Regency: Rogues and Runaways: A Lover's Kiss / The Viscount's Kiss. Margaret Moore

a table and a large lamp. Almost at once the door flew open and a slender young man stood on the threshold, his face full of concern. “I’m Lord Bromwell. What’s happened to Drury?”

      He was younger than she’d expected, good-looking in an average sort of way, and well-dressed as she would expect a nobleman to be, although more plainly than most. His morning coat was dark, his trousers buff, his boots black and his waistcoat a subdued blue. His brown hair was well cut, and his face was tanned, as if he’d spent the summer months in the country, riding in the sun.

      “I am Juliette Bergerine. Sir Douglas has been attacked and injured near my home. He sent me to bring you.”

      “Good God!” Lord Bromwell gasped before he turned and started to call for the footman. Then he hesitated and asked, “How did you get here?”

      “In a hackney coach. It is still outside.”

      “Excellent!” he cried. “I rode my horse instead of taking my phaeton. If we take the hackney, we can go together.”

      His forehead immediately wrinkled with a frown. “Damn! I don’t have my medical kit.”

      “Are you a doctor?”

      “I’m a naturalist.”

      She had no idea what that was.

      “I study spiders, not people. Well, it can’t be helped. I’ll have to do what I can without it. Come along, Miss Bergerine. If I know Drury, and I do, he’s probably a lot worse off than he’s letting on.”

       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