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—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.”
