Becoming aware of his intent stare, Vivien looked back at him, her red lips curved in a smile that invited and taunted at the same time.

"Ah, you've noticed Miss Duvall, I see." Lord Wentworth appeared at Grant's side, a wry expression settling on his wrinkle-scored face. "I warn you, my friend, Vivien Duvall has left a trail of broken hearts in her wake."

"Whom does she belong to?" Grant murmured, knowing that a woman of her beauty would not be unattached.

"Lord Gerard, until quite recently. He was invited to attend the ball, but declined without giving an explanation. It is my belief that he's licking his wounds in private while Vivien searches for a new protector." Wentworth chuckled at Grant's speculative expression. "Don't even consider it, man."

"Why not?"

"To begin with, she'll demand a fortune."

"And if I can afford her?" Grant asked.

Wentworth tugged idly at a lock of his gray hair. "She likes her men titled and married, and...well, a trifle more refined than you, my friend. No offense intended, of course."

"None taken," Grant murmured automatically. He had never tried to conceal his rough background, had even made use of it on occasion. Many women were actually excited by his occupation and his lack of pedigree. It was possible that Vivien Duvall would enjoy a change from her aristocratic protectors with their manicured hands and self-important demeanors.

"She's dangerous, you know," Wentworth persisted. "They say she drove one poor forlorn bastard to suicide just a fortnight ago."

Grant smiled cynically. "I'm hardly the kind to expire for the love of a woman, my lord."

He continued to watch Vivien, who had extracted a jeweled patch box from her beaded reticule. Flipping the box open, she beheld her reflection in a tiny looking glass fitted behind the lid. Carefully she touched the tip of a gloved finger to the heart-shaped patch that had been strategically glued near the corner of her delectable mouth. It was clear she only half heard the nearby gentleman who was trying earnestly to engage her in conversation. Seeming annoyed by his attentions, she gestured toward the long refreshment tables. He left at once to fetch her a plate, and she continued to study her reflection intently.

Seeing his opportunity, Grant snatched a glass of wine from a tray carried by a passing waiter. He approached Vivien, who closed the patch box with a snap and slipped it back into her reticule.

"Back so soon?" she asked without looking at him, her tone languid and bored.

"Your companion should know better than to leave a beautiful woman unattended."

Surprise flickered in Vivien's midnight-blue eyes. Her gaze dropped to the proferred glass in his hand. She took the artfully twisted stem of the trumpet-shaped glass and sipped delicately. "He's not my companion." Her voice fell on his ears like a stroke of velvet. "Thank you. I am parched." She drank again, her gaze lifting to his. Like most successful courtesans, she had a flattering way of looking at a man as if he were the only one in the room.

"You were staring at me earlier," she remarked.

"I didn't mean to be rude."

"Oh, I'm accustomed to such stares," she said.

"I'm sure you are."

She smiled, revealing a flash of pearly white teeth. "We haven't been introduced." Grant smiled back at her. "Shall I go find someone to do the honors?"

"No need." Her soft pink mouth pressed against the rim of the wineglass. "You're Mr. Morgan, the Bow Street Runner. That's only a guess, but I'm sure I'm right."

"Why do you think so?"

"You fit the description. Your height and your green eyes are quite distinctive." She pursed her lips thoughtfully. "But there's something else about you...a sense that you're not quite comfortable in these surroundings. I suspect you would rather be doing anything but stand here in a stuffy room making small talk. And your cravat is too tight."

Grant smiled as he tugged at the white starched linen that bound his neck with an artful knot. The civilized confinement of high collars and stiff cravats was more than he could bear at times. "You're wrong about one thing, Miss Duvall--there's nothing I'd rather be doing than talking with you."

"How do you know my name, sir? Has someone told you about me? I insist on knowing what was said."

"I was told that you've broken many hearts."

She laughed, clearly entertained by the notion, and her blue eyes sparkled wickedly. "True. But I suspect you've broken your share of female hearts."

"It's fairly easy to break hearts, Miss Duvall. The more interesting challenge is how to keep someone's love, not to lose it."

"You speak of love too seriously," Vivien said. "It's only a game, after all."

"Is it? Tell me your rules."

"It's rather like chess. I plan my strategy carefully. I sacrifice a pawn when it's no longer useful. And I never reveal my true thoughts to my opponent."

"Very pragmatic."

"One has to be, in my position." Her provocative smile dimmed slightly as she stared at him. "I don't quite like your expression, Mr. Morgan."

Grant's initial attraction to her had begun to fade as he reflected that any involvement with her would ultimately lead to nothing. She was manipulative, hard-edged, offering sex without real companionship. He wanted more than that, no matter how prettily packaged she was.

Her gaze searched his impassive features, and she affected a small, delicious pout. "Tell meyour rules, Mr. Morgan."

"I only have one," he replied. "Complete honesty between myself and my partner."

A bright peal of laughter escaped her. "That can be quite inconvenient, you know." "Yes, I know."

Obviously confident in her own attractiveness, Vivien preened and posed before him, angling her breasts outward, resting a graceful hand on the elegant curve of her hip. Grant knew that he was supposed to be admiring her, but instead he couldn't help wondering why it was that so many strikingly lovely women were self-absorbed.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Vivien's former companion bearing down on them with quick, anxious strides, a plate of tidbits clutched in his hands. Clearly the man was determined to defend his territory, and Grant was hardly inclined to argue with him. Vivien Duvall wasn't worth a public dispute.

Vivien followed his glance, and sighed shortly. "Ask me to dance before that bore returns," she said in a low voice.

"Forgive me, Miss Duvall," Grant murmured, "but I would hate to deprive him of your company. Especially after the trouble he's taken to fetch you refreshments."

Vivien's eyes widened as she realized she had been rejected. A mottled pink flush covered her cheeks and forehead, clashing with the cinnamon tones of her hair. When she managed to reply, her tone dripped with disdain. "Perhaps we'll meet again, Mr. Morgan. I'll send for you if I'm ever bothered by a pickpocket or footpad."

"Please do," he replied, utterly polite, and took his leave with a brief bow.

Grant had thought the matter was over, but unfortunately their brief encounter had not gone unnoticed by others at the ball. And Vivien, taking a petty stab at revenge, had explained the situation in a way that had the gossips snickering behind their palms. Delicately Vivien had insinuated to a host of wagging tongues that the redoubtable Mr. Morgan had made an offer for her, which she had summarily rejected. The idea of the celebrated Bow Street Runner trying and failing to win the favor of Vivien Duvall was greeted everywhere with amusement. "He's not so dangerous as they claim," someone had slyly remarked within Grant's hearing, "if he can so easily be set back on his heels by a woman."

Grant's pride had smarted at the spread of deliberate lies...but he had managed to hold his silence on the matter. He'd known that, like all rumors, it would fade more quickly if nothing was said to add fuel to the fire. Still, the mention of Vivien's name never failed to annoy him, especially when people watched so carefully for his reaction. He had done everything possible to make his indifference clear, while inwardly promising himself that Vivien would come to regret the lies she had spread. It was a promise he was still bound and determined to make good on.

Wandering to the window, Grant pushed aside the dark blue damask curtain and stared through the long panes of glass. Impatiently his gaze hunted the quiet shadowed street for a glimpse of Dr. Linley. In less than a minute, a hired hack stopped in front of the town house. Linley emerged from the vehicle, hatless as usual, his shock of dark blond hair gleaming in the light of the streetlamps. He gave no appearance of great haste, but his legs moved in long, ground-covering strides. Hefting his heavy leather doctor's case as if it weighed next to nothing, he approached the front entrance.

Grant waited at the bedroom door, giving the doctor a nod of greeting as he ascended the main staircase with the housekeeper. Linley's progressiveness and intelligence had made him one of the most sought-after doctors in London. And it hardly hurt his popularity to be a handsome bachelor in his late twenties. Wealthy society ladies clamored mightily for his services, claiming that only Dr. Linley could cure their headaches and female ailments. Grant was frequently amused by Linley's disgruntlement at being monopolized by the fashionable women of theton instead of being allowed the time he desired to take on more serious cases.

The two men shook hands briefly. They had a genuine liking for each other, both of them professional men who regularly saw the best and worst that people were capable of.