Vice (33 page)

He pulled himself up sharply. Juliana was a novelty, he told himself as she slept the brief sleep of satiation on his breast. He was confusing his fascination with her novelty with something deeper and unnameable. She was young and fresh. Her spirit amused him, her passion touched him. Her courage and resolution moved him. With luck she would be the mother of his child. In the best of all possible worlds she would remain his mistress as she mothered his child. There was no place—no need—for deeper, unnameable emotions.

Juliana stirred and opened her eyes. She kissed his neck sleepily. “I forgot to mention that George Ridge was in the tavern last night.”

His hand stilled on her back. “Good God! What in heaven’s name made you forget such a thing?”

“There was so much else to worry about,” she said, sitting up, brushing hair out of her eyes. “And then I got so wobbly, and everything else went out of my head.”

“I suppose it’s understandable.” He reached lazily for one full breast, cupping it in his palm, a fingertip circling the nipple. “Did he see you?”

“He could hardly miss me when I was standing on the table with a rope around my neck.” She drew back from his caressing hand with a shiver, saying abruptly, “I don’t seem to feel like being touched.”

Tarquin dropped his hand immediately, his expression suddenly drawn with anger. “Lucien will pay in full measure for what he did to you,” he promised savagely. “When he comes back to the house, he will pay.” He stood up abruptly and strode to the window, staring out into the bright morning.

Juliana looked at his rigid, averted back and shivered slightly at the powerful anger she sensed. She wasn’t to know how much of it was directed at himself. “I’ll get over it,” she said. “It was only a passing moment just then.” She sat hunched on the bed, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts. “It all came back … the cockfight, and the wife-selling before, and the gin—”

“Gin?” he exclaimed, swinging back to the room, diverted from his bitter self-reproach. “Lucien permitted you to drink gin?”

“He forced it on me. I didn’t know what it was.” Her eyes flashed with her ever-ready temper.

Tarquin silently added it to the score he would settle with his cousin and said calmly, “Let’s return to George Ridge. He recognized you?”

Juliana nodded, accepting the change of subject as an apology of some kind. “Enough to bid five hundred pounds for me.”

Tarquin frowned. He stood beside the bed, his hands on his hips, his air as self-possessed as if he was frilly dressed instead of starkly, and most beautifully, naked. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she said somewhat absently, now thoroughly distracted by the sight of him, her eyes dwelling on the spare frame, the play of muscle, the lean, sinewy length of thigh. His sex was quiescent, but as her eyes lingered on the soft flesh, it flickered and rose beneath the intent gaze as if responding to an unspoken wish.

Tarquin appeared unaware. “What do you mean, you did nothing? You must have responded in some way.”

Juliana reached forward to touch him, her tongue peeping from between her lips, a little frown of concentration on her brow.

Tarquin stepped back, observing with a smile, “I think I’d better don a chamber robe if we’re to have a sensible discussion here.” He turned to pick up his robe from the chaise longue. Juliana’s gaze feasted on his lean back, the cluster of dark hair in the small of his back, and the dark trail that led downward to vanish in the cleft between the taut buttocks. Her fingers itched to slide between his thighs, and in another moment she would have sprung from the bed, but he slung the robe around his shoulders, thrusting his arms into the sleeves, and turned back to the bed, tying the girdle firmly at his waist.

Juliana couldn’t hide her disappointment. Tarquin chuckled. “I’m flattered,
mignonne.
You certainly know how to compliment a man.”

“It wasn’t flattery,” she denied with a sigh, wriggling beneath the covers again.

“Now, answer my question. What do you mean by ‘nothing’?”

“It seemed sensible to behave as if I didn’t know who he was,” she explained. “I couldn’t think too clearly, but I thought that if I refused to acknowledge him, then he would find it harder to identify me. If I deny that I’m Juliana Ridge, it’s only his word against mine.”

“Mmmm.” Tarquin pulled at his chin. “That was quick thinking. But in the long term your guardians could identify you.”

“But I could still deny it. And you could vouch for my identity as a whole other person. Who would challenge the Duke of Redmayne?”

Juliana showed a touching faith in the ability of the aristocracy to circumvent the law. But while Tarquin might be able to use his rank and influence to intimidate George Ridge and possibly the Forsetts, rank and influence would
do little good before the bar. “It would be best if Ridge didn’t see you again,” he stated after a moment of frowning thought. “Keep to the house for the time being, unless you’re with me … or possibly Quentin.”

Juliana’s face dropped. She couldn’t do that and meet with her friends on Russell Street. “I’m not afraid of George,” she protested. “I can’t agree to be a prisoner just because that idiot George is hanging around. He’s such a blockhead, he couldn’t find his way out of a cloak bag. It was different when I was friendless and had no protection, but how could I be at risk when I have the mighty protection of His Grace of Redmayne?” She gave him a sweet smile, pulling the sheet up to her chin.
“You
are surely a match for a country lout, my lord duke.”

“And that’s exactly why you’re not to go out without me or Quentin as escort.” He bent over and kissed her lightly. “Do the sensible thing for once and oblige me in this.” His gray gaze was calm, his voice quite without threat, but Juliana knew she’d been given fair warning.

After Tarquin left her, Juliana leaped from bed, rang for Henny, and began to plan for the day. She would take every precaution. She would travel only in a closed carriage, and she wouldn’t show her face on the streets, at least not unless it was absolutely necessary.

Lucy was sleeping when she visited her on her way down to breakfast. Even in sleep the girl was beginning to look better already. It was as if her spirit had reentered her body and she was once more taking a grip on the world.

Juliana tiptoed out without waking her and went down to the breakfast parlor, where she found Quentin at breakfast. He looked up and cast a swift, almost involuntary, glance over her that made her immediately pleased with her gown of pale-green muslin over a pink petticoat. Henny had worked her usual magic with her hair, making a virtue of the unruly ringlets, arranging them artfully at her ears.

Quentin rose to his feet, bowing with a smile. “The
house has taken on a quite different air, my dear, since you came to join us. May I carve you some ham?”

“Thank you.” Juliana took the chair pulled out for her by an attentive footman. She frowned slightly, wondering what he meant by “a different air.” When people said things of that nature to her, they were usually scolding, but Lord Quentin had no such manner about him. “Is it a pleasanter air, sir?” she asked tentatively.

Quentin laughed. “Oh, most definitely. The house feels altogether lighter and merrier.”

Juliana smiled broadly. “I hope His Grace agrees with you.”

“Agrees with what?” Tarquin entered the room, taking a chair at the head of the table. He cast an eye over the
Gazette
beside his plate.

“Lord Quentin was so kind as to say that I’ve made the house merrier.” Juliana took a piece of bread and butter, confiding cheerfully, “I’m not accustomed to being told such things. Mostly people say I make life uncomfortable for them.”

The duke pursed his mouth consideringly. “Perhaps it amounts to the same thing for some people.”

“How ungallant, my lord duke!”

“I suppose some people might actually enjoy chasing all over town after you at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Oh! How could you speak of that now!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with indignation. “That is
most
unchivalrous!”

Tarquin smiled faintly. “My dear, as you said to me so aptly once, you reap what you sow.” But to Juliana’s relief he turned to Quentin with a change of subject. “No word on when you must leave us?”

“No, the archbishop seems perfectly content to keep me kicking ray heels in London while he ponders my bishop’s request.”

“Well, I shall be loath to see you leave,” the duke said civilly. “So I hope the pondering continues for a while longer.”

Juliana soon excused herself and left the brothers to their breakfast. It seemed sensible to wait until the duke had gone about his morning’s business before making her own move, so she lurked in the upstairs hallway, listening to the comings and goings in the hall below, waiting for the duke’s departure.

He left shortly before noon, having first called for his horse. Juliana ran to her bedchamber and watched from the window as he rode up the street on a powerful piebald hunter. That left only Quentin. She hurried down the stairs and asked Catlett to call her a chair.

“My lady, surely you would prefer to take His Grace’s conveyance?” Catlett said disapprovingly.

Juliana remembered that Quentin had told her the duke’s own chair was at her disposal. If she used it, she would be under the protection of Tarquin’s own men. She could always say she assumed that was as good as having his own escort, if he challenged her on her return.

“Yes, thank you, Catlett,” she said with a sweet smile. “I wasn’t sure whether His Grace was using the chair himself.”

Somewhat mollified, Catlett bowed and sent the boot boy round to the mews for the sedan chair. The bearers brought the chair into the hall, where Catlett assisted Juliana inside; then he instructed the bearers to “Look alive, there. And be careful of ’Er Ladyship. No jolting.” Leaning into the chair, he inquired, “Where shall I tell them to take you, m’lady?”

“Bond Street,” Juliana said off the top of her head. She’d redirect the chairmen when they were outside. They trotted off with her up Albermarle Street, oblivious of the man standing in a doorway opposite. They didn’t notice him as he set off after them, almost at a jog in his haste not to lose them, sweat breaking out profusely on his forehead with his exertion, his waistcoat straining across his belly, his habitually red face turning a mottled dark crimson.

Juliana waited until they’d turned the corner onto Piccadilly.
Then she tapped on the roof with her fan. “I’ve changed my mind. Carry me to Russell Street, if you please,” she said haughtily.

The chairman looked a little surprised. Covent Garden addresses were not for the likes of Lady Edgecombe. But he shouted the change to his companion carrying the rear poles, and they set off in the new direction.

George hailed a sedan chair and fitted his ungainly bulk inside. “Follow that chair. The one with the coronet.”

The chairmen hoisted the poles onto their muscular shoulders, taking the strain of their passenger’s weight with a grimace. Then they set off after the chair emblazoned with the ducal coronet, their pace considerably slower than their quarry’s.

Juliana alighted at the door of the Dennisons’ house. She smoothed down her skirts and glanced up at the house that had once been her prison. First a refuge, then a prison. She could see her own third-floor window, where she’d lain in bed at night listening to the occupants of the house at work. What would have happened to her if the innkeeper hadn’t sent for Elizabeth Dennison? She would never have known Tarquin, Duke of Redmayne, that was for sure. Her hand drifted to her belly. Did she even now carry his seed?

Briskly dismissing the thought, she said to the chairmen, “You had best wait for me here.”

The lead chairman tipped his hat and adjusted the pads on his shoulders where the poles had rested. His companion ran up the steps to hammer on the knocker. Juliana followed him with the same haughty air of before, silently challenging them to question what she could be doing in such a place.

Mr. Garston opened the door and looked for a moment completely startled. Then he bowed as he’d never bowed to Juliana Ridge. “Pray step within, m’lady.”

Juliana did so. “I’ve come to see Miss Lilly and the others.” She tapped her closed fan in her palm and looked pointedly around the hall, as if finding its furnishings wanting in some way. To her secret delight Mr. Garston seemed
a little intimidated, a little unsure of how to treat her. It was small revenge for their first meeting, and the subsequent occasions when he’d barred the door to her.

“Would ye care to wait in the salon, m’lady?” He moved with stately step to the room she remembered so vividly, flinging open the double doors.

The salon had been cleaned and polished, but the smell of wine and tobacco, and the girls’ perfume, still lingered from the previous evening, despite the wide-open windows. It was a decadent combination of odors. Juliana wandered to the window and stared out at the scene in the street outside. Sunshine did much to mute the grimness: the one-legged child, hobbling on a crutch, thrusting his upturned cap at passersby with a whining, singsong plea for a penny; the woman asleep or unconscious in the gutter, a bottle clutched to her breast. Two gentlemen emerged from Thomas Davies’s bookshop opposite, at Number 8. They had the air of learned men, with their flowing wigs and rusty black frock coats. Both carried leather-bound volumes, and they were talking earnestly. They stepped over the woman without so much as looking down and brushed past the crippled child, ignoring his pathetic pleas as he followed them down the street. Pleas that turned rapidly into curses when it became clear they were not going to put a penny in his cap.

As the child hopped, muttering, back to his position in the shadow of the bookshop doorway, Juliana frowned in puzzlement. There was something not quite right about him. She stared, leaning out of the window into the narrow street. Then she saw it. The child’s leg was bent up at the knee and fastened with twine around his thigh. He was not one-legged at all. But he must be in the most awful discomfort, she thought, compassion instantly chasing away the moment of distaste at the fraud. Presumably he had a beggars’ master, who had hit upon this cheat. Perhaps he was fortunate he hadn’t been mutilated permanently.