Margaret Moore - A Lover's Kiss

“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.