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navy trousers, and tall black boots polished to an immaculate shine. Grant detested the garb. On an average-sized man the brightly colored clothes—which had inspired the public to nickname the Runners “Robin Redbreasts”—weresomewhat foppish. On a man of his height, the effect was startling.
    Grant’s personal taste favored dark, well-tailored clothes in shades of gray, beige, and black, with no personal adornment save his pocket watch. He kept his hair conveniently short and was sometimes compelled to shave twice a day when a formal occasion called for him to remove another layer of his encroaching beard. He bathed every evening, as he was unable to sleep well otherwise. The physical exertion of his job, not to mention the foul characters he often associated with, often made him feel unclean within and without.
    Although many valets were called upon to assist their masters with their clothes, Grant preferred to dress himself. He found the notion of standing still while some other fellow dressed him as more than a little ridiculous. He was an able-bodied man, not some tot who needed help with his skeleton suit. When he’d expressed this view to one of his socially elevated friends, the friend had told him with amusement that this was one of the essential differences between the lower classes and the aristocracy.
    “You mean only the lower classes know how to fasten their buttons?” Grant had asked wryly.
    “No,” the friend had replied with a laugh, “it’s just that they have no choice in the matter. The aristocracy, on the other hand, can get someone else to do it for them.”
    After tying his black silk cravat in a simple knot, Grant jerked the tips of his collar to neat standing points. He dragged a comb through his ruffleddark hair and gave a cursory glance in the looking glass. Just as he reached for his charcoal-gray coat, he heard a muffled sound from a few rooms away.
    “Vivien,” he murmured, dropping the coat at once. He reached the master bedroom in a few strides, entering without bothering to knock. The housemaid had already visited and had stoked a small fire in the grate.
    Vivien was attempting to get out of bed by herself, the linen shirt twisted around the middle of her thighs. Her long hair fell in wild straggles down her back. She was standing on one foot, maintaining a precarious balance. Her sprained ankle was bound and swollen, and the pain it caused was obvious as she took one limping step away from the bed.
    “What do you need?” Grant asked, and she started at the sound of his voice. She didn’t look much better than she had the previous night, her face ghastly pale, her eyes still swollen, her throat bruised. “Do you want the privy?”
    The blunt question clearly caused Vivien no end of mortification. A scarlet flush cascaded over her skin. The sight of a redhead blushing was not something to miss, Grant thought with a sudden flicker of amusement.
    “Yes, thank you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and strained. She took another cautious hobbling step. “If you could just tell me where—”
    “I’ll help you.”
    “Oh, no, really—” She gasped as he scooped her into his arms, her body small and light against his chest. Grant carried her the short distance to theprivy, two doors down the hall, while Vivien tried in agonized modesty to pull the thin linen shirt farther over her thighs. The gesture struck him as odd for a courtesan. Vivien was known for her lack of sexual inhibition, not to mention her elegantly provocative style of dressing. Modesty had not been in her repertoire. Why did she seem so distressed now?
    “You’ll be stronger soon,” he said. “In the meantime, stay in bed and keep off that ankle. If you want anything at all, ring for one of the maids.”
    “Yes. Thank you.” Her small hands crept around his neck. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr.…” She hesitated, and he knew that she had forgotten his last name.
    “Call me Grant,” he replied,