Читать книгу A Lover's Kiss - Margaret Moore - Страница 11

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.