously not giving her a choice in the matter.

"You're asking me to appear in public," Vivien continued uneasily, "not merely in public, but at a large formalball, to let everyone in London know that I am alive. And then I'll be in danger at least ten times worse than now."

"You'll be under my protection," Grant replied quietly, coming to sit beside her on the gold damask-upholstered settee. He took her small, knotted fist in his hand and chafed it gently until her fingers relaxed in his. "Trust me," he said, smiling faintly as he stared into her worried face. "I would never let anyone harm you."

"I won't know anyone there," she said, clinging tightly to his hand. "I won't know what to do or say."

"You don't have to do or say anything. All you have to do is make an appearance."

"I don't want to," she pleaded, rubbing her forehead with her free hand to ease a throbbing ache. "I understand," he replied softly. "But it has to be done, Vivien. Now...I want to take you to your town house and find something for you to wear. You have at least two dozen ball gowns, and I would have the devil of a time picking one out for you. You've said you want to visit your home, and this is the perfect time to do it."

Vivien frowned at their entwined fingers and took a deep breath, trying to settle her agitated nerves. Everyone would stare at her. How could she make small talk and smile and dance when she didn't remember a single person from her former life? She didn't want to mill among strangers who would undoubtedly think of her as odd or fraudulent, or something equally disagreeable. Most of all, she dreaded making herself a highly visible target. What if the man who had attacked her came back to finish the job he had started? And what if Morgan was hurt or even killed in the process?

"It doesn't make sense," she said. "Why must I go to a ball and reveal myself in such a dramatic fashion? Why can't you leak the information in some other way? You have no idea who wants me dead, do you? This is a desperate attempt to draw him out because you can't decide on a suspect."

"I want the bastard caught," Morgan said evenly. "This is the fastest way of accomplishing it."

Drawing her from the settee, he guided her to the entrance hall and signaled the housekeeper to bring their coats. After fastening a cloak around Vivien's shoulders, he settled a velvet bonnet on her head. A veil of lilac gauze hung from the front brim, concealing her face behind a pastel haze.

Vivien sent him a simmering glare from behind the veil. "This looks like a mourning bonnet," she said. "As if I'm going to attend a funeral. I only hope it won't be my own."

He laughed softly. "It was the most concealing hat I could find. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you. The world would be a dull--albeit more peaceful--place without you."

After Morgan donned his own coat, a footman accompanied them to a carriage waiting outside. Having expected that they would use a hired vehicle, Vivien was surprised to discover that the carriage was a handsome private curricle, painted with gleaming black lacquer and touches of matte gold, and pulled by two perfectly matched chestnuts. Vivien couldn't help but be impressed by the elegance of the vehicle. "I wouldn't have thought you possessed a carriage like this," she remarked. "I thought the Runners went everywhere on foot."

His green eyes danced with amusement. "We can, if you'd rather."

Responding to the gentle teasing, she gave him a small smile. "No, thank you," she said with an effort at lightness. "I'll make do with this."

The footman helped her into the curricle and tucked a thick, cushiony cashmere robe around her. Vivien thanked him and snuggled back into the soft leather seat with an exclamation of pleasure. The wind was pleasantly crisp and biting, refreshing on her face after the past days of confinement. Climbing into the space beside her, Morgan took the ribbons in an expert grip. He waited until the footman ascended to the seat behind the vehicle, then snapped the ribbons and clicked to the horses. They started with a smooth, synchronous gait, the well-sprung carriage moving easily over the cobblestoned street.

Vivien stared blankly at the array of sights spread before them, her gaze searching for any small detail that might strike her as familiar.

Each street possessed its own character, one populated by printers and writers, another occupied by butchers and bakers, another featuring a stately row of churches. Gentlefolk cut through the meandering paths of prostitutes and beggars. Wealth and poverty were wedged together in sharp juxtaposition. The air was thick with the scents of animals, food, the brine of the river, sewage, dust...She soon lost the ability to distinguish smells as her nostrils were overwhelmed. They passed a group of urchins who were harassing a satin-clad fop...a libertine lurching drunkenly from a tavern with a trollop on each arm...peddlers carrying wooden boxes strapped around their necks and shoulders.