Someone to Watch Over Me (9 page)

“Thank you,” Vivien had whispered, utterly humble. “I’ll try to justify your kindness to me.” Ever since that moment, Mrs. Buttons had assumed an almost motherly protectiveness toward her.

As for Grant, Vivien had seen little of him, as he occupied himself with investigating her case and one or two others. He checked on her in the mornings, talked for five minutes or so, and then was gone for the rest of the day. In the evenings he returned for a spartan and solitary supper and read books in the library.

Morgan was a mysterious figure to Vivien. The ha-penny novels that the maid, Mary, had loaned to her had shed little light on his character. The novels emphasized the adventurous side of Morgan’s nature, detailing the crimes he had solved and his famous pursuit of a murderer across two continents. However, it was clear the author knew nothing of him personally. Vivien suspected that few people desired to know the real nature of the man, preferring the outsized tales of a legend. It was usually that way with famous men—people
wanted to know about their accomplishments and strengths, not their vulnerabilities.

But it was precisely Morgan’s weaknesses that interested Vivien. He appeared to have so few of them. He was a private, seemingly invulnerable man who did not like to talk about his past. Vivien couldn’t help wondering what secrets and memories were contained in his carefully guarded heart. One thing was certain…Morgan would never trust
her
in that way.

Vivien was well aware of Morgan’s contempt for the life she had led before her “accident.” It was obvious that he did not like or approve of the woman she had been, and she could hardly blame him, as she felt exactly the same. Unfortunately, in the course of his investigation, Morgan seemed to be uncovering more unsavory facts about her. He had admitted that he had been questioning the people who knew her. It appeared that whatever they had told him had been neither especially helpful nor particularly pleasant.

Frowning, Vivien tried to push the depressing thoughts to the back of her mind. She held on to the back of a nearby chair to preserve her balance as Mary fastened the velvet gown. Her ankle had healed rapidly, until it was almost as good as new, except for an ache that occurred when she stood on it for too long.

“There,” Mrs. Buttons said in satisfaction, standing back to view Vivien with a smile. “The gown is lovely, and the color couldn’t be more perfect.”

Carefully Vivien made her way to the dressing table mirror, which afforded a three-quarters view.
To her surprise, the housekeeper was right. The deep black-cherry velvet made her skin look like porcelain, and brought out the ruby fire of her hair. Black silk braiding trimmed the modestly high neckline. More lengths of silk braiding defined the vertical slash that went from neck to collarbone, affording a subtle glimpse of white skin. No other adornment marred the simple lines of the gown, except for the puffs of black silk that edged the hem of the flowing skirt. It was an elegant garment, suitable for any lady of quality. Vivien was relieved to discover that she owned some clothes that did not proclaim “courtesan” to everyone who saw her.

“Thank goodness,” she murmured, giving Mary and Mrs. Buttons a self-deprecating smile. “I feel nearly respectable.”

“If you please, Miss Duvall,” Mary said, “I should like to brush out your hair and pin it up proper. You’ll look every inch the fine lady then—and won’t Mr. Morgan be pleased to see you turned out so well!”

“Thank you, Mary.” Vivien made her way to the dressing table, pausing to pick up the length of damp toweling discarded from her bath.

“No, no,” the maid scolded, rushing forward at the same time that Mrs. Buttons did. “I’ve told you, Miss Duvall, you’re not to help me with such things!”

Vivien surrendered the towel with a sheepish smile. “I can pick up the linens just as easily as you can.”

“But it’s not your place,” Mary said, ushering her toward the dressing-table chair.

Mrs. Buttons stood close to Vivien, meeting her gaze in the mirror. The housekeeper smiled pleasantly, but her eyes were speculative. “I don’t believe you’re accustomed to being waited on,” she remarked.

Vivien sighed. “I don’t remember what I’m accustomed to.”

“A lady with servants would never think to straighten a room or pour her own bath, even if she forgot every blessed fact in her head.”

“But I know I had servants.” Vivien picked up a stray hairpin from the little box Mary had brought, and traced the crimped edge. “At least, I did according to Mr. Morgan. I was a spoiled creature who did nothing except…” She stopped and frowned in confusion.

Mrs. Buttons watched as Mary brushed out the shining length of Vivien’s rich red hair. “You certainly don’t behave like a ‘spoiled creature,’” the housekeeper said. “And in my opinion some things about you would not change no matter what has happened to your memory.” She shrugged philosophically and smiled. “But then, I’m hardly a doctor. And I can scarcely keep order of what’s in my own head, much less divine what’s in someone else’s.”

Mary dressed Vivien’s hair in a simple style, pinning a braided knot atop her head and allowing a few sunset wisps to curl around her neck and ears. Enjoying the feeling of being properly clothed and turned out, Vivien decided she would like to visit some other part of the house. “It would be a treat just to sit for a while in a room different from this
one,” she said. “Is there a small parlor or perhaps even a library downstairs? Does Mr. Morgan have a few books I might be able to look at?”

For some reason the question caused the housekeeper and the maid to exchange a smile. “Just a few,” Mrs. Buttons replied. “I’ll show you to the library, Miss Duvall. But you must take care not to injure your ankle again, and you mustn’t tire yourself.”

Eagerly Vivien took the woman’s arm, and they made their way downstairs step by careful step. The town house was exceptionally handsome, filled with dark panels of mahogany, thick English carpets underfoot, clean-lined Sheraton furniture, and fireplaces fitted with generous slabs of marble. As they approached the library, the air was rich with the smells of beeswax, leather, and vellum. Sniffing appreciatively, Vivien entered the room. She wandered to the center and turned a slow circle, her eyes wide with wonder.

“One of the largest rooms in the house,” Mrs. Buttons said proudly. “Mr. Morgan spared no expense in housing his precious books in first-rate style.”

Vivien stared reverently at the towering glass-fronted bookcases, the map cabinets embossed with gold letters, the marble busts positioned at each corner of the room. Her gaze fell to the tables loaded with books, many of them left open and piled atop each other, as if the reader had been called away hastily in the middle of an intriguing passage. “It’s not merely a vanity collection, is it?” she asked aloud.

“No, the master is quite devoted to his books.” Mrs. Buttons repositioned a comfortable chair by the cheerful fire and drew back a curtain to admit plenty of daylight. “I’ll leave you to explore, Miss Duvall. Shall I send a tea tray for you?”

Vivien shook her head and wandered from one bookcase to another, her gaze rapidly scanning the enticing rows. The housekeeper laughed suddenly. “Until now, I’ve never seen anyone look at books the way Mr. Morgan does,” she remarked.

Barely aware of the housekeeper’s departure, Vivien opened a glass door and examined a row of poetry. Something strange happened as she read one title after another…Many of them seemed startlingly familiar, the words connecting in a way that made her quiver with surprise. Mesmerized, she reached for one of the books. She opened it, the textured leather binding soft beneath her fingers, and found a poem by John Keats entitled “Ode to a Grecian Urn.”
Thou still unravished bride of quietness…
It seemed as if she had read the words a thousand times before. A door opened in her mind, illuminating knowledge that had been stored away until this moment. Thoroughly unnerved, Vivien clutched the open volume against her chest and grabbed another off the shelf, and another…Shakespeare, Keats, Donne, Blake. There were many other instantly recognizable poems, fragments of which she could even recite by memory.

The relief of remembering
something
made her almost dizzy with excitement. She picked up and held as many books as possible, crowding them against her body, dropping a few in her haste. She
wanted to carry them all to a quiet corner, and read and read.

On a lower shelf she discovered well-worn volumes of philosophy. Snatching up Descartes’s
Meditations
, she flipped it open and feverishly read a passage aloud. “There is nothing, among the things I once believed to be true, which it is not permissible to doubt…”

Vivien hugged the open book to her chest, mind swimming with chaotic impressions. She was positive she had once studied this book, these words, with someone she had cared for very much. The familiarity of the words gave her a sense of safety and comfort she needed desperately. She closed her eyes and clutched the book harder, straining to capture some elusive memory.

“Well.” A sardonic rumble broke the silence. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you in the library. What have you found that interests you?”

V
ivien whirled to see Morgan filling the doorway, the corner of his mouth tightened in a jaded quirk that passed for a smile. The somber gray of his trousers and waistcoat was balanced by a moss-colored coat that brightened the antique green of his eyes. She stumbled forward in her excitement, anxious to share her discovery.

“Grant,” she said breathlessly, while her heart raced in an uneven canter. A few books cascaded from her overburdened arms. “I-I found these…I
remember
reading some of them…You can’t imagine how it feels.” A wild, frustrated laugh escaped her. “Oh, why can’t I remember more? If only—”

“Vivien,” he said quietly, his smile fading. He reached her in three strides, helping to steady the jostling pile in her overburdened arms. As Vivien read the frown of concern on his face, she knew
that she must appear half mad. More words bubbled to her lips, but he hushed her gently.

“Let me,” he said, taking the mass of heavy volumes out of her unsteady grip. He set them on a nearby table and turned to her. Clasping her shoulders in his large hands, he eased her against his body. He held her in a reassuring embrace, his hand smoothing over the back of the velvet gown and lightly rubbing the lowest point of her spine. As he spoke, his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Tell me what you remember.”

Vivien shivered at the pleasure of being in his arms. “I know I’ve read some of these books before, with someone I was very fond of. I can’t see his face, or hear his voice…It seems the harder I try, the farther it slips away.”

“You’ve read
these
books?” Grant asked dubiously, glancing at the ungainly pile beside them.

Vivien nodded against his chest. “I can even recite a passage or two.”

“Hmm.”

Perplexed by his noncommittal grunt, she glanced at his skeptical face. “Why do you say ‘hmm’ like that? Don’t you believe me?”

She was encompassed in his vivid, considering stare. “It’s not in character for you,” he finally said.

“I’m telling you the truth,” she said defensively.

“You’ve read Descartes,” he remarked, every syllable edged with disbelief. “I should like to hear your opinion on Cartesian dualism, then.”

Vivien thought for a long moment, inwardly relieved to discover that she understood the question. “I suppose you’re referring to Mr. Descartes’s theory
that spirit and matter are separate entities? That we cannot rely on our senses as the basis of knowledge? I believe he is correct, and I think…” She paused and continued more slowly. “I think the truth is something you recognize with your heart, even when the evidence seems to prove otherwise.”

Though Morgan’s expression gave little away, Vivien sensed that she had surprised him. “It seems I’m harboring a philosopher,” he said, his eyes suddenly glinting with humor. He set the book on the library table and reached for another on the shelf. “Tell me what you make of Locke, then, and his differences with Descartes.”

Vivien took the book from him and spread her small hand on the morocco leather binding. “Mr. Locke argues that the human mind is a blank tablet at birth…doesn’t he?” She glanced at Morgan and received an encouraging nod. “And he claims that knowledge is founded in experience. Thought can only come after we learn through our senses. But I don’t think I agree with him entirely. We are not born blank slates, are we? I think some things must exist in us at birth, before experience begins to work upon us.”

Morgan took the book from her and replaced it on the shelf, and turned back to her. Unaccountably gentle, he tucked a stray wisp of red hair behind her ear. “Can you tell me what other books are familiar to you?”

Vivien went to another set of shelves and began pulling titles from the tidy rows…history, novels, theology, and drama. She began to stack them in a
second heap on the table. “I’m positive I’ve read this one, and this, and these…Oh, and this was one of my favorites.”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “You’re remarkably well read for a woman who never reads.”

“Why would you say such a thing?” she asked in surprise.

“Lord Gerard assured me that you dislike reading.”

“But that can’t be true.”

“You’re a chameleon, Vivien,” he said quietly. “You adapt to the taste of whatever company you find yourself in.”

“Then you’re suggesting that I concealed my enjoyment of reading and pretended to be stupid in order to attract Lord Gerard,” she said.

“You wouldn’t be the first woman to use that ploy. Many men are made uneasy by an intelligent female.”

“Is Lord Gerard that kind of gentleman?” Reading the answer in his face, she sighed heavily. “Every day I learn something new about myself. None of it pleasant.”

As Grant regarded her downcast head, he was assailed by a strange yearning he had never experienced before. He had been so certain of who and what Vivien Rose Duvall was…and she kept confounding him.

His gaze skimmed over her in a thorough survey. The sight of her in the velvet gown, a red so dark it approached black, caused a response that was alarming in its intensity. He had never once allowed himself to imagine that somewhere in the
world there might be a woman who was not only beautiful but intelligent, kind, and unaffected. The fact that he seemed to have found her in Vivien was astonishing. He was again uncomfortably aware that if she had not been a courtesan, had he not possessed his prior knowledge of her true character, he would be mad for her.

The neat auburn upsweep of her hair revealed the daintiest pair of ears he had ever seen, a vulnerable neck, a delicate jaw that made his fingers itch to investigate the soft curve. He murmured her name, and she looked up at him with clear, deep blue eyes that contained no hint of guile. Remembering how wickedly seductive her gaze had once been, Grant shook his head.

“What is it?” she asked.

“You have the eyes of an angel.” His gaze searched her face until a tide of pink crept over it.

“Thank you,” she said uncertainly.

Grant took her arm in a gentle grasp. “Come with me.”

As he drew her to a chair by the fire and urged her to sit, Vivien glanced at him warily. “Are you going to question me further?”

“No,” he said, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. For now, he was going to ignore all the contradictions about Vivien and allow himself to simply enjoy being with her. A beautiful woman, a fire on the hearth, a roomful of books, and a bottle of wine…It might not have been every man’s idea of heaven, but God knew it was his.

Carrying an armload of books to Vivien, he deposited the stack on the floor near her feet. Seeming
to understand that he merely wanted to spend some time with her, Vivien began to sort through the pile, while he pulled a bottle of bordeaux from the sideboard and opened it expertly. After filling two glasses, he sat in a chair beside Vivien and handed one to her. He noted that she sipped the wine immediately, without the usual ritual of those accustomed to sampling fine vintages…no swirling of the glass to test the aroma, or the rivulets that the English called “legs” and the French more poetically referred to as “tears.” As a member of the beau monde, Vivien should have been experienced at such a ritual. However, she did not look like a worldly courtesan accustomed to the finer things in life…she looked like a sheltered, naive young woman.

“This gives me hope,” she remarked, picking up the volume at the top of the pile and holding it in her lap. “I know it’s a small thing, to remember reading some of these books…but if this little bit of my memory has come back, then perhaps other things will follow.”

“You said you remembered reading with someone.” Grant drank from his own glass, his gaze remaining on her lovely firelit face. “You referred to that person as a ‘he.’ Any impression of him? Any detail of his appearance or the sound of his voice? Or a place you might have been with him?”

“No.” The soft curves of her mouth became enticingly wistful. “But trying to remember makes me feel…” She paused and stared into the ruby depths of the wine. “Lonely,” she continued with
visible effort. “As if I’ve lost something, or someone, that was very dear.”

A lost love, Grant speculated, and experienced a sudden wash of jealousy. Concealing the unwelcome emotion, he stared hard into his own glass.

“Here,” Vivien murmured, handing him the book of Keats. “Won’t you tell me which is your favorite passage?”

Vivien watched Morgan’s bent head as he thumbed through the worn pages. The firelight flickered over his dark hair, making it gleam like ebony. The thick locks were cropped too short, but even so, they contained a hint of curl and wave that intrigued her. He should let them grow longer, she thought, to add a touch of softness around the uncompromising angles of his face.

Her gaze moved to the volume that was nearly engulfed by his long-fingered hand. No sculptor would ever desire to capture the shape of those brutally strong hands in marble…and that was a pity. Vivien thought them a hundred times more attractive than the slender, fine hands of a gentleman. Besides, it wouldn’t seem right for a man built on his impressive scale to have delicate little hands. The thought brought a smile to her face.

Glancing upward, Morgan caught sight of her expression and arched his brow quizzically. “What’s so amusing?”

She pushed herself out of the chair and knelt beside him, her skirts billowing briefly and settling in velvety wine-colored puddles on the floor. For answer, she took one of his hands and measured her own against it, flattening their palms together.
His fingers extended well beyond her own meager reach.

“I don’t remember the other gentlemen of my acquaintance,” she said, “but I have no doubt you must be the largest man I have ever met.” Heat collected between their clasped palms, and Vivien snatched her hand away, blotting a faint sheen of moisture on the skirt of her gown. “What is it like to be so tall?” she asked.

“It’s a constant headache,” Morgan answered dryly, setting the book aside. “My head is well acquainted with the top of every doorframe in London.”

Vivien’s smile turned sympathetic. “You must have been a long-legged, gangly child.”

“Like a monkey on stilts,” he agreed, making her laugh.

“Poor Mr. Morgan. Did the other boys tease you?”

“Endlessly. And when I wasn’t trading insults, I was busy fighting. They each wanted to be the one to thrash the largest boy at Lady of Pity.”

“Lady of Pity,” Vivien repeated, the name unfamiliar to her. “Is that a school?”

“Orphanage.” Morgan seemed to regret the revelation as soon as it left his lips. At Vivien’s silence, he threw her an unfathomable glance. For one electric moment, she saw a flash of defiance—or perhaps it was bitterness—smoldering in the depths of smoky green. “I wasn’t always an orphan,” he muttered. “My father was a bookseller, a good man, though damned poor at making business decisions. A few bad loans to friends followed by a
year of poor sales landed the entire family in debtor’s prison. And of course, once you go in, you never come out. There is no way for a man to make money to pay his debts once he’s in prison.”

“How old were you?” Vivien asked.

“Nine…ten, perhaps. I don’t remember exactly.”

“What happened?”

“Disease went through the prison. My parents and two sisters died. My younger brother and I lived through it, and were sent to Lady of Pity. After a year I was thrown out to the streets for ‘disrupting internal order.’”

The recitation was matter-of-fact, emotionless, but Vivien sensed the pain and hostility banked beneath his calm facade. “Why?” she murmured.

“My brother, Jack, was small for his age, and somewhat sensitive by nature. The other boys were apt to bully him.”

“And you fought to defend him,” she said.

He nodded briefly. “After a particularly nasty fight, the director of the orphanage reviewed my record, which was filled with words like ‘violent’ and ‘incorrigible.’ It was decided that I posed a hazard to the other children. I found myself outside the orphanage walls with no food or possessions save the clothes on my back. I stayed by the gate for two days and nights, shouting to get back in. I knew what was going to happen to Jack if I weren’t there to protect him. Finally one of the teachers came out and promised me that he would do what was in his power to look after my brother. He advised
me to leave and try to make some kind of life for myself. And so I did.”

Vivien tried to imagine him as a boy, young and frightened, torn away from the last living link with his family…forced to make his own way in the world. It would have been so terribly easy for him to turn to crime and violence as a way of life. Instead he had come to serve the society that had victimized him. He made no effort to pose as a hero, however. In fact, he had deliberately painted himself as a self-serving scoundrel who upheld the law only for the profits he made from it. What kind of man would commit himself to helping others while at the same time disclaiming his own good motives?

“Why this?” she asked. “Why become a Bow Street Runner?”

Morgan shrugged, and his mouth twisted cynically. “It comes naturally to me. Who better to understand the criminal element than someone who comes from the streets? I’m a mere step away from being one of them.”

“That’s not true,” she said earnestly.

“It is,” he muttered. “I’m just the other side of the same bad coin.”

In the ensuing silence, Vivien made a project of straightening a stack of books on the floor. She pondered his bleak words, the stillness of his large body, the tension that shredded the air. He seemed as unfeeling and immovable as a block of granite. However, she suspected that his invulnerability was an illusion. He had known so little softness in his life, so little comfort. A powerful urge took hold
of her, to reach out and hug him, and pull his dark head to her shoulder. Common sense prevailed, however. He would not want or welcome comfort from her, and she would probably earn a humiliating jeer for her pains. If she was wise, she would let the subject drop for now.

But another question slipped out before she could prevent it. “Where is your brother now?”