Читать книгу: «Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover's Kiss / The Viscount's Kiss», страница 2

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?

She entered her room, to find Sir Douglas Drury sitting on her bed, as calm and composed as if he had just dropped by for a drink or a game of chance.

“I should have known it would take more than a blow to the head to ruffle you,” Lord Bromwell said with a relieved smile as he went to his friend. “Still, that’s a nasty lump and you can’t fool me completely. You’re sitting up so straight, I’d wager you’ve got a broken rib.”

“I don’t believe it’s broken,” Sir Douglas replied with barely a glance in Juliette’s direction. “Cracked, perhaps, and likely I’ve got a hell of a bruise.”

Ignoring him in turn, Juliette moved to the side of the room and took off her bonnet. Now that Lord Bromwell was here, there was nothing more for her to do except—Mon Dieu, she’d forgotten all about her work!

She would have to say she had fallen ill. She hadn’t missed a day yet for any reason and wouldn’t get paid for this one, but surely Madame de Pomplona wouldn’t dismiss her if she said she’d been sick.

Juliette hoped not, anyway, as she returned her bonnet to the chest.

Out of the corner of her eyes she saw Lord Bromwell put his hand to his friend’s right side and press.

The barrister jumped. “Damn it!”

“Sorry, but that’s the only way I can tell if you’ve broken a bone,” Lord Bromwell replied. “You’re right. The rib’s not broken, although it could be cracked. I’ll bandage you before we leave, just in case. I wouldn’t want anything to get jostled before you can be seen by your own doctor.”

Lord Bromwell turned to Juliette. “Do you have any extra linen?”

She shook her head. Did it look as if she had linen—or anything—to spare?

“An old petticoat, perhaps?”

“I have only the chemise I am wearing.”

“Oh,” he murmured, blushing again.

“Buy her damn chemise so I can go home,” Sir Douglas growled.

Lord Bromwell gave Juliette a hopeful smile. “Would that be possible?”

She didn’t doubt he could afford to pay well, and she could always make a new one. “Oui.”

He pulled out a tooled leather wallet and extracted a pound note. “I hope this is enough.”

“Oui.” It was more than ample. Now all that remained was to remove the chemise he had purchased.

“Turn your back, Buggy, to give her some privacy,” Sir Douglas muttered. “I’ll stare at the floor, which will likely collapse in a year or two.”

She would have expected Lord Bromwell to realize why she’d hesitated before Sir Douglas did and was surprised he had not. Nevertheless, keeping a wary eye on both gentlemen who looked away, she quickly doffed her dress and her chemise, then pulled the former back on.

She held the latter out to Lord Bromwell. “Thank you,” he said as Sir Douglas raised his eyes.

She had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that he was imagining what she’d look like dressed only in the flimsy white garment.

Even more uncomfortable was the realization that she wasn’t as bothered by that idea as she should be. If she were to be attracted to either of the men in her room, should it not be the kind, gentlemanly one?

Except that he had not needed her help, or spoken French like a native, or kissed her as if he loved her.

“Now then,” Lord Bromwell said briskly, breaking into her ruminations. He had finished tearing her chemise into strips. “Off with your shirt.”

Sir Douglas glanced at Juliette as if reluctant to remove it when she was in the room.

“If it is modesty that is hindering you, Sir Douglas,” she said with a hint of amusement at this unexpected bashfulness, “I shall turn my back.”

“It is not modesty that prevents me from taking off my shirt,” he coolly replied. “It’s pain.”

“Oh, sorry!” Lord Bromwell cried. “I’ll help.”

Sir Douglas quirked a brow at Juliette. “Perhaps Miss Bergerine would oblige.”

What kind of woman did he think she was? “I will not!”

“My loss, I’m sure. Well, then, Buggy, it’ll have to be you.”

With a disgusted sniff, Juliette grabbed the wooden stool, carried it across the room and set it under the window, determined to stare out at the brick wall across the alley until they were gone.

“I thought you were going to bandage me, not bind me like a mummy,” Sir Douglas complained.

“You want it done properly, don’t you?”

Juliette couldn’t resist. She had to look. She glanced over her shoulder, to see Lord Bromwell wrapping a strip of fabric around Sir Douglas’s lean and muscular torso. His shoulders were truly broad, not like some gentlemen who had padding in their jackets, and there was a scar that traversed his chest from the left shoulder almost to his navel.

“Not a pretty sight, am I, Miss Bergerine?”

She immediately turned back to the window and the brick wall opposite. “If that scar is from the war, you are not the only one who suffered. My father and brother died fighting for Napoleon, and my other brother… But I will not speak of them to you.”

“I’ve not bandaged you too tight, have I?” Lord Bromwell asked quietly a little later.

“I can still breathe. But I must say, if this is how you tended to your shipmates, I’m surprised any of them survived.”

Sir Douglas had to be the most ungrateful man alive, and she would be glad when he was gone, Juliette decided.

“They were happy enough to have my help when they got sick or injured,” Lord Bromwell replied without rancor.

He truly was a kind and patient fellow.

“There. All done. Now let’s get your shirt back on. Right, lift your arm a little more. That’s a good lad.”

“Need I remind you I am neither a child nor mentally deficient?”

“So stop complaining and do as you’re told.”

“I am not complaining. I’m attempting to get you to stop talking to me as if I were an infant.”

“Then stop pouting like one.”

“Sir Douglas Drury does not pout.”

Juliette stifled a smile. He might not pout, but he wasn’t being cooperative, either—like an irascible child.

“Do I amuse you, Miss Bergerine?” Sir Douglas asked in a cold, calm voice.

She swiveled slowly on the stool. Lord Bromwell stood beside the injured man, who was now fully dressed, his box coat slung over his shoulders like a cape. He had his arm around his friend and leaned on him for support.

“No, you do not,” she replied evenly.

Sir Douglas continued to stare at her as he said, “Buggy, will you be so good as to pay Miss Bergerine for her time and trouble, as well as any lost wages she may have incurred? Naturally I’ll repay you as soon as we get to my chambers.”

Lord Bromwell once again took out his wallet and pulled a pound note from within.

“She’ll need to replace that rag she’s wearing, too. I bled on her right shoulder.”

Juliette glanced at her dress. There was indeed a red stain that hadn’t been there before. But her dress was hardly a rag. It was clean and well mended.

Lord Bromwell obediently pulled out another bill.

“And some more for the loss of potatoes.”

His brows rose in query. “Potatoes?”

“Apparently she used them to chase away my attackers.”

Lord Bromwell laughed as he pulled out another bill. “Excellent idea, Miss Bergerine. It reminds me of the time I had to toss a few rocks to keep several unfriendly South Sea islanders at bay while my men and I got back to the boats.”

“I trust that sum will be sufficient, Miss Bergerine?” 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 preserve us!” Mr. Edgar cried as he tossed the brush aside and started for the door.

Drury hurried past him. He fumbled for a moment with the latch, silently cursing his stiff fingers, but at last got it open.

Miss Bergerine came charging into his chambers as if pursued by a pack of hounds.

“I was attacked!” she cried in French. “A man grabbed me in a lane and pulled me into an alley.” A disgusted expression came to her flushed features and gleaming eyes. “He thinks I am your whore. He said you had other women, so what did you want me for?”

Shaken by her announcement as well as her disheveled state, Drury fought to remain calm. She reminded him of another Frenchwoman he’d known all too well who’d been prone to hysterics. “Obviously, the man was—”

“My God, I never should have helped you!” she cried before he could finish. “First you treat me like a servant even though I saved your life and now I am believed to be your whore and my life is in danger!”

Drury strode to the cabinet and poured her a whiskey. “It’s regrettable—”

“Regrettable?” she cried indignantly. “Regrettable? Is that all you have to say? He was going to kill me! If I had not bitten him and run away, I could be lying dead in an alley! Mon Dieu, it was more than regrettable!”

She’d bitten the lout? Thank God she’d kept her head and got away.

He handed the whiskey to her. “Drink this,” he said, hoping it would calm her.

She glared at him, then at the glass before downing the contents in a gulp. She coughed and started to choke. “What was that?” she demanded.

“A very old, very expensive, very good Scotch whiskey,” he said, gesturing for her to sit. “Now perhaps we can discuss this in a rational manner.”

“You are a cold man, monsieur!” she declared as she flounced onto a chair.

“I don’t see that getting overly emotional is going to be of any use.”

He sat opposite her on a rather worn armchair that might not be pretty or elegant, but was very comfortable. “I am sorry this happened to you, Miss Bergerine. However, it never occurred to me that any enemies I might have would concern themselves with you. If I had, I would have taken steps to ensure your safety.”

She set down the whiskey glass on the nearest table with a hearty and skeptical sniff. “So you say now.”

He wouldn’t let her indignant exclamations disturb him. “However, since it has happened, you were quite right to come to me. Now I must consider what steps to take to see that it doesn’t happen again.”

He became aware of Mr. Edgar standing by the door, an avidly interested expression on his lined face.

He’d forgotten all about his valet.

On the other hand, it was a good thing he was there, or who could say what Miss Bergerine might accuse him of?

Not that there would be any merit in such accusations, as anyone who knew him would realize. Although Juliette Bergerine was pretty and attractive in a lively sort of way, such a volatile woman roused too many unhappy memories to ever appeal to him.

The sort of women with whom he had affairs was very well-known, and they were not poor Frenchwomen.

“If you can provide me with details,” he said, “such as the location and a description of the man who attacked you, I shall take the information to the Bow Street Runners, as well as another associate of mine who’s skilled at investigation. I’ve already got him looking for the men who attacked me. This fellow could very well be one of them.

“Until the guilty parties are apprehended, however, we have another problem—where to keep you.”

“Keep me?” she repeated, her brows lowering with suspicion.

He shouldn’t have used that word. It had a meaning he most definitely didn’t intend. “I mean where you can safely reside. I would offer to put you up in a hotel, except that people might suppose our relationship is indeed intimate.

“As that is most certainly not true, I shall have the associate I’ve mentioned provide men to protect you. Since this is necessary because you came to my aid, naturally I shall pay for their services.”

“You mean they will guard me, as if I am your prisoner?”

He tried not to sound frustrated with this most frustrating foreigner. “They will protect you. As you have so forcefully pointed out, I have put you at risk. I don’t intend to do so again. Or did you come here only to berate me?”

He waited for her to argue or chastise him again, but to his surprise, her steadfast gaze finally faltered and she softly said, “I had nowhere else to go for help.”

She sounded lost then, and vulnerable, and unexpectedly sad. Lonely, even—a feeling with which he was unfortunately familiar.

“Is something the matter with your hearing? I’ve been knocking for an age,” Buggy said as he walked into the room.

Mr. Edgar, who had been riveted by Miss Bergerine’s tirade, gave a guilty start and hurried to take Buggy’s hat and coat, then slipped silently from the room.

Meanwhile, Buggy was staring at Drury’s visitor as if he’d never seen a woman before. “Miss Bergerine! What are you… I beg your pardon. It’s a pleasure, of course, but…”

As his words trailed off in understandable confusion, Drury silently cursed. He’d forgotten all about Brix and Fanny’s dinner party, and that Buggy had offered to bring round his carriage to spare him the trouble of hiring one for the evening.

“Miss Bergerine had an unfortunate encounter with a man under the delusion she and I have an intimate relationship,” he explained, getting to his feet. “Fortunately, Miss Bergerine fought him off and came to me for assistance.”

“You fought the scoundrel off all by yourself?” Buggy cried, regarding Miss Bergerine with an awed mixture of respect and admiration. “You really are a most remarkable woman.”

That was a bit much. “The question is, what are we to do with her? She can’t go home, and she can’t stay here.”

“No, no, of course not. You’d be fined.”

“There are more reasons than that,” Drury replied, aware of Miss Bergerine’s bright eyes watching them, and trying to ignore her. “I’d pay for her to stay in a hotel, but I don’t have to tell you what the ton and the popular press would make of that.”

“I agree a hotel is out of the question, and we can’t let her go back to her room,” Buggy concurred. “A child could break into that.”

Wearing evening attire that made him look less like the studious, serious fellow he was and more like one of the town dandies, Buggy leaned against the mantel, regardless of the possibility of wrinkling his well-tailored coat. “Given this new attack, which tells me you have some very dangerous and determined enemies indeed, I don’t think you’re quite safe here either, Drury. These rooms are too public, too well-known. Anybody could come here claiming to be a solicitor seeking to engage your services, and if he’s well dressed, who would question him?”

“I’m capable of defending myself.”

“As you did in the alley?”

Before Drury could reply, Buggy held out his strong, capable hands in a placating gesture. “Be reasonable, Drury. You know as well as I that this place is no fortress, and while I’m sure you can fight as well as ever against one man, you’re not the swordsman or boxer you were.”

No, he was not, and that observation didn’t do much to assuage Drury’s wounded pride.

Mr. Edgar appeared in the door with a tray in his hands. On it was a plate of thickly sliced, fine white bread, some jam and a steaming pot of tea. “For Miss Bergerine, sir,” he said as he set it on the table.

“Please, have some refreshment,” Drury said to her, waving at the food.

Miss Bergerine didn’t hesitate. She spread the jam and consumed the bread with a speed that made Drury suspect she must not have eaten for some time. Her manners weren’t as terrible as one might expect, given her humble origins and obvious hunger.

Mr. Edgar watched her eat with such satisfaction, you’d think he’d baked the bread himself. He also gave Drury a glance that suggested a lecture on the duties one owed to a guest, in spite of her unwelcome and unorthodox arrival, would soon be forthcoming.

Buggy suddenly brightened, as if he’d just discovered a new species of spider. “I have it! You must both stay at my town house. God knows there’s plenty of room, and servants to keep any villains at bay.”

That was a damn foolish idea. “Need I point out, Buggy, that the ton will make a meal out of the news that I’ve moved into your house with some unknown Frenchwoman? They’ll probably accuse you of keeping a bawdy house.”

His friend laughed. “On the other hand, Millstone will be delighted. He thinks my reputation is far too saintly.”

“Obviously your butler hasn’t read your book.” Drury thought of another potential difficulty. “Your father wouldn’t be pleased. It is his house, after all.”

Buggy flushed. “I don’t think you need worry about him. He’s safely ensconced in the country playing the squire. Now I’m not taking no for an answer. You can come here during the day as necessary, but at night, you stay in North Audley Street.”

Drury’s imagination seemed to have deserted him in his hour of need, for he could think of no better solution.

“Upon further consideration, Miss Bergerine,” Drury said, not hiding his reluctance, “I concur with Lord Bromwell’s suggestion. Until those ruffians are caught and imprisoned, his house would be the safest place for you.”

She looked from one man to the other before she spoke. “Am I to have no say in where I go?”

Buggy blushed like a naughty schoolboy. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Yet you talk as if I am not here,” she chided. “And while I am grateful for your concern, Lord Bromwell, is it not Sir Douglas’s duty to help me? I would not be in danger but for his carelessness.”

Drury fought to keep a rein on his rising temper. “You chastise me for leaving you in danger, yet now, when we seek to keep you safe, you protest. What would you have us do, Miss Bergerine? Call out the army to protect you?”

“I would have you treat me as a person, not a dog or a horse you own. I would have you address me, not one another. I am here, and not deaf, or stupid. And I would have you take responsibility for the predicament I am in.”