Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore
Sir Douglas asked.
She took the money from Lord Bromwell and tucked it into her bodice. “It is enough. Merci.”
“Then, my lord, I believe we’ve taken up enough of this young woman’s time.”
“Farewell, Miss Bergerine, and thank you,” Lord Bromwell said with genuine sincerity. “We’re both grateful for your help. Aren’t we, Drury?”
Sir Douglas looked as if he were anything but grateful. Nevertheless, he addressed her in flawless French. “You have my thanks, mademoiselle. I am in your debt.”
“C’est dommage,” she replied, all the while wondering how his friend put up with him. “Goodbye.”
The moment they were in the hackney, Buggy exploded. “Good God, Drury! Even if she’s French, I expected better from you. Couldn’t you have at least been a little polite?” He struck the roof of the coach with a hard smack. “She could have let you be killed or left you lying in a puddle.”
Drury winced as the vehicle lurched into motion. “Obviously I am not at my best when suffering from a head wound and cracked ribs. I do note that she was well paid for her efforts.”
Buggy leaned back against the squabs with an aggravated sigh. “You’re damn lucky she cared enough to help you. What were you doing in this part of town, anyway?”
“I went for a walk.”
“And got careless.”
“I was thinking.”
“And not paying any attention to where you were going. Any notion who attacked you?”
“No idea. However, since I am now minus my wallet, I assume robbery was the motive. I shall duly report this unfortunate event to the Bow Street Runners.”
“Well, one thing’s for certain. You’ve got to be more careful. Hire a carriage or try to confine your walks to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
“I’ll try, and next time, if I am rescued by a woman, I shall attempt to be more gracious.”
Buggy frowned. “You could hardly be any less. Honestly, I don’t know what women see in you half the time.”
Sir Douglas Drury, who was also famous for skills that had nothing to do with the law, gave his friend a small, sardonic smile. “Neither do I.”
A fortnight later, Juliette decided to go the butcher’s and buy a meat pie, the one thing she liked about British food and now could afford because of the money Lord Bromwell had given her. That windfall had made it worth enduring Madame de Pomplona’s annoyance when she made her excuses for missing a day of work.
“And during the Little Season, too!” her employer had cried in her Yorkshire accent, her Greek name being as false as the hair beneath her cap.
Fortunately, that meant she had too much business to dismiss a seamstress who had, after all, only missed one day of work in almost six months.
Anticipating a good meal, Juliette started to hum as she crossed a lane and went around a cart full of apples.
The day was fair for autumn, warm and sunny, and she might actually get home before dark. The street was as crowded as all London seemed to be, so it was perhaps no wonder she hadn’t been able to find Georges. It was like trying to find a pin in a haystack.
No, she must not give up hope. He might be here, and she must keep searching.
In the next instant, and before she could cry out, a hand covered her mouth and an arm went around her waist, pulling her backward into an alley.
Panic threatened to overwhelm her as she kicked and twisted and struggled with all her might to get free, just as she had all those times when Gaston LaRoche had grabbed her in the barn.
“What’s Sir Douglas Drury want with the likes o’ you, eh?” a low male voice growled in her ear as his grip tightened. “Got the finest ladies in England linin’ up for a poke, he does. What’s he need some French slut for?”
Desperate to escape, she bit down on the flesh between his thumb and index finger as hard as she could. He grunted in pain. His grasp loosened and she shoved her elbow into a soft stomach. As he stumbled back, she gathered up her skirts and ran out of the alley. Dodging a wagon filled with cabbages, she dashed across the street, then up another, pushing her way through the crowds, paying no heed to people’s curses or angry words.
She got a stitch in her side, but didn’t stop. Pressing her hand where it hurt, she continued to run through the streets until she could run no more. Panting, she leaned against a building, her mind a jumble of fear and dismay.
That man must have seen her helping Sir Douglas, which meant he knew where she lived. What if he was waiting for her there? She didn’t dare go home.
Where else could she go? Who would help her?
Lord Bromwell! Except that she had no idea where he lived.
Sir Douglas Drury of Lincoln’s Inn would have chambers there. And was it not because of him that she’d been attacked?
He must help her. Ungrateful wretch that he was, he must.
Besides, she realized as she choked back a sob of dismay, she had no one else to turn to in this terrible city.
Chapter Three
He was more upset than I’ve ever seen, although I suppose to the young woman and those who don’t know him as well as we, he appeared quite calm. But I assure you, he was really quite rattled.
—from The Collected Letters of Lord Bromwell
“Are you quite sure you’re in a fit state to attend a dinner party?” the elderly Mr. Edgar asked as he nimbly tied Drury’s cravat. “It’s only been a fortnight. I think it might be best if you didn’t go. I’m sure Mr. Smythe-Medway and Lady Fanny will understand.”
“I’m quite recovered.”
“Now, sir, no lying to me,” Mr. Edgar said with a hurt air and the candor of a servant of long standing. “You are not completely recovered.”
“Oh, very well,” Drury admitted with more good humor than Miss Bergerine would ever have believed he possessed. “I’m still a little sore. But it’s only a dinner party at Brix’s, and I don’t want to be cooped up in these chambers another night. I could, I suppose, go for a walk instead…”
Mr. Edgar’s reflection in the looking glass revealed his horrified dismay at that proposal. “You wouldn’t! Not after—”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Drury hastened to reassure the man who’d been like a father to him all these years, for he was not ungrateful, no matter what some French hoyden might think. If he had been rude or insolent to Miss Bergerine, she had her countrymen to blame.
Mr. Edgar reached for a brush and attacked the back of Drury’s black dress coat as if he were currying a horse. Drury, penitently, kept silent.
As a general rule, a dinner party held little appeal for him, unless it was attended by his good friends. Then he could be sure of intelligent and amusing conversation rather than gossip, and nobody would hold it against him if he were silent.
At other parties, he was too often expected to expound on the state of the courts, or talk about his latest case, something he never did. It was worse if there were female guests. Most women either looked at him as if they expected him to attack them, or as if they hoped he would.
Just as Mr. Edgar pronounced him suitable to leave, a fist pounded on the outer door of his chambers, and an all-too-familiar female voice called out his name.
Juliette Bergerine’s shouts could wake the dead—not to mention disturbing the other barristers with chambers here. And what the devil could she want?
“Saints