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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.
Chapter Seven
Didn’t even see her until it was too late. Had no idea she could be so quiet.
—from the journal of Sir Douglas Drury
Juliette didn’t want to see Sir Douglas, and she especially didn’t want to be alone with him in the drawing room. She hadn’t been alone with him since his friends had come to dinner. She hadn’t even spoken to him, unless she hadn’t been able to avoid it.
For an instant, she thought of fleeing, but her lap was covered with her sewing and she would have to pass him to get out of the room.
All she could do was shrink back into the wing chair, grateful it was angled toward the hearth and not the door, and pray he would not come in. Or if he did, perhaps he wouldn’t see her until Millstone came to summon them to dinner, whenever that might be. The meal would wait until Lord Bromwell returned from his many meetings. Apparently planning a scientific expedition required such efforts, even if one was rich.
Then the door opened and she heard Sir Douglas’s familiar tread upon the floor before he got to the carpet.
He stopped. Had he seen her? Had he realized they were alone? What was he thinking if he had?
Who could ever tell what he was thinking?
She was too nervous to sew, so she sat as still as a statue with the napkin on her lap, the sewing basket on the table beside her.
Sir Douglas still hadn’t spoken, and she hadn’t heard him come any closer. Perhaps he’d realized she was there and left the room. It would be rude, but not surprising, and she could only be grateful if he intended to ignore her the whole time she was Lord Bromwell’s guest. Sir Douglas had been ignoring her very well lately—which was just what she wanted after his passionate, insolent kiss.
She got an itch in the middle of her back. A terrible, irritating itch. She was going to have to move, or squirm.
Was he there or not?
She couldn’t wait. She had to scratch. Even so, she moved slowly and cautiously, until she reached the spot.
What was that little noise? It wasn’t from her clothes as she scratched. Curious but wary, she peered around the side of the chair.
Sir Douglas stood at the mahogany table in the center of the room, idly flipping through the pages of an illustrated book about insects that Lord Bromwell had left there.
It was not an easy, simple thing for him. At meals it was obvious his fingers lacked flexibility, and they seemed even more stiff today. Nevertheless, he was smiling as she’d never seen him smile before.
There was no challenge in it, no mockery, no sense of superiority, no hint of seduction. He looked relaxed and amused, far different from the stern, arrogant, ungrateful barrister. Different, too, from the man who had kissed her so passionately.
Was this what he’d been like before the war that had changed so many people?
He glanced up and caught her watching him and his smile disappeared. “Good evening, Miss Bergerine. I didn’t realize you were here. You should have said something.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you,” she replied, attempting to betray nothing of her feelings, whatever they were. “You seemed so interested in Lord Bromwell’s book.”
He shut the tome abruptly, like a little boy caught with illicit sweets in his pockets.
Emboldened by that image, she said, “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Do you like insects, too?”
“Not the way Buggy does,” he replied.
He glanced at the chair opposite her, then picked up the book and started toward it.
The volume began to slip from his fingers. As he tightened his grip, he winced as if in pain, and it tumbled to the floor, hitting the carpet with a dull thud.
Forgetting the napkin, she hurried to pick it up and hand it back to him, only to find herself looking into a pair of cold, dark, angry eyes.
“Thank you,” he growled, and she wondered if he hated being reminded of the limitations of his hands, or if it was because he didn’t like her.
She didn’t care what he thought of her. She was here because he had enemies who were also after her, not because she wished to be.
Picking up the napkin, she resumed her seat and once again began to sew, this time with steady hands. “Have you any news of the men who attacked us?”
“No,” he replied as he sat across from her and opened the book. “What are you doing?”
She glanced up at him, surprised because it was obvious. “Hemming napkins.”
“Surely Buggy didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Non,” she answered, intent on her work even though she was well aware he was watching her instead of looking at his book. “I am not used to having nothing to do and find I do not like to be idle. So I went to the housekeeper and asked her if she had any sewing I could do. In a small way, it gives me a chance to repay Lord Bromwell for letting me stay here—although it is not my fault I must.”
“I apologise for the inconvenience,” Sir Douglas replied, annoyance in his deep voice.
If he was angry, she didn’t care. “Lord Bromwell—why do you call him Buggy? It is not a nice nickname, I think.”
“Because he’s always been fascinated by spiders. When we were at school, he used to keep them in jars by his bed.”
She shivered. She hated the eight-legged creatures. “How unpleasant.”
“It was, rather.”
