Someone to Watch Over Me by Lisa Kleypas
Grant knew that he himself would look nearly as careworn as Cannon had it not been for the night of pleasure in Victoria’s arms. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest that the magistrate find a woman for himself. However, Grant wasn’t about to stick his nose in someone else’s business…especially of a man who was notoriously protective of his privacy.
After asking after Victoria’s welfare, Cannon informed Grant that Keyes was in custody at the strong room, and had given a full confession in the presence of Cannon and a clerk. Grant was not surprised by the news, knowing that Cannon could wring a confession from a hearthstone. Keyes would be charged and tried, and all that Cannon would require of Victoria Devane was that she appear in his chambers before the second session that day and have a clerk take down her deposition. The matter was going to be handled as efficiently and quietly as possible, in an attempt not to excite the public any further.
“Victoria won’t have to face Keyes in court, then,” Grant said, having arrived this morning with an argument already prepared. He would go to hell and back before allowing Victoria to be in the same room with Keyes.
“No, there is no need to put Miss Devane through yet another ordeal,” Cannon replied. “Her testimony in chambers, as well as Keyes’s own confession, will be sufficient to have him indicted and bound for trial before the King’s Bench.”
“What of Lord Lane?” Grant asked. “Is he to be arrested this morning? If so, I’ll gladly volunteer for the task.”
The magistrate paused in the act of lifting a coffee mug to his lips and stared at him with a flicker of surprise. “You haven’t heard, then. Lord Lane is dead.”
Grant shook his head slightly, not certain he had heard correctly. “What did you say?”
“It seems he suffered an attack of apoplexy last evening, just after your departure from Boodle’s.”
Grant stroked his shaven chin for a moment, struggling with a mixture of emotions. On one hand, he was glad that the old bastard had finally gone to meet his Maker. On the other hand, he was distinctly sorry that Lord Lane had managed to escape the discomfort and humiliation of being indicted, tried, and punished. “Good,” he finally said grimly. “I only wish I’d been able to stay at Boodles long enough to enjoy the show.”
The magistrate frowned at the callous comment. “The sentiment is beneath you, Morgan, though I understand its source.”
Grant did not respond to the quiet rebuke. He was not sorry in the least for what he had said. In his opinion, Lord Lane’s death had been far too merciful, much better than he had deserved. However, something else troubled him, and it would have to be addressed before any plans for his own future could be discussed. “I don’t have your dispassionate nature, sir…though God knows I wish I did.”
“Well, dispassionate or not, I have an offer for you. One I hope you’ll consider carefully.”
“What kind of offer?”
“Well…it pertains to the fact that I’ve just accepted commissions to serve as justice for Essex, Kent, Herfordshire, and Surrey, in addition to the ones I already hold.”
Grant threw him a glance of surprise and let out a low, appreciative whistle. The new appointments would extend Cannon’s reach considerably. He had been doing the work of two men so far. Now he would be doing the work of six. So far as Grant knew, no police magistrate had ever been granted such authority.
“The public uproar is only just beginning,” Cannon continued dryly. “The general consensus will be that I’m power-mad and reaching far beyond my rightful jurisdiction. And perhaps I am. It’s only that I can’t see another way to deal with crime, other than to regard it as a war that must be waged inside and outside London.”
“Then your critics can go hang themselves,” Grant commented.
“If only they would,” Cannon agreed ruefully.
Smiling, Grant reached out and shook the magistrate’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve a hell of a job before you. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes, but I’ve no doubt you’ll find some way to manage.”
“Thank you,” Cannon murmured, expressionless save for a sudden gleam of amusement in his wolfish eyes. “Actually, that leads to the question I have for you. I want to submit you as my choice for assistant police magistrate, to serve alongside me.”
Grant stared at him in open amazement. The idea instantly took root inside him. Serving as a police magistrate would allow him to stay close to the work that fascinated him, but at the same time it would remove him from the danger of the streets. He would have to learn a great deal about the law—a welcome challenge—and he would still be required to investigate difficult cases. However, he couldn’t help reflecting on what he knew of the magistrate’s celibate, orderly, industrious life, and comparing it with his own. A doubtful, self-mocking smile touched his lips.
“The position automatically confers honorary knighthood,” Cannon remarked, “if that appeals to you.”
“Sir Grant,” he said with a short laugh, and shook his head at the odd sound of it. “Hell. I should jump at the chance, but…I don’t think I’m suitable.”
Cannon regarded him intently. “Why not?”
Grant hesitated and glanced down at his hands. The skin of his knuckles and palms was scraped and battered after his experiences of the previous day. “You saw what I did to Keyes,” he muttered.
“Yes,” Cannon said after a moment. “You did him considerable violence. However, you had provocation.”
“I almost killed him. I had my knife out, and…I would have killed him, except that Victoria was watching.”
“In the heat of battle—”
“No, there was no heat,” Grant interrupted swiftly, laying his soul bare. “For a moment my thoughts were cold and damned clear. I became judge, jury, and executioner. I gave myself the power to end his life, and I would have done it happily. Except that I didn’t want her to see me do it, and always carry that memory in the back of her mind.” He threw a grim smile in Cannon’s direction. “Now do you still want me to serve as a magistrate, knowing that I’m capable of such a lapse?”
The magistrate regarded him thoughtfully, considering his reply. “See here, Morgan…I’m not dispassionate by nature, no matter what appearances may lead you to believe. Had I seen the woman I loved being attacked in such a manner, I may have done the same thing, or worse. We all have regrettable lapses. As I told you, I’m not a perfect man. And I would hardly expect more of you than I would of myself.”
Grant grinned suddenly, relieved that the magistrate did not consider his actions to be unforgivable. “All right, then. I accept the position. I could use a bit of respectability. I’m getting damned tired of spending my days pursuing thieves and cutthroats on foot. Besides, with any luck, I’ll soon have a wife and family to think about.”
“Ah. You wish to marry Miss Devane, then.”
Picturing Victoria waiting at home for him, Grant felt a smile…a warm, uncynical smile…tugging at the corner of his mouth. “All these years I thought of marriage as a noose around my neck,” he said. “I swore it would never happen to me. And now it doesn’t sound half bad.” The flippant words concealed a sudden ache of longing inside. He needed Victoria…His life would not be complete without her. He experienced a sudden urgency to return to her and set about persuading her to accept his proposal.
He could have sworn that Cannon almost smiled at the comment. “It’s not half bad,” the magistrate assured him. “And with the right woman, it can be…” Cannon paused in search of a word, and then appeared to drift into a sweet, long-forgotten memory. He collected himself after a few seconds of silence. The gray eyes were warmer than Grant had ever seen them. “Good luck, Morgan,” he said.
Victoria spent most of the morning in the town house’s private garden. It was a cool, humid day, the sky liberally laced with clouds, the air stirring with mild breezes. She sat at the stone table and read for a while, then wandered along graveled paths bordered with boxes of lilac, jess
In this small, secluded world, it seemed as if the city were a hundred miles away. It was difficult not to be contented in such beautiful surroundings.
But she was aware of a growing need to return to White Rose Cottage. She needed to see her sister and be assured of Vivien’s well-being. Moreover, Victoria felt a strong urge to return to familiar surroundings and rediscover herself in the comfort of her own home. Although her memory had returned, she knew that she wouldn’t feel settled in her mind and heart until she had spent a few days at White Rose Cottage. Sitting at the stone garden table, she rested her head on her folded arms.
“What are you doing out here?”
A masculine voice penetrated the swirl of her thoughts. Lifting her head, Victoria smiled as she saw Grant standing there. He sat in a nearby chair, facing her, and took her hand in his. With the other hand he caressed the cool skin of her cheek, his thumb lightly brushing one of the shadows beneath her eyes. “You should take a nap,” he murmured. “I’m going to take you back to Bow Street for a deposition this afternoon—I want you to be well rested.”
Victoria leaned the side of her face into his hand. “I can’t sleep. I can’t stop thinking.”
“About what, my love?”
“I want to see my sister. I want to go to Forest Crest and sleep in my own bed.”
Grant removed his coat and placed it over her shoulders, enfolding her in the thick silk-lined broadcloth. The garment held the warmth and scent of his body, and she held it closely around herself. His voice was like a stroke of velvet as he spoke above her head. “I’ll take you there after the deposition. We’ll stay for as long as you like.”
“Thank you, but…it’s best that I go alone. I want to think clearly, and I can’t do it with you there.”
Grant was silent, and she knew he was struggling with a burst of impatience. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and cool. “What exactly do you plan to think about?”
Victoria shrugged. “Who I am…my past…my future…”
His long fingers slid beneath her chin, and he tilted it upward until she was forced to stare into his expressionless face. “You mean your future with me,” he said.
“I just want to go home and reflect on everything that’s happened to me. My life has changed so quickly, don’t you see?”
His short sigh conveyed a wealth of frustration. Reaching out for her, he lifted her into his lap and slid his hand beneath his coat. The warmth of his palm sank through her gown to the side of her breast. “I understand,” he said reluctantly. “But I don’t like the idea of you traveling alone and staying in Forest Crest without my protection.”
The possessiveness in his voice made her smile. “Grant…before I met you, I lived for quite a long time without anyone’s protection.”
“That’s about to change,” he grumbled.
“Let me go to Forest Crest alone,” she coaxed, though they both knew she wasn’t really asking.
Somehow Grant could not return her smile. All he could focus on was his own fear that if he let her out of his sight, she might decide never to marry him. After all, it was a fact that he could never give her the peaceful country life she had always been accustomed to He was not a gentleman—she had seen evidence of the roughness and violence in him, she had seen his many flaws. He was the kind of man she must have disdained and feared in her former sheltered existence.
“All right,” he said with difficulty. “I’ll send you to Forest Crest after the deposition. You’ll go in my carriage, with my driver and a footman to protect you. And I’m going to come for you in a week.”
“A week? But that’s hardly sufficient—” Victoria stopped in midsentence as she realized that her protest was falling on deaf ears. Her lips curved with a wry smile. “Very well.”
A new thought occurred to Grant, and he scowled. “You’re not going to see any former suitors in Forest Crest, are you?”
An impish twinkle appeared in her eyes. “No, Mr. Morgan, I was never courted by any of the village lads.”
“Why not? What in God’s name is the matter with all of them?”
“I was never receptive to their advances,” Victoria said, settling herself more comfortably on his lap. “I was always absorbed in taking care of Father, and reading books, and…” Tenderly she laid her head on his shoulder. “I suppose I was waiting for you,” she said, and felt his arms tighten until he nearly crushed her.
Nineteen
Having bid the coachman to let her off at the end of the unpaved drive, Victoria walked to White Rose Cottage. The familiar sight of the thatched cottage soothed her, and her gaze hungrily absorbed the peaceful scene. Her small, private world was not as well tended as when she had left it. The ivory and cream rosebushes needed pruning, and the beds of thrift, marigold, and sweet pea were choked with weeds. But it was home. Her step quickened as she approached the small arched doorway, feeling as if she had been gone for a year instead of a month.
There was only one thing to mar her happiness, the image of Grant as she had left him in London. He had refused to kiss her good-bye, and had stood watching with a sullen expression as she waved at him through the carriage window. Amused and touched and yearning, Victoria had almost signaled the driver to stop and turn back. That she had still refused to accept Grant’s marriage proposal had clearly caused him no end of frustration.
She desperately wanted to marry Grant Morgan, but was a union between them advisable…or might it eventually end in ruins? She feared he might tire of her someday and come to regret marrying her…and that was something she would not be able to bear.
She badly wanted to talk to her sister, the only family she had left in the world. Despite Vivien’s occasional vagaries, she was a worldly, ruthlessly pragmatic woman who knew a great deal about men. And Victoria knew that in her own way her sister loved her enough to listen to her problems and give her the best advice she could offer.
As Victoria’s heart pounded eagerly with a sense of homecoming, she knocked and entered without waiting for a response.
“Jane?” came a voice from inside. “I hadn’t thought you would be back from the village so…” The voice trailed away as Vivien appeared in the main room and stared at the newcomer.
Victoria stared at her sister with a beaming smile. She was struck as always by the sense that Vivien was at once familiar and exotic. How was it possible to love someone and yet never understand her? Vivien belonged to a world so far removed from her own that it seemed impossible they had come from the same family, much less that they were twins.
Vivien was the first to break the silence. “It turns out you were right to refuse all my invitations to come to town. London is definitely not the place for you, country mouse.”
Victoria laughed and approached her with extended arms. “Vivien…I can’t believe my eyes!” Her twin was very obviously pregnant, her stomach rounded, her fair skin glowing from beneath. Vivien’s condition had given her an unexpected touch of vulnerability that made her appear lovelier than ever.
“I’m fat,” Vivien said.
“No, you’re beautiful. Really.” Victoria hugged her sister with great care, and felt Vivien relax and sigh with relief.
“Dear Victoria,” she murmured, hugging her back. “I thought you might despise me for the trouble I’ve cause you. I’ve been so afraid to face you.”
“I could never despise my own sister. You’re all I have left.” Loosening her arms, Victoria drew back and smiled. “But oh, Vivien…how I hated being you!”
Vivien looked defensive and amused by turns, then laughed. “I don’t doubt you were ill at ease, posing as a demimondaine. But I promise you, it was far better than being buried alive here in Forest Crest.”
“I very nearly was buried,” Victoria said dryly.
Vivien nodded contritely. “Forgive me, dear. You know I would never have intentionally caused any harm to come to you. If only you had stayed here instead of coming to London—”
“I was worried for you.”
“In the future, keep in mind that I’m far better at taking care of myself than you apparently are.” Vivien put a hand at the small of her own back and made her way to the worn velvet settee. “I must sit down—my feet ache.”
“What can I do?” Victoria asked with instant concern.
Vivien patted the space beside her. “Sit here and talk. I gather your presence here means that everything is over?”
“Yes. The man who tried to kill me is being held at the Bow Street jail. It turns out that Lord Lane hired one of the Bow Street Runners to kill me…or you, so he thought.”
“Good God. Which Runner was it?”
The story came tumbling out, causing a few quiet exclamations from Vivien at infrequent intervals. To Victoria’s relief, her sister had the grace not to appear pleased by the news of Lord Lane’s death.
“I suppose he’s with his son, Harry, now,” Vivien commented, smoothing the skirts of her gown with undue care. “May they rest in peace.” She looked up with a troubled expression. “They were both remarkably unhappy men, Harry being the worst. That’s why I had the affair with him…I thought a few days of pleasure were just what he needed. But he refused to accept that I could not stay with him forever. Perhaps Lord Lane was right…If I hadn’t slept with Harry, he might still be alive.”
“But then again, he might not,” Victoria replied, surprised and even a little glad that Vivien was having an attack of conscience. It was a welcome discovery that her sister was still capable of remorse. “Don’t fret over ‘might have beens,’ Vivien. Just promise me that you won’t ever pursue Harry’s son again—the poor boy has suffered a great deal.”