Книга - Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover’s Kiss / The Viscount’s Kiss

Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover's Kiss / The Viscount's Kiss
Margaret Moore


Rescued by the Enemy… Sir Douglas Drury was a spy during the Napoleonic war and has the scars, and enemies, to show for it. When he is set upon in a London street, he finds it hard to be grateful because his rescuer is not only a woman, but French into the bargain! Juliette Bergerine has learned to keep herself safe by avoiding undue attention, but now she’s thrown herself into the arms of danger…A Penniless Guest… Lord Bromwell has a strong sense of duty and, when he realises the beautiful ‘Lady Eleanor Springford’ is fleeing a desperate situation, he does the honourable thing and offers her refuge at his country estate. Except he has no idea Eleanor is really plain Nell Springley, an impoverished lady’s companion on the run and their fledgling relationship is a scandal in the making. Two BRAND-NEW, DAZZLING Regency tales!












About the Author


Unknowingly pursuing her destiny, award-winning author MARGARET MOORE graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto with a Bachelor of Arts degree. She has been a Leading Wren in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, an award-winning public speaker, a member of an archery team and a student of fencing and ballroom dancing. She has also worked for every major department store chain in Canada. Margaret sold her first historical romance, A Warrior’s Heart, to Mills & Boon


Historicals in 1991. She has recently completed her eighteenth novel for Mills & Boon. Margaret lives in Toronto with her husband, two children and two cats. Readers may contact her through her website, www.margaretmoore.com.




REGENCY

Rogues & Runaways

A Lover’s Kiss

The Viscount’s Kiss

Margaret Moore















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)



A Lover’s Kiss




Chapter One


Considering Drury’s life in general, I suppose I shouldn’t really be surprised. It’s unfortunate the young woman was French, though. We all know how he feels about the French.

—from The Collected Letters of Lord Bromwell, noted naturalist and author of The Spider’s Web

London, 1819

Panting, Juliette Bergerine lay on her bed in a tangle of bedclothes and stared at the stained ceiling above her.

It had been a dream. Just a dream. She was not in France, not back on the farm, and Gaston LaRoche was far away. The war was over, Napoleon defeated. She was in London. She was safe.

She was alone.

Except… what was that scuffling sound? It could be rats in the walls, but it seemed too distant.

And what was that noise? A shout? A cry of pain coming from the alley outside?

Kicking off her sheets and thin blanket, Juliette got out of her narrow bed and hurried to the window, raising the sash as high as it would go. Clad only in a chemise, she shivered, for the September air was chilly and tainted by the smells of burning coal, of refuse and dung. The half-moon illuminated the hastily, poorly constructed building across the alley, and the ground below.

Four men with clubs or some kind of weapons surrounded another man who had his back to the wall of the lodging house. She watched with horror as the four crept closer, obviously about to attack him. The man near the wall crouched, ready to defend himself, his dark-haired head moving warily from side to side as he waited for them to strike.

She opened her mouth to call out for help, then hesitated. She didn’t know those men, either the attackers or their victim. Given where she lived, they could all be bad men involved in a dispute about ill-gotten gains, or a quarrel among thieves. What would happen if she interfered? Should she even try?

Yet it was four against one, so she did not close the window, and in the next moment, she was glad she had not, for the man with his back to the wall cursed—in French.

A fellow countryman, so no wonder he was under attack. Being French would be enough to make him a target for English louts.

Just as she was about to call out, the tallest of the attackers stepped forward and swung his weapon. The Frenchman jumped back, colliding with the wall. At the same time, another assailant, his face shielded by his hat, moved forward, slashing. She saw the glint of metal in the moonlight—a knife.

She must help her countryman! But what could she do?

She swiftly surveyed her small room, plainly furnished with cheap furniture. She had a pot. A kettle. A basket of potatoes that were supposed to feed her for a week.

She looked back out the window. As the Frenchman dipped and swayed, the first man rammed his club into his side. He doubled over and fell to his knees while the man with the knife crept closer.

Juliette hauled the basket to the window, then grabbed a potato. As the lout with the knife leaned over the poor Frenchman and pulled his head back by his hair, as if about to slit his throat, she threw a potato at him with all her might and shouted, “Arrête!”

The potato hit the man directly on the head. He clutched his hat, looked up and swore. Juliette crouched beneath the window, then flung another potato in his direction. And another. She kept throwing until the basket was empty.

Holding her breath, she listened, her heart pounding. When she heard nothing, she cautiously raised her head and peered over the rotting windowsill.

The Frenchman lay on the ground, not moving. But his attackers were gone.

Hoping she was not too late, Juliette hastily tugged one of her two dresses on over her chemise, shoved her feet into the heavy shoes she wore when walking through the city to the modiste’s where she worked as a seamstress and ran down the stairs as fast as she could go. None of the other lodgers in the decrepit building showed themselves. She was not surprised. Likely they felt it would be better to mind their own business.

Once outside, she sidestepped the puddles and refuse in the alley until she was beside the fallen man. He was, she noted with relief, still breathing as he lay on the cobblestones, his dark wavy hair covering the collar of his black box coat with two shoulder capes. It was a surprisingly fine garment for a poor immigrant.

She crouched down and whispered, “Monsieur?”

He didn’t move or answer. Seeking to rouse him, she laid a hand on his shoulder. She could tell by the feel of the fabric that his coat was indeed very expensive.

What was a man who could afford such a garment doing in this part of the city at this time of night?

One answer came to mind, and she hoped she was wrong, that he wasn’t a rich man who’d come to find a whore or a gaming hell. “Monsieur?”

When he still didn’t answer, she carefully turned him over. The moonlight revealed a face with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw, a straight nose and bleeding brow. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his legs long.

She undid his coat and examined him the best she could in the moonlight. The rest of his clothing—white linen shirt and black cravat, well-fitted black riding coat, gray waistcoat and black trousers—were also of the finest quality, as were his leather riding boots. Mercifully, she saw no more blood or other injuries—until she looked at his hands. Something was not right…

He grabbed her arm, his grip unexpectedly strong. As she tried to pull free of that fierce grasp, his eyes opened and he fixed her with a stare that seemed to bore right into her heart. Then he whispered something in a deep, husky voice that sounded like a name—Annie, or something similar.

His wife, perhaps? “Monsieur?”

His eyes drifted closed as he muttered something else.

He had not grabbed her to hurt her, but out of fear or desperation or both. And it was obvious that whatever might be wrong with his hands, they were not crippled.

Whoever he was, and whatever had brought him here, she couldn’t leave him in a stinking, garbage-strewn alley.

As long as he wasn’t completely unconscious, she should be able to get him up to her room, where it was dry and there was a relatively soft bed.

She put her shoulder under his arm to help him to his feet. Although he was able to stand, he was heavier than she expected and he groaned as if in agony. Perhaps there were injuries she couldn’t see beneath his clothes.

She thought of summoning help from the other people who lived in her lodging house, but decided against it. Even if they hadn’t heard the attack, they already regarded her with suspicion because she was French. What would they think if she asked them to help her take a man to her room, even if he was hurt?

Non, she must do this by herself.

As she struggled to get the man inside, she was glad she had grown up on a farm. Despite the past six months sewing in a small, dark basement, she was still strong enough to help him into the building, up the stairs and onto her bed, albeit with much effort.

She lit the stub of candle on the stool by the bed, then fetched a cloth and a basin of icy water. Sitting beside him, she brushed the dark hair away from the man’s face and gently washed the cut over his eye. A lump was starting to form on his forehead.

Hoping his injury wasn’t serious, she loosened his cravat and searched the pockets of his coat, seeking some clue to his identity.

There was nothing. They must have robbed him, too.

He murmured again, and she leaned close to hear.

“Ma chérie,” he whispered, his voice low and rough as, with his eyes still closed, he put his arm around her and drew her nearer.

She was so surprised, she didn’t pull away, and before she could stop him or even guess what he was going to do, his lips met hers. Tenderly, gently, lovingly.

She should stop him, and yet it felt so good. So warm, so sweet, so wonderful. And she had been lonely for so long….

Then his arm relaxed around her and his lips grew slack, and she realized he was unconscious.

Sir Douglas Drury slowly opened his eyes. His head hurt like the devil and there was a stained and cracked ceiling above him. Across from him was a wall equally stained by damp, and a window. The panes were clean, and there were no curtains or other covering. Beyond it, he saw no sky or open space. Just a brick wall.

He didn’t know where he was, or how he had come to be there.

His heart began to pound and his body to perspire. As fear and panic threatened to overwhelm him, he closed his eyes and fought the nausea that rose up within him. He wasn’t in a dank, dark cell. He was in a dingy, whitewashed room lit by daylight. It smelled of cabbage, not offal and filthy straw and rats. He was lying on a mattress of some kind, not bare stone.

And he could hear, somewhere in the distance, the cries of street vendors. English street vendors.

He was in London, not a cell in France.

Last night he’d been walking and only too late realized where his feet had taken him. He’d been accosted by three…no, four men. They hadn’t demanded his money or his wallet. They’d simply attacked him, maneuvering him off the street into an alley, where he was sure they’d meant to murder him.

Why wasn’t he dead? He’d had no sword, no weapon. He couldn’t even make a proper fist.

Something had stopped them. But what? He couldn’t remember, just as he had no idea where he was, or who had brought him here.

Wherever he was, though, at least he was alive.

He tried to sit up, despite a pain in his right side that made him press his lips together to keep from crying out. He put his feet on the bare wooden floor and raised his head—to see that he wasn’t alone.

A young woman, apparently fast asleep, sat on a stool with her head propped against the wall. Her hair was in a loose braid, with little wisps that bordered her smooth, pale cheeks. Her modest, plain dress with a high neck was made of cheap green muslin. Her features were nothing remarkable, although her lips were full and soft, and her nose rather fine.

She didn’t look familiar, yet there was something about her that danced at the edge of his mind, like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear. Whatever it was, though, he didn’t intend to linger here to find out.

He put his hands on the edge of the narrow bed, ready to stand, when the young woman suddenly stretched like a cat after a long nap in the summer’s sun. Her light brown eyes opened and she smiled at him as if they’d just made love.

That was disconcerting. Not unpleasant, but definitely disconcerting.

Then she spoke. “Oh, monsieur, you are awake!”

French.

She spoke French. Instantly, he was on his guard, every sense alert. “Who are you and what am I doing here?” he demanded in English.

The arched brows of the young woman contracted. “You are English?” she answered in that language.

“Obviously. Who are you and what am I doing here?” he repeated.

She got to her feet and met his suspicious regard with a wounded air. “I am Juliette Bergerine, and it was I who saved your life.”

How could one lone young woman have saved his life—and why would she?

He was well-known in London. Indeed, he was famous. Perhaps she hoped for a reward.

He rose unsteadily, the pain in his side searing, his head aching more. “Do you know who I am?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you?”

“Of course I do. I am Sir Douglas Drury, barrister, of Lincoln’s Inn.”

“I am the woman who threw the potatoes.”

Potatoes? “What the deuce are you talking about?”

“I threw my potatoes at the men attacking you to make them run away. And they did.”

Was that what he’d been trying to recall? “How did I come to be in this room?”

“I brought you.”

“By yourself?”

Anger kindled in her brown eyes. “Is this the thanks I am to get for helping you? To be questioned and everything I say treated like a lie? I begin to think I should have left you in the alley!”

Trust a Frenchwoman to overreact. “Naturally I’m grateful you came to my aid.”

“You do not sound the least bit grateful!”

His jaw clenched before he replied, “No doubt you would prefer me to grovel.”

“I would prefer to be treated with respect. I may be poor, Sir Douglas Drury, barrister of Lincoln’s Inn, but I am not a worm!”

As her eyes shone with passionate fury and her breasts rose and fell beneath her cheap gown, and those little wisps of hair brushed against her flushed cheeks, he was very well aware that she was not a worm.

She marched to the door and wrenched it open. “Since you seem well enough to walk, go!”

He stepped forward, determined to do just that, but the room began to tilt and turn as if on some kind of wobbly axis.

“Did you not hear me? I said go!” she indignantly repeated.

“I can’t,” he muttered as he backed up and felt for the bed, then sat heavily. “Send for a doctor.”

“I am not your servant, either!”

God save him from Frenchwomen and their overwrought melodrama! “I would gladly go and happily see the last of you, but unfortunately for us both, I can’t. I must be more badly injured than I thought.”

She lowered her arm. “I have no money for a doctor.”

Drury felt his coat. His wallet was gone. Perhaps she’d taken it. If she had, she would surely not admit it. But then why would she have brought him here? “You must tell the doctor you have come on behalf of Sir Douglas Drury. He will be paid when I return to my chambers.”

“You expect him to believe me? I am simply to tell him I come on behalf on Sir Douglas Drury, and he will do as I say? Are you known for getting attacked in this part of London?”

Damn the woman. “No, I am not.”

He could send for his servant, but Mr. Edgar would have to hire a carriage from a livery stable, and that would take time.

Buggy would come at once, no questions asked. Thank God his friend was in London—although he wouldn’t be at home on this day of the week. He would be at the weekly open house held by the president of the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge.

“Go to 32 Soho Square, to the home of Sir Joseph Banks, and ask for Lord Bromwell. Tell him I need his help.”

The young woman crossed her slender arms. “Oh, I am to go to a house in Soho Square and ask for a lord, and if he comes to the door and listens to me, he will do as I say?”

“He will if you tell him Sir Douglas Drury has sent you. Or would you rather I stay here until I’ve recovered?”

She ruminated a moment. “Am I to walk?”

That was a problem easily remedied. “If you take a hackney, Lord Bromwell will pay the driver.”

“You seem very free with your friend’s money,” she noted with a raised and skeptical brow.

“He will pay,” Drury reiterated, his head beginning to throb and his patience to wear out. “You have my word.”

She let her breath out slowly. “Very well, I will go.”

She went to a small chest, threw open the lid and bent down to take out a straw Coburg bonnet tastefully decorated with cheap ribbon and false flowers, the effect charming in spite of the inexpensive materials.

As she tied the ribbon beneath her chin with deft, swift fingers, a concerned expression came to her face now prettily framed. “I am to leave you here alone?”

Drury’s crooked fingers gripped the edge of the bed as he regarded her with what his friend the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway called his “death stare.” “I assure you, Miss Bergerine, that even if I were a thief, there is not a single thing here I would care to steal.”

She met his cold glare with one of her own. “That is not what troubled me, Sir Douglas Drury. I do not like leaving an injured man all alone, even if he is an ungrateful, arrogant pig. But never mind. I will do as you ask.”

Drury felt a moment’s shame. But only for a moment, because even if she had helped him, she was still French and he had his ruined fingers to remind him of what the French could do.

Juliette marched up to the first hackney coach she saw, opened the door and climbed inside. “Take me to number 32 Soho Square.”

The driver leaned over to peer in the window. “Eh?”

Her arms crossed, she repeated the address.

Beneath the brim of his cap, the man’s already squinty eyes narrowed even more. “What you goin’ there for?”

“I do not think it is any of your business.”

The man smirked. “Bold hussy, ain’t ya? Show me the brass first.”

“You will be paid when I arrive, not before. That is the usual way, is it not?”

Even if she’d never yet ridden in a hackney, Juliette was sure about that. She thought the driver might still refuse, until his fat lips curved up beneath his bulbous nose. “If you don’t have the money, there’s another way you can pay me, little Froggy.”

She put her hand on the latch. “I would rather walk,” she declared, which was quite true.

He sniffed. “I’ll drive ya—but I’d better get paid when I get there, or I’ll have you before a magistrate,” he muttered before he disappeared.

With the crack of a whip, the hackney lurched into motion. As it rumbled along the cobblestone streets, the enormity of what she was doing began to dawn on Juliette. She was going to a town house in Soho in a coach she couldn’t pay for, to ask a British nobleman to come to her lodgings, to help a man she didn’t know, who had been attacked and robbed by four ruffians in an alley.

What if Lord Bromwell didn’t believe her? What if he wouldn’t even come to the door? What if the driver didn’t get his money? He could have her arrested, and she could guess how that would go. It wasn’t easy being French in Wellington’s London even when she kept to herself and quietly went about her business.

Biting her lip with dismay, she looked out the window at the people they passed, instinctively seeking Georges’s familiar face. She had been looking for him for months, to no avail, yet she would not give up hope.

The buildings began to change, becoming newer and finer, although even she knew Soho wasn’t as fashionable as it had been once. Now the haute ton lived in Mayfair.

The haughty, arrogant haute ton, full of men like Sir Douglas Drury, who had seemed so vulnerable and innocent when he was asleep and who had kissed with such tenderness, only to turn into a cold, haughty ogre when he was awake.

He must not remember that kiss. Or perhaps he did, and was ashamed of himself—as he should be, if he’d been trying to take advantage of her after she had helped him.

As for speaking French, most of the English gentry knew French, although he spoke it better than most. Indeed, he had sounded as if he’d lived his whole life in France.

The hackney rolled to a stop outside a town house across from a square with a statue in it. Though narrow, the front was imposing, with a fanlight over the door and a very ornate window above.

Taking a deep breath and summoning her courage, she got out of the coach.

“Mind, I want my money,” the driver loudly declared as she walked up to the door.

Juliette ignored him and knocked. The door was immediately opened by a middle-aged footman in green, red and gold livery, with a powdered wig on his head.

He ran a puzzled and censorious gaze over her. “If you’re seeking employment, you should know better than to come to the front door.”

“I am not seeking employment. Is this the home of Sir Joseph Banks?”

“It is,” the footman suspiciously replied. “What do you want?”

“Is Lord Bromwell here?”

The man’s brows rose, suggesting that he was, and that the footman was surprised she knew it.

“I have been sent by Sir Douglas Drury,” she explained. “He requires Lord Bromwell’s assistance immediately.”

“And somebody’s gotta pay me!” the driver called out.

Juliette flushed, but met the footman’s querying gaze undaunted. “Please, I must speak with Lord Bromwell. It is urgent.”

The footman ran his gaze over her. “You’re French.”

She felt the blush she couldn’t prevent. She was not ashamed to be French; nevertheless, in London, it made things…difficult. “Yes, I am.”

Instead of animosity, however, she got the other reaction her nationality tended to invoke. He gave her a smile that wasn’t quite a leer, but made her uncomfortable nonetheless. “All right. Step inside, miss.”

“I ain’t leavin’ till I been paid!” the driver shouted.

The footman ran a scornful gaze over the beefy fellow, then closed the door behind her. Juliette prepared to fend off an unwelcome pinch or caress, or to silence him with a sharp retort. Fortunately, perhaps because of the person she had come to summon, the footman made no rude remark and didn’t try to touch her.

“If you’ll wait in the porter’s room, miss,” he said, showing her into a narrow room that was not very bright, even though the sun was shining, “I’ll take your message to his lordship.”

“Thank you.”

He gave her a bold wink and said, “If only I was rich, what I wouldn’t do with you.”

At least he hadn’t touched or insulted her, she thought as he pulled the door shut. Nor did she have long to wait in the cramped room that seemed full of furniture, although there was only two chairs, a table and a large lamp. Almost at once the door flew open and a slender young man stood on the threshold, his face full of concern. “I’m Lord Bromwell. What’s happened to Drury?”

He was younger than she’d expected, good-looking in an average sort of way, and well-dressed as she would expect a nobleman to be, although more plainly than most. His morning coat was dark, his trousers buff, his boots black and his waistcoat a subdued blue. His brown hair was well cut, and his face was tanned, as if he’d spent the summer months in the country, riding in the sun.

“I am Juliette Bergerine. Sir Douglas has been attacked and injured near my home. He sent me to bring you.”

“Good God!” Lord Bromwell gasped before he turned and started to call for the footman. Then he hesitated and asked, “How did you get here?”

“In a hackney coach. It is still outside.”

“Excellent!” he cried. “I rode my horse instead of taking my phaeton. If we take the hackney, we can go together.”

His forehead immediately wrinkled with a frown. “Damn! I don’t have my medical kit.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’m a naturalist.”

She had no idea what that was.

“I study spiders, not people. Well, it can’t be helped. I’ll have to do what I can without it. Come along, Miss Bergerine. If I know Drury, and I do, he’s probably a lot worse off than he’s letting on.”




Chapter Two


Should have foreseen that coming to my aid under such circumstances might have serious consequences for her, as well. Brix would probably say the blow to my head has addled my wits. Maybe it has, because I keep thinking there is something more I should remember about that night.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

When the surly driver saw Juliette leave the town house with Lord Bromwell, he sat up straight and became the very image of fawning acquiescence, even after she told him he was to take them back to Spitalfields.

Lord Bromwell likewise made no comment. Nor did he express any surprise as he joined her inside the coach.

Perhaps the arrogant Sir Douglas often came to that part of London to sport. He would not be the only rich man to do so, and the pity she had felt for him diminished even more.

As the hackney began to move, Lord Bromwell leaned forward, his hands clasped. “Tell me about Drury’s injuries.”

She did the best she could, noticing how intensely Lord Bromwell listened, as if with his whole body and not just his ears. He seemed intelligent as well as concerned—a far cry from the dandies who strolled along Bond Street annoying Madame de Pomplona’s customers.

When Juliette finished, he murmured, “Could be a concussion. If he’s awake, I doubt it’s a life-threatening head injury.”

It had never occurred to her that the cut and the bump, even if he’d lost consciousness, could be fatal. She’d had just such an injury herself years ago, striking a barn post while playing with Georges.

Lord Bromwell gave her a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Drury. He’s got a head of iron. Once when we were children, he got hit with a cricket bat and was unconscious for hours. Came to and asked for cake and wasn’t a bit the worse for wear.”

She managed a smile in return. She didn’t like Sir Douglas Drury, but she didn’t want him dead, especially in her room! She would be lucky if she weren’t accused of murder if that happened.

“So except for his head, he wasn’t hurt anywhere else? No other bleeding or bruising?”

“There was no blood,” Juliette replied. “As for bruises, I could not see through his clothes, my lord.”

Lord Bromwell’s face reddened. “No, no, I suppose not.”

“His hands…his fingers have been damaged, I think, but not last night.”

Drury’s friend shook his head. “No, not last night. A few years ago. They were broken and didn’t mend properly.”

She also wanted to ask if Sir Douglas was in the habit of visiting Spitalfields, but refrained. What did it matter if he was or not?

“It’s very kind of you to help him,” Lord Bromwell offered after another moment. “I keep telling him to watch where he’s going, but he gets thinking and doesn’t pay any attention. He takes long walks when he can’t sleep, you see. Or when he’s got a brief. He can’t write because of the damage to his fingers, so he can’t make notes. He says walking helps him get everything ordered and organized in his head.”

Then perhaps he had not come to her neighborhood looking for a woman or to gamble.

The coach jerked to a stop, and as Lord Bromwell stepped down onto the street and ordered the driver to wait, Juliette tried not to be embarrassed, although her lodging house, like most in this part of town, looked as if it were held together by sawdust and rusty nails.

Lord Bromwell paid the cabbie, then held out his hand to help her disembark, as if she were a lady instead of a French seamstress. A few ragged children played near the entrance to the alley and two women were washing clothes in murky water in wooden tubs. They scowled when they saw her and began to exchange heated whispers.

A group of men idling near the corner stamped their feet, their eyes fixed on Lord Bromwell as if contemplating how much money he might be carrying or the worth of his clothes. A poor crossing sweeper, more ragged than the children, leaned on his broom watching them, his eyes dull from hunger and his mouth open, showing that he had but two teeth left.

She quickly led Lord Bromwell inside, away from that driver and the people on the street, as well as those she was sure were peering out of grimy windows. No doubt they were all making their own guesses as to what such a finely attired young man was doing with her, especially going to her room.

“Take care, my lord,” Juliette warned as they started up the creaking staircase. The inside of the tenement house was as bad as the rest. It was as dark as a tomb and smelled of too many people in close quarters, as well as the food they ate.

“Have no fear, Miss Bergerine,” Lord Bromwell good-naturedly replied. “I’ve been in worse places in my travels.”

She wasn’t sure if he was just saying that for her benefit, but was grateful nonetheless. He was truly a gentleman, unlike the man who awaited them. No doubt if she had come to this man’s aid, he would have behaved better.

She opened the door to her room and stood aside to let Lord Bromwell pass.

“Ah, Buggy! Good of you to come,” she heard Sir Douglas say.

What had he called Lord Bromwell?

She entered her room, to find Sir Douglas Drury sitting on her bed, as calm and composed as if he had just dropped by for a drink or a game of chance.

“I should have known it would take more than a blow to the head to ruffle you,” Lord Bromwell said with a relieved smile as he went to his friend. “Still, that’s a nasty lump and you can’t fool me completely. You’re sitting up so straight, I’d wager you’ve got a broken rib.”

“I don’t believe it’s broken,” Sir Douglas replied with barely a glance in Juliette’s direction. “Cracked, perhaps, and likely I’ve got a hell of a bruise.”

Ignoring him in turn, Juliette moved to the side of the room and took off her bonnet. Now that Lord Bromwell was here, there was nothing more for her to do except—Mon Dieu, she’d forgotten all about her work!

She would have to say she had fallen ill. She hadn’t missed a day yet for any reason and wouldn’t get paid for this one, but surely Madame de Pomplona wouldn’t dismiss her if she said she’d been sick.

Juliette hoped not, anyway, as she returned her bonnet to the chest.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Lord Bromwell put his hand to his friend’s right side and press.

The barrister jumped. “Damn it!”

“Sorry, but that’s the only way I can tell if you’ve broken a bone,” Lord Bromwell replied. “You’re right. The rib’s not broken, although it could be cracked. I’ll bandage you before we leave, just in case. I wouldn’t want anything to get jostled before you can be seen by your own doctor.”

Lord Bromwell turned to Juliette. “Do you have any extra linen?”

She shook her head. Did it look as if she had linen—or anything—to spare?

“An old petticoat, perhaps?”

“I have only the chemise I am wearing.”

“Oh,” he murmured, blushing again.

“Buy her damn chemise so I can go home,” Sir Douglas growled.

Lord Bromwell gave Juliette a hopeful smile. “Would that be possible?”

She didn’t doubt he could afford to pay well, and she could always make a new one. “Oui.”

He pulled out a tooled leather wallet and extracted a pound note. “I hope this is enough.”

“Oui.” It was more than ample. Now all that remained was to remove the chemise he had purchased.

“Turn your back, Buggy, to give her some privacy,” Sir Douglas muttered. “I’ll stare at the floor, which will likely collapse in a year or two.”

She would have expected Lord Bromwell to realize why she’d hesitated before Sir Douglas did and was surprised he had not. Nevertheless, keeping a wary eye on both gentlemen who looked away, she quickly doffed her dress and her chemise, then pulled the former back on.

She held the latter out to Lord Bromwell. “Thank you,” he said as Sir Douglas raised his eyes.

She had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he was imagining what she’d look like dressed only in the flimsy white garment.

Even more uncomfortable was the realization that she wasn’t as bothered by that idea as she should be. If she were to be attracted to either of the men in her room, should it not be the kind, gentlemanly one?

Except that he had not needed her help, or spoken French like a native, or kissed her as if he loved her.

“Now then,” Lord Bromwell said briskly, breaking into her ruminations. He had finished tearing her chemise into strips. “Off with your shirt.”

Sir Douglas glanced at Juliette as if reluctant to remove it when she was in the room.

“If it is modesty that is hindering you, Sir Douglas,” she said with a hint of amusement at this unexpected bashfulness, “I shall turn my back.”

“It is not modesty that prevents me from taking off my shirt,” he coolly replied. “It’s pain.”

“Oh, sorry!” Lord Bromwell cried. “I’ll help.”

Sir Douglas quirked a brow at Juliette. “Perhaps Miss Bergerine would oblige.”

What kind of woman did he think she was? “I will not!”

“My loss, I’m sure. Well, then, Buggy, it’ll have to be you.”

With a disgusted sniff, Juliette grabbed the wooden stool, carried it across the room and set it under the window, determined to stare out at the brick wall across the alley until they were gone.

“I thought you were going to bandage me, not bind me like a mummy,” Sir Douglas complained.

“You want it done properly, don’t you?”

Juliette couldn’t resist. She had to look. She glanced over her shoulder, to see Lord Bromwell wrapping a strip of fabric around Sir Douglas’s lean and muscular torso. His shoulders were truly broad, not like some gentlemen who had padding in their jackets, and there was a scar that traversed his chest from the left shoulder almost to his navel.

“Not a pretty sight, am I, Miss Bergerine?”

She immediately turned back to the window and the brick wall opposite. “If that scar is from the war, you are not the only one who suffered. My father and brother died fighting for Napoleon, and my other brother… But I will not speak of them to you.”

“I’ve not bandaged you too tight, have I?” Lord Bromwell asked quietly a little later.

“I can still breathe. But I must say, if this is how you tended to your shipmates, I’m surprised any of them survived.”

Sir Douglas had to be the most ungrateful man alive, and she would be glad when he was gone, Juliette decided.

“They were happy enough to have my help when they got sick or injured,” Lord Bromwell replied without rancor.

He truly was a kind and patient fellow.

“There. All done. Now let’s get your shirt back on. Right, lift your arm a little more. That’s a good lad.”

“Need I remind you I am neither a child nor mentally deficient?”

“So stop complaining and do as you’re told.”

“I am not complaining. I’m attempting to get you to stop talking to me as if I were an infant.”

“Then stop pouting like one.”

“Sir Douglas Drury does not pout.”

Juliette stifled a smile. He might not pout, but he wasn’t being cooperative, either—like an irascible child.

“Do I amuse you, Miss Bergerine?” Sir Douglas asked in a cold, calm voice.

She swiveled slowly on the stool. Lord Bromwell stood beside the injured man, who was now fully dressed, his box coat slung over his shoulders like a cape. He had his arm around his friend and leaned on him for support.

“No, you do not,” she replied evenly.

Sir Douglas continued to stare at her as he said, “Buggy, will you be so good as to pay Miss Bergerine for her time and trouble, as well as any lost wages she may have incurred? Naturally I’ll repay you as soon as we get to my chambers.”

Lord Bromwell once again took out his wallet and pulled a pound note from within.

“She’ll need to replace that rag she’s wearing, too. I bled on her right shoulder.”

Juliette glanced at her dress. There was indeed a red stain that hadn’t been there before. But her dress was hardly a rag. It was clean and well mended.

Lord Bromwell obediently pulled out another bill.

“And some more for the loss of potatoes.”

His brows rose in query. “Potatoes?”

“Apparently she used them to chase away my attackers.”

Lord Bromwell laughed as he pulled out another bill. “Excellent idea, Miss Bergerine. It reminds me of the time I had to toss a few rocks to keep several unfriendly South Sea islanders at bay while my men and I got back to the boats.”

“I trust that sum will be sufficient, Miss Bergerine?” Sir Douglas asked.

She took the money from Lord Bromwell and tucked it into her bodice. “It is enough. Merci.”

“Then, my lord, I believe we’ve taken up enough of this young woman’s time.”

“Farewell, Miss Bergerine, and thank you,” Lord Bromwell said with genuine sincerity. “We’re both grateful for your help. Aren’t we, Drury?”

Sir Douglas looked as if he were anything but grateful. Nevertheless, he addressed her in flawless French. “You have my thanks, mademoiselle. I am in your debt.”

“C’est dommage,” she replied, all the while wondering how his friend put up with him. “Goodbye.”

The moment they were in the hackney, Buggy exploded. “Good God, Drury! Even if she’s French, I expected better from you. Couldn’t you have at least been a little polite?” He struck the roof of the coach with a hard smack. “She could have let you be killed or left you lying in a puddle.”

Drury winced as the vehicle lurched into motion. “Obviously I am not at my best when suffering from a head wound and cracked ribs. I do note that she was well paid for her efforts.”

Buggy leaned back against the squabs with an aggravated sigh. “You’re damn lucky she cared enough to help you. What were you doing in this part of town, anyway?”

“I went for a walk.”

“And got careless.”

“I was thinking.”

“And not paying any attention to where you were going. Any notion who attacked you?”

“No idea. However, since I am now minus my wallet, I assume robbery was the motive. I shall duly report this unfortunate event to the Bow Street Runners.”

“Well, one thing’s for certain. You’ve got to be more careful. Hire a carriage or try to confine your walks to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”

“I’ll try, and next time, if I am rescued by a woman, I shall attempt to be more gracious.”

Buggy frowned. “You could hardly be any less. Honestly, I don’t know what women see in you half the time.”

Sir Douglas Drury, who was also famous for skills that had nothing to do with the law, gave his friend a small, sardonic smile. “Neither do I.”

A fortnight later, Juliette decided to go the butcher’s and buy a meat pie, the one thing she liked about British food and now could afford because of the money Lord Bromwell had given her. That windfall had made it worth enduring Madame de Pomplona’s annoyance when she made her excuses for missing a day of work.

“And during the Little Season, too!” her employer had cried in her Yorkshire accent, her Greek name being as false as the hair beneath her cap.

Fortunately, that meant she had too much business to dismiss a seamstress who had, after all, only missed one day of work in almost six months.

Anticipating a good meal, Juliette started to hum as she crossed a lane and went around a cart full of apples.

The day was fair for autumn, warm and sunny, and she might actually get home before dark. The street was as crowded as all London seemed to be, so it was perhaps no wonder she hadn’t been able to find Georges. It was like trying to find a pin in a haystack.

No, she must not give up hope. He might be here, and she must keep searching.

In the next instant, and before she could cry out, a hand covered her mouth and an arm went around her waist, pulling her backward into an alley.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her as she kicked and twisted and struggled with all her might to get free, just as she had all those times when Gaston LaRoche had grabbed her in the barn.

“What’s Sir Douglas Drury want with the likes o’ you, eh?” a low male voice growled in her ear as his grip tightened. “Got the finest ladies in England linin’ up for a poke, he does. What’s he need some French slut for?”

Desperate to escape, she bit down on the flesh between his thumb and index finger as hard as she could. He grunted in pain. His grasp loosened and she shoved her elbow into a soft stomach. As he stumbled back, she gathered up her skirts and ran out of the alley. Dodging a wagon filled with cabbages, she dashed across the street, then up another, pushing her way through the crowds, paying no heed to people’s curses or angry words.

She got a stitch in her side, but didn’t stop. Pressing her hand where it hurt, she continued to run through the streets until she could run no more. Panting, she leaned against a building, her mind a jumble of fear and dismay.

That man must have seen her helping Sir Douglas, which meant he knew where she lived. What if he was waiting for her there? She didn’t dare go home.

Where else could she go? Who would help her?

Lord Bromwell! Except that she had no idea where he lived.

Sir Douglas Drury of Lincoln’s Inn would have chambers there. And was it not because of him that she’d been attacked?

He must help her. Ungrateful wretch that he was, he must.

Besides, she realized as she choked back a sob of dismay, she had no one else to turn to in this terrible city.




Chapter Three


He was more upset than I’ve ever seen, although I suppose to the young woman and those who don’t know him as well as we, he appeared quite calm. But I assure you, he was really quite rattled.

—from The Collected Letters of Lord Bromwell

“Are you quite sure you’re in a fit state to attend a dinner party?” the elderly Mr. Edgar asked as he nimbly tied Drury’s cravat. “It’s only been a fortnight. I think it might be best if you didn’t go. I’m sure Mr. Smythe-Medway and Lady Fanny will understand.”

“I’m quite recovered.”

“Now, sir, no lying to me,” Mr. Edgar said with a hurt air and the candor of a servant of long standing. “You are not completely recovered.”

“Oh, very well,” Drury admitted with more good humor than Miss Bergerine would ever have believed he possessed. “I’m still a little sore. But it’s only a dinner party at Brix’s, and I don’t want to be cooped up in these chambers another night. I could, I suppose, go for a walk instead…”

Mr. Edgar’s reflection in the looking glass revealed his horrified dismay at that proposal. “You wouldn’t! Not after—”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Drury hastened to reassure the man who’d been like a father to him all these years, for he was not ungrateful, no matter what some French hoyden might think. If he had been rude or insolent to Miss Bergerine, she had her countrymen to blame.

Mr. Edgar reached for a brush and attacked the back of Drury’s black dress coat as if he were currying a horse. Drury, penitently, kept silent.

As a general rule, a dinner party held little appeal for him, unless it was attended by his good friends. Then he could be sure of intelligent and amusing conversation rather than gossip, and nobody would hold it against him if he were silent.

At other parties, he was too often expected to expound on the state of the courts, or talk about his latest case, something he never did. It was worse if there were female guests. Most women either looked at him as if they expected him to attack them, or as if they hoped he would.

Just as Mr. Edgar pronounced him suitable to leave, a fist pounded on the outer door of his chambers, and an all-too-familiar female voice called out his name.

Juliette Bergerine’s shouts could wake the dead—not to mention disturbing the other barristers with chambers here. And what the devil could she want?

“Saints preserve us!” Mr. Edgar cried as he tossed the brush aside and started for the door.

Drury hurried past him. He fumbled for a moment with the latch, silently cursing his stiff fingers, but at last got it open.

Miss Bergerine came charging into his chambers as if pursued by a pack of hounds.

“I was attacked!” she cried in French. “A man grabbed me in a lane and pulled me into an alley.” A disgusted expression came to her flushed features and gleaming eyes. “He thinks I am your whore. He said you had other women, so what did you want me for?”

Shaken by her announcement as well as her disheveled state, Drury fought to remain calm. She reminded him of another Frenchwoman he’d known all too well who’d been prone to hysterics. “Obviously, the man was—”

“My God, I never should have helped you!” she cried before he could finish. “First you treat me like a servant even though I saved your life and now I am believed to be your whore and my life is in danger!”

Drury strode to the cabinet and poured her a whiskey. “It’s regrettable—”

“Regrettable?” she cried indignantly. “Regrettable? Is that all you have to say? He was going to kill me! If I had not bitten him and run away, I could be lying dead in an alley! Mon Dieu, it was more than regrettable!”

She’d bitten the lout? Thank God she’d kept her head and got away.

He handed the whiskey to her. “Drink this,” he said, hoping it would calm her.

She glared at him, then at the glass before downing the contents in a gulp. She coughed and started to choke. “What was that?” she demanded.

“A very old, very expensive, very good Scotch whiskey,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. “Now perhaps we can discuss this in a rational manner.”

“You are a cold man, monsieur!” she declared as she flounced onto a chair.

“I don’t see that getting overly emotional is going to be of any use.”

He sat opposite her on a rather worn armchair that might not be pretty or elegant, but was very comfortable. “I am sorry this happened to you, Miss Bergerine. However, it never occurred to me that any enemies I might have would concern themselves with you. If I had, I would have taken steps to ensure your safety.”

She set down the whiskey glass on the nearest table with a hearty and skeptical sniff. “So you say now.”

He wouldn’t let her indignant exclamations disturb him. “However, since it has happened, you were quite right to come to me. Now I must consider what steps to take to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

He became aware of Mr. Edgar standing by the door, an avidly interested expression on his lined face.

He’d forgotten all about his valet.

On the other hand, it was a good thing he was there, or who could say what Miss Bergerine might accuse him of?

Not that there would be any merit in such accusations, as anyone who knew him would realize. Although Juliette Bergerine was pretty and attractive in a lively sort of way, such a volatile woman roused too many unhappy memories to ever appeal to him.

The sort of women with whom he had affairs was very well-known, and they were not poor Frenchwomen.

“If you can provide me with details,” he said, “such as the location and a description of the man who attacked you, I shall take the information to the Bow Street Runners, as well as another associate of mine who’s skilled at investigation. I’ve already got him looking for the men who attacked me. This fellow could very well be one of them.

“Until the guilty parties are apprehended, however, we have another problem—where to keep you.”

“Keep me?” she repeated, her brows lowering with suspicion.

He shouldn’t have used that word. It had a meaning he most definitely didn’t intend. “I mean where you can safely reside. I would offer to put you up in a hotel, except that people might suppose our relationship is indeed intimate.

“As that is most certainly not true, I shall have the associate I’ve mentioned provide men to protect you. Since this is necessary because you came to my aid, naturally I shall pay for their services.”

“You mean they will guard me, as if I am your prisoner?”

He tried not to sound frustrated with this most frustrating foreigner. “They will protect you. As you have so forcefully pointed out, I have put you at risk. I don’t intend to do so again. Or did you come here only to berate me?”

He waited for her to argue or chastise him again, but to his surprise, her steadfast gaze finally faltered and she softly said, “I had nowhere else to go for help.”

She sounded lost then, and vulnerable, and unexpectedly sad. Lonely, even—a feeling with which he was unfortunately familiar.

“Is something the matter with your hearing? I’ve been knocking for an age,” Buggy said as he walked into the room.

Mr. Edgar, who had been riveted by Miss Bergerine’s tirade, gave a guilty start and hurried to take Buggy’s hat and coat, then slipped silently from the room.

Meanwhile, Buggy was staring at Drury’s visitor as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Miss Bergerine! What are you… I beg your pardon. It’s a pleasure, of course, but…”

As his words trailed off in understandable confusion, Drury silently cursed. He’d forgotten all about Brix and Fanny’s dinner party, and that Buggy had offered to bring round his carriage to spare him the trouble of hiring one for the evening.

“Miss Bergerine had an unfortunate encounter with a man under the delusion she and I have an intimate relationship,” he explained, getting to his feet. “Fortunately, Miss Bergerine fought him off and came to me for assistance.”

“You fought the scoundrel off all by yourself?” Buggy cried, regarding Miss Bergerine with an awed mixture of respect and admiration. “You really are a most remarkable woman.”

That was a bit much. “The question is, what are we to do with her? She can’t go home, and she can’t stay here.”

“No, no, of course not. You’d be fined.”

“There are more reasons than that,” Drury replied, aware of Miss Bergerine’s bright eyes watching them, and trying to ignore her. “I’d pay for her to stay in a hotel, but I don’t have to tell you what the ton and the popular press would make of that.”

“I agree a hotel is out of the question, and we can’t let her go back to her room,” Buggy concurred. “A child could break into that.”

Wearing evening attire that made him look less like the studious, serious fellow he was and more like one of the town dandies, Buggy leaned against the mantel, regardless of the possibility of wrinkling his well-tailored coat. “Given this new attack, which tells me you have some very dangerous and determined enemies indeed, I don’t think you’re quite safe here either, Drury. These rooms are too public, too well-known. Anybody could come here claiming to be a solicitor seeking to engage your services, and if he’s well dressed, who would question him?”

“I’m capable of defending myself.”

“As you did in the alley?”

Before Drury could reply, Buggy held out his strong, capable hands in a placating gesture. “Be reasonable, Drury. You know as well as I that this place is no fortress, and while I’m sure you can fight as well as ever against one man, you’re not the swordsman or boxer you were.”

No, he was not, and that observation didn’t do much to assuage Drury’s wounded pride.

Mr. Edgar appeared in the door with a tray in his hands. On it was a plate of thickly sliced, fine white bread, some jam and a steaming pot of tea. “For Miss Bergerine, sir,” he said as he set it on the table.

“Please, have some refreshment,” Drury said to her, waving at the food.

Miss Bergerine didn’t hesitate. She spread the jam and consumed the bread with a speed that made Drury suspect she must not have eaten for some time. Her manners weren’t as terrible as one might expect, given her humble origins and obvious hunger.

Mr. Edgar watched her eat with such satisfaction, you’d think he’d baked the bread himself. He also gave Drury a glance that suggested a lecture on the duties one owed to a guest, in spite of her unwelcome and unorthodox arrival, would soon be forthcoming.

Buggy suddenly brightened, as if he’d just discovered a new species of spider. “I have it! You must both stay at my town house. God knows there’s plenty of room, and servants to keep any villains at bay.”

That was a damn foolish idea. “Need I point out, Buggy, that the ton will make a meal out of the news that I’ve moved into your house with some unknown Frenchwoman? They’ll probably accuse you of keeping a bawdy house.”

His friend laughed. “On the other hand, Millstone will be delighted. He thinks my reputation is far too saintly.”

“Obviously your butler hasn’t read your book.” Drury thought of another potential difficulty. “Your father wouldn’t be pleased. It is his house, after all.”

Buggy flushed. “I don’t think you need worry about him. He’s safely ensconced in the country playing the squire. Now I’m not taking no for an answer. You can come here during the day as necessary, but at night, you stay in North Audley Street.”

Drury’s imagination seemed to have deserted him in his hour of need, for he could think of no better solution.

“Upon further consideration, Miss Bergerine,” Drury said, not hiding his reluctance, “I concur with Lord Bromwell’s suggestion. Until those ruffians are caught and imprisoned, his house would be the safest place for you.”

She looked from one man to the other before she spoke. “Am I to have no say in where I go?”

Buggy blushed like a naughty schoolboy. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Yet you talk as if I am not here,” she chided. “And while I am grateful for your concern, Lord Bromwell, is it not Sir Douglas’s duty to help me? I would not be in danger but for his carelessness.”

Drury fought to keep a rein on his rising temper. “You chastise me for leaving you in danger, yet now, when we seek to keep you safe, you protest. What would you have us do, Miss Bergerine? Call out the army to protect you?”

“I would have you treat me as a person, not a dog or a horse you own. I would have you address me, not one another. I am here, and not deaf, or stupid. And I would have you take responsibility for the predicament I am in.”

If she’d cried or screamed, Drury would have been able to overlook her criticism and wouldn’t have felt nearly as bad as he did, because she was right. They had been ignoring her, and it really should be up to him to help her, not his friend.

However, it was Buggy who apologized. “I’m sorry if we’ve been rather high-handed, Miss Bergerine. The protective male instinct, I fear. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll do me the honor of staying in my humble abode until we can find out who’s behind these attacks.”

“And if I don’t invite you to my town house, it’s because I don’t possess one,” Drury said. “If you have another suggestion as to how I may assist you, I’d be happy to hear it.”

Miss Bergerine colored. “Unfortunately, I do not.” She turned to Buggy, her expression softening. “I’m sorry if I spoke rudely, my lord. I do appreciate your help.”

“Then please, won’t you do me the honor of accepting my hospitality?” Buggy asked, as if she were the Queen of England and nobody else was in the room.

Drury ignored that unpleasant sensation. He was also sure she was going to accept, until she didn’t.

“It is very kind of you to offer, my lord, but I cannot,” she said. “I am an honorable woman. I may not belong to the haute ton, but I have a reputation I value as much as any lady, a reputation that will suffer if I accept your invitation.

“I also have a job. Unlike the fine ladies you know, I must earn my living, and if I do not go to work, I will lose that job, and with it the means to live.”

“Since it’s apparently my fault you’ll be unable to work,” Drury said, “I’m willing to provide appropriate compensation. As for keeping your job, if you tell me who employs you, I shall see that she’s informed you are visiting a sick relative and will return as soon as possible.”

Miss Bergerine wasn’t satisfied. “You do not know Madame de Pomplona. She will not hold my place.”

Having agreed to Buggy’s plan, he wasn’t about to let her complicate matters further. “I am acquainted with an excellent solicitor, Miss Bergerine. I’m sure James St. Claire will be happy to make it clear to her that there will be serious legal repercussions if she doesn’t continue to employ you.”

“There is still the matter of my reputation, Sir Douglas, which has already been damaged.”

God help him, did she want compensation for that, too? He’d suspect she’d never really been attacked and had concocted this story to wring money from him, except that she’d been genuinely frightened when she’d burst into his chambers. Part of his success in court came from being able to tell when people were being truthful or not, and he was confident she hadn’t been feigning her fear.

“I know!” Buggy declared, his blue-gray eyes bright with delight. “What if we say that Miss Bergerine is your cousin, Drury? Naturally, she couldn’t live with you in your chambers, so I’ve invited you both to stay with me until you can find more suitable lodgings for her, and a chaperone. After all, the ton is well aware your mother was French and you had relatives there before the Terror.”

Miss Bergerine regarded Drury with blatant surprise. “Your mother was French?”

“Yes,” Drury snapped, wishing Buggy hadn’t mentioned that.

On the other hand… “That might work,” he allowed.

“You are saying I can pretend to be related to Sir Douglas?” Miss Bergerine cautiously inquired.

Buggy grinned, looking like a little boy who’d been given a present. “Yes. It shouldn’t be too difficult to make people accept it. Just scowl a lot and don’t talk very much.”

Miss Bergerine laughed, exposing very fine, white teeth. “That does not sound so very difficult.”

“Except for not talking much,” Drury muttered, earning him a censorious look from Buggy and an annoyed one from her.

Why should he be upset by what some hot-tempered Frenchwoman thought of him? He was Sir Douglas Drury, and he had plenty of other women seeking his favors, whether he wanted them or not.

Miss Bergerine turned to Buggy with a warm and unexpectedly charming smile. “Because I think you are truly a kindhearted, honorable gentleman, Lord Bromwell, I will accept your offer, and gladly. Merci. Merci beaucoup.”

And for one brief moment, Drury wished he had a town house in London.




Chapter Four


Edgar looked about to have an attack of apoplexy. Didn’t want to drag Buggy into the situation, either, but he didn’t give me much of a choice.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

A short time later, Juliette waited in the foyer of Lord Bromwell’s town house. On the other side of the entrance hall, Lord Bromwell spoke with his obviously surprised butler, explaining what she was doing there. She would guess Millstone was about forty-five. He was also bald and as stiff as a soldier on parade. The liveried, bewigged footman who had opened the door to them stood nearby, staring at her with unabashed curiosity, while Sir Douglas Drury, grim and impatient, loitered near the porter’s room.

Trying to ignore him, she turned her attention to her surroundings. She had never been in a Mayfair mansion, or any comparable house before. The entrance was immense, and richly decorated with columns of marble, with pier glass in the spaces in between. The floor was likewise marble, polished and smooth, and a large, round mahogany table dominated the center of the space, with a beautiful Oriental vase in the middle of it full of exotic blooms that scented the air. A hanging staircase led to the rooms above.

She tried not to feel like a beggar, even if her hair was a mess and her gown torn and soiled, her shoes thick and clumsy. After all, she reminded herself, she was in danger because of Lord Bromwell’s friend. It wasn’t as if she’d thrown herself on the genial nobleman’s mercy for personal gain.

“Jim, is something wrong with your eyes that you are unable to stop staring?” Sir Douglas asked the footman in a voice loud enough that she could hear, but not Lord Bromwell and the butler.

The poor young man snapped to attention and blushed to the roots of his powdered tie wig.

She didn’t want to be the cause of any trouble here, for anyone. However, she couldn’t expect a man like Sir Douglas Drury to think about how anyone else might feel. He clearly cared for no one’s feelings but his own—if he had any at all.

She could believe he did not, except for that kiss.

That must have been an aberration, a temporary change from his usual self, brought on by the blow to his head.

When Lord Bromwell and his butler finished their discussion, the butler called for the footman and said something to him. She hoped he wasn’t chastising the poor lad, too!

“You’re to have the blue bedroom, Miss Bergerine, which overlooks the garden,” Lord Bromwell said, approaching her with a smile. “I hope you’ll be comfortable. Ask Millstone or the housekeeper, Mrs. Tunbarrow, if you require anything. A maid will be sent to help you tonight.”

A maid? She’d never had a maid in her life and wouldn’t know what to do with one. “Oh, that will not be necessary. I don’t need anyone’s help to get undressed.”

Sir Douglas made an odd sort of noise, although whether it was a snort of derision or a laugh, she couldn’t say. And she didn’t want to know.

“Very well, if that’s what you’d prefer,” Lord Bromwell said, as if he hadn’t heard his friend. “If you’ll be so good as to follow Millstone, he’ll show you to your room.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

She started toward the butler, who waited at the foot of the stairs.

“We’d better have Jones drive quickly,” she heard Lord Bromwell say to his friend, “although I’m sure Brix and Fanny won’t be upset if we’re late.”

Juliette checked her steps. Fanny? Could that have been the name Sir Douglas murmured when he was injured? And she was the wife of a friend?

What did it matter to her if he had whispered the name of his friend’s wife? What if they were even lovers?

Sir Douglas Drury could have love affairs with every lady in London, married or not, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to her.

When Juliette awoke the next morning, she knew exactly where she was, and why. At least, she knew she was in Lord Bromwell’s town house at his invitation, so she would be safe. It had been too dark to see much of the actual room to which she’d been led by the butler, who had used a candelabrum to light the way.

Once Millstone was gone, she’d taken off her worn, muddy shoes, thick, much-mended woolen stockings and her new dress that Lord Bromwell’s money had made possible. Then she’d climbed into the soft bed made up with sheets that smelled of lavender.

If she hadn’t been utterly exhausted, she would have lain awake for hours, worried about what had happened and what the future might hold. As it was, she’d fallen asleep the instant her head rested on the silk-covered pillow.

Now wide-awake, she surveyed the room and discovered she was in the most beautiful, feminine room she had ever seen or imagined.

The fireplace opposite the bed had pretty Dutch tiles around the opening. The walls were papered in blue and white. Blue velvet draperies covered the windows, matching the canopy and silk coverlet on the bed. The cherrywood bed and armoire standing in a corner gleamed from much polishing and wax. Armchairs upholstered in blue velvet as well as a round pedestal table, had been placed near the hearth. A tall cheval mirror, a dressing table with a smaller looking glass, and a washstand completed the furnishings.

Wondering how long she’d slept—for she could believe it had been several hours—Juliette stretched, then got up. Reveling in the feel of the thick, brightly patterned carpet beneath her feet, she went to one of the windows, drew the drape aside and peeked out, to see that the sun was indeed very high in the sky. Below, there was a small garden with a brick walk and a tree, and what looked like a little ornamental pond.

Wandering over to the dressing table, Juliette sat and marveled at the silver-handled brush and comb. There was a silver receiver, too, and a delicate little enameled box of gold and blue. She gingerly lifted the lid. It was empty.

There was another box of carved ivory full of ribbons. Another, larger ivory box held an astonishing number of hairpins. She had never been able to afford more than a few at a time.

Like a child with a new toy, Juliette took the ribbons out of the ivory box one by one and spread them on the table. There seemed to be every color of the rainbow. Surely she could use one of the cheaper, plainer ones.…

She picked up the brush and ran it through her hair. Doing so felt wonderful, and she spent several minutes brushing her hair before braiding it into one thick strand and binding it with an emerald-green ribbon. Then, using several pins, she wound the braid around her head.

She studied the effect, and her own face, in the mirror—a luxury she’d never had. At the farm she had only the pond for a looking glass and in London she had to be content with surreptitious glimpses of herself in the fitting-room mirrors.

She wasn’t homely, but her eyes were too big, and her mouth too wide and full. Her chin was a little too pronounced, too. At least she had good skin. Excellent teeth, as well. And she was very glad to be wearing her new chemise, the linen purchased with the money Lord Bromwell had given her. It made her feel a little less out of place.

Nevertheless, she jumped up as if she’d been caught pilfering when a soft knock sounded on the door.

A young maid dressed in dark brown, with a white cap and apron, peeked into the room. “Oh, you’re awake, miss!”

Without waiting for an answer, she nudged the door open and came inside carrying a large tray holding a white china teapot, a cup and some other dishes beneath linen napkins. There was also a little pitcher and three small pots covered with waxed cloth. Juliette could smell fresh bread, and her stomach growled ravenously.

The maid also had a silken dressing gown of brightly patterned greens and blues over her arm.

“Mrs. Tunbarrow thought you might like to eat here this morning, and she thought you’d need this, too. It’s one of the viscount’s mother’s that she doesn’t wear anymore,” the maid explained as she set the tray on the pedestal table. “Lord Bromwell and Sir Douglas have already eaten. The master’s gone off to one of his society meetings—the Linus Society or some such thing, where he can talk about his bugs. Nasty things, spiders, but he loves ‘em the way some men love their dogs or horses. Sir Douglas is here, though. I heard him say he didn’t have to be at the Old Bailey today. Lucky for him he can pick and choose, I must say.”

Never having had a maid, and uncertain how to proceed, Juliette drew the dressing gown on over her chemise. It was soft, slippery and without doubt the most luxurious garment she’d ever worn. She stayed silent as the young woman plumped a cushion on one of the armchairs. “Sit ye here, miss, and have your breakfast while I tidy up a bit.”

“Merci,” she murmured, wondering if she should ask the maid her name, as she wanted to, or if the servant was to be treated as little more than a piece of furniture. The rare times she’d been summoned to the upper floors of Madame de Pomplona’s establishment, the ladies’ abigails had been like wraiths, sitting silent and ignored in the corner on small, hard chairs kept for that purpose.

“I’m Polly, miss,” the maid said, solving her dilemma, and apparently not at all disturbed that Juliette was French, although that could be because she was supposed to be Sir Douglas’s cousin.

“I’m to be your maid while you’re here,” the lively young woman continued. “I can arrange your hair, too. I’ve been doing Lord Bromwell’s mother’s hair when she’s in London, and she’s right particular about it. Mrs. Tunbarrow thinks I have a gift.”

“That will be lovely,” Juliette replied, although she had never had anyone help her dress or do her hair, either.

Her mama had died when she was a baby and she’d never had a sister or a friend to assist her. Most of the time, Papa and Marcel forgot she was even there and even Georges could be neglectful. However, Polly was so obviously proud of her talents and keen to demonstrate them, why not let her?

“It’s a terrible thing what happened to you,” Polly said as she threw open the drapes covering the tall, narrow windows. “I can’t even imagine!”

“It was not pleasant,” Juliette agreed as she lifted the first napkin and discovered fresh scones. One of the jars contained strawberry jam, and her mouth began to water as she sat in the soft chair and picked up a knife.

“I tell you, nobody’s safe these days. It’s all them soldiers left to run amok after the war, isn’t it? Still, you’d think a relative of a baronet’d be out of harm’s way and not be robbed on the highway and left with only one dress to her name!”

Polly, busy straightening the bed, didn’t see Juliette’s sharp glance.

Sir Douglas and Lord Bromwell must have concocted this story of a robbery to explain why she had arrived with no baggage. Thank goodness she had a new chemise, or what would this maid be thinking? “Yes, it was most unfortunate.”

“And to have your own maid desert you just before you sailed from France! I would have been too frightened to board, I would.”

Clearly they had realized they would have to explain her lack of companion or chaperone, too.

“I had no other choice. I had no lodgings and my cousin was expecting me,” Juliette lied as she bit into the scone now spread with strawberry jam. It was so good, she closed her eyes in ecstasy.

“And a generous cousin he is, too, I must say! It looks like the Arabian nights in the morning room.”

Juliette opened her eyes. “Arabian nights?”

“Lord, yes! There’s all sorts of fabrics and caps and shoes and ribbons. Sir Douglas went out early this morning and came back with a modiste to make you some new dresses, and a linen-draper and a silk mercer, too.”

A modiste? Mon Dieu, not…!

“Madame de Malanche dresses all the finest ladies, including the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s. And Lady Abramarle, and Lady Sarah Chelton, who was the belle of the Season six years ago. I remember Lord Bromwell’s mother thinking she was a bit forward. And Viscountess Adderly, another good friend of Lord Bromwell’s.

“She writes novels,” Polly finished in a scandalized whisper. “The kind with half-ruined castles and mysterious noblemen running around abducting women.”

Relieved that Madame de Pomplona wasn’t below, and not really paying attention to what else Polly said, Juliette swallowed the last of the scone. She hadn’t expected Sir Douglas to buy new clothes for her, but if she was to be Sir Douglas’s cousin, she supposed she must dress the part. And if so, who else but Sir Douglas should pay, since she was in danger because of him?

“There’s a shoemaker and a milliner, too,” Polly continued as she made the bed. “It’s as if he brought half of Bond Street back with him. I do wish I had a rich cousin like him, miss. Such fabrics and feathers and I don’t know what all!”

Perhaps there really was an abundance of such items, Juliette mused, or perhaps the young maid was exaggerating in her excitement. After all, Sir Douglas would hardly spend a fortune on her.

Polly finished the bed and looked at the tray. “All finished? You haven’t had a drop of tea.”

“I do not drink tea.”

Polly looked a little nonplussed. “Coffee then? Or hot chocolate? You’re to have whatever you like.”

“No, thank you.” Juliette replied. She’d never had either beverage and was afraid she wouldn’t like them. That would be difficult to explain if she’d requested one or the other.

“In that case, I’ll fetch your new dress.”

“I can get it,” Juliette said, rising and heading toward the armoire, where she assumed her new muslin dress, likewise purchased with Lord Bromwell’s money, must be hanging. It was no longer on the foot of the bed where she’d laid it last night.

“I don’t know what they do in France these days, miss,” Polly cried in horrified shock, “but you can’t go wandering the house in your chemise!”

“What do you mean?” Juliette asked, confused, as she pulled open the armoire doors.

It was empty. “Where is my new dress?”

“Downstairs, miss.”

They must have taken it to wash. “Is it dry already?”

Polly looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “No, miss. There’s a new gown for you. Madame de Melanche brought it. She made it for another customer, but when Sir Douglas told her about your troubles and that you had only an old traveling gown, she brought it along. I’ll just run and fetch it—and tell Sir Douglas you’re awake.”

As the maid bustled out of the room, Juliette returned to the comfortable chair and sat heavily. Sir Douglas had described her new dress as an “old traveling gown”? It might not be of the best fabric, but it was well-made, by her own hands, and pretty and new.

She suddenly felt as she had when she’d first arrived in Calais, an ignorant country bumpkin. Except that she was not. Not anymore. And although she was poor, Sir Douglas had no right to insult her.

The door opened and Polly returned with a day gown of the prettiest sprigged muslin Juliette had ever seen. Delicate kid slippers dangled from her hand, and a pair of white silk stockings hung over her wrist.

These were all for her?

Juliette’s dismay at Sir Douglas’s description of her dress was quickly overcome by the beauty of the new one in Polly’s arms. She let the maid help her into it, and the shoes and stockings, too. When she was finished, she went to study her reflection in the cheval glass.

She hardly recognized herself in the fashionable dress with short capped sleeves and high waist, the skirt full and flowing. “I feel like a princess,” she murmured in French.

“It is pretty, isn’t it?” Polly said, understanding the sentiment if not the words. “And you look like a picture, miss, although your hair’s a little old-fashioned. Here.”

She reached up and pulled a few wispy curls from the braid, so that they rested on Juliette’s brow and cheeks. “Isn’t that better?”

Juliette nodded in agreement. Perhaps she could pass as the cousin of a barrister, at least until Sir Douglas’s enemies were captured.

Then she would go back to her old life—something she must remember. This was a dream, and dreams died with the morning.

“If you’re finished eating, Sir Douglas said to tell you he’s waiting for you in the morning room. I wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer if you can help it, Miss Bergerine. He’s, um, getting a bit impatient.”

Sitting in Buggy’s mother’s morning room, surrounded by bolts of fabric brought by an anxious linen-draper with a droopy eye and an obsequious silk mercer whose waistcoat was so bright it almost hurt the eyes to look at it, Drury wasn’t a bit impatient. He had already lost what patience he possessed, and if Miss Bergerine didn’t come down in the next few moments, he’d simply order some dresses, a couple of bonnets and send these people away.

It wasn’t just the men keen to sell fabric who were driving him to Boodle’s for a stiff drink and some peace. In the north corner of the room decorated in the height of feminine taste, a shoemaker busily finished another pair of slippers, using one of Miss Bergerine’s boots for size, the tapping of his hammer like the constant drip of water. A haberdasher kept bringing out more stockings for Drury’s approval, and a milliner persisted in trying to cajole him into selecting feathers and laces and trim, bonnets and caps—when she could get a word in between the exuberant declarations of the modiste, who was dressed in the latest vogue, with frills and lace and ribbons galore, and more rouge on her cheeks than an actress on the stage.

Even the most riotous trial in the Old Bailey seemed as orderly as a lending library compared to this carnival. The commotion also roused memories better forgotten, of his mother’s extravagance and endless demands, and the quarrels between his parents if his father was at home.

“Now take this taffeta,” the linen-draper said, unrolling a length from a bolt as he tried to balance it on his skinny knee, quite obviously mistaking Drury’s silence for permission to continue. “The very best quality, this is.”

“Taffeta,” the mercer sniffed. “Terrible, stiff stuff. This bee-you-tee-ful silk has come all the way from China!” He brought forth a smaller bolt of carmine fabric shot through with golden threads. “This would make the most marvelous gown for a ball, don’t you agree, Sir Douglas?”

Despite his annoyance, Drury couldn’t help wondering how a gown made of that silk would look on Miss Bergerine.

“And I have the latest patterns from Paris,” Madame de Malanche interjected, the plume on her hat bobbing as if it had a life of its own. “I’m sure any cousin of Sir Douglas Drury’s will want to be dressed in the most stylish mode.”

As if that plume had been some kind of antenna attuned to the arrival of young women with money to spend, Madame de Malanche abruptly turned to the door and clasped her hands as if beholding a heavenly vision. “Ah, this must be the young lady! What a charming girl!”

When Drury turned and looked at Miss Bergerine standing uncertainly in the doorway, he did have to admit that she looked very charming wearing a pretty gown of apple-green, with her hair up and a shy, bashful expression on her face. Indeed, she looked as sweet and innocent as Fanny Epping, now the wife of the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.

That was ridiculous. There was surely no young woman, English or otherwise, less like Fanny than Juliette Bergerine.

Nevertheless, determined to play this role as he had so many others, he rose and went to her, kissing both her cheeks.

She stiffened as his lips brushed her warm, soft skin. No doubt she was surprised—as surprised as he had been by the difference in her attitude as well as her appearance.

“Good morning, cousin,” he said, letting go of her.

“Is this all for me?” she asked, looking up at him questioningly, her full lips half-parted, as if seeking another kind of kiss.

Desire—hot, intense, lustful—hit him like a blow, while at the same time he experienced that haunting sense that there was something important about this woman hovering at the edge of his mind. Something…good.

He must be more distressed by this commotion than he’d assumed. Or perhaps he should ask Buggy about the possible aftereffects of a head injury.

In spite of his tumultuous feelings, his voice was cool and calm when he spoke. “After your ordeal, I thought it would be easier if Bond Street came to you.”

“It is very kind of you, cousin,” she murmured, looking down as coyly as any well-brought-up young lady, her dark lashes spread upon her cheeks.

He could keep cool when she was angry. He had plenty of experience with tantrums and volatile tempers, and had learned to act as if they didn’t affect him in the slightest.

This affected him. She affected him.

He didn’t want to be affected, by her or any other woman.

“Oh, it is our pleasure!” the modiste cried, pushing her way between them. “Allow me to introduce myself, my dear. I am Madame de Malanche, and it shall be my delight to oversee the making of your gowns. All the finest ladies in London are my customers. Lady Jersey, Lady Castlereagh, Princess Esterhazy, Countess Lieven, Lady Abramarle, and the beautiful Lady Chelton, to name only a few.”

Drury wished the woman hadn’t mentioned the beautiful Lady Chelton.

“I see that gown fits you to perfection—and looks perfect, too, I must say! I’m sure between the two of us you will be of the first stare in no time.”

Miss Bergerine regarded her with dismay, a reaction the modiste’s overly befrilled and beribboned gown alone might inspire. “I do not wish to be stared at.”

Madame de Malanche laughed. “Oh, la, my dear! I mean all the young ladies will envy you!”

Not if she persuaded Juliette to wear gowns similar to her own, Drury thought.

“I believe you’ll find my cousin has very definite ideas of what she’ll wear, madame,” Drury said. “I trust you will defer to her requests, even if that means she may not be the most fashionably attired young lady in London.”

“Mais oui, Sir Douglas,” Madame said, recovering with the aplomb of a woman experienced in dealing with temperamental customers. “She will need morning dresses, of course, and dinner dresses. An ensemble or two for in the carriage, garden dresses, evening dresses, a riding outfit, a few walking dresses and some gowns for the theater.” She gave Drury a simpering smile. “Everyone knows that Sir Douglas Drury enjoys the theater.”

Her tone and coy look suggested it wasn’t so much the plays that Sir Douglas enjoyed as the actresses.

“I do,” he replied without any hint that he understood her implication. Or that she was quite wrong.

“I do not think I will be going to the theater,” Juliette demurred. “Or riding, or out in a carriage. Or walking in gardens.”

Madame de Malanche regarded her with alarm. “Are you ill?”

“Non.” Juliette glanced at Drury. “I simply will not need so many expensive clothes.”

He could hardly believe it. A woman who wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity to run riot and order a bevy of new clothes whether she needed them or not? It wasn’t as if she didn’t require clothing, judging by the garments he’d already seen her wearing.

Or did she think he was ignorant of the cost? Or that he couldn’t afford it? “Perhaps no riding clothes, since I believe my cousin is no horsewoman. Otherwise, I give you carte blanche to get whatever you like, Juliette.”

Madame de Malanche’s eyes lit with happy avarice, but Juliette Bergerine’s did not. “How can I ever repay you?”

She had obviously forgotten her role—and in the company of the sort of woman who could, and would, spread any interesting tidbit of gossip she heard.

He quickly drew Juliette into a brotherly embrace. “What is this talk of repayment? We are family!”

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Remember who you are supposed to be.”

He drew back and found Juliette regarding him with flushed cheeks. His own heartbeat quickened—because of her mistake, of course, and not from having her body pressed so close to his.

After all, why would that excite him? He’d had lovers, most recently the beautiful Lady Chelton. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that most of them, including Sarah, would have taken advantage of this situation with a glee and greed that would have put the greatest thief in London to shame.

“My cousin is a modest, sensible young lady, as you can see,” he said, addressing the room in general. “Having suffered so much during the war, she naturally feels compelled to be frugal. However, I have no such compulsion when it comes to my cousin’s happiness, so please make sure she has everything she requires, and something more besides.”

“I most certainly shall!” Madame de Malanche cried eagerly, while the linen-draper and silk mercer smiled, as did the shoemaker, still tapping away in the corner.

The overly excited haberdasher waved a pair of stockings like a call to arms and the milliner came boldly forward with the most ridiculous hat Drury had ever seen, quite unlike the charming chapeau Juliette had worn when she’d left him in her room.

“Sir Douglas, the corsetier has arrived,” Millstone intoned from the doorway.

That was too much.

“I believe that is my cue to depart,” Drury said, hurrying to the door. “I leave it all to you, Juliette. Adieu!”

In spite of his desire to be gone, he paused on the threshold and glanced back at the young woman standing in the center of the colorful disarray. She looked like a worried general besieged by fabric and furbelows, and he felt a most uncharacteristic urge to grin as he beat a hasty retreat.

Only later, when Drury was in his chambers listening to James St. Claire ask for his help to defend a washerwoman unjustly accused of theft, did he realize that he had left a Frenchwoman to spend his money as she liked. Even more surprising, he was more anxious to see her in some pretty new clothes than worried about the expense.

At the same time, as the modiste and others pressed Juliette to select this or that or the other, she began to wonder if there wasn’t another motive for Sir Douglas Drury’s generosity.




Chapter Five


Miss B. damned nuisance. Asks the most impertinent questions. Might drive me to drink before this is over.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

Holding a sheaf of bills in her hands, Juliette paced Lord Bromwell’s drawing room as she waited for Sir Douglas to return.

When the footman had first shown her into the enormous room, she’d been too abashed to do anything except stand just over the threshold, staring at the decor and furnishings as if she’d inadvertently walked into a king’s palace.

Or what she’d imagined a palace to be.

At least three rooms the size of her lodgings could easily fit in this one chamber, and two more stacked one atop the other, the ornate ceiling was so high. She craned her neck to study the intricate plasterwork done in flowers, leaves and bows, and in the center, a large rondel with a painting of some kind of battle. The fireplace was of marble, also carved with vines and leaves. The walls were covered in a gold paper, which matched the white-and-gold brocade fabric on the sofas and gilded chairs. The draperies were of gold velvet, fringed with more gold. A pianoforte stood in one corner, where light from the windows would shine on the music, and an ornate rosewood table sported a lacquered board, the pieces in place for a game of chess. Several portraits hung upon the walls, including one that must be of Lord Bromwell when he was a boy—a very serious boy, apparently.

The sight of that, a reminder of her kind host, assuaged some of her dismay, and she dared to sit, running her fingertips over the fine fabric of the sofa.

As time had passed, however, she’d become more anxious and impatient to present Sir Douglas with the bills. Although she’d vetoed the most expensive items and tried to spend Sir Douglas’s money wisely, the total still amounted to a huge sum of money—nearly a hundred pounds.

If what she feared was true, Sir Douglas would expect something in return for his generosity, something she was not prepared to give. If that were so, she would have to leave this house and take her chances on her own. It was frightening to think his enemies might still try to harm her, but she would not be any man’s plaything, bought and paid for—not even this one’s. Not even if she couldn’t deny that his kiss had been exciting and not entirely unwelcome.

At last, finally, she heard the bell ring and the familiar deep voice of the barrister talking to the footman. She hurried to the drawing-room door. Having divested himself of his long surtout, Sir Douglas strode across the foyer as if this house were his own. As before, his frock coat was made of fine black wool, the buttons large and plain, his trousers black as well. His shirt and cravat were brightly white, a contrast to the rest of his clothes and his wavy dark hair.

“Cousin!” she called out, causing him to pause and turn toward her. “I must speak with you!”

Raising a brow, he started forward while she backed into the drawing room. “Yes, Juliette? Are those today’s bills?”

“Oui,” she replied. She waited until he was in the room, then closed the door behind him before handing him the bills. “I want to know what you expect from me in return for this generosity.”

The barrister’s eyes narrowed and a hard look came to his angular face as he shoved the bills into his coat without looking at them. “I told you before I don’t expect to be repaid.”

“Not with money, perhaps.”

Sir Douglas’s dark brows lowered as ominously as a line of thunderclouds on the horizon, while the planes of his cheeks seemed to grow sharper as he clasped his hands behind his back.

“It is not my habit, Miss Bergerine,” he said in a voice colder than the north wind, “to purchase the affections of my lovers. Nor am I in the habit of taking poor seamstresses into my bed. This was not an attempt to seduce you, and the only thing I want from you in return for the garments and fripperies purchased today is that you make every effort to maintain this ruse for the sake of Lord Bromwell’s reputation, as well as your own safety.”

“Who do you take to your bed?”

The barrister’s steely gaze grew even more aloof. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

“That man who attacked me thought I was your mistress. If I know about your women, I can refute his misconceptions if he tries to attack me again.”

“Lord Bromwell and I are taking every precaution to ensure you aren’t molested again. And I hardly think such a creature will care if he’s made a mistake, at least if he has you in his power.”

“So I am to be imprisoned here?”

Sir Douglas’s lips jerked up into what might have been a smile, or a sneer. “You have never been in prison, have you, Miss Bergerine? If you had, you would know this is a far cry from those hellholes.”

“Then I am free to go?”

An annoyingly smug expression came to his face. “Absolutely, if you wish.”

No doubt he would like that, for he would then be free of his responsibility. He could claim she had refused his help and therefore he had no more duty toward her.

Perhaps he would even claim that by purchasing those clothes and other things, he had more than sufficiently compensated her, as if any number of gowns or shoes or bonnets could repay her for the terror she’d faced and might face again as long as he had enemies who believed she was his mistress.

Non, he could not abandon her so easily.

“Since you have put my life at risk, I believe I should stay.” Then, determined to wipe that self-satisfied, superior look from his face, she asked, “So what sort of women do you take to your bed?”

Unfortunately, her question didn’t seem to disturb him in the least. His lips curved up in what was definitely a smile, but one that, coupled with his dark hair and brows, made him look like the devil’s minion. “My lovers have all been married ladies whose husbands don’t care if they stray or not.”

“You like old women, then?”

His lascivious smile grew. “Experienced—but never a Frenchwoman.”

“Oh? Why not?” she inquired, trying not to let her irritation get the better of her as she retreated behind one of the sofas.

“I believe their skills in the bedroom are vastly overrated.”

“Believe?” she countered, brushing her hand along the rich brocade, her brows lifting. “You do not actually know?”

“I know enough to be certain that a Frenchwoman cannot be trusted, either in bed or out of it.”

The arrogant English pig! “So now you will insult a whole country?”

“Why so indignant, Miss Bergerine? I merely gave you the information you claimed to seek.”

She must be calm and control her anger. “Your friends who had the party… The woman’s name is Fanny, I think? Is she your lover?”

He started as if somebody had fired a gun at his head. “Where did you get that outrageous idea?”

He was not so smug and arrogant now! “When you were hurt, you called her name, or else it was Annie. Perhaps you’ve had lovers with both names?”

In spite of his obvious shock, Sir Douglas recovered with astonishing speed. “I was unconscious, was I not?”

“Not all the time. Not when you whispered that name and kissed me.”

He couldn’t look more stunned if she’d told him they’d been secretly married. “I did what?”

“You put your arm around me and you whispered ‘ma chérie’ and then you kissed me,” she bluntly informed him. “Or as I suppose an English lover kisses,” she added, as if his performance had been woefully inadequate.

Sir Douglas Drury blushed. Blushed like a schoolboy. Blushed like a child.

She wouldn’t have considered that possible without seeing it for herself.

“I don’t believe it,” he snapped.

“I am not lying. Why would I?”

His hands still behind his back, he strode to the white marble hearth, then whirled around to face her. “How should I know what motives you may possess for wishing to say such a ridiculous thing? Or why you would pick Fanny, whom I most certainly do not desire. She is a friend, and so is her husband. I would never, ever think of coming between them even if I could—which I most certainly could not. They are very much in love. I realize that would be considered extremely gauche in Paris, but it’s true.”

“I am not telling lies.”

He didn’t believe her. She could see that in his eyes, read it in his face.

“What’s the real reason for these questions, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded as he walked toward her like some large black-and-white cat. “Has somebody been telling you about my other reputation? Do you want to know if what they say about me outside the courtroom is true?”

She stood her ground, not retreating no matter how close he came. “I know all that I care to know about you, Sir Douglas.”

“Oh?” His lips curved up in that dangerous, devilish smile. “Perhaps you really want to find out what it’s like to be kissed by Sir Douglas Drury when he’s wide-awake.”

That made her move.

“You pig! Dog! Merde!” she cried, backing away from him.

Not far enough. He reached out and grabbed her shoulders and pulled her to him. Before she could stop him—for of course she must—he took her in his arms and kissed her.

This was no tender kiss, like the one they’d shared before. This was hot and fierce, passionate and forceful. Seeking. Seducing. Tempting beyond anything.

His arms went around her and he held her tight against him, his starched shirt against her breasts. Her heart beat like a regiment’s drum, sending the blood coursing through her body, heating her skin, her face, her lips. Arousing her, asking her to surrender to the desire and need surging through her.

A memory came, of the old farmer in the barn, stinking and sweaty, grabbing her and trying to kiss her, his movements fumbling.

This was not the same.

Or was it?

She was just a seamstress and there was only one way it could end if she gave in to the desire Sir Douglas Drury was arousing, the excitement she was feeling, the need.

She put her hands on his broad chest and shoved him away, prepared to tell him she was no loose woman, no harlot, no whore. Until she saw the look on his face…

He was as upset as she. Because he couldn’t believe a woman like her would spurn his advances?

He was wrong. Very wrong! “You pig! Cochon! To take advantage of a poor woman who came to you for help!”

The door suddenly flew open and Lord Bromwell entered the room as if he’d heard her fierce epithets, except that he was smiling with his usual genial friendliness.

“Millstone said I’d find you both in here,” he said. His smile died as he looked from one to the other. “Is something wrong?”

Sir Douglas turned to her, his dark eyes cold and angry as he raised a single brow.

She was not upset with Lord Bromwell. He was truly kind. But if she complained about his friend to him, what would he do?

She could not trust him completely, for she was French and he was English. She could not be certain he would not send her back to her lodgings.

She quickly came up with an excuse to explain why they had been arguing. “I spent too much on clothes. Nearly a hundred pounds.”

Lord Bromwell gave Sir Douglas a puzzled look. “Why, that’s nothing. I should think you could afford ten times that.”

“I wasn’t quarreling about the amount, which is trivial,” Sir Douglas smoothly lied. “I was trying to make her see that she should have spent more. Madame de Malanche will be telling people I’m a miser.”

Lord Bromwell sighed with relief, and he smiled at Juliette. “That may seem a large sum to you, Miss Bergerine, but truly, Drury would hardly have noticed if you’d spent twice that.”

“One benefit of having a father with a head for business,” the barrister noted.

“Oh, and I’ve brought company for dinner!” Lord Bromwell said, as if he’d just remembered.

Company? She was to have to act a well-to-do lady in company? How could he do such a thing?

A swift glance at Sir Douglas told her he was no more pleased than she, especially when a young couple came into the room.

The woman was no great beauty, but her clothes were fine and fashionable, in the very latest style, and her smile warm and pleasant. The gentleman was likewise well and fashionably attired. His hair, however, looked as if he’d just run his fingers through it to stand it on end, or else he’d been astride a galloping horse without his hat.

“Lady Francesca, may I present Miss Juliette Bergerine,” Lord Bromwell said as Sir Douglas moved toward the window, his hands once more behind his back. “Miss Bergerine, this is Lady Francesca and her husband, the Honorable Brixton Smythe-Medway.”

“Please, you must call me Fanny,” the young woman said.

It took a mighty effort, but Juliette managed not to glance at Sir Douglas before she made a little curtsy.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” she lied.

Although the food was excellent and plentiful—including such delicacies as salmon, which she had never tasted before, and something called a tart syllabub, which was very rich and very good—the dinner was a nerve-racking experience for Juliette. Fortunately, she managed to get through it without making many mistakes by carefully watching and imitating the others, not touching a piece of cutlery or crystal glass until they did.

She also took care not to wolf down the excellent food as if she hadn’t eaten in days, but was used to such cuisine.

And the wine! Mon Dieu, how the wine flowed! Yet she made sure she only sipped, and never finished a glass. She had to keep her wits about her.

The merry Mr. Smythe-Medway was very amusing, but she quickly realized there was a shrewd intelligence behind those green eyes. As for his wife, she seemed sweet and charming, but the test would be how she behaved when there were no men present. As Juliette had learned in the shop, women could be completely different then.

Juliette was so concerned with not making any mistakes, she took no part in the conversation. She doubted anyone noticed, for Mr. Smythe-Medway seemed quite capable and willing to entertain them.

His wife was just as quick-witted, if more subdued, and even Sir Douglas gave proof of a dry wit that made his friendship with the loquacious Smythe-Medway a little more understandable.

After what seemed an age, Lady Fanny rose and led Juliette to the drawing room, leaving the men to their brandy and, Juliette supposed, manly conversation. She couldn’t help wondering what they would say about her and desperately hoped she hadn’t done anything wrong.

“I must say I’m even more impressed with your courage now that I’ve seen you, my dear,” Lady Fanny said as she sat on a sofa and gestured for Juliette to sit, too. The flowing Pomona green skirt of her high-waisted gown spread out beautifully, and the delicate pearl necklace she wore, although simple, looked lovely against her slender throat. “I was expecting quite an Amazon, not a petite woman like you.”

What exactly had Sir Douglas and Lord Bromwell said about her and what had happened? Juliette wondered as she lowered herself onto the sofa opposite, her back straight, her hands in her lap, a part of her mind sorry Madame de Malanche hadn’t had an evening gown ready for her to wear, too. Was Lady Fanny referring to the attack in the alley, or a robbery on the road?

“I was not so brave. It was very frightening,” she prevaricated, thinking that answer would suit either situation.

“Drury and Buggy told us all about what you did for him. Potatoes! I would never have thought of that. Indeed, I think I would have been frozen stiff with fear.”

The reality then. “I saw a man being attacked, and I went to his aid.”

“And now we must come to yours. I’m very glad Buggy came up with this plan, and we shall do everything we can to help.”

“Merci,” Juliette murmured, wondering how this coddled English creature could be of assistance against evil men trying to harm her, or Sir Douglas. “I hope my presence here will not cause a scandal.”

Lady Fanny laughed, and although her laugh was sweet and musical, Juliette still couldn’t see what attracted Sir Douglas to Lady Fanny. To be sure, she was pretty, in a very English way, and seemed kind and good-natured, but she was so… bland. So boring.

Perhaps that was what he liked about her. She would never argue with him, or demand his attention, or likely question a single thing he did. She would be, Juliette supposed, a demure, obedient little wife.

“I wouldn’t be too concerned about our reputations,” Lady Fanny replied. “Buggy was considered quite eccentric until his book became a success, and as for Drury’s reputation…”

Lady Fanny paused a moment before continuing, her cheeks a slightly deeper shade of pink. “I’m referring to his legal reputation. He’s quite famous for his successes. He could have been a barrister of the King’s Bench and possibly a judge by now, yet he remains at the Old Bailey. He prefers to represent the poor.”

The arrogant, wealthy Sir Douglas Drury cared about the plight of the poor? Juliette found that difficult to believe.

“In some ways, Drury’s had a very difficult life.”

She found that hard to believe, too. “But he is titled and educated and rich.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s never known pain, or heartache. His father spent most of his time on business ventures, and his mother—”

“Ah, ladies, here you are, and looking as lovely as a painting,” Mr. Smythe-Medway declared as he sauntered into the room, followed by Lord Bromwell and a darkly inscrutable Sir Douglas.

Why did they have to interrupt now? Juliette thought with dismay.

“I hope Fanny hasn’t been telling you she’s made a terrible mistake marrying me,” Mr. Smythe-Medway continued as he sat beside his wife on the sofa.

“Not likely.” Lord Bromwell smiled as he settled in an armchair. “She’s had years to learn all your bad traits, Brix, yet miraculously loves you just the same.”

Apparently paying no attention to the conversation, Sir Douglas strolled over to the drapery-covered windows. He parted a panel and looked outside, as if he was more interested in the weather than the conversation.

Some inner demon prompted Juliette to call out, “Do you agree it is a miracle, Sir Douglas?”

He turned and regarded them impassively. “Not at all. I believe it was inevitable.”

“Well, I say it is a miracle that Fanny fell in love with me,” Mr. Smythe-Medway declared with a grin. “And one I’m thankful for every blessed day—but no more so than now, for gentlemen and Miss Bergerine, I have an announcement to make. Fanny’s going to have a baby!”

Juliette cut her eyes to Sir Douglas. For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard his friend, although Lord Bromwell rushed forward to kiss a blushing, smiling Lady Fanny on both cheeks and pump Smythe-Medway’s hand while congratulating them both.

Yet when Sir Douglas finally turned and walked toward them, his smile appeared to be very genuine, and she could believe he was truly happy for his friends. It also made him seem years younger.

“I’m delighted for you both,” he said, kissing Lady Fanny chastely on the cheek before shaking his friend’s hand.

Maybe he meant what he had said. Perhaps he had never really loved her, after all, and was truly delighted for them.

Or perhaps, Juliette mused then, and as she lay awake later that night, he was an excellent liar.




Chapter Six


I know full well Drury doesn’t have any use for the French, and why, but I don’t understand his increasing hostility toward Miss Bergerine. He’s treating her like a particularly annoying species of flea.

—From The Collected Letters of Lord Bromwell

Drury sighed and leaned back against the seat of the hired carriage two days later. God, he hoped they found the louts who’d attacked them soon! It was damned inconvenient having to live away from his chambers and not being able to take long walks to contemplate the tack he would take in the courtroom and the questions he would ask.

Furthermore, he was no longer used to living surrounded by servants. For years now Mr. Edgar had been both butler and valet, with a charwoman to clean daily, and meals brought in from a nearby tavern when he wasn’t dining at a friend’s or in his club.

Not only did Drury have to put up with the ubiquitous servants, he had to endure the presence of a very troublesome Frenchwoman who asked the most annoying questions.

Was it any wonder he couldn’t sleep? Hopefully an hour or two of fencing would tire him out enough that he’d fall asleep at once tonight, and not waste time thinking about Juliette Bergerine’s ridiculous questions.

Such as, was Fanny his mistress?

To be sure, there had been a time when he’d believed Fanny was the one woman among his acquaintance he could consider for a wife, given her sweet, quiet nature—until it had been made absolutely, abundantly clear that she loved Brix with all her heart. No other man stood a chance.

And whatever the sharp-eyed, inquisitive Miss Bergerine thought—for she’d watched him like a hawk after Brix had made his announcement—he was genuinely happy about his friend’s marriage and their coming child. Brix and Fanny would be wonderful parents.

Unlike his own.

As for kissing the outrageous Miss Bergerine, he’d simply been overcome by lust—both times, whether he was awake or not.

At least the mystery of what he’d been trying to remember had been solved, for as soon as she’d spoken of the kiss, he’d remembered. It had been vague, like a dream, but he knew he’d put his arm around what had seemed like an angelic apparition, and kissed her.

Which just proved how hard he must have been hit on the head.

The carriage rolled to a stop and he quickly jumped out. He wouldn’t even think about women—any women—for a while.

He dashed up the steps of Thompson’s Fencing School. Entering the double doors, he breathed in the familiar scents of sawdust and sweat, leather and steel, and heard clashing foils coming from the large practice area. He’d spent hours here before the war, and then after, learning to hold a sword again, and use a dagger.

A few men sat on benches along the sides of the fencing arena. It was chilly, kept that way so the gentlemen wouldn’t get overheated in their padded jackets. A few more fencers stood with a foot on a bench, or off to the side, and one or two nudged each other when they realized who had just walked in.

Drury ignored them and followed Thompson’s voice. Jack Thompson had been a sergeant major and he shouted like one, his salt-and-pepper mustache quivering. He moved like it, too, his back ramrod straight as he prowled around the two men en garde in the practice area cordoned off from the rest of the room by a low wooden partition. Beneath their masks, sweat dripped off their chins, and their chests rose and fell with their panting breaths.

The first, thinner and obviously not so winded, made a feint, which was easily parried by his larger opponent.

“Move your feet, Buckthorne, damn you, or by God, I’ll cut ‘em off!” Thompson shouted at the bigger man, swinging his blunted blade at the young man’s ankles. “Damn it, what the deuce d’you think you’re about, my lord? This isn’t a tea party. Lunge, man, lunge! Strike, by God, or go find a whore to play pat-a-cake with.”

The earl, who must be the fourth Earl of Buckthorne, and who was already notorious for his gambling losses, made an effort, but his feint was no more than the brush of a fly to the young man opposite him. He easily twisted the blade away, then lunged, pressing the buttoned tip of the foil into the earl’s padded chest.

“So now, my lord, you’d be dead,” Thompson declared. “It’s kill or be killed on the battlefield—and the victors get the spoils, the loot, the women and anything else they can find. Think about that, my lord, eh?”

The earl pushed away his opponent’s foil with his gauntleted hand. “I am a gentleman, Thompson, not a common soldier,” he sneered, the words slightly muffled beneath his mask. His head moved up and down as he surveyed his opponent from head to toe. “Or a merchant’s son.”

That was a mistake, as Drury and half a dozen of the other spectators could have told him.

Thompson had Buckthorne by the padding in an instant, lifting the thickset young man until his toes barely brushed the sawdust-covered floor. “Think your noble blood’s gonna save you, do you? Your blood’s the same as his, you dolt, or mine or any man’s. You’d have done better to save your money and not buy your commission. Men like you have killed more English soldiers than the Frogs and Huns combined. Money and blood don’t make Gerrard a better swordsman than you—practice does.”

Pausing to draw breath, Thompson’s glare swept around the room, until he spotted Drury.

With a shout of greeting and the agility of a man half his age, he dropped the earl and hurried over to the barrister.

“Good afternoon, Thompson,” Drury said to his friend and former teacher as the earl staggered and tried to regain his balance. “I thought I’d come along and have a little fun.”

“I beg your pardon,” the earl’s opponent said, removing his mask and revealing an eager, youthful face, curling fair hair, bright blue eyes and a mouth grinning with delight. “Are you Sir Douglas Drury, the barrister?”

“I am.”

“By Jove, the Court Cat himself!” the young man exclaimed, his grin growing even wider. “I can’t tell you what an honor it is to meet you!”

“Then don’t.”

Paying no more heed to the young man, who must be about twenty, Drury turned to Thompson. “Are you up to a challenge? I’m feeling the need for some martial exercise today.”

Thompson barked a laugh. “Arrogant devil,” he genially replied. “Giving me another chance to take you down a peg or two, eh?”

“We’ll see about that.” Drury cocked a brow at the fair young man, who continued to gaze at him with gaping fascination. “Have you never been informed that it’s impolite to stare, Mr. Gerrard?”

“I’m sorry, s-sir,” he stammered, blushing. “But you’re Sir Douglas Drury!”

“I never cease to be amazed by the number of people who assume I don’t know who I am. Perhaps I should wear a placard,” Drury remarked as he started to unbutton his coat, a feat he could manage, albeit with some difficulty, thanks to the large buttons.

“Sergeant Thompson says you’re the best swordsman he ever taught,” Gerrard declared.

“Such flattery will make me blush,” Drury replied before sliding a glance at Thompson. “The best you’ve ever taught, eh?”

The former soldier puffed out his broad chest. “You are. Not as good as me, mind, but good—for a gentleman.”

“If I didn’t know you better, Thompson, I’d say you were making a joke.”

“No joke, Sir Douglas. You’re good, but Gerrard here could probably give you a run for your money.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t!” the merchant’s son protested, even as a gleam of excitement lit his blue eyes. “Don’t even suggest it, Sergeant.”

“Too late,” Drury said. “I’m willing if you are.”

Gerrard shifted his weight and his gaze went to Drury’s hands. He was so focused on those crooked fingers, he didn’t see the slight narrowing of Drury’s eyes before he spoke. “Have no fear that you’ll be accused of taking advantage of a cripple, Mr. Gerrard. My hands may not be pretty, but they are fully functional.”

As Miss Bergerine could attest.

Drury clenched his jaw, angry that he couldn’t keep Juliette Bergerine out of his thoughts even here. Or at his club, or in his chambers.

“Go on, Gerrard,” prompted the earl. He’d removed his mask and padded jacket, which obviously also operated as a corset for his bulging stomach, now more prominently displayed. He had the countenance of a man who would go to fat in a few more years, and likely already drank to excess. “See if you can beat him. I’ll stand you drinks at White’s if you can.”

“I shall stand you drinks at Boodle’s if I lose,” Drury proposed.

“If we’re going to wager,” Gerrard said, “I’d rather it be for something better.”

“Such as?” Drury inquired, expecting him to name a sum of money.

“An introduction to your cousin.”

Drury went absolutely still. Those watching couldn’t even be sure if he was breathing as he regarded Gerrard with that cold stare.

“I wasn’t aware it had become common knowledge that my cousin is in London,” he said in a tone that made some of the younger men think they were hearing the voice of doom itself.

“Is it supposed to be a secret?” Gerrard replied with an innocence that was either real or expertly feigned.

Give him a few minutes with the man in the witness box, Drury thought, and he’d know for sure.

“My sister heard it from her dressmaker,” Gerrard explained.

Damn Madame de Malanche. He’d suspected she wouldn’t be able to resist spreading that piece of news, but he’d hoped it would take more time before the lie became common gossip.

Despite his annoyance, Drury kept his feelings from his face as he peeled off his coat and tossed it onto a rack of buttoned foils nearby.

“It’s no secret,” he said, rolling back his cuffs as best he could with his stiff fingers. “I sometimes forget the speed with which gossip can travel in the city.”

“Is it a wager then?” Gerrard challenged.

Drury undid his cravat and tossed it on top of his coat.

“Very well. And if you lose?”

“Whatever you like.”

Cocky young bastard. “Very well. I may ask you for a favor someday. Nothing illegal or dangerous, but one never knows when one can use the assistance of a man of skill and intelligence capable of defending himself. Do we have a wager then, Mr. Gerrard?”

A very determined gleam came to the younger man’s eyes. “Indeed.” He pushed his mask over his face and saluted with his sword. “En garde as soon as you’re ready, Sir Douglas.”

“I’m ready now,” Drury said, spinning on his heel and pulling one of the foils from the rack with surprising speed.

Gerrard stumbled back as Drury, unpadded and unprotected, saluted with the buttoned sword. He and Thompson had worked for hours to find a way for him to hold a sword after he’d come home, and while it looked strange, his grip was firm, and he had no need to worry that he would drop his weapon.

Gerrard recovered quickly and took his stance.

The merchant’s son had probably never dueled, or fought for anything more important than drinks and bragging rights. Drury wondered if he realized he was facing a man who had killed without compunction or remorse. Who had pushed his blade into flesh and blood, and been glad to do it.

Of course, that had been under very different circumstances. This wasn’t war, but a game, a cockfight, and nothing more—which did not mean Drury intended to lose.

He waited in invitation, letting the younger man make the first move. Gerrard opened with a fast advance, forcing Drury back while Gerrard’s blade flashed, wielded with swiftness and skill. Drury countered with an attaque au fer, deflecting his opponent’s foil with a series of beats, slashing down with his foil, or the sliding action of the froissement, pushing Gerrard’s blade lower.

Then, while Gerrard was still on the attack, Drury countered with a riposte. Now on the offensive, he forced the man back, keeping up a compound attack with a series of beats, counterparries, a croisé and a cut.

By now, both men were breathing hard and they paused, by silent mutual consent, to catch their breath and, in Drury’s case at least, reevaluate his opponent. The merchant’s son was good—very good. One of the best swordsmen he’d ever encountered, in fact.

That didn’t change the fact that Gerrard was going to lose. Drury would never surrender, not even in a game, not even after that foul, stinking lout in France had broken his fingers one by one.

He launched another attack. Gerrard parried, then answered with an energetic and direct riposte. No fancy flourishes or footwork for him, no actions intended to impress the excited onlookers; this fellow fought to win.

How refreshing, Drury thought, enjoying the competition. It was like fencing with a younger version of himself before the war. Before France. When a host of women had sought his bed, and more than one been welcomed. When he had still, deep down, dared to hope that he could find a woman to love with all the passionate devotion he had to give. Before he realized the best he could ever hope for was affection and a little peace. For Fanny, perhaps, if she would have him. If she hadn’t loved another.

He lunged again, fast and hard, and it was a testament to Gerrard’s reflexes that he wasn’t hit before he dodged out of the way.

“Damn me, sir, you play for keeps,” Gerrard cried, his shocked tone reminding Drury that this was not a fight to the death, or even a duel, and this young man had never done anything to harm him.

“Fortunately, so do I,” the young man said in the next breath, making a running attack, trying to hit Drury as he passed.

The flèche wasn’t successful, for Drury was just as quick to avoid the cut. But now the battle was on in earnest, neither man giving quarter, each using every bit of skill and cunning and experience he possessed until both were so winded and dripping with sweat, they could only stand and pull in great, rasping breaths.

“It’s a draw, by God. As even a match as I’ve ever seen,” Thompson declared, stepping between them. “Gentlemen, will you agree?”

Drury waited until Gerrard nodded and saluted with his foil. Then he, too, raised his foil in salute. “A tie, then.”

He would have preferred to win, but at least he wouldn’t have to introduce this clever young rascal to Juliette Bergerine.

“What of the wager?” Buckthorne called out. “Who has won the wager?”

“Neither, although I’ll gladly stand Mr. Gerrard a drink or two at Boodle’s,” Drury replied, still panting.

“I’d be delighted, of course,” Gerrard said, also breathing hard as he removed his mask and tucked it under his arm. “It would be a pleasure to talk to you about some of your trials, too, if I may. I intend to enter the legal profession myself, you see.”

He paused, then continued with a mixture of deference and determination. “However, I’d also like to meet your cousin, if you’d be so kind.”

Drury’s eyes narrowed. Why was Gerrard so keen to meet Juliette? What had Madame de Malanche said about her? That she was pretty, which she was? That she was French, which she was? Or was there more to it?

What more could there be, if Madame de Malanche had been the source?

Would it look odd if he refused? Would it make Juliette more interesting to this young rogue and the other dandies of the ton if he kept her hidden away?

Yet who knew what Juliette might do or say to such a fellow? What if she lost her temper? What if she didn’t?

“If you’d rather not…” the young fellow began, his brow furrowing.

That suspicious expression was enough to sway Drury’s decision. Better to let him meet Juliette than make her a mystery. “Very well, Mr. Gerrard. As I’m sure you’re also aware, we’re staying with Lord Bromwell for the time being.”

He gave him Buggy’s address. “Present yourself tomorrow morning at nine o’clock and I will introduce you to my cousin.”

Then Sir Douglas Drury’s lips curved up in a way that had made hardened criminals cringe. “And might I suggest that if you’re serious about pursuing a legal career, you refrain from making wagers with barristers.”

Early that evening, Juliette bent over the napkin she was hemming in the elegant drawing room. The light would soon fade and she wanted to finish before it did.

All her life she had wondered what it would be like to be a lady—to have everything you needed, to never have to work or lift a hand, to have beautiful clothes and servants at your beck and call.

Well, she thought with a rueful smile, she’d discovered that while it was certainly delightful to be well fed and have pretty clothes, it was otherwise terribly boring. Now she could understand why the young ladies who’d come into the shop seemed so excited by the prospect of a new hat or the latest Paris fashion and bit of gossip. If she had nothing else to do with her time, her clothes might become vitally important, and gossip as necessary as food.

After spending hours by herself during the better part of two days, she’d finally gone to the housekeeper and asked if there was some sewing she could do. It would make her feel less beholden to Lord Bromwell for his kindness, and she was good at it, she’d explained, which was quite true.

“His lordship’s guests don’t work!” Mrs. Tunbarrow had cried, regarding her with horror, as if Juliette had proposed embalming her.

Undaunted and determined, Juliette had persisted, using her most persuasive manner—the same manner she’d used when asking questions about Georges in Calais, bargaining for passage on the ship to England, haggling for that small room in the lodging house and persuading Madame de Pomplona to give her work.

Mrs. Tunbarrow had reluctantly agreed at last and given Juliette napkins to hem, probably thinking she could have them resewn if Juliette proved incompetent.

“I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

“Merde!” Juliette whispered with dismay, for it wasn’t Lord Bromwell come back from one of his many meetings trying to arrange his next expedition.

Sir Douglas Drury had returned.




Chapter Seven


Didn’t even see her until it was too late. Had no idea she could be so quiet.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

Juliette didn’t want to see Sir Douglas, and she especially didn’t want to be alone with him in the drawing room. She hadn’t been alone with him since his friends had come to dinner. She hadn’t even spoken to him, unless she hadn’t been able to avoid it.

For an instant, she thought of fleeing, but her lap was covered with her sewing and she would have to pass him to get out of the room.

All she could do was shrink back into the wing chair, grateful it was angled toward the hearth and not the door, and pray he would not come in. Or if he did, perhaps he wouldn’t see her until Millstone came to summon them to dinner, whenever that might be. The meal would wait until Lord Bromwell returned from his many meetings. Apparently planning a scientific expedition required such efforts, even if one was rich.

Then the door opened and she heard Sir Douglas’s familiar tread upon the floor before he got to the carpet.

He stopped. Had he seen her? Had he realized they were alone? What was he thinking if he had?

Who could ever tell what he was thinking?

She was too nervous to sew, so she sat as still as a statue with the napkin on her lap, the sewing basket on the table beside her.

Sir Douglas still hadn’t spoken, and she hadn’t heard him come any closer. Perhaps he’d realized she was there and left the room. It would be rude, but not surprising, and she could only be grateful if he intended to ignore her the whole time she was Lord Bromwell’s guest. Sir Douglas had been ignoring her very well lately—which was just what she wanted after his passionate, insolent kiss.

She got an itch in the middle of her back. A terrible, irritating itch. She was going to have to move, or squirm.

Was he there or not?

She couldn’t wait. She had to scratch. Even so, she moved slowly and cautiously, until she reached the spot.

What was that little noise? It wasn’t from her clothes as she scratched. Curious but wary, she peered around the side of the chair.

Sir Douglas stood at the mahogany table in the center of the room, idly flipping through the pages of an illustrated book about insects that Lord Bromwell had left there.

It was not an easy, simple thing for him. At meals it was obvious his fingers lacked flexibility, and they seemed even more stiff today. Nevertheless, he was smiling as she’d never seen him smile before.

There was no challenge in it, no mockery, no sense of superiority, no hint of seduction. He looked relaxed and amused, far different from the stern, arrogant, ungrateful barrister. Different, too, from the man who had kissed her so passionately.

Was this what he’d been like before the war that had changed so many people?

He glanced up and caught her watching him and his smile disappeared. “Good evening, Miss Bergerine. I didn’t realize you were here. You should have said something.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” she replied, attempting to betray nothing of her feelings, whatever they were. “You seemed so interested in Lord Bromwell’s book.”

He shut the tome abruptly, like a little boy caught with illicit sweets in his pockets.

Emboldened by that image, she said, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Do you like insects, too?”

“Not the way Buggy does,” he replied.

He glanced at the chair opposite her, then picked up the book and started toward it.

The volume began to slip from his fingers. As he tightened his grip, he winced as if in pain, and it tumbled to the floor, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.

Forgetting the napkin, she hurried to pick it up and hand it back to him, only to find herself looking into a pair of cold, dark, angry eyes.

“Thank you,” he growled, and she wondered if he hated being reminded of the limitations of his hands, or if it was because he didn’t like her.

She didn’t care what he thought of her. She was here because he had enemies who were also after her, not because she wished to be.

Picking up the napkin, she resumed her seat and once again began to sew, this time with steady hands. “Have you any news of the men who attacked us?”

“No,” he replied as he sat across from her and opened the book. “What are you doing?”

She glanced up at him, surprised because it was obvious. “Hemming napkins.”

“Surely Buggy didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Non,” she answered, intent on her work even though she was well aware he was watching her instead of looking at his book. “I am not used to having nothing to do and find I do not like to be idle. So I went to the housekeeper and asked her if she had any sewing I could do. In a small way, it gives me a chance to repay Lord Bromwell for letting me stay here—although it is not my fault I must.”

“I apologise for the inconvenience,” Sir Douglas replied, annoyance in his deep voice.

If he was angry, she didn’t care. “Lord Bromwell—why do you call him Buggy? It is not a nice nickname, I think.”

“Because he’s always been fascinated by spiders. When we were at school, he used to keep them in jars by his bed.”

She shivered. She hated the eight-legged creatures. “How unpleasant.”

“It was, rather.”

He said nothing more, and neither did she, but sewed on in silence until she finished the last few stitches of the final napkin. As she reached for the small scissors to cut the thread, he closed the book with a snap.

“What are you doing in London, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded, his question just as loud and unexpected.

“Why should I not be in London?” she retorted. “Is it forbidden for a young woman to travel here if she is French?”

“It’s damned unusual.”

He sounded very angry, but she would stay calm. And why not tell him? She was not ashamed of her reason. “I came here looking for my brother, Georges.”

There was a long moment of silence before Sir Douglas answered, and his intense gaze became a little less annoyed. “I assume you haven’t been successful.”

“Regrettably, non.”

Another long pause followed, during which she refused to look away from his now inscrutable face.

Eventually he spoke again, slowly, as if weighing every word. “I have certain resources, Miss Bergerine, the same ones I’m using to try to find the men who attacked us. I shall ask them to include locating your brother in their efforts, as a further expression of my gratitude for saving my life.”

She could only stare at him, not willing to believe he would be so generous. “You would do that for me?”

He inclined his head.

Despite her reservations about accepting a gift from such a man, relief filled her. She had been so long alone in her search.

And then came renewed hope, vibrant and bright, like a torch suddenly kindled in the darkness.

Overwhelmed by her feelings, she threw herself on her knees in front of him, and reached for his hand and pressed her lips upon the back of it. “Merci! Merci beaucoup!”

He tugged his hand away as if her lips were poison and got to his feet. “There is no need for such a melodramatic demonstration.”

It was like a slap to her face. Abashed, but resolved not to show how he had hurt her, she rose with all the dignity she could muster. “I am sorry if my gratitude offends you, but you cannot know what this means to me.”

Sir Douglas strode to the hearth, then turned back, his hands clasped behind him, his expression unreadable. “No doubt I do not. Now please describe your brother so that I may tell my associates.”

It was to be a business transaction then. Very well. “He does not much resemble me,” she began. “He is taller than I, about six feet, with brown hair that is straight, like a poker. His eyes are blue, and he is thin.”

“Do you have any idea in what part of London they should begin their search?”

“No. The last news I had of him was from Calais. He wrote that he was coming to London, but he didn’t mention any particular part, or if he was meeting anyone.”

“He hasn’t written to you from here?”

“No.” She looked away, for what she had to tell Sir Douglas next was difficult to say, and it would be easier without his dark eyes watching at her. “His last letter was forwarded by a priest in Calais to Father Simon in our village.”

She took a moment to gather her strength, to be calm, before continuing. “This priest wrote to Father Simon saying that Georges had been killed, found stabbed to death in an alley. A letter to me was in his pocket.”

She looked up at the barrister, whose expression had not changed. “You are probably wondering why I do not believe that my brother is dead. A part of me thinks I should, that I must accept that Georges is gone, like Papa and Marcel. But I didn’t see Georges’s body and the priest who wrote the letter didn’t describe it. He simply accepted that the letter found on the dead man belonged to him, so that man must be Georges. But what if he was wrong? Perhaps Georges was robbed of money and the letter, too, and it was the thief who was killed.

“So I went to Calais. The priest who wrote the letter had died of an illness before I got there, and nobody remembered much about the man in the alley, except that he had been robbed and stabbed.”

“So you came to London hoping your brother was alive and somewhere in the city based on his last letter to you?”

“Oui. A fool’s errand, perhaps,” she said, voicing the doubts that sometimes assailed her, “but I must search and hope.”

Or else I am alone.

“Your quest may prove to be futile,” Sir Douglas replied, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle, “yet I cannot fault you for trying. No one should be all alone in the world.”

“No one,” she agreed in a whisper, regarding the man before her who, even with his friends, always seemed somehow alone.

“Sir Douglas, Miss Bergerine,” Millstone intoned from the threshold of the drawing room, interrupting the rapprochement they’d achieved, “dinner is served.”

Well after midnight, Drury stood by a tall window in his bedroom and raised his hands to examine them in the moonlight. Although he generally avoided looking at them, he knew every crooked bend, every poorly mended bit.

He remembered the breaking of each one, the pain, the agony, knowing that nothing would be done to set them and repair the damage. That when his tormentor was finished with him, he would be killed, his body either burned or thrown away like so much refuse.

He remembered the flickering flames casting light and shadows on the faces of the men surrounding him. The ones who held him down. The one who did the breaking.

He remembered their voices. The guttural Gascon of one, the whisper of the Parisian, the earthy seaman from Marseilles. The one who wielded the mallet, so calm. So deliberate. So cruel.

With a shuddering breath Drury lowered his hands, splaying them on the sill. Once, he had been proud of his hands. The slender length of his fingers. The strength of them.

He remembered the excitement of brushing their pads, oh, so lightly, over a woman’s naked skin, and the woman’s sighs as he caressed them.

Since his return, he had had lovers. More than one. He was, after all, still Drury, with his dark eyes and deep, seductive voice. He was still famous for his legal abilities, and for other abilities, too.

But never since he had returned to England had a woman deliberately touched his hands. Certainly no woman had kissed them.

Until today.

He was well aware that Juliette Bergerine had done so in the first flush of gratitude. No doubt if she’d had time to think, she wouldn’t have done it.

But she had.

She had.

She believed him ungrateful, and he had been, that first day. She thought him arrogant, too.

She had no idea how that kiss had humbled him, and the gratitude that had welled up within him at the touch of her lips on his naked flesh.

She would never know.

Yet he would reward her for a kiss that was worth more than gold to him. If her brother lived, he would do all he could to find him.

Starting at first light.

Juliette wanted to move, but she couldn’t. It was dark, as if she were in a cave, and she was wrapped up like a mummy, her arms held to her sides. Turning her head from side to side, she realized she was caught in something—a spider’s web, sticky and soft. Everything else around her was dark.

“You can’t have him.”

A woman’s voice. Not kind and gentle. Harsh, triumphant, mocking.

“He’s mine. I have only to say one word, and he will be mine forever.”

Lady Fanny’s voice, distorted. Ugly. “Did you think he could ever really care for you, you French trollop? Do you think I don’t see how you secretly desire him, a man so far above you in rank, education and wealth? Do you think you could ever take my place in his heart?”

“Non!” Juliette protested, struggling to get free. Determined to get free. “He doesn’t love you. He told me so.”

The high-pitched laugh came out of the impenetrable dark. “And you believed him? You believe everything he says? Oh, my dear, he lies. He tells lies all the time, to you, to himself, to everyone.”

“He does not love you!”

“He doesn’t love you, either. He never will. He will use you and cast you aside. He does the same to all his women. Why should you be different?”

Juliette twisted and turned, fighting harder to get free. “Then he would cast you aside, too.”

“I wouldn’t let him. I would kill him before I let him go.”

Suddenly, light flared in the darkness and Juliette saw that she was not alone. His head bowed as if he was unconscious, like that first night, Sir Douglas hung on a cavern wall wet with moisture. He was encased in another web, the filaments spreading out like an angel’s wings while that terrible, cruel feminine laugh filled her ears.…

Juliette woke up, panting and sweating. It had been a nightmare. Another nightmare. Not of Gaston LaRoche in the barn this time, but of a demonic Lady Fanny who wanted Sir Douglas for herself. Who would kill him if she couldn’t have him.

“Did I wake you, miss? I didn’t mean to,” Polly said as she crossed the room to open the drapes.

Trying to sit up, Juliette discovered the sheets and coverlet were wrapped tightly around her, just like the spider’s web in the dream.

“I’ve lit a fire to take the chill off, and there’s hot water to wash,” Polly said, nodding at the jug and linen on the washstand. “It looks to be a lovely morning, miss.”

The window Polly opened brought a breeze and the slight scent of damp earth and leaves.

Juliette lay still and closed her eyes, wishing she was in the country. How long had it been since she’d walked past open fields, with cows grazing, occasionally lifting their heads to look at her with their large, gentle eyes? What she would not give for a walk in the open air, far away from London and Sir Douglas Drury, and the woman who sought to harm them both.…

Woman? It had been men who had attacked them.

Men could be paid.

Paid by a woman who was angry with a former lover? Who might be spiteful and jealous? Who might be enraged enough to wish to kill the lover who’d left her, as well as a rival for his affection?

Had Juliette not seen and heard enough of women to know that their jealousy could be as strong and fierce as any man’s? And that they were capable of great cruelty and malice?

She immediately got out of bed. “Is Sir Douglas at breakfast?”

“No, miss. He left at the crack o’ dawn. Lord Bromwell’s still in the dining room, though.”

Disappointed that Sir Douglas was not there, Juliette decided she could still tell Lord Bromwell her idea, so she quickly washed and submitted to Polly’s assistance with one of her new gowns. It was a very pretty day dress in bishop’s blue.

“Do you know when Sir Douglas might return?” she asked as Polly hooked the back.

“No, miss. Depends how long he’s at court, I suppose.” The maid sighed and shook her head as her hands worked with swift, deft skill. “I wouldn’t want to be questioned by Sir Douglas Drury in a courtroom, I can tell you—or anywhere else. A right terror in court, they say, although he never raises his voice or does anything theatrical like some of ‘em do. He just stands there as calm as can be and asks his questions in that voice o’ his until pretty soon, they wind up convictin’ themselves. They call him the Court Cat, you know, because even if he isn’t moving, it’s like he’s stalkin’ ‘em. Quiet, and then bang! They’re caught.”

Juliette had no trouble imagining this. “He wins most of the time?”

“He wins all of the time. The best there is at the Old Bailey.”

Once Polly was finished, Juliette left her to tidy the bedroom and walked down the long corridor toward the staircase. As she descended, she passed a footman who dutifully paused and looked at the floor. While she might get used to having somebody dress her hair, she doubted she would ever get used to the way the servants turned away when she passed, as if they were not even worthy to be seen.

She arrived in the dining room and found Lord Bromwell seated at the long table, dressed in plain clothes, reading a book, and with a plate of half-eaten eggs quietly congealing in front of him. Two footmen stood at either end of the long sideboard, where a host of covered dishes rested.

Lord Bromwell glanced up, smiled and rose in greeting. “Good morning, Miss Bergerine!” He frowned. “You look tired.”

“I had a bad dream.”

“How unfortunate! Come, have some tea. It’s just the thing to give you a little vitality. I’d steer clear of the kidneys, though.”

No need to tell her that, Juliette thought, her stomach turning at the thought of that revolting English dish. “Just toast, please,” she said, heading to the sideboard.

“Have a seat and I’ll get it,” the nobleman offered with his usual kindness.

As he set a plate with toasted bread before her, Millstone appeared at the entrance to the paneled room, a silver salver in his hand and something akin to annoyance in his eyes. “I beg your pardon, my lord. There is a gentleman here who refuses to leave, even though I told him you are at breakfast and planning to depart in an hour.”

Juliette hadn’t heard about any journey. “You are leaving?” she asked the young nobleman.

“I have to go to Newcastle for a few days. Lord Dentonbarry may contribute to my expedition, if I can make it clear to him why he should.”

Juliette couldn’t help wondering that herself. After all, what good could spiders do anyone?

Lord Bromwell grinned, looking very youthful despite the wrinkles around his eyes which were neither completely blue nor gray, and the well-fitting morning coat that accentuated his broad shoulders.

“It seems odd to you, I’m sure,” he said. “But all knowledge is useful in some way. And consider the spider’s web, Miss Bergerine. Given its size and weight, the fibres are incredibly strong, yet very flexible. If we could figure out why, it would be very useful knowledge, don’t you agree?”

She had never thought of a spider’s web as useful before. They had always been nuisances, strung across a path, or cobwebs in corners. Or things to frighten her in her dreams.

Millstone cleared his throat. “The visitor, my lord?” he prompted.

“Oh, yes.” Lord Bromwell studied the card. “Mr. Allan Gerrard. I’ve never met the man.” He raised his eyes to Millstone. “What does he want?”

“He wouldn’t say, although apparently, my lord, he was expecting Sir Douglas Drury to be here.”

Lord Bromwell brightened. “Oh, he’s probably come to see Drury,” he said, as if that made everything all right. “Didn’t you tell him Drury’s gone to his chambers?”

Millstone cleared his throat with a delicacy that would have done credit to an elderly maiden aunt. “I did, my lord. He asked when Sir Douglas would be returning, and since I have no idea, I said I didn’t know. Then he asked if your lordship and Miss Bergerine were here.”

It was clear Millstone didn’t approve of the young man, or having to interrupt Lord Bromwell at his breakfast.

Lord Bromwell didn’t seem as concerned about that as confused by the man’s request. “Miss Bergerine?” he repeated.

“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied. “I told him I would inquire if you were at home.”

A wild, hopeful notion burst into Juliette’s head. Perhaps Sir Douglas had asked this man here because he could help find Georges.

She rose swiftly. “I will be happy to meet this Mr. Gerrard.”

Lord Bromwell gave a good-natured shrug. “Very well, Miss Bergerine. Where have you put Mr. Gerrard, Millstone?”

“In the study, my lord.”

“Excellent. Come along, Miss Bergerine. Oh, and Millstone, I still intend to leave within the hour.”

Juliette had never been in the study of Lord Bromwell’s town house. Unlike the other rooms, however, it was not a pleasant chamber. It was too dark and too much the English gentleman’s, and it smelled strongly of tobacco.

A young man who’d been sitting in a heavy leather armchair got to his feet as she entered with Lord Bromwell. If this was Mr. Allan Gerrard, he was a nice-looking fellow, fair and with a pleasant smile.

“Mr. Gerrard, I presume?” Lord Bromwell said.

“Indeed, yes, I am,” he answered. “I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion. Sir Douglas agreed to meet me here—or so I thought.”

Mr. Gerrard slid a shy glance at Juliette. “He offered to introduce me to his cousin yesterday. I suppose I shouldn’t have stayed when your butler said he wasn’t here, but I, um…” He shrugged his shoulders and gave them both a sheepish grin. “I was rather anxious to meet you, Miss Bergerine—and you, too, my lord.”

“Might I ask why?” Lord Bromwell inquired, not quite as friendly as before.

Mr. Gerrard got a stubborn glint in his eyes of the sort Juliette had seen when a woman was told a certain fabric or shade wasn’t right for her coloring, or the cut of a dress was less than flattering. “Surely it’s no surprise I’d want to meet the celebrated author of The Spider’s Web, or the beautiful cousin of Sir Douglas Drury. My sister’s dressmaker spoke very highly of you, Miss Bergerine.”

No doubt Madame de Malanche spoke highly of anybody who gave her a good deal of business. Nevertheless, Juliette smiled. “I’m flattered.”

Apparently encouraged, Mr. Gerrard eagerly explained. “Sir Douglas and I decided to have a contest and we made a wager on the outcome. I proposed an introduction to you if I won.”

“You’re here because of a wager?” Lord Bromwell demanded incredulously.

Mr. Gerrard flushed and looked from one to the other. “Yes, well, it makes fencing more interesting if there’s a wager.”

“Drury made such a wager?” Lord Bromwell repeated, as if trying to convince himself that wasn’t utterly impossible.

From what Juliette had heard of men of that class, they all gambled. Often. “He does not make wagers?” she asked.

“Not recently, or so I thought. Now if that’s all, sir, I think you may leave,” Lord Bromwell said with a curtness that was completely, and shockingly, unlike his usual manner.

Embarrassed for both herself and the blushing Mr. Gerrard, Juliette wasn’t sure what to do or where to look.

Whatever he was feeling, however, Mr. Gerrard made a polite bow to her. “I’m delighted to have met you, Miss Bergerine. I hope you won’t hold the circumstances of our introduction against me, and that we shall meet again.”

Then he took her hand and lightly kissed the back of it.

No one had ever kissed her hand before. She discovered she didn’t like it and quickly drew it back.

“Good day, Miss Bergerine. I’m sorry to have intruded, Lord Bromwell. I enjoyed your book very much, especially the part about scorpions. It’s not pleasant to be stung, is it?”

With that, he touched his hand to his forehead in a jaunty little salute and marched from the room.

When he was gone, Lord Bromwell’s long, slender hands balled into fists. “I’m sorry, Miss Bergerine. Drury shouldn’t have used an introduction to you as the prize in a wager. It was in extremely poor taste, and he, of all men, should know better.”

Her host started to the door before she could ask him what he meant. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best be on my way. Good day to you, Miss Bergerine. Although I hope the villains who attacked you and Drury will soon be caught, I look forward to seeing you when I return.”

Then he was gone, leaving her to wonder why he’d been so upset about a bet. Didn’t noblemen bet all the time? She’d heard several examples of wagers being written in the betting book at White’s that seemed more outrageous than whether or not a young man could be introduced to a woman.

Why, then, was Lord Bromwell so upset? Or was this just another example of the difference between her world and theirs?




Chapter Eight


Nearly had a row with Buggy. Damned uncomfortable. Not as strange as what happened after, though.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

Shifting from foot to foot as if he had an itch, Mr. Edgar stood in the doorway of the inner sanctum, the small chamber where Drury kept his law books and briefs from solicitors.

“Is something the matter?” Drury asked, one brow raised in query.

“Lord Bromwell’s here to see you, sir. He’s, um… he wouldn’t let me take his hat.”

“No doubt he’s in a hurry to get as far from London as possible on the first day of travel,” Drury replied as he got up from his desk and entered the main room.

Buggy was standing by the hearth, dressed in a greatcoat, hat and boots. And he was glowering, an expression rarely seen on his face.

“What the deuce were you thinking? Or did you even think at all?” he demanded, his whole body quivering with righteous indignation.

Drury couldn’t be more stunned if Buggy had slapped him.

“How you could even think to do such a thing after you nearly ruined Brix and Fanny’s happiness over a bet?” he charged. “How could you involve Miss Bergerine in a wager? Haven’t you already caused her enough trouble?”

Drury suddenly understood what Buggy was upset about, and wanted to smack himself on the forehead. “Gerrard. I forgot about Gerrard.”

“I daresay you did, but he didn’t forget your bet. He arrived this morning determined to have his introduction.”

Another emotion swamped Drury, but he kept it in check as he went to pour himself a brandy. “I assume he got it?”

“He did!”

“And was he quite charmed by Miss Bergerine? She can be charming if she exerts herself.”

“How dare you?” Buggy cried indignantly. “How can you insult her after what you’ve done? It’s not her fault he came to meet her.” Buggy jabbed a finger at him. “It’s yours! And if she were charming, would you have preferred your supposed cousin be rude? Maybe you would. You’re rude when it suits you.”

Friend or not, Drury didn’t appreciate being berated. He’d endured too much of that in his childhood. “I forgot about the damned wager.”

“That’s no excuse! I thought you’d seen the damage such seemingly silly things can do after you exposed Brix’s bet about never marrying Fanny. It nearly drove them apart forever.”

“This is hardly the same. Gerrard heard of Miss Bergerine from his sister, who had it from the dressmaker I employed. If I’d acted as if the introduction was not to be thought of, what do you think Gerrard, and every other young buck at Thompson’s, would have thought? They would have been even more curious about her. I sought to avoid arousing any further speculation by agreeing to the wager.”

“Did you lose for that reason, too?”

“I did not lose. It was a draw.” Drury held out his hands. “Need I remind you I’m not the man I was? And it so happens, Mr. Gerrard is very good.”

Buggy flushed and finally took off his hat, twisting the brim in his hands.

“I forgot about the wager because last evening,” Drury continued, “before you returned from the Linnean Society, I learned that Miss Bergerine came to London seeking her brother. She’s been told he was murdered in Calais before embarking for London as he’d planned. She hopes that was a terrible mistake and, although it’s probably pointless, she came to London hoping to find him.

“As you know, I have certain associates who can be useful in such matters and, having decided to assist Miss Bergerine in her quest as a further expression of my gratitude, I was anxious to get the search started without delay. Gerrard and the wager completely slipped my mind.”

Buggy tossed his hat onto a table and sat heavily in the nearest chair. “That’s good of you, Drury. I know that sort of search doesn’t come cheaply. I’m sorry I was so angry, but I was completely caught off guard by Gerrard’s visit. And then to think you’d made such a bet… I don’t want to go through anything like that again with you. It was bad enough when it was Brix.”

“I point out that Brix was really in love with Fanny despite his denials, so that wager had more serious consequences. However, I have no such feelings for Miss Bergerine.”

As for how Juliette felt about him… He preferred not to think about it. Instead, he poured his friend a brandy. Buggy took the proffered glass and downed it in a gulp. He had once said that brandy seemed like slightly flavored water compared to some of the brews he’d imbibed on his travels, and occasionally proved that must be true.

Drury would have preferred to let the matter drop without any more comment, but there was one question he felt compelled to ask. “Was Miss Bergerine upset?”

Buggy undid the top buttons of his coat. “She was a little surprised, although quite polite to Mr. Gerrard.”

“She wasn’t angry? I can easily imagine her flying into a temper. Heaven only knows what rumors would race about Almack’s or White’s about her then.”

He wondered what rumors might already be spreading about her.

“Actually, she was very friendly.”

Drury was sorry he hadn’t used that nasty little maneuver Thompson had taught him when he had the chance. Then Gerrard wouldn’t be intruding and demanding introductions.

“I should be on my way,” Buggy said, rising. “I’ve kept my carriage waiting long enough.”

Drury nodded a farewell. “Have a safe journey and I hope Lord Dentonbarry is generous.”

Buggy inclined his head in return. “Try to be kind to Miss Bergerine, Cicero. She’s a remarkably intelligent, resilient young woman.”

“I appreciate Miss Bergerine’s merits,” Drury replied, although perhaps not quite the same way Buggy did.

Unless she had kissed him, too.

“Then act like it. You can start by telling her you’re sorry,” Buggy said, leaving that parting shot to bother Drury until he could no longer concentrate on the case he would soon be defending.

Because Buggy had a point.

Later that afternoon, Drury walked into the small conservatory at the back of Buggy’s town house. The large windows allowed in plenty of light and a host of plants, several of which had come back to England with the young naturalist, thrived there even in winter.

Although he’d never asked, he’d often wondered if Buggy had brought back exotic species of spiders to go with the plants. Today, however, seeing Juliette sitting on a little wrought-iron chair near some huge, palmlike monstrosity of a fern, he forgot all about Buggy’s plants and his area of expertise.

In a gown of soft blue fabric, her thick, shining hair with a blue ribbon running through it coiled about her head, Juliette looked like a nymph or dryad sitting quietly among the vegetation—until it occurred to him, from the way she held her head in her hand, one elbow on the chair’s arm, that she also looked sad and lonely.

As he had felt so many times, before the war and after.

For her sake, he hoped she was right and her brother was alive. He also hoped that he could help her find him. There could never be anything lasting between them—their worlds were far too different—but he would feel finding her brother as excellent an accomplishment as saving an innocent from hanging or transportation.

Although he’d been quiet, Juliette must have heard him. She lifted her head and regarded him with those bright, questioning brown eyes.

He, who could so often predict what a man or woman might say in the witness box, who could read volumes in the movement of a hand or blink of an eye, had no idea what she was thinking. She was as inscrutable as he always tried to be.

He decided to waste no time, so got directly to the point.

“I’m sorry about the wager, Miss Bergerine, and I regret causing you any discomfort. I assure you, it will not be repeated.”

“Lord Bromwell was very upset with you,” she said.

Why had she mentioned Buggy? Drury still couldn’t decipher anything from her expression or her tone of voice. “Yes, I know. He came to see me in my chambers before he left for Newcastle and made that very clear.”

“So now you apologize.”

He couldn’t really claim that he would have apologized to her anyway. “So I have.” In for a penny, in for a pound. “I’m also sorry I wasn’t here to make the introduction. It wasn’t my intention to leave that to Buggy. I went to see a man who’s going to Calais for us. I worked with Sam Clark during the war. He’s from Cornwall, and his family have been involved with smugglers for years, so he has a lot of friends on the docks there. If anyone can find out if that really was your brother in that alley, or if he boarded a boat for England, Sam can.”

She rose and came closer, and as she did, he wondered why he had failed to notice how graceful she was.

“In that case, all is forgiven,” she said. “Besides, Monsieur Gerrard is a nice young man. I did not mind being introduced to him.”

Allan Gerrard was a forward, overreaching young man, and Drury didn’t care to discuss him.

Juliette lifted a spade-shaped leaf belonging to a plant he couldn’t identify, although Buggy surely could. Buggy, who obviously liked her a great deal.

She ran her fingertip along the leaf’s spine, then its edges. “The men who attacked us—they still have not been found?”

Drury tore his gaze from her lovely fingers and clasped his hands behind his back. “London is a large city, with many places to hide. Such a search can take time, even for MacDougal and his men, and the Runners, too.”

She strolled past him, her hand brushing another plant. “So we shall have to enjoy Lord Bromwell’s hospitality a little longer.”

“Yes.”

She turned to face him. Women were often intimidated by him, or intrigued; rarely did they regard him as if they had something serious to discuss. “Have you ever thought, Sir Douglas, that the people who attacked us might have been hired by a woman? One of your former lovers, perhaps?”

No, he had not, because it was ridiculous. “I highly doubt that. My lovers have all been noblewomen—married noblewomen who have already provided their husbands with an heir, and who have had other affairs. I’ve not ruined any happy homes, imposed my child in place of a true heir of the blood, or seduced innocent girls. And all the women whose beds I’ve shared have understood that ours was a temporary pairing, nothing more. I can’t think of one who would be jealous enough or foolish enough to hire ruffians to attack us.”

Juliette continued to regard him those shrewd, unnerving brown eyes. “You sound very certain.”

“I am.”

“Perhaps you are right, but such women also have great pride, and a woman’s pride can be wounded just like any man’s. I can easily believe such a one could be so mad with jealousy she would want to hurt you. That she would be so angry you ended your liaison with her, she wouldn’t hesitate to do you harm, or hire a man to do so. And she would despise the woman she believes took her place in your bed.”

“They all understand the way of the world,” he argued. “Ladies do not commission murder, and certainly not over the end of a love affair.”

Juliette’s eyes widened with genuine surprise. “You believe that because they are rich and noble they are not capable of jealousy, or anger when an affair is ended? That they are finer, more noble creatures than men? If so, you should work for a Bond Street modiste. You would soon see that these ladies, for all their birth and finery and good manners, are capable of great spite and maliciousness. Some take huge delight in doing harm.”

“With words, which is a far different thing from planning murder.”

And far, far different from delivering the fatal blow oneself, as he had.

He forced those memories back into the past where they belonged, to focus on the present and Juliette, who was shaking her head as if he were pathetically stupid.

“A jealous or neglected or thwarted woman may be capable of anything, whether to try to win back her beloved, or to punish him. If you think otherwise, you are truly naive.”

Nobody had ever called Sir Douglas Drury naive, and after what he’d seen of human nature in his youth and childhood, during the war and at the bench, he truly didn’t think he was, whether about women or anything else. “None of my lovers would do such a thing.”

“Then you are to be commended for choosing wisely. Or else they didn’t love you enough to be jealous.”

He had to laugh at that. “I know they did not, as I did not love them.”

Juliette’s brows drew together, making a wrinkle between them, as she tilted her head and asked, “Has anybody ever loved you?”

Her question hit him hard, and there was no way in hell he was going to answer it. She was too insolent, too prying, and it made no difference to the situation.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” she persisted, undaunted by his scowling silence. “Have you never been jealous?”

Up until a few days ago, he would have answered unequivocally no to both questions—until he’d been saved by an infuriating, prying, frustrating, arousing, exciting Frenchwoman with a basket of potatoes.

Nevertheless, he wasn’t about to answer her question. “Whether or not my love has been given or received is none of your business, Miss Bergerine.”

“If I had not been attacked because of you, I would agree that your affairs are none of mine,” she agreed. “But I was, and if you are an expert in the courtroom, you are obviously not an expert on love. Nor can you see into a person’s heart.

“I find it easy to believe that whatever you may have thought of your affair or her feelings, at least one of your amours has loved you passionately, certainly enough to be fiercely jealous and wish to do you harm. If she thinks I have taken her place, she would want me dead, too. And a rich woman usually gets what she wants.”

This was ludicrous. He would know if any of his lovers bore him such animosity. “Fortunately, I can see into a person’s heart, Miss Bergerine, or as good as. That’s why I’m so adept at my profession. That’s why I always win. So I am quite confident none of my former lovers is involved in these attacks.”

“If you are so good at reading the human heart, monsieur le barrister, what am I thinking now?”

Damn stupid question.

Except… what was she thinking? And was it about him, or another man? Buggy? Allan Gerrard? Gad, she might be thinking about Millstone for all Drury could tell. He’d never met anyone more obtuse.

Yet there were other times when her emotions were written on her face as plainly as words on a page. Was it any wonder she was the most infuriating, fascinating woman he’d ever met?

“Well, Sir Douglas? What am I thinking?” she repeated.

He guessed. He was good at guessing—making assumptions on the merest shred of evidence and pressing until the full truth was revealed, even if it wasn’t always exactly what he thought it would be. “I think you’re very pleased with yourself, because you think you understand women better than I.”

He remembered the way she’d stroked that leaf and noted the little flush coloring her soft cheeks. And because she seemed to want to tear his secrets from him, he would not hold back. “I think you’re feeling desire, too—a desire you don’t want to acknowledge.”

Juliette laughed. Juliette Bergerine, a Frenchwoman in England with hardly a penny to her name, laughed in Sir Douglas Drury’s face.

“You are only guessing, monsieur le barrister,” she chided, “and you are wrong. While I cannot deny you have a certain appeal, you are not the sort of man who arouses my passion.”

He had felt the sting of rejection before. He knew it well and intimately. When he was a child, and even during her fatal illness, his mother had often sent him away. Although his late father had inherited a considerable fortune, he always claimed to have business to attend to. Drury had suspected that had often been an excuse to avoid both his wife and his son, whom he seemed to consider no more than an additional nuisance. Neither one of his parents had possessed the devotion or temperament for parenthood. Over time, Drury had come to believe he was immune to such barbs, only to discover here and now that he was not.

“So you see, you could be just as wrong about your lovers,” she continued, speaking with decisive confidence, oblivious to the pain she’d caused. “Therefore, Sir Douglas, I believe we must not hide and wait and hope our enemy will show herself. We must force her to take action. I should not remain cloistered here. I must go out and about—and you must tell everyone we are to be married. For if there is one thing that will drive a rejected lover to distraction, it will be the notion that her usurper has achieved the greatest prize of all, a wedding ring.”

Drury could think of a thousand things wrong with that idea—well, two, but they were vital. “People have been told you’re my cousin.”

“So? Do cousins not marry in this country?”

Gad. “And if this does tempt our enemy to act—provided the same person is responsible for both attacks—you will be in danger.”

“These men you hire, this MacDougal person—could they not protect us and capture our enemy if we are attacked again?”

“It’s too risky.”

“But we must do something. The search does not progress, and I do not want to impose upon Lord Bromwell for much longer.”

She was worried about imposing on Buggy? “He can afford it.”

“Then you wish to continue this charade? What if it is weeks, or months?”

Weeks or months of returning to a comfortable house with Juliette waiting, sitting by the hearth with her bright eyes and busy fingers, her vibrant presence like a flame to warm him.

He must be losing his mind. Too many hours alone in that cell, waiting to be killed. Or perhaps he’d caught some tropical disease from one of the plants or specimens Buggy was always showing him. Or that blow to the head had been worse than he’d thought, because the vivacious Juliette, with her outrageous ideas, would never bring him the serenity he sought.

Indeed, life with her would never be placid.

She regarded him steadily, her mind quite clearly made up. “I have no wish to live forever in a gilded cage. I have always had work to occupy my time, even if it was not always pleasant. My room was terrible—that I know. But it was mine. Here, I am like one of Lord Bromwell’s spiders, trapped in a jar. The jar may be clean, it may be safer than the jungle, but the spider soon dies for want of fresh air.”

So she should go. Be free and leave him. “If you wish to go, I’ll arrange for your protection for as long as you feel it necessary.”

“I am not so ungrateful as that!” she exclaimed. At last her steadfast gaze faltered and her voice became a little less assured. “I could not depart thinking you were still in danger when I can help you flush out your enemy.”

Was he supposed to believe she cared about him? After everything she’d said to him? “Proclaiming we are to be married is a foolish, dangerous idea. It’s also useless, because no former lover of mine is out to kill us. However, if you chafe at this life, you are free to go as soon as I’ve arranged protection for you.”

Her expression unmistakably stubborn, Juliette threw herself onto another wrought-iron chair. “Non,” she said, crossing her arms. “I am not your guest. I am Lord Bromwell’s, and he has told me I may stay. So voilà, I stay.”

“The hell you will!” Gad, she was infuriating! “As for saying we’re engaged—”

The sound of a throat being cleared interrupted him. Millstone stood at the door of the conservatory, his face scarlet. “If you please, Sir Douglas, the dressmaker has arrived with the garments for Miss Bergerine. She’s waiting in the morning room.”

“Oh, how delightful!” Juliette cried, jumping up as if everything was wonderful. “And now you will be able to take me to the theater, and Vauxhall, and all the other places in London I have heard about. Is it any wonder I agreed to marry you, my darling, despite your terrible temper?”

Millstone’s eyes looked about to drop right out of his head.

“You weren’t supposed to say anything,” Drury growled through clenched teeth, as furious and frustrated as he’d ever been in his life.

“Oh!” she gasped, her remorse patently false as she covered her mouth her fingertips. “Forgive me! But I am so happy!”

And then she gave him a hearty smack full on the lips before taking his hand and pulling him toward the door.

The little minx!

“Not a word to anyone about this, Millstone,” Drury commanded as she dragged him away.

“Until we give you leave,” Juliette said with a joyous giggle, as if their secret engagement would soon be common knowledge.

She might feel like a spider in a jar, but he was the one caught in her web.

“Oh, Madame de Malanche, how happy I am to see you!” Juliette cried as they entered the morning room, a very pretty chamber used by the Countess of Granshire, Buggy’s mother, when she wished to write her correspondence or entertain her friends. The walls were papered with a bucolic scene, and the furniture was slender and delicate. Even the writing desk in the corner looked as if it would shatter if someone leaned on it.

Right now, there were piles of boxes on the light blue damask sofa, the chairs and every side table.

“Miss Bergerine!” the modiste replied. “You look radiant today.”

“Because I am so happy!” Juliette slid the captive Drury a coy, delighted smile.

He wanted nothing more than to escape, but he didn’t dare leave Juliette alone with this gossipy woman wearing a dress of the most startling, eye-popping shade of yellow he’d ever seen. Looking at her was like staring at the sun, and just as likely to give him a headache.

“My cousin is delighted with her new wardrobe,” he said, cutting off the voluble modiste before she could say a word. “Juliette, ring the bell for your maid while I pay madame.”

“Of course, my love. But first, madame, I would like to ask you to make my wedding dress.”

Madame de Malanche’s hazel eyes grew nearly as bright as her dress. “You’re getting married? You and Sir Douglas?”

“Juliette, ring the bell!” Drury ordered, glowering.

“Oh, he is such a shy fellow!” she cried, clapping her hands as if amused and charmed. “That is why I love him so!”

“Juliette,” he warned.

Instead of going to ring the bell, however, she ran up to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Am I not the luckiest woman in England?”

Damn her! Did she think she could control this situation? Control him? He’d show her how wrong she was.

“As I am the most fortunate of men,” he said in a low, husky whisper reserved for his lovers alone.

Then he took her in his arms and kissed her as if they were already married and this was their wedding night.




Chapter Nine


So now the ton is under the impression I’m engaged to be married. What a mess. Or I suppose Buggy would liken it to a tangled web. And I’m a fly.

—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury

Drury felt Juliette stiffen in his arms and told himself that was good—until she began to kiss him back with even more fervor.

Did she think she was going to win this duel? Did she believe he was a slave to any of his emotions?

Determined to prove otherwise, he shifted and used his tongue to gently part her lips.

As their kiss deepened, she ran her hands up his back and entwined her fingers in his hair.

Oh, God help him, she was the most arousing—

“Ahem!”

He’d forgotten the damned dressmaker. Just as well she was there and interfering; otherwise…

He was determined not to contemplate otherwise as he drew back.

Juliette looked a little… dazed. As for how he felt… He would ignore that, too.

“Call the maid, my love,” he said huskily, “and go with her to put these things away, or I fear we may upset Madame de Malanche with another unseemly demonstration of our mutual affection.”

He fixed his steadfast, steely gaze on the modiste. “I hope we can count on you to keep this information to yourself, madame, until we’ve made a formal announcement. If you cannot be discreet, Miss Bergerine may have to take her business elsewhere.”

“You may count on my discretion, absolutely!” Madame de Malanche exclaimed. “Although you must allow me to wish you joy.”

“Thank you,” Drury replied. Despite her assurance, he feared the dressmaker would never be able to keep what she had seen and heard a secret. Nevertheless, he had to try.

“Ring for the maid, Juliette,” he repeated, and this time she finally did.

As soon as Drury could get away, he headed for Boodle’s. He needed a drink and he needed to get away from women, as well as his own tumultuous thoughts, for a while.

He should have told Madame de Malanche he was not engaged to Juliette, and he really never should have kissed her.

Especially like that.

What the devil was the matter with him? he wondered as he entered the bastion of country squires come to Town. Unlike White’s or Brooks’s, Boodle’s was favored by men more down-to-earth than most of the aristocrats who frequented the other gentlemen’s clubs. That was why Drury preferred it. He’d also avoided White’s ever since he’d written down the infamous wager between Brix and Fanny in the betting book there. Brix, however, never seemed troubled by the association and claimed Boodle’s appealed to the duller members of the gentry.

Therefore Drury was duly surprised to find his friend lounging on a leather sofa in the main salon, long legs stretched out, drink in hand. Unlike most of the patrons of the club, he wasn’t gambling. Neither was he foxed.

Brix held up a glass nearly full of red wine and gave his friend a wry grin. “Greetings, Cicero! I’ve been hoping you’d appear.”

Mystified by his friend’s presence, Drury feared the worst. “Have you quarreled with Fanny?”

“Good God, no!” he cried, straightening. “We don’t quarrel anymore… well, not often, and usually about completely unimportant matters until we forget why we’re quarreling, and kiss and make up. It’s quite stimulating, actually. You should marry and try it.”

“I am not the domestic sort,” Drury said, wondering how he was going to explain Juliette’s harebrained plan to his friends, and even more disturbed about what the ton would make of it, provided anyone other than Madame de Malanche would believe it.

Likely they wouldn’t, he realized with… relief. Of course relief. What else should he feel?

“Really, why are you here?” he asked his friend again.

“My esteemed father and elder brother are in Town and they requested a convivial meeting to celebrate my happy news,” Brix replied with another grin. “They’re delighted I’ve not only done my duty and married at last—to a damn fine gel, as Father so charmingly puts it—but have already proved capable of carrying on the family name.”

Brix’s relationship with his father and brother had never been the best, so Drury didn’t begrudge his friend the slightly sarcastic tone. Then Brix, being Brix, winked. “I can think of much more onerous duties, I assure you. And since I was here anyway, I thought I’d wait a while and see if you put in an appearance—and here you are!”

“Yes, here I am.”

Brix wasn’t completely insensitive to the subtleties of his friend’s tone and he sobered at once. “More trouble? Not another attack, I hope?”

“No, although I believe Miss Bergerine is of the opinion that another attack would be a beneficial occurrence.”

Brix looked justifiably confused. “Beneficial? How?”

“She’s decided the attacks are the work of a jealous former lover of mine, a jilted amour paying to have us killed. She believes we should attempt to flush out my enemy by claiming to be engaged and going about together in public.”

For a moment, Brix sat in stunned silence—but only for a moment. “Gad, I never thought of that, but I damn well should have. I would gladly have run you through when I saw you kissing Fanny.”

Drury had hoped Brix had forgotten about that. “That was intended only to encourage you to finally voice your feelings,” he said. He hurried on to the more important point. “My lovers all knew the terms of our relationship. I seriously doubt any of them would ever go so far as to—”

“I can believe it,” Brix interrupted. “I think it’s a brilliant explanation, especially for the attack on Miss Bergerine. The question is, which of your lovers would be capable of such a thing? There’ve been… how many?”

It was not Drury’s practice to discuss his liaisons, not even with his closest friends. “A few” was the only answer he would give.

Nor was he willing to concede that Juliette could be right. “I highly doubt that any one of them would be so malicious or have any idea how to find men to do the deed if she were inclined to have me killed.”

“I think you underestimate the fairer sex,” Brix replied, “as much as you underestimate your appeal to women.”

“I’m a barrister, Brix. I know all about crimes of passion.”

“Then why do you find it so difficult to credit Miss Bergerine’s idea?” Brix demanded. “Is it because it’s hers?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’m not willing to entertain the notion, it’s because I know the women with whom I’ve been intimate. She does not.”

“All right. Let’s say it’s not a former lover, but another person who wants you—and Miss Bergerine—dead. After all your triumphs in court, you surely have scores of enemies, any one of whom might hire a gang of ruffians to kill you. They might even decide to harm you through a woman they believe is your mistress. It’s still a good idea to flush them out. Otherwise, how long are you willing to wait for them to make the next move? I think you should do as Miss Bergerine suggests and bring them to you. You’ll be ready, and MacDougal’s got men you can hire to guard you and catch them if they strike.

“And what about Miss Bergerine?” he continued. “How long before you decide the danger’s past and she can safely return to her home? She can’t live with Buggy indefinitely. I don’t think he’d mind, but it is a bit of an imposition, and he hopes to sail next spring.”

“She’s not ‘living with Buggy.’ She’s a guest.”

“Call it what you will, the Runners aren’t having any luck finding out who attacked you, and neither are those other men you’ve hired. What else can you do? Or am I wrong, and you’re quite content with the situation?”

Drury sighed, defeated. “No, I am not. So congratulate me, Brix, and wish me every happiness with my lively French bride.”

Brix did, and not only that, he stood a round of drinks for the entire club, merrily announcing the reason for his generosity.

After Drury had accepted good wishes from several half-foxed patrons, Brix drew him aside, grinning like a jester. “Fanny and I are going to see Macbeth in Covent Garden tonight. You and Miss Bergerine should join us. That would really set the cat among the pigeons of the ton.”

As disgruntled as he was, Drury had started out on the path, so he was resolved to see it through to the end. “Very well, we shall. And thank you, although I daresay this news will be all over Town before we even get to the theater.”

Brix laughed. “I daresay you’re right.”

And he was.

“So then the little rascal says to me, as solemn as can be…” Mrs. Tunbarrow paused in her reminiscing, nodding her lace-capped, white-haired head at Juliette. “‘There’s things a lot more frightening than spiders, Mrs. T.’ That’s what he called me—Mrs. T. He couldn’t say Tunbarrow when he was a mite.”

Juliette smiled at the story about Lord Bromwell as she sewed the hem of an apron.

Impressed with her stitching and, Juliette suspected, happy to have an audience, Mrs. Tunbarrow had invited her to come sew with her in the housekeeper’s sitting room. The whitewashed walls and simple furnishings certainly made this room more comfortable and cozy than Lord Bromwell’s formal drawing room. It was almost like the farmhouse back home.

At first, she had thought Mrs. Tunbarrow might say something about the supposed engagement, but it seemed Millstone had followed Sir Douglas’s orders and kept quiet. She had been tempted to mention it, but had not, wary of pushing Sir Douglas too far, and in spite of that tempestuous kiss. Better she be patient and cajole him into seeing the merit of her plan than do anything more to force him to accept it.

As for Mrs. Tunbarrow, she seemed to have accepted her presence with good grace. Or perhaps the woman had such a high opinion of Lord Bromwell, she believed any guest of his was worthy of respect and approval. Yet Juliette couldn’t help wondering if Mrs. Tunbarrow, plump and motherly though she was, would treat her differently if she knew this particular guest was a poor French seamstress and not the cousin of Lord Bromwell’s friend.

In spite of that worry, she felt safer here. Sir Douglas surely wouldn’t think of looking for her in the housekeeper’s sitting room. If he did come looking for her.

If he returned at all. He’d been so angry after what she’d done. She’d felt it in his kiss, at least at first. After a few moments, though…

She was being ridiculous. He’d been furious and had departed as soon as he could, announcing he was going to his club.

Yet he hadn’t denied their engagement, as she’d feared he might. If anything, that kiss would serve to confirm it, which must mean he was going along with her plan. For now. She hoped. Because something had to change.

A prickling sensation began at the back of her neck, as if she was being watched. She half turned and discovered Sir Douglas in the doorway.

How long had he been standing there with his hands behind his back, observing them?

“Good day, Sir Douglas,” she said warily.

Mrs. Tunbarrow hastily grabbed the apron from Juliette’s lap, regardless of the needle and thread trailing from it. “We were just having a bit of a visit,” she said, as if she feared Sir Douglas would complain.

“I don’t mind if Juliette wants to sew,” he replied. “Indeed, you make a very pretty tableau.”

He had called her Juliette, and in front to the housekeeper. Well, why not? Were they not supposed to be cousins?

He came into the room and smiled at Juliette, a warm, tender, incredibly attractive smile that seemed genuinely sincere.

“I’ve decided you’re quite right, my dear,” he said, his voice also warm and tender. “There’s no need to keep our engagement a secret.”

He had seen the wisdom of her plan?

Sir Douglas held out a box covered in dark blue velvet. “Brix and Fanny have invited us to the theater tonight. I’d like you to wear this.”

Juliette took the box and opened it with trembling fingers. A necklace was inside, made of sparkling diamonds bright as stars in the night sky. It was the most exquisite thing she’d ever seen—and the most expensive.

Her gaze darted to his face. “You wish me to wear this?”

“I insist,” he said, taking her hand in his and kissing it lightly. Delicately. Yet it sent what seemed like bolts of lightning through her.

As Mrs. Tunbarrow stared speechlessly, Juliette swallowed hard and forced herself to look at the necklace while he continued to hold her hand. “It is so lovely.”

“Let me put it on you,” he murmured, taking the box and setting it on the table. He removed the necklace and stepped behind her, laying it around her neck.

Feeling as if she was in an even more amazing dream, she lightly brushed it with her fingers as he worked the clasp.

Then he gave a sigh of frustration, his breath warm on the nape of her neck. “Mrs. Tunbarrow, will you fasten this for me?”

The housekeeper started, as if suddenly waking up. “Engaged! The two of you—engaged! Does Justy know?”

Justy? Did she mean Lord Bromwell?

“I intend to tell Lord Bromwell when he returns,” Sir Douglas calmly replied. “I had hoped to keep our betrothal quiet until a formal announcement.”

“Well!” Mrs. Tunbarrow cried indignantly, hoisting herself to her feet and letting the aprons tumble from her lap. “Well! This is a pretty business, I must say! Keeping secrets like that! From everybody!”

She marched to the door as Juliette set the beautiful necklace back in its box, suspecting she would never be invited to the housekeeper’s room again.

Mrs. Tunbarrow whirled around on the threshold and, hands on her ample hips, glared at them. “A fine friend you are, I must say, Sir Douglas Drury, breaking that poor boy’s heart!”

Then, with a huff, she marched away, her footsteps loud on the tiles.

“She obviously believes Buggy has an interest in you that has been thwarted,” Sir Douglas observed with that aggravating calm, while Juliette felt as if she’d stepped into something she shouldn’t.

“I hope with all my heart that she’s wrong,” she said quietly.

“You do? He is a peer of the realm,” Sir Douglas replied as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black riding coat. “There would be many women who would envy you.”

“I do not want a lover,” she said, moving to stand behind the chair. That seemed necessary… somehow. “He would never marry a woman like me.”

Sir Douglas neither frowned nor smiled. His expression was completely noncommittal. “Buggy’s not the sort of man to pay much heed to public opinion, or his parents’, either. If he wants to marry, I’m sure he won’t let anyone stand in his way.”

“If he loved me, neither would I,” she replied, “but he would have to love me with all his heart. I am not ignorant of the world, Sir Douglas. I know he would be shunned by his friends, his family and all of society. It would be the two of us alone, and only the deepest, most devoted and passionate love would ensure that he didn’t come to regret marrying a girl like me.”

“You don’t think Buggy could love you that much?”

She thought of Lord Bromwell’s friendly manner—but it was just that. Friendly. There was no hint of yearning, no hidden passion in his eyes when he looked at her. “Non. He is kind and affectionate, but he does not desire me. I’m sure he thinks of me as a friend, and no more.”

Sir Douglas turned away and strolled toward the side of the room and a shelf holding some small papier-mâché dogs. “Perhaps you should enlighten Mrs. Tunbarrow on that point,” he remarked as he studied them.

“I shall. And you must tell Lord Bromwell of our plan to pretend that we are engaged.”

He continued to examine the rather garish knick-knacks. “Easily done. It won’t be easy for you, though, returning to your old life when this situation is resolved.”

“I think I shall not.”

He slowly turned on his heel to regard her. “No?”

She saw no reason not to tell him of the plans she’d been making while she sewed. “The clothes you purchased for me—they are mine to do with as I please, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“Then I shall sell them, and take the money and go back to France. I shall become a modiste.”

He picked up the apron she had been working on and put it on the chair. “I am no expert on such matters, but I believe you sew very well and your taste is exquisite—certainly better than Madame de Malanche’s. I’m sure you would be a great success.”

She was flattered and pleased, but disappointed, too, although there was no reason she should be.

“How much money would it require to set up a shop?”

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly, glancing at the velvet box. Probably a fraction of what that necklace was worth. “I could work from my lodgings at first, until I have a clientele and enough money to rent a separate establishment.”

“That could take years.”

She didn’t disagree.

“I believe it would be a sound investment to loan you the funds to set up your shop in Paris, or anywhere else you choose.”

He spoke calmly, dispassionately, as if his offer was nothing—but it was everything to her. The only thing that could make her happier would be if Georges were alive.

Yet she tried not to react with too much emotion, since that disturbed him so. “Thank you. I will repay you every penny.”

“I don’t doubt it, or I wouldn’t make the offer.” His lips turned down slightly. “There’s no more obligation to me than if I loaned my money to any other friend.”





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