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.
“So I went to Calais. The priest who wrote the letter had died of an illness before I got there, and nobody remembered much about the man in the alley, except that he had been robbed and stabbed.”
“So you came to London hoping your brother was alive and somewhere in the city based on his last letter to you?”
“Oui. A fool’s errand, perhaps,” she said, voicing the doubts that sometimes assailed her, “but I must search and hope.”
Or else I am alone.
“Your quest may prove to be futile,” Sir Douglas replied, his voice low and unexpectedly gentle, “yet I cannot fault you for trying. No one should be all alone in the world.”
“No one,” she agreed in a whisper, regarding the man before her who, even with his friends, always seemed somehow alone.
“Sir Douglas, Miss Bergerine,” Millstone intoned from the threshold of the drawing room, interrupting the rapprochement they’d achieved, “dinner is served.”
Well after midnight, Drury stood by a tall window in his bedroom and raised his hands to examine them in the moonlight. Although he generally avoided looking at them, he knew every crooked bend, every poorly mended bit.
He remembered the breaking of each one, the pain, the agony, knowing that nothing would be done to set them and repair the damage. That when his tormentor was finished with him, he would be killed, his body either burned or thrown away like so much refuse.
He remembered the flickering flames casting light and shadows on the faces of the men surrounding him. The ones who held him down. The one who did the breaking.
He remembered their voices. The guttural Gascon of one, the whisper of the Parisian, the earthy seaman from Marseilles. The one who wielded the mallet, so calm. So deliberate. So cruel.
With a shuddering breath Drury lowered his hands, splaying them on the sill. Once, he had been proud of his hands. The slender length of his fingers. The strength of them.
He remembered the excitement of brushing their pads, oh, so lightly, over a woman’s naked skin, and the woman’s sighs as he caressed them.
Since his return, he had had lovers. More than one. He was, after all, still Drury, with his dark eyes and deep, seductive voice. He was still famous for his legal abilities, and for other abilities, too.
But never since he had returned to England had a woman deliberately touched his hands. Certainly no woman had kissed them.
Until today.
He was well aware that Juliette Bergerine had done so in the first flush of gratitude. No doubt if she’d had time to think, she wouldn’t have done it.
But she had.
She had.
She believed him ungrateful, and he had been, that first day. She thought him arrogant, too.
She had no idea how that kiss had humbled him, and the gratitude that had welled up within him at the touch of her lips on his naked flesh.
She would never know.
Yet he would reward her for a kiss that was worth more than gold to him. If her brother lived, he would do all he could to find him.
Starting at first light.
Juliette wanted to move, but she couldn’t. It was dark, as if she were in a cave, and she was wrapped up like a mummy, her arms held to her sides. Turning her head from side to side, she realized she was caught in something—a spider’s web, sticky and soft. Everything else around her was dark.
“You can’t have him.”
A woman’s voice. Not kind and gentle. Harsh, triumphant, mocking.
“He’s mine. I have only to say one word, and he will be mine forever.”
Lady Fanny’s voice, distorted. Ugly. “Did you think he could ever really care for you, you French trollop? Do you think I don’t see how you secretly desire him, a man so far above you in rank, education and wealth? Do you think you could ever take my place in his heart?”
“Non!” Juliette protested, struggling to get free. Determined to get free. “He doesn’t love you. He told me so.”
The high-pitched laugh came out of the impenetrable dark. “And you believed him? You believe everything he says? Oh, my dear, he lies. He tells lies all the time, to you, to himself, to everyone.”
“He does not love you!”
“He doesn’t love you, either. He never will. He will use you and cast you aside. He does the same to all his women. Why should you be different?”
Juliette twisted and turned, fighting harder to get free. “Then he would cast you aside, too.”
“I wouldn’t let him. I would kill him before I let him go.”
Suddenly, light flared in the darkness and Juliette saw that she was not alone. His head bowed as if he was unconscious, like that first night, Sir Douglas hung on a cavern wall wet with moisture. He was encased in another web, the filaments spreading out like an angel’s wings while that terrible, cruel feminine laugh filled her ears.…
Juliette woke up, panting and sweating. It had been a nightmare. Another nightmare. Not of Gaston LaRoche in the barn this time, but of a demonic Lady Fanny who wanted Sir Douglas for herself. Who would kill him if she couldn’t have him.
“Did I wake you, miss? I didn’t mean to,” Polly said as she crossed the room to open the drapes.
Trying