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“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?
