Margaret Moore - Regency - Rogues and Runaways

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.”

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.