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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?