Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 15

"The Runner is here, my dear." Mrs. Buttons stood at the library door. "His name is Mr. Keyes, and he's a good, kind gentleman--the most experienced man Sir Cannon could offer. Mr. Morgan esteems him highly. We've been left in good hands, to be sure."

"Give Mr. Keyes my thanks for looking after things during Mr. Morgan's absence," Vivien murmured. She paused before the library window with a book in hand, gazing at the gathering storm outside. A blanket of clouds had made the afternoon as dark as night, while gusts of wind sifted through the trees and garden. A few patters of rain began to fall, the plump, heavy drops heralding worse to come.

"Shall you thank him yourself, miss?" the housekeeper asked. "He is waiting in the entrance hall, and he seems intent on speaking to you right away."

"Of course," Vivien said reluctantly. "Would you show him in here?"

"Yes, miss."

Holding the poetry book against her midriff, Vivien splayed her fingers over the embossed leather cover and heaved a great sigh. She didn't want to make conversation with Mr. Keyes, she wanted Grant to come home right away. Knowing that he was temporarily out of reach made her feel strangely uneasy. She had come to rely on him so completely that she hated the thought of being separated from him, even for a day and night.

But she couldn't allow herself to give in to such feelings. Their relationship, such as it was, would end all too soon, and she must retain some vestige of dignity when they parted. To reveal how she craved his attention, his smiles, his companionship, would only embarrass them both. She faced a lifetime bereft of Grant Morgan, and she had better accustom herself to doing without him. Making her breathing quiet and deep, Vivien loosened her anxious grip on the book and turned just as Mrs. Buttons brought the Runner into the room. Mr. Keyes was an average-sized man wearing an obviously costly salmon-colored coat. A wide-brimmed gray hat was clasped in one hand. He was attractive and rather dashing, his silver hair fluffy and windswept. Vivien couldn't take her eyes from him. His dandyish appearance contradicted her notions of what a Bow Street Runner should look like. Shaping her mouth in a polite smile, Vivien curtsied as he approached her. Mrs. Buttons began to leave with a small murmur.

Keyes stopped her with a light touch. "Wait, if you please, Mrs. Buttons," he said. "You may as well hear what I have to tell Miss Duvall."

"Yes, sir." Folding her hands together, the housekeeper stood obediently, her brow knitting with a touch of perplexity.

"To begin with, Miss Duvall," the Runner said with old-fashioned courtliness, "I am gratified, to say the least, to be assigned the duty of protecting you."

"Thank you," Vivien said, noting that the rain outside had begun to slow, its heaviness suspended high and full in the sky. "Mrs. Buttons assures me that you are greatly esteemed by my--" She stopped in a sudden shock of confusion, and prickly color inched over her face and neck. "By Mr. Morgan," she managed to choke out. What other betraying words would have slipped out had she not caught herself? My...She had no right to apply that word to Grant, denoting possessiveness and attachment. He was not hers in any sense. How could she forget herself so easily?

Ignoring the slip, Keyes apparently sought to cover her confusion. His attractive, weathered face creased with a smile. "I will do everything in my power to justify Mr. Morgan's confidence in me."

"Thank you, Mr. Keyes."

"In that vein," he continued carefully, "I must inform you of a slight change in plans. Do not be distressed--you are in no danger--but just before coming here I received word from Sir Ross that I am to bring you to Bow Street at once."

"I would prefer to stay here," Vivien said in surprise, her hand creeping to her throat.

Keyes shook his head. "I understand, Miss Duvall. However, Sir Ross has received new information in Morgan's absence, which has led him to request your presence at his office."

"What kind of information might that be, sir?" Mrs. Buttons asked, coming forward to stand at Vivien's side.

"I'm not allowed to say," Keyes replied, smiling slightly at the two distressed women. "But I assure you, Mr. Morgan would want you to comply. And certainly there is no safer place in London than number four Bow Street."

"How long must I stay there?" Vivien asked. "Until Mr. Morgan returns?"

"Possibly." Suddenly a twitch of impatience pulled at his mouth. "Come, Miss Duvall, we're wasting time. Sir Ross requested me to escort you to him immediately."

"All right." Vivien was perturbed by the unexpected change of plans. An unpleasant feeling crept over her. Mr. Keyes appeared to be a nice man, but there was something about him that she did not like, something difficult to identify. It seemed that his genial facade concealed something reptilian and cold. She instinctively wanted to avoid him. Her heart had picked up its pace, beating in an anxious, uneven staccato. It was rather amazing, the reaction of her body, when her mind could discern no reasonable cause for it.

The desire to escape him rose strongly in her, making it difficult to keep from bolting into an outright run. "Mr. Keyes," she managed to say, "may I take one of the maids with me? I would like some female companionship."

"Mary will go with you," Mrs. Buttons said, clearly approving of the idea.

Keyes shook his head at once. "There's no need of that. This is hardly a social call, Miss Duvall, but official business. I would prefer to leave right away, if you don't mind. Before the storm worsens."

Vivien exchanged a long, questioning glance with the housekeeper.Is he trustworthy? her own gaze asked, while Mrs. Buttons silently responded,I believe so.

Mrs. Buttons was clearly worried, but her graying head tilted in a posture of helpless acquiescence. "Miss Duvall," she murmured, "if Mr. Keyes says you must go, I don't think there's much to be said about it." A troubled frown pulled at her forehead. "And he's right--there is no safer place for you than Bow Street."

Vivien glanced at the darkening sky visible through the window. "Very well," she said calmly. "If you'll excuse me, Mr. Keyes, I should like to change my shoes and put on a hooded premise."

"Of course, Miss Duvall."

Vivien backed away a step, staring at him intently. A memory seethed and writhed in her brain, pushing urgently at the wall of forgetfulness. "Sir...we've met before, haven't we?"

"I don't believe so, miss." His gaze held a coiled enmity that caused a sudden fearful pang in her stomach. He did not like her, she realized. He must have heard the terrible rumors about her--or the real Vivien, as it were--and believed every one of them.

A rumble of thunder scored through the silence, and Keyes turned his head to glance at the gathering darkness. Something about his profile, the small hump at the bridge of his nose, the outline of his hair, the way the little jut of his chin met the soft folds of his throat, made her nerves screech in alarm.

Keyes looked back at her, catching the flare of tension in her face. "We don't have long, Miss Duvall."

She turned and left the room, forcing herself to walk normally even though panic had begun to leak and spread inside her. Breathing in deepening pants, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Keyes stood at the foot of the staircase, watching her intently. He looked like a malevolent demon planning to drag her into the bowels of hell.

All she wanted was the safety of her room, to close and lock the door and hide. The stairs loomed like a mountainside before her, and she stumbled a little as she lunged and climbed upward. After an eternity passed, she found herself before the door of her room. Clumsily she closed herself inside and stood there shuddering. She was lost in the sensation of drowning, straining to breathe, her limbs stiffening against the stabbing coldness that surrounded her."Grant." She tried to say his name in a desperate plea for help, but she had lost the ability to even whisper."Grant--"

And she sank to her knees as memory came rushing over her. The night of her attack...the silver-haired man with the merciless face...wiry hands locked around her throat, thumbs digging into her throat until her windpipe was crushed shut...She lost the struggle to breathe as the darkness consumed her...and then the punishing coldness of the river, the black water pulling her beneath the surface.

Mr. Keyes had done this to her. She knew it down to the bottom of her soul. He had tried to kill her, and failing once, he would try again.

A momentary sense of betrayal cut through her terror.

Grant...how could you send him here? How could you leave me here with him?

But it was not his fault, her heart insisted stubbornly. He would never have done this to her intentionally.

She was in danger, in the place that had been such a haven until this moment. Quaking, gasping, she crawled to the chamber pot concealed in the bedside cabinet and fumbled with the concealing door in front. But in a moment the rolling wave of nausea subsided, and she filled her lungs with huge gulps of air.

Closing her eyes, she leaned against the smooth side of the mahogany cabinet, savoring the coolness of the wood against her hot, damp face. For the first time in weeks, she knew her own name. "Victoria Devane," she said aloud. "I'm Victoria." Her lips moved in countless repetitions of the sounds...her name, herreal name. It was like a key that unlocked all the sealed places in her mind. Images of her past paraded before her...the country cottage where she spent her days occupied with books and visiting schoolchildren. Her friends from the village...a long-ago trip to the seashore...her father's funeral.

Closing her eyes tightly, she pictured the patient, kind face of her father. He had been a scholarly man, a philosopher, preferring his books to the harsh reality of the world outside. Victoria had adored him, and had spent hours and days reading alongside him.

She had never loved any man in the romantic sense, had never wanted to. Since her mother had left Forest Crest, Victoria had cared only for her father and seldom-seen sister...There had been no room for anyone else. Love was too dangerous; it was much better to stay alone and safe. In the quiet haven of the village, she had few responsibilities except to look after herself. She would never have ventured away had her irresponsible sister not landed herself in more trouble than she could manage.

The relief of rediscovering herself, her memories, her identity, was overwhelming. However, the man downstairs would not be convinced that she was anyone other than her sister.

"Oh, Vivien," she whispered shakily. "If I live through this, you have a great deal to answer for."

She wiped at a trickle of sweat that traveled down her cheek to the edge of her chin. She felt like a mouse trapped in a barrel with a cat. Her first impulse was to crawl into bed and pull the covers over her head, and hope that Keyes would leave her alone. But he would not, of course. He would insist on dragging her out of here, and the servants would do nothing to stop him. They would believe him over her...they would assume that her amnesia had made her unbalanced. Any claim she made that the respected Bow Street Runner was a vicious killer would never be accepted.

Wherever it was that Keyes wanted to take her, it certainly wasn't Bow Street. Desperately she tried to decide what to do. With Grant away, the only man she trusted to protect her was Sir Ross. She had to reach him right away. A shuddering sigh escaped her lips, and she blotted her moist forehead with her sleeve. She didn't know precisely where the Bow Street office was, only that it was located somewhere on the other side of Covent Garden. But it was such a well known place, surely it could not be that difficult to find.

She sprang into action before second thoughts occurred. Hurrying to the armoire, she found a dark green long-sleeved premise with a capuchin "monk's" hood that draped in concealing folds over her hair and face. After donning the garment and changing her shoes to ankle-high walking boots, she opened the bedroom door and glanced along the empty hallway.

She clenched the edge of the doorframe with shaking fingers. It was difficult to proceed with caution when every instinct screamed for her to dart forward like a terrified rabbit. Her veins pulsed with barely contained alarm. She took one cautious step into the hallway, then another, and broke into a rapid walk toward the stairs--not the main staircase, but the small, winding one the servants used at the back of the house. Gray light from the small-paned windows provided the barest excuse for illumination as she began a hasty descent along the narrow spiral of stairs. Her hand gripped the iron balustrade at frequent intervals, steadying her balance as her feet flew down the steps.

A shadowy shape materialized at the first-floor landing, and Victoria stopped with a scream climbing in her throat.Keyes , was her first thought...but immediately she realized that the form was that of a small woman. It was Mary, the housemaid, carrying a basket of folded linens.

The maid stopped and regarded her with surprise and confusion. "Miss Duvall?" she asked hesitantly. "What are you doing here, on the servants' stairs? Is there something I can fetch for you? What can I do--"

"Don't tell anyone you've seen me," Victoria said in a low, urgent voice. "Please,please, Mary. I want everyone to think I'm still in my room."

The housemaid's gaze seemed to question her sanity. "But where could you be going, with such a fearful storm collecting outside?"

"Promise me you won't tell anyone."

"When will you come back?" the housemaid asked worriedly. "Miss, if anything happens to you, and I didn't tell anyone that I saw you leave, I could lose my position. I could find myself on the streets! Oh, please, miss, don't go anywhere--"

"Mary," Victoria said desperately, "I don't have time to stand here. I'll return when Mr. Morgan has come home. But in the meantime, don't mention this to anyone. Or if you must, then at least wait a few minutes. It's life and death to me."

Victoria brushed by the maid and continued speedily to the basement. After reaching the final landing, she passed the door to the coal vault, and after that, the kitchen quarters. Mercifully she encountered no other servants as she went to the door that led outside and pushed it open.

The air was heavy and electric with the promise of rain. Inhaling deeply, Victoria crossed a small service road and hurried along the gravel path that led to the enclosed garden. Thick poplar hedges protruded over the top of the ivy-covered brick walls. She passed beneath a pedimented arch and ran the length of the fifty-foot-long garden, skirting around a stone table surrounded by windsor chairs and stone pots of flowering nectarine trees. Her heart began to thump with exertion, but her pace did not lessen as she exited the door at the back of the garden. With each step she took away from the main house, a feeling of hope and relief surged inside. She edged around the stables and coach house, and strode swiftly through the mews that bordered the back row King Street town houses.

There was no doubt in her mind that leaving the house was the right thing to do. Let Keyes stay there and assume he had cornered her. She would be long gone by the time he realized she had disappeared. Victoria imagined his frustration upon discovering that she had already left, and a nervous, almost giddy laugh broke from her lips. She quickened her step, heading toward the welcome bustle and mayhem of Covent Garden.

The large, smooth stones of the carriageway became rough and pebbled as it led to the Garden piazza. Victoria kept to the paved walkway, pulling her hood low over her face. She brushed by mop trundlers washing soil from the walkways of elegant houses, lamplighters climbing to the suspended globes of oil lamps hung from iron brackets, and itinerant musicians playing fiddles and tambourines. The street rumbled with wagons, drays, carriages, and animals, a mass of sound that assaulted her ears.

A few more drops of rain fell, promising relief from the odors of smoke and manure that wafted through the hazy air. The storm was holding back, however, as if waiting for a cue to begin. Ladies with metal patten rings on their feet made clinking sounds on the pavement, while gentlemen kept their umbrellas tucked tightly beneath their arms and cast furtive glances at the blanket of clouds overhead. The premature darkness threw an ominous cast over the scene, and Victoria shivered beneath the folds of her premise.

Bow Street was just a short walk away, she told herself. She would cross through Covent Garden, remaining as inconspicuous as possible, and then she would reach the safety of Cannon's office.

At Mr. Keyes's request, Mrs. Buttons brought wine as they waited for Vivien to return downstairs. Holding the stem of the rare Charles I silver wine goblet between his thumb and forefinger, Keyes examined the piece closely. Its shape was elegantly simple, the rim slightly flared, the bowl smooth and highly polished. "Morgan's done very well for himself," he mused aloud, his tone not altogether admiring. "Wealthier than any Runner I've ever known. Has a knack for making the chinks, doesn't he?"

"Mr. Morgan works very hard, sir," the housekeeper replied, feeling vaguely defensive on her employer's behalf. Morgan was a clever, brave, and celebrated man--it was only right that he had been generously rewarded for his accomplishments.

"No harder than the rest of us," Keyes observed, his mouth shaping into a smile, his eyes remaining cool. "Yethe lives like a king, whereas I..." His voice faded, and his expression turned blank, as if he had regretted the words.

"Well," Mrs. Buttons said, concealing her own touch of discomfort, "I would like to thank you on behalf of Mr. Morgan's staff for taking care of Miss Duvall. We have confidence that she will be as safe under your protection as she would be with Mr. Morgan himself."

"Yes," he said beneath his breath, "I'll take care of his precious pet."

Mrs. Buttons cocked her head, not certain she had heard correctly. "Sir?" Before any reply could be made, they were interrupted by a small dark-haired housemaid, whose face was taut and streaked with tears. She was highly agitated, her hands gathered into trembling fists. "Mrs. Buttons, ma'am," she said in a small voice, standing half hidden at the side of the doorway. "Mrs. Buttons, I thought I should come to you right away, even though she asked me not to...Oh, I don't know what to do, but I wouldn't hurt her for the world, truly!"

"Mary," the housekeeper said in concern, approaching her immediately, while Keyes straightened in his chair.

"What is it?" he asked sharply. "Whom are you referring to? Is it Miss Duvall?"

The maid gave a jerky nod. "She's gone, sir."

"Gone?" Mrs. Buttons repeated in surprise, while Keyes shot up from his chair.

"What the hell do you mean, gone?" His tone turned ugly, and the women's gazes focused on him in surprise.

The maid replied in an incoherent jumble. "N-not five minutes ago...I passed her on the servants' stairs, and she s-said for me not to...Oh, I should never have told, except...well, she's indanger out there, isn't she?" She gazed at the housekeeper in abject misery. "Mrs. Buttons, have I done wrong?"

"No, Mary," the housekeeper soothed, patting the girl's arm. "You did exactly as Mr. Morgan would have wished you to."

"The damned bitch," Keyes exploded, throwing his goblet to the floor, heedless of the wine spilling over the fine hand-knotted carpet. An ugly blood-colored stain sank quickly into the yellow and blue pattern. "She won't get away from me," he vowed, striding from the room and bellowing for his coat and hat.

Mrs. Buttons rubbed her forehead as a small, insistent ache began in the front of her skull. Uneasy speculation carved deep lines into her features. "He is behaving oddly," she said, more to herself than the girl beside her. "It's plain he has no great liking for our Miss Duvall."

"I hope he finds her," Mary remarked in a subdued tone. "Then she'll be safe, won't she?"

The housekeeper did not answer, only wandered to the entrance hall and flinched as the heavy door slammed closed behind the departing Runner.

Though Covent Garden had begun as a pair of aristocratic piazzas containing spacious town mansions and a small church designed by Inigo Jones, it had undergone many incarnations in the passing centuries. In its present condition, it boasted of the most famous theaters in the world, not to mention coffeehouses filled with writers, artists, and musicians. A spectacularly large covered market had extended its tentacles outward from the piazzas into the surrounding streets and alleyways. It was at least an acre wide, attracting noise and bustle that only seemed to grow with each passing year. The nobility had long since evacuated their fine mansions, of course, and now the stately old buildings with majestic staircases were occupied by shops, taverns, and figures of the London underworld.

Cautiously Victoria stepped beneath the arches of the covered arcade, where people milled around shops and stalls. She blended into the crowd at once, letting the current push her past a profusion of flower baskets and old women who made bouquets on request. Dozens of hands skimmed over piles of vegetables, plucking and gathering the choicest ones for purchase. Strings of eels hung over fish stalls, where men deftly cleaned and gutted the freshest catch and wrapped them. A bird dealer held a screeching parrot aloft on his gloved hand, while cages of canaries, larks, and owls raucously advertised their availability for sale.

Victoria passed the doorway of an herb and root shop, where glass containers of leeches were lined along wooden shelves, and a perfumery with a window full of unguents, creams, and heavily fragrant oils encased in colored glass jars.

"'Ere, luv," came a cackling cry, and Victoria turned with a start as a clawlike hand caught at her sleeve. A diminutive, gaudily dressed old woman wearing bangles, scarves, and red skirts held tightly to her arm. "Let me tell yer fortune, dearie...a shilling to learn the secrets of tomorrow! Only a shilling, mind ye...an' wiv a face like yers, what a fine future it may be!"

"Thank you, but I have no money," Victoria said in a low tone, jerking her arm free and walking away.

The fortune-teller persisted, however, following with a spry step and catching once more at her wrist. "I'll tell it fer nothing, luv!" Her voice rose to an inviting screech not unlike the parrots at the bird dealer's. "Come one an' all...Who wants to 'ear the lovely lass's fortune?"

Realizing the woman intended to use her as some kind of advertisement, Victoria pulled hard against the restraining clutch of her hand. "No," she said sharply. "Let me go."

The minor scuffle attracted a few gazes, and Victoria glanced warily over the crowd as she broke free from the fortune-teller. Suddenly she caught sight of a gentleman's pale gray hat, and her chest contracted painfully with alarm. It looked exactly like the one Mr. Keyes wore. But he couldn't have followed her so quickly, could he?

She searched for another glimpse of the hat, but it was gone. Perhaps she had imagined it, she thought anxiously, and hurried eastward toward the massive pillared portico of the opera house. The towering height of the four fluted columns that fronted the building made the swarming public look like a colony of ants. Some sort of protest was being staged, a mob in front shouting at the closed doors. Gentlemen and beggars alike contributed to the tumult, all of them barking and braying about a recent increase in admittance prices.

"Old prices!" many of the disgruntled patrons were calling. "We want old prices!"

"Too high, too high!" others screamed.

Plunging into the noisy throng, Victoria pushed her way deep into the crowd until she came to the lee of one of the Doric columns. Leaning back against the cold stone, she stood very still, pulse thrumming, while the crowd surged and booed and moved around her. She stared fixedly at the reliefs set in the panel before her, a carved figure of Shakespeare, the Muses, and above it, a statue of Comedy set in a niche.

Keyes was following her; she couldfeel it.

Keyes thought she was Vivien, and he was going to kill her either out of vengeance or because he had been hired to do so. If he knew she had left the house, he would guess that her first thought of sanctuary was number 4 Bow Street. He would do everything in his power to stop her from reaching Sir Ross.

Suddenly Victoria experienced a flare of anger at the unjust situation. She was in danger through no fault of her own. She had come to London out of worry for her sister, and then one bizzare event after another had led to this.

It seemed the sky opened up, torrents of water suddenly breaking through the air, causing the mob to disperse rapidly and search for shelter. The heavy splashing rain saturated the scene, sluicing over umbrellas and hats, soaking through clothes and shoes.

Taking a deep breath, Victoria looked around the column again and glanced over the crowd. She caught sight of the gray hat again, and terror shot through her as she recognized Keyes. He was standing perhaps fifty yards away as he questioned someone, his face set and cold, his posture betraying extreme tension. "Oh, God," she whispered.

As if he sensed her gaze, Keyes turned and looked directly at her. His expressionless face suddenly contorted angrily. He shoved the man he was questioning out of the way and started for Victoria with murder in his eyes. Victoria bolted at once, pushing her way through the scattering throng and running alongside the opera house. She saw the corner of Russell Street and tripped on the cobbled carriageway. She fought to regain her balance, aware that Keyes was closing the distance between them.You won't stop me , she thought with grim determination. Shewould reach Bow Street, damn him...She had come too far to fail now.

Grant hurtled through his own front door, his face white as a skull as he beheld the unusual gathering of servants in the entrance hall, footmen and housemaids clustered around Mrs. Buttons.

"Mr. Morgan!" the housekeeper exclaimed, rushing forward without her usual calm dignity. She seemed anxious, perplexed, a few skeins of her graying hair escaping the usually immaculate coil atop her head. Grant had never seen her in such disarray.

"Where is she?" he asked savagely, though his insides were already screaming in denial at the obvious answer.

"Thank the Lord you're back," Mrs. Buttons chattered nervously. "I was about to take it upon myself to send a note to Bow Street, as we didn't know when you might return, and I thought it important to verify Sir Ross's request--"

"What the devil are you talking about?" He glanced at the assembled servants with their funereal expressions. "Where is Victoria?" he snapped.

The question caused all the faces in the entrance hall to pucker in confusion. "Victoria?" the housekeeper repeated bemusedly.

Grant shook his head impatiently. "Vivien. Miss Duvall. The woman who has been living here for the past few weeks, dammit. Where is she? Where is Keyes?"

A moment of heavy silence ensued, charging his nerves with immediate alarm and fury. No one wanted to answer him, he realized, and in his consternation he barked out a question at a volume that made all of them jump. "Someone tell me what's happened, damn you!"

Mary stepped forward, her shoulders slumped and her head slightly ducked, as if she suspected he might be tempted to strike her. "It was my fault, sir," she said in a small voice. "I saw Miss Duvall leave the house. On the servants' stairs, heading to the outside door by the kitchen. She asked me not to tell anyone. She said it was life and death to her. But I thought 'twould be best to go to Mrs. Buttons, and so I did."

Grant's blood pumped brutally hard, causing a drumming noise in his ears. "Life and death," he repeated thickly. Victoria had somehow realized the danger she was in, and bolted.

Mrs. Buttons smoothed her hands repeatedly on her apron front, as if she couldn't seem to blot her palms thoroughly enough. "You see, sir, Mr. Keyes said immediately upon his arrival that Sir Ross had asked him to bring Miss Duvall to Bow Street. His manner was rather odd and cold. In the years that I've been acquainted with him, I've never seen him quite like this. It was clear Miss Duvall did not want to go away with him, but she asked leave to change into her walking shoes. And while we waited for her in the library, she slipped out of the house. I suppose any woman in her position would be a bit fearful of strangers."

"I watched her from the window as she left." Mary interceded. "She was heading to the market, it looked like. With Mr. Keyes going right after her."

"She's going to Bow Street," Grant muttered. As far as Victoria knew, it was the only place of safety other than this house. He snapped out a command for one of the footmen to take a horse and ride hell-for-leather to Bow Street. "Tell Cannon to call out every man available. Tell him to cover every inch of Covent Garden and the surrounding streets with constables, Runners, and watchmen until Miss Duvall and Keyes are both found. Now,hurry --I want your arse in Cannon's office in less than five minutes."

"Yes, sir." The footman headed for the back of the house in an outright run, taking the shortest possible route to the stables.

Grant charged outside, barely aware of the rain that soaked his hair and clothes. A strange feeling had taken hold of him, a fear he had never experienced before. He had never given a thought to his own safety, had known that he possessed sufficient wits and physical strength to muddle through whatever danger he found himself in. But this fear for someone else, this blend of love and terror and fury, was the worst kind of agony.

He ran toward Covent Garden at a breakneck pace, while animals and carriages sloshed through the wet, dirty streets and pedestrians scattered for cover from the storm. If anything happened to Victoria...The thought caused a hellish pain in his chest, making his lungs feel as if they were filled with fire rather than air.

He passed the churchyard of St. Paul's, the sacred ground layered with two centuries worth of human remains. The charnel scent of accumulated bones greeted him as he cornered the eastern portico of the church. Covent Garden spread before him, a massive intermingling of traffic and squalor. Pickpockets, procurers, thieves, bloods, and bullies wandered freely about the place...and all of them would take a great interest in an unaccompanied woman with a pretty face and red hair. Panic welled inside him as he debated whether Victoria might have skirted around the Garden and traveled through the dark alleys filled with vagrants and criminals, or possibly gone straight through the market square. He had to find her before Keyes did. "Victoria, where are you?" he said beneath his breath, his frustration doubling with each minute that passed. It took all his self-control to keep from bellowing the question aloud.

Blinking hard against the deluge, using both hands to wipe the streaming water from her face, Victoria blundered down a side street that branched from Russell, and realized in despair that she was heading in the wrong direction. She should have reached Bow Street by now. If only she knew the way. If only a few more minutes had passed before Keyes had learned of her absence.

The hem of her rain-soaked skirts tangled around her ankles as she ran farther into an accretion of dilapidated buildings. As everywhere else in London, there was a jumble of whorehouses, thieves' kitchens, and slum cottages tucked behind the clean, well-fronted high streets. Without pausing to glance over her shoulder, Victoria darted into the nearest place of refuge. She hurried down the basement steps of a two-story building, with signs outside identifying it as a betting shop.

Struggling to catch her breath, she opened a wooden door and plunged into the shadowy, lamplit basement room. It was filled with at least a dozen men, all of them too engrossed in the proceedings to immediately notice her presence. Gentleman and louts alike huddled at a counter lined with tobacco jars and cigar bundles, studying lists of odds on the back wall. A bookmaker wearing heavy leather pouches at each hip swaggered behind the counter and conducted transactions at a rapid pace. "...got an 'eavy bag against all comers..." he was proclaiming, stroking the ends of his curly sideburns with thumb and forefinger, then jotting down bets with a stubby pencil.

There was a rank masculine smell in the air, a mixture of sweat, tobacco, and rain-dampened wool and broadcloth. Shrinking into a corner, Victoria yanked her hood down low over her face and waited with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She prayed silently that Keyes would pass the betting shop and continue searching for her elsewhere. However, she feared the hope was futile. This area of London was well known to Keyes, as all the Runners were routinely assigned to comb through the rookeries in search of criminals. This was what the Runners excelled at--hunting and catching their prey.

"Well, now." A gentleman's cultured voice interrupted her thoughts, and a pair of black Hessian boots approached her. "It seems a pretty little bird has found a dry place to perch during the storm."

The betting was temporarily interrupted as Victoria's presence became noticed. Biting her lower lip, she steeled herself not to flinch as the man pulled away her concealing hood. She heard his breath catch, and a meaty hand reached for a damp lock of her glowing red hair. "A lovely bit of goods," he said thickly, and laughed while his gaze roved over her. "What business are you about, little bird? Searching for an evening's companion? You've found your man, then. I've got a nice big coin in my pocket for you."

"That's not all 'e's got in 'is pocket, I'll wager," someone said, and a rumble of masculine laughter ensued.

Miserably aware that she was becoming the focus of all attention, Victoria stared steadily into the man's face. He had the appearance of a gentleman, perhaps even a member of the lower nobility, his round face clean-shaven, his stocky form clad in coffee-brown breeches, a high-collared broadcloth coat, and a fancifully tied cravat.

"Someone was bothering me in the marketplace," she said in a low voice. "I though to avoid him by hiding here for a few minutes." He clucked his tongue in false sympathy and slid an arm around her back in an insultingly familiar manner. "Poor dove. I'll give you all the protection you desire." He reached for the bodice of her premise and began to pluck at the fastenings, ignoring her outraged gasp. "No need to protest--I just want to have a look at the goods."

Now the full attention of the room was on them. Even the bookmaker had taken pause to watch the goings-on, joining in the shouts of encouragement as the men clamored to see what was concealed beneath the premise.

"I came here to avoid being molested by one man," Victoria said, pushing his hands away and retreating farther into the corner. "I'm not looking for another."

The oaf merely grinned at the comment, clearly thinking she was playing a game with him. "I'm offering you a night with a randy stallion, and a generous reward for your services," he said. "What more could any woman want?"

"I'll giveyou a reward if you help me to Bow Street," she countered. "Surely you've heard of Mr. Grant Morgan, the Runner. I know he would consider it a personal favor if you would take me there safely."

Some of the lust seemed to fade from his expression, and he looked at her with new interest. "Yes, I've heard of Morgan. What connection do you have with him?"

A tendril of relief broke through her agitation. Grant's name had definitely captured his attention. If this man could somehow be persuaded to take her to Bow Street, she would be safe from Keyes. In her eagerness to convince him to help her, she caught at his sleeve and held it tightly. Before she could say a word, however, someone entered the betting shop.

After one glimpse of the man's gray hat, Victoria gave a muffled exclamation of fright. "It's him," she said shakily.

"The man who was bothering you?" her selfstyled protector asked.

Victoria nodded, her throat closing as she stared at Keyes. He was breathing rapidly from exertion, his face set and furious. As soon as he saw her, his eyes gleamed with mean-spirited triumph.

"I'm a Bow Street Runner in pursuit of a suspect," he said in a cold, clear voice. "Give the woman to me."

The announcement of a Runner on the premises caused a hubbub of consternation throughout the small crowd. The bookmaker came out from behind the counter and began an angry rant. "I'm running a straight business, I am! What will it take to keep you pigs out o' my lister?" It was well known that bookmakers and Runners despised each other, as the authorities were often wont to sift through the betting shops in search of criminals. Runners considered the bookies to be one small step above actual criminals, and usually treated them as such.

"I'm about the Crown's business," Keyes said sharply, coming toward Victoria. "I'll thank you to hand over the wench, as she is wanted for questioning."

"He's lying," Victoria cried, throwing herself at the gentleman beside her; grabbing at whatever meager protection she could find. "I've done nothing wrong!" "What crime is she accused of?" the man asked, one arm closing around Victoria.

"I haven't time to enumerate the offenses," Keyes replied. "Now, release the woman and go about your business."

"Do as 'e says," the bookmaker commanded tersely. "Let 'im 'ave the goods and take 'is leave. 'Tis bad for business to 'ave a Runner about the place."

The man sighed and gently began to urge Victoria forward. "Well, you have a wish to go to Bow Street, dove. It seems you have your escort."

"He won't take me there," she cried, clutching at him. "He's going to kill me. Don't let me go!"

"Kill you?" the man repeated, chortling at what he clearly perceived as a wild exaggeration. "Come, dove, whatever you've done, it can't be all that bad. When you go to the bench, just give the magistrate your prettiest smile, and I've no doubt he'll let you off easy."

"Please," she said desperately, "help me to reach Sir Ross Cannon. Or Mr. Morgan. I...I'm begging for my life."

Uncertainty skittered across the man's face as he stared down at her. It seemed that whatever he read in her eyes convinced him. The arm around her strengthened. "All right," he said. "No doubt I could do worse than rescue a damsel in distress this soggy evening." He looked up at Keyes with an affable, condescending smile. "Surely it would do no harm if I accompany the girl to Bow Street," he said. "That's where you want her taken, yes? What difference does it make if I bring her there on your behalf?"

Victoria tensed as Keyes approached them, his eyes dark and lethal in his calm face. He appeared to be considering a response, in the manner of a man carrying on a reasonable conversation. "I'll show you what difference it makes," he said quietly. At the same time he spoke, he withdrew an object from inside his coat and raised it in a swift, high arc. In a flashing instant, Victoria saw that it was a neddy, a small weighted cudgel the Runners used to subdue unruly criminals. She let out a sharp cry and turned away just as Keyes struck the man about the head and shoulders, three times in rapid succession. She felt the shock of the blows resound through the man's heavy frame, and he collapsed in a moaning heap on the ground, his arm dropping away from her.

Keyes snatched her, seizing one arm and twisting it behind her until a shaft of pain seared through her back and shoulder. Victoria grunted through her clenched teeth and bent forward to ease the piercing ache. A burst of angry cries echoed throughout the room, and Keyes's voice cut through the cacophany. "If anyone else wishes to tangle with me, I'll have you charged with interfering with an officer's execution of his duty. Care for an evening's stay at Newgate?" He laughed contemptuously at the suddenly subdued crowd. "I thought not," he sneered. "Carry on, gentlemen, and put this little piece of mutton out of your minds."

"Get yer arse out o' my lister!" the bookmaker snapped, and joined the small gathering around the injured man on the floor.

"Gladly," Keyes said, tugging and pushing Victoria up the steps, back into the downpour.

"You can't kill me now," she cried, blinking against the sheet of rain that struck her in the face. "There are witnesses...they'll all say you were the one who took me away. You'll be tried...hanged..."

"I'll be long gone before an investigation has even begun," Keyes sneered, continuing to twist her arm as he ushered her along the street, around a flooding cess-trench dug in the middle.

Victoria glanced frantically about the street in the hope of finding someone to help her. Hopeless gazes stared out from the depths of crammed cellar homes. The stench of an underground slaughterhouse surrounded them as they passed the doorway, where the pelting rain was doing little to wash away layers of dried blood and fat. She felt her eyes aching and stinging, her leaking tears mingling with the rivulets of rain that coursed down her cheeks.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she cried.

Surprisingly, Keyes heard her through the tumult of the storm. "I'm too bloody old to be a Runner, and I've only a few pounds to retire on. I'll be damned if I live like a dog for the rest of my days."

"Wh-who paid you to kill me--" She broke off with a pained cry as he pushed her arm another inch upward.

"Enough yapping," he said. They turned a corner and ventured deep into a rookery. Rapidly they strode toward a deserted factory. The walls of the building appeared so decayed and unstable that no one dared occupy it, not even the poor who were tightly packed in nearby slums like rabbits in a warren. Victoria screamed and dug in her heels as Keyes tried to force her past the doorway.

A sharp pain exploded on the side of her head, and she realized dimly that he had just hit her, hard enough to subdue her resistance. Sagging against him, her mind buzzing, she fought to collect her wits. He gagged her efficiently, using his own cravat, and she recoiled at the taste of starch and sweat. Drawing her hands behind her back, Keyes snapped the cold metal rings of handcuffs around her wrists.

Helplessly Victoria stumbled forward as the Runner shoved her toward a set of broken stairs. The remnants of the steps groaned and splintered as they ascended. It would have been pitch-black in the building, except that a good part of the roof had rotted away, and there were holes and gaping fissures in the walls. The air was foul and still, every visible surface covered with oily dust that barely stirred when gusts of rain-filled wind blew inside.

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.