Читать книгу Regency: Rogues and Runaways - Margaret Moore - Страница 11

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

—From The Collected Letters of Lord Bromwell

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

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

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

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

Such as, was Fanny his mistress?

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

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

Unlike his own.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am.”

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

“Then don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As Miss Bergerine could attest.

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

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

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

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

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

“An introduction to your cousin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it a wager then?” Gerrard challenged.

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

“Very well. And if you lose?”

“Whatever you like.”

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

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

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

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

Gerrard recovered quickly and took his stance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll wait in the drawing room.”

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

Sir Douglas Drury had returned.