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He said nothing more, and neither did she, but sewed on in silence until she finished the last few stitches of the final napkin. As she reached for the small scissors to cut the thread, he closed the book with a snap.
“What are you doing in London, Miss Bergerine?” he demanded, his question just as loud and unexpected.
“Why should I not be in London?” she retorted. “Is it forbidden for a young woman to travel here if she is French?”
“It’s damned unusual.”
He sounded very angry, but she would stay calm. And why not tell him? She was not ashamed of her reason. “I came here looking for my brother, Georges.”
There was a long moment of silence before Sir Douglas answered, and his intense gaze became a little less annoyed. “I assume you haven’t been successful.”
“Regrettably, non.”
Another long pause followed, during which she refused to look away from his now inscrutable face.
Eventually he spoke again, slowly, as if weighing every word. “I have certain resources, Miss Bergerine, the same ones I’m using to try to find the men who attacked us. I shall ask them to include locating your brother in their efforts, as a further expression of my gratitude for saving my life.”
She could only stare at him, not willing to believe he would be so generous. “You would do that for me?”
He inclined his head.
Despite her reservations about accepting a gift from such a man, relief filled her. She had been so long alone in her search.
And then came renewed hope, vibrant and bright, like a torch suddenly kindled in the darkness.
Overwhelmed by her feelings, she threw herself on her knees in front of him, and reached for his hand and pressed her lips upon the back of it. “Merci! Merci beaucoup!”
He tugged his hand away as if her lips were poison and got to his feet. “There is no need for such a melodramatic demonstration.”
It was like a slap to her face. Abashed, but resolved not to show how he had hurt her, she rose with all the dignity she could muster. “I am sorry if my gratitude offends you, but you cannot know what this means to me.”
Sir Douglas strode to the hearth, then turned back, his hands clasped behind him, his expression unreadable. “No doubt I do not. Now please describe your brother so that I may tell my associates.”
It was to be a business transaction then. Very well. “He does not much resemble me,” she began. “He is taller than I, about six feet, with brown hair that is straight, like a poker. His eyes are blue, and he is thin.”
“Do you have any idea in what part of London they should begin their search?”
“No. The last news I had of him was from Calais. He wrote that he was coming to London, but he didn’t mention any particular part, or if he was meeting anyone.”
“He hasn’t written to you from here?”
“No.” She looked away, for what she had to tell Sir Douglas next was difficult to say, and it would be easier without his dark eyes watching at her. “His last letter was forwarded by a priest in Calais to Father Simon in our village.”
She took a moment to gather her strength, to be calm, before continuing. “This priest wrote to Father Simon saying that Georges had been killed, found stabbed to death in an alley. A letter to me was in his pocket.”
She looked up at the barrister, whose expression had not changed. “You are probably wondering why I do not believe that my brother is dead. A part of me thinks I should, that I must accept that Georges is gone, like Papa and Marcel. But I didn’t see Georges’s body and the priest who wrote the letter didn’t describe it. He simply accepted that the letter found on the dead man belonged to him, so that man must be Georges. But what if he was wrong? Perhaps Georges was robbed of money and the letter, too, and it was the thief who was killed.
“So I went to Calais. The priest who wrote the letter had died of an illness before I got there, and nobody remembered much about the man in the alley, except that he had been robbed and stabbed.”
“So you came to London hoping your brother was alive and somewhere in the city based on his last letter to you?”
“Oui. A fool’s errand, perhaps,” she said, voicing the doubts that sometimes assailed her, “but I must search and hope.”
Or else I am alone.
“Your quest may prove to be futile,” Sir Douglas replied, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle, “yet I cannot fault you for trying. No one should be all alone in the world.”
“No one,” she agreed in a whisper, regarding the man before her who, even with his friends, always seemed somehow alone.
“Sir Douglas, Miss Bergerine,” Millstone intoned from the threshold of the drawing room, interrupting the rapprochement they’d achieved, “dinner is served.”
Well after midnight, Drury stood by a tall window in his bedroom and raised his hands to examine them in the moonlight. Although he generally avoided looking at them, he knew every crooked bend, every poorly mended bit.
He remembered the breaking of each one, the pain, the agony, knowing that nothing would be done to set them and repair the damage. That when his tormentor was finished with him, he would be killed, his body either burned or thrown away like so much refuse.
He remembered the flickering flames casting light and shadows on the faces of the men surrounding him. The ones who held him down. The one who did the breaking.
He remembered their voices. The guttural Gascon of one, the whisper of the Parisian, the earthy seaman from Marseilles. The one who wielded the mallet, so calm. So deliberate. So cruel.
With a shuddering breath Drury lowered his hands, splaying them on the sill. Once, he had been proud of his hands. The slender length of his fingers. The strength of them.
He remembered the excitement of brushing their pads, oh, so lightly, over a woman’s naked skin, and the woman’s sighs as he caressed them.
Since his return, he had had lovers. More than one. He was, after all, still Drury, with his dark eyes and deep, seductive voice. He was still famous for his legal abilities, and for other abilities, too.
But never since he had returned to England had a woman deliberately touched his hands. Certainly no woman had kissed them.
Until today.
He was well aware that Juliette Bergerine had done so in the first flush of gratitude. No doubt if she’d had time to think, she wouldn’t have done it.
But she had.
She had.
She believed him ungrateful, and he had been, that first day. She thought him arrogant, too.
She had no idea how that kiss had humbled him, and the gratitude that had welled up within him at the touch of her lips on his naked flesh.
She would never know.
Yet he would reward her for a kiss that was worth more than gold to him. If her brother lived, he would do all he could to find him.
Starting at first light.
Juliette wanted to move, but she couldn’t. It was dark, as if she were in a cave, and she was wrapped up like a mummy, her arms held to her sides. Turning her head from side to side, she realized she was caught in something—a spider’s web, sticky and soft. Everything else around her was dark.
“You can’t have him.”
A woman’s voice. Not kind and gentle. Harsh, triumphant, mocking.
“He’s mine. I have only to say one word, and he will be mine forever.”
Lady Fanny’s voice, distorted. Ugly. “Did you think he could ever really care for you, you French trollop? Do you think I don’t see how you secretly desire him, a man so far above you in rank, education and wealth? Do you think you could ever take my place in his heart?”
“Non!” Juliette protested, struggling to get free. Determined to get free. “He doesn’t love you. He told me so.”
The high-pitched laugh came out of the impenetrable dark. “And you believed him? You believe everything he says? Oh, my dear, he lies. He tells lies all the time, to you, to himself, to everyone.”
“He does not love you!”
“He doesn’t love you, either. He never will. He will use you and cast you aside. He does the same to all his women. Why should you be different?”
Juliette twisted and turned, fighting harder to get free. “Then he would cast you aside, too.”
“I wouldn’t let him. I would kill him before I let him go.”
Suddenly, light flared in the darkness and Juliette saw that she was not alone. His head bowed as if he was unconscious, like that first night, Sir Douglas hung on a cavern wall wet with moisture. He was encased in another web, the filaments spreading out like an angel’s wings while that terrible, cruel feminine laugh filled her ears.…
Juliette woke up, panting and sweating. It had been a nightmare. Another nightmare. Not of Gaston LaRoche in the barn this time, but of a demonic Lady Fanny who wanted Sir Douglas for herself. Who would kill him if she couldn’t have him.
“Did I wake you, miss? I didn’t mean to,” Polly said as she crossed the room to open the drapes.
Trying to sit up, Juliette discovered the sheets and coverlet were wrapped tightly around her, just like the spider’s web in the dream.
“I’ve lit a fire to take the chill off, and there’s hot water to wash,” Polly said, nodding at the jug and linen on the washstand. “It looks to be a lovely morning, miss.”
The window Polly opened brought a breeze and the slight scent of damp earth and leaves.
Juliette lay still and closed her eyes, wishing she was in the country. How long had it been since she’d walked past open fields, with cows grazing, occasionally lifting their heads to look at her with their large, gentle eyes? What she would not give for a walk in the open air, far away from London and Sir Douglas Drury, and the woman who sought to harm them both.…
Woman? It had been men who had attacked them.
Men could be paid.
Paid by a woman who was angry with a former lover? Who might be spiteful and jealous? Who might be enraged enough to wish to kill the lover who’d left her, as well as a rival for his affection?
Had Juliette not seen and heard enough of women to know that their jealousy could be as strong and fierce as any man’s? And that they were capable of great cruelty and malice?
She immediately got out of bed. “Is Sir Douglas at breakfast?”
“No, miss. He left at the crack o’ dawn. Lord Bromwell’s still in the dining room, though.”
Disappointed that Sir Douglas was not there, Juliette decided she could still tell Lord Bromwell her idea, so she quickly washed and submitted to Polly’s assistance with one of her new gowns. It was a very pretty day dress in bishop’s blue.
“Do you know when Sir Douglas might return?” she asked as Polly hooked the back.
“No, miss. Depends how long he’s at court, I suppose.” The maid sighed and shook her head as her hands worked with swift, deft skill. “I wouldn’t want to be questioned by Sir Douglas Drury in a courtroom, I can tell you—or anywhere else. A right terror in court, they say, although he never raises his voice or does anything theatrical like some of ‘em do. He just stands there as calm as can be and asks his questions in that voice o’ his until pretty soon, they wind up convictin’ themselves. They call him the Court Cat, you know, because even if he isn’t moving, it’s like he’s stalkin’ ‘em. Quiet, and then bang! They’re caught.”
Juliette had no trouble imagining this. “He wins most of the time?”
“He wins all of the time. The best there is at the Old Bailey.”
Once Polly was finished, Juliette left her to tidy the bedroom and walked down the long corridor toward the staircase. As she descended, she passed a footman who dutifully paused and looked at the floor. While she might get used to having somebody dress her hair, she doubted she would ever get used to the way the servants turned away when she passed, as if they were not even worthy to be seen.
She arrived in the dining room and found Lord Bromwell seated at the long table, dressed in plain clothes, reading a book, and with a plate of half-eaten eggs quietly congealing in front of him. Two footmen stood at either end of the long sideboard, where a host of covered dishes rested.
Lord Bromwell glanced up, smiled and rose in greeting. “Good morning, Miss Bergerine!” He frowned. “You look tired.”
“I had a bad dream.”
“How unfortunate! Come, have some tea. It’s just the thing to give you a little vitality. I’d steer clear of the kidneys, though.”
No need to tell her that, Juliette thought, her stomach turning at the thought of that revolting English dish. “Just toast, please,” she said, heading to the sideboard.
“Have a seat and I’ll get it,” the nobleman offered with his usual kindness.
As he set a plate with toasted bread before her, Millstone appeared at the entrance to the paneled room, a silver salver in his hand and something akin to annoyance in his eyes. “I beg your pardon, my lord. There is a gentleman here who refuses to leave, even though I told him you are at breakfast and planning to depart in an hour.”
Juliette hadn’t heard about any journey. “You are leaving?” she asked the young nobleman.
“I have to go to Newcastle for a few days. Lord Dentonbarry may contribute to my expedition, if I can make it clear to him why he should.”
Juliette couldn’t help wondering that herself. After all, what good could spiders do anyone?
Lord Bromwell grinned, looking very youthful despite the wrinkles around his eyes which were neither completely blue nor gray, and the well-fitting morning coat that accentuated his broad shoulders.
“It seems odd to you, I’m sure,” he said. “But all knowledge is useful in some way. And consider the spider’s web, Miss Bergerine. Given its size and weight, the fibres are incredibly strong, yet very flexible. If we could figure out why, it would be very useful knowledge, don’t you agree?”
She had never thought of a spider’s web as useful before. They had always been nuisances, strung across a path, or cobwebs in corners. Or things to frighten her in her dreams.
Millstone cleared his throat. “The visitor, my lord?” he prompted.
“Oh, yes.” Lord Bromwell studied the card. “Mr. Allan Gerrard. I’ve never met the man.” He raised his eyes to Millstone. “What does he want?”
“He wouldn’t say, although apparently, my lord, he was expecting Sir Douglas Drury to be here.”
Lord Bromwell brightened. “Oh, he’s probably come to see Drury,” he said, as if that made everything all right. “Didn’t you tell him Drury’s gone to his chambers?”
Millstone cleared his throat with a delicacy that would have done credit to an elderly maiden aunt. “I did, my lord. He asked when Sir Douglas would be returning, and since I have no idea, I said I didn’t know. Then he asked if your lordship and Miss Bergerine were here.”
It was clear Millstone didn’t approve of the young man, or having to interrupt Lord Bromwell at his breakfast.
Lord Bromwell didn’t seem as concerned about that as confused by the man’s request. “Miss Bergerine?” he repeated.
“Yes, my lord,” the butler replied. “I told him I would inquire if you were at home.”
A wild, hopeful notion burst into Juliette’s head. Perhaps Sir Douglas had asked this man here because he could help find Georges.
