Regency: Rogues and Runaways. Margaret Moore

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      “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.”

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