Drury turned and looked at Miss Bergerine standing in the doorway.

She looked very charming wearing a pretty green gown, with a shy expression on her face.

He rose and kissed both of her cheeks.

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

“Good morning,” he said.

“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 to the head.

In spite of his tumultuous feelings, his voice was cool and calm when he spoke. “After your ordeal, I thought it would be easier for the dressmakers to come to you.”

“It is very kind of you, monsieur,” she murmured, looking down as coyly as any well-brought-up young lady.

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

But this affected him. She affected him.

A Lover’s Kiss

Harlequin®Historical

MILLS & BOON

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Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author
MARGARET MOORE

“Margaret Moore knows how to serve up the perfect medieval tale.”

—A Romance Review on Knave’s Honor

“Fans of historicals…will be unable to put Ms. Moore’s story down. The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging, and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.”

—The Romance Readers Connection on

The Notorious Knight

“Filled with fast-paced dialogue and historical details that add depth and authenticity to the story. Readers will be well entertained.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on My Lord’s Desire

“Colorful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.”

—Publishers Weekly on Hers To Command

“Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“An author who consistently knows how to mix just the right amount of passion and pageantry.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms. Moore.”

—Under the Covers

A Lover’s Kiss
MARGARET MOORE

Available from Harlequin®Historical and MARGARET MOORE

*A Warrior’s Heart #118

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*A Warrior’s Quest #175

**The Viking #200

*A Warrior’s Way #224

Vows #248

**The Saxon #268

*The Welshman’s Way #295

*The Norman’s Heart #311

*The Baron’s Quest #328

†The Wastrel #344

†The Dark Duke #364

†The Rogue’s Return #376

The Knights of Christmas #387

“The Twelfth Day of Christmas”

*A Warrior’s Bride #395

*A Warrior’s Honor #420

*A Warrior’s Passion #440

*The Welshman’s Bride #459

*A Warrior’s Kiss #504

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*The Overlord’s Bride #559

*A Warrior’s Lady #623

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Other works include

Harlequin Books

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Lord of Dunkeathe

The Unwilling Bride

Hers To Command

Hers To Desire

My Lord’s Desire

The Notorious Knight

Knave’s Honor

With many thanks to all those who wanted Drury

to get his own story. I’m very grateful

for your support and enthusiasm.

A Lover’s Kiss

is the long-awaited sequel to

Kiss Me Quick

and

Kiss Me Again

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Evangeline Hallowell is determined to catch the dirty, rotten scoundrel who stole her sister’s money. But pretending to be a hard-bitten bounty hunter’s wife means things are bound to go awry….

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##910 POSSESSED BY THE HIGHLANDER—Terri Brisbin

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Author’s Note

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.

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