Vice (46 page)

Catlett coughed again and, when that produced no response, went to draw back the window curtains, flooding the room with light.

“What the devil … ?” Tarquin opened his eyes.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it’s a matter of some urgency.” Catlett moved smoothly back to the bed, his practiced working accents crisp and well modulated.

Tarquin struggled up onto an elbow and blinked at the man. “Why are you waking me, Catlett, and not my valet?”

Catlett coughed. “I thought, Your Grace, that you’d prefer as few people as possible to be a party to the situation.”

Tarquin sat up, instantly awake. His eyes flew to the armoire and its concealed door.
Juliana.
She hadn’t returned when he’d come in earlier, but he hadn’t thought twice about it. She was with his own coachman, escorted by the formidable and ultrarespectable Lady Bowen.

“Tell me.”

“John Coachman’s waiting outside, Your Grace. It’s probably best if he tells it in his own words.” Catlett bowed.

“Fetch him.”

Visibly trembling, the coachman approached the duke’s bed. He was still twisting his hat between his hands, his cheeks flushed as he stammered through his recital. The duke listened without a crack in his impassivity, his eyes flat, his mouth thin.

When the coachman had finished his tale and stood miserably pulling at his hat brim, eyes lowered, the duke flung
aside the bedclothes and stood up. “I’ll deal with you later,” he said grimly. “Get out of my sight.”

The coachman scuttled off. Catlett moved to pull the bell rope. “You’ll be wanting your valet, Your Grace.”

“No.” Tarquin waved him away. “I’m perfectly capable of dressing myself. Have my phaeton brought round immediately.” He threw off his nightshirt and pulled a pair of buckskin britches from the armoire.

Catlett left with a bow, and Tarquin flung on his clothes, his mind racing. He could think of no rational explanation for Juliana’s predicament. But, then, Juliana didn’t need logical reasons for getting herself into trouble, he thought grimly. He knew that George Ridge couldn’t have been involved, since he’d been occupied elsewhere. It was the kind of vengeance that would appeal to Lucien, certainly, but he hadn’t the patience to orchestrate such a sophisticated plan. He was a man who acted on vicious impulse. But what in the name of all that was good had taken Juliana, against his express orders and her own past experiences, to Covent Garden at the height of the night’s debauchery?

Simple mischief? Pure deviltry? Another demonstration of her refusal to yield to his authority? Somehow he didn’t think it was that simple. Juliana wasn’t childish … hotheaded, certainly; but she was also surprisingly mature for her years—a product presumably of her loveless childhood. She was probably involved in another misguided mission like the one that had taken her to the Marshalsea. For some reason the women of Russell Street held a dangerous fascination for her.

He ought to leave her in Bridwell for a few days, he thought wrathfully, thrusting a thick billfold into the pocket of his britches. She’d soon learn just how dangerous a fascination it was.

But he knew it was fear more than anger that spoke. The purity of his anger was muddled with a piercing dread. He couldn’t endure the idea of Juliana’s being hurt or frightened.
It was as if some part of himself was suffering and he couldn’t detach himself from the pain.

It was inexplicable, and a damnable nuisance. He strode out of his chamber, slamming the door behind him, and headed at a run for the stairs.

“Good morning, Tarquin. Where are you off to at the peep of day?” Quentin’s voice hailed him from the library as he crossed the hall. Quentin, always an early riser, looked fresh and serene.

“Juliana has contrived to get herself sent to Bridewell,” he told Quentin tersely. “Against my better judgment I’m about to spring her loose before she endures too much punishment in that hellhole.”

Quentin stared in disbelief. “But how for mercy’s sake did—”

“I’ve no idea,” Tarquin interrupted. “The temperamental chit is a loose cannon. And, by God, I’m going to keep her on a leash in future!”

“I’ll accompany you.” Quentin dropped the prayer book he’d been carrying onto a side table.

“There’s no need. I can handle Juliana without assistance.”

“I’m sure you can.” Quentin followed him out into the bright morning. “Nevertheless, you might need a supporting cast. You don’t know what you’re going to find.”

Tarquin shot him a bleak look, and their eyes held for a minute. They both knew that Quentin’s remark was not lightly made. Then the duke climbed with an agile spring into the waiting phaeton, followed by his brother.

Quentin felt Tarquin deliberately relax as he took up the reins. He glanced up at his profile and saw that all emotion was wiped dear from his countenance. He was not fooled by this apparently calm exterior. He’d been convinced for some time now that the careless affection Tarquin showed for his
mignonne
masked a much deeper feeling.

Tarquin whipped up his horses. It was the only indication of his urgency as he fought to subdue the images
of what Juliana could be going through at this moment. She was so intractable, so bold and challenging, that it wouldn’t be long before she would provoke the jailers to break her spirit. They had crude but sure methods of doing so.

J
uliana stumbled forward under a vigorous shove from her escort, through a doorway and into a long, narrow, filthy room. An iron-barred door clanged behind her. A minute or two earlier the cart had drawn up in a stinking courtyard, surrounded by a high wall. The three women had been hauled down to the cobbles by two men wielding rods, and driven like cattle into the low building. Rosamund had tripped over an uneven flagstone and, unable to help herself with her bound hands, had fallen to her knees. One of the jailers had promptly brought his rod down on her shoulders, cursing her vilely. Sobbing piteously, she’d managed to stand up again and totter forward.

Now the three women stood with their bound hands facing a sea of hostile, predatory eyes as the women in the dimly lit room stared at them, hungrily taking in the quality of their clothes. The walls were of bare brick, glistening and slimy with oozing damp; the air was dank and foul; the only light came from a minute window high up in the far wall under the roof timbers. Far too high to reach from the ground, and far too small to admit even a climbing boy.

The women, for the most part clad only in ragged underpetticoats, coarse stockings, and clogs, stood in front of rows of massive tree stumps beating hanks of hemp with
heavy wooden mallets. Juliana saw with dread that several of them wore leg irons, shackling them to the stumps. The dull, rhythmic pounding bounced off the stone walls. A woman with a slit nose cackled as Rosamund gave a low moan and swayed.

“First time ’ere, is it, dearies?” She dropped her mallet and came over to them. Her hands were flayed and bleeding from the hemp. Juliana wondered what crime had merited the slit nose, even as she drew back from the unequivocal malice in the woman’s eyes. The woman reached for Rosamund’s muslin fichu. “Fancy gewgaws ye’ve got. Fetch quite a pretty penny, they will.”

“Leave her alone,” Juliana snapped.

The woman’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and she tore the fichu from Rosamund’s quivering neck. “I’ll ’ave ’er clothes, and your’n, too, missie. Soon as the day’s work’s done. An’ if ye don’t watch yer tongue, we’ll strip ye nekkid. We knows ’ow to tame a proud spirit in ’ere. Innit so, girls?”

There was a chorus of agreement, and the eyes seemed to move closer, although the women remained at their posts. Juliana involuntarily turned to the jailer as if seeking protection.

The man merely laughed. “Don’t go upsettin’ Maggie. She’ll scratch yer eyes out soon as look at ye. An’ ’er word goes in ’ere. What ’appens in ’ere, when y’are locked up fer the night, is none of me business.” He moved in front of them and sliced their bonds with his knife. “Get to work now. Them three stumps over there.” He gestured to three unoccupied work sites, the massive mallets resting atop.

Maggie followed them over and stood, hands on hips, as the jailer pulled three thick hanks of hemp from a basket on the wall and threw them onto the stumps. The woman reached over and took Rosamund’s shrinking hand. “This’ll not last long,” she observed, turning the small white hand over in her grime-encrusted, blood-streaked palm. “I give ye an hour, an’ yer ’ands’ll be bleedin’ so ’ard ye won’t be able to bear to touch the mallet.” She cackled,
and a ripple of mirth ran around the room from the others, who had taken a rest from their labors to watch the induction.

The jailer grinned. “Them what won’t work goes in the pillory.”

Rosamund was dazed with fright and was weeping so hard now, she couldn’t take anything in, but Juliana and Lilly both looked to where the man’s finger was pointing. A wall pillory, the holes high enough to keep the victim on her toes and to put an intolerable strain on her shoulders. Above it inscribed the legend:
Better to work than stand thus.

Juliana picked up the mallet and brought it down on the hemp with an almighty swing. The weight of the mallet astounded her, and any effect of the blow on the hemp was invisible. The stuff had to be pounded until the core fibers split and could be separated from the thick fibrous covering. After three blows her wrists ached, the skin of her palms was beginning to rub, and the hemp showed no more than a slight flattening. She glanced at Rosamund, who was tapping feebly through her tears and making no impression at all on her hank. Lilly, tight-lipped, white-faced, was swinging her mallet above her shoulder and bringing it down with resolute violence. In a short while she’d be exhausted, Juliana thought apprehensively. If she was exhausted, she wouldn’t be able to continue.

She glanced again at Rosamund’s hemp, then swiftly picked up her own partially split hank and swapped it with Rosamund’s barely touched one. Lilly gave her a quick approving nod, whispering, “Between us we should be able to keep her going.”

“Eh, stop yer jabberin’ over there.” The jailer came toward them swinging his rod. “There’s no time fer talkin’. Ye’ll ’ave six of’em ready by noontime, or ye’ll find yerself at the whippin’ post.”

A chilling desperation took a hold on Juliana. She could see no way out. There was no one to appeal to. They were imprisoned in this fetid hole so far from civilization that they could have dropped off the face of the earth for all the
contact they would have with the outside world. But surely someone would be wondering where she was. The coachman would be looking for her. Someone would discover what had happened.

But why would they do anything to help her? What right had she to expect help? The duke would be thinking that it served her right. To obtain her release, he’d have to acknowledge his connection with a convicted whore in a house of correction. She couldn’t imagine why anyone, let alone the Duke of Redmayne, would wish to do that.

Except, of course, to protect his investment. Furiously, she swung the mallet, ignoring the pain in her hands, ignoring the drops of blood that began to fall on the stump and made the handle of the mallet slippery. She welcomed the anger because it defeated the dreadful, numbing desperation that she knew instinctively was her greatest enemy.

She and Lilly must do their own six hanks and share Lilly’s if they were to keep her from the pillory—or worse, the whipping post. In this hellhole, inhabited by the dregs of humanity, the weak would go to the wall. Juliana knew that she would be able to stand up to the jailer, and to the vile Maggie, as long as she kept her strength and diverted the deadening sense of helplessness. Lilly, too, would be difficult to break. But Rosamund stood not a chance. Her spirit was already broken, and to watch her complete disintegration would provide merry sport for the degraded wretches who surrounded them.

Sir John Fielding regarded his visitors in polite astonishment. “Lady Edgecombe among the whores I sent to Tothill Bridewell? My dear sir, surely you must be mistaken.”

“I don’t believe so,” Tarquin said, his mouth so thin and tight it was barely visible. “Red hair, green eyes. Tall.”

“Aye, I marked her well. A bold-eyed wench,” the magistrate opined, stroking his chin. “Now you mention it, she did seem rather out of the common way for strumpets. But
why wouldn’t she identify herself? How could she get caught up—”

“Forgive me for interrupting.” Quentin stepped forward. “I believe it must have had something to do with Juliana’s interest in the lives of the street women.” He coughed discreetly. “She was much exercised over young Lucy’s plight, if you recall, Tarquin. Insisted upon bringing her out of the Marshalsea. I believe it would be in character for her to … to extend her field of operations, if you will.”

Tarquin nodded tersely. “It would certainly be in character.”

“What’s that you mean to say, your lordship?” Sir John looked puzzled. “Don’t quite catch your meaning. What interest could a lady have in a whore’s life?”

“The inequities of their position, I believe, troubles Lady Edgecombe most powerfully,” Quentin explained gravely.