Vice (7 page)

“Not at all, my dear,” Sir Brian reassured smoothly. “Sir George was just leaving.” He pulled the bell rope.

Amelia curtsied again, and George, thus dismissed, found himself moving backward out of the library under
the escort of a footman who seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

“What did that lumpen oaf want?” Amelia came straight to the point as the door closed behind their guest.

“As far as I can gather, he wishes to consign Juliana to the hangman with all dispatch, so that he can reclaim that part of his inheritance that formed her jointure.”

“Dear me,” murmured Lady Forsett. “What vulgar haste. His father is but three days in his own grave.”

“The entire business is utterly distasteful,” her husband said. “Of all the farcical—”

“Typical of Juliana,” his wife interrupted, her thin lips pursing. “Such a clumsy, inconsiderate creature.”

“Yes, but where
is
she?” Sir Brian interrupted with a familiar note of irritation. “Why would she run away? She couldn’t possibly have been responsible for the man’s death.” He cast his wife an inquiring look. “Could she?”

“Who’s to say?” Lady Forsett shook her head. “She’s always been a wild and troublesome girl.”

“With an immoderate temper,” her husband put in, frowning. “But I find it hard to believe she could have deliberately—”

“Oh, not deliberately, no,” Lady Forsett interrupted. “But you know how she’s always doing the most inconvenient and inconsiderate things quite by accident. And if she flew off the handle …”

“Quite.” Sir Brian chewed his lower lip, still frowning. “The whole business already bids fair to becoming the county scandal of the decade. If it comes to court, it will be hideous.”

“Let us hope she isn’t found,” his wife said bluntly. “Then it will die down soon enough. If we don’t search diligently for her, who else would bother?”

“George Ridge.”

“Ahh … of course.” Lady Forsett tidied up a tumbling pile of leather-bound volumes on a side table.

“But I doubt he has the wit to succeed,” her husband said. “He’s no brighter than his oaf of a father.”

“Juliana, on the other hand—”

“Is as quick-witted as they come,” Sir Brian finished for her with an arid smile. “If she doesn’t wish to be found, I’ll wager it’ll take more than George Ridge to catch her.”

George Ridge was still scowling as he rode out of the stable yard at Forsett Towers. His mount was a raw-boned gray, as ugly-tempered as his master, and he tossed his head violently, curling his lips back over the cruel curb bit. When his rider slashed his flank with his crop, the horse threw back his head with a high-pitched whinny, reared, and took off down the uneven gravel driveway as if pursued by Lucifer’s pitchfork-carrying devils.

George had received even less satisfaction from the Forsetts than he’d expected. He cursed Sir Brian for an arrogant, nose-in-the-air meddler who hadn’t the decency even to offer to assist in the search for his ungovernable, murdering, fugitive erstwhile ward.

Juliana.
George pulled back on the reins as he turned the horse out of the gate and onto the lane.
Juliana.
Her image filled his internal vision in a hot, red surge of lust. He licked his lips. He’d lusted after her ever since he’d first seen her on the arm of his besotted, drooling father. His father’s massive bulk had made her seem small as she walked beside him, but it couldn’t disguise the voluptuous swell of her bosom beneath her demure bodice, the swing of her curving hips beneath the simple country gown that Lady Forsett insisted she wear.

Her hair had excited him as much as the hints of her body. A blazing, unruly mass of springing curls that seemed to promise an uninhibited and passionate nature. At first she’d been friendly, smiling at him, her green eyes warm, but then he’d made his mistake and yielded to the prompting of the lascivious dreams that swirled through his nights. He had attempted to kiss her, and she’d nearly scratched his eyes out. From then on her gaze had been cool and suspicious,
her voice had lost its rich current of merriment, become distant and dismissive.

George’s lust had not diminished, but anger and resentment had added a malevolent fuel. Now he saw his father’s bride as the usurper. A twisting, manipulating bitch who had ensnared Sir John Ridge in his dotage with the promises of her youthful body. And in exchange for those promises she had been rewarded with the dower house in perpetuity, together with two thousand acres of prime land and all revenues accruing from its thick forests and tenant farms.

George had listened to his father’s measured explanations for giving away George’s inheritance. He had protested, but to no avail. Sir Brian Forsett had been adamant that these were the only terms on which he would agree to his ward’s becoming Lady Ridge. And Sir John had been willing to agree to anything in order to have that sweet young body in his bed.

He’d had his wish, and it had killed him. George cut savagely at his horse’s flanks. Juliana had disappeared, leaving her former guardian in possession of her jointure. And George was left with only half of his rightful inheritance.

But if he could find her, then her crime would disqualify her from her inheritance. Unless she was with child. If she pleaded her belly, they wouldn’t sentence her to death. And her child would inherit the jointure. On the other hand, if she was to be married to Sir George Ridge—the grieving young widow wedded so appropriately to her late husband’s son—then it wouldn’t matter if she was with child or not. Everything would return to the Ridge family, and he, George, would have Juliana in his own bed.

Would she agree? He put spur to his horse, setting him at a high bramble hedge. The horse soared over, teeth bared in a yellow grimace, eyes rolling, and landed with a jolt on the far side.

George cursed the animal’s clumsiness and jerked back on the curb rein. Juliana would agree because she would have no choice. In exchange he would swear that his father’s
death was accidental. No one would question George Ridge’s interpretation of such an embarrassing incident. The story would be the joke of the county for months, and everyone would understand that a fat old man, drunk after his wedding, couldn’t keep pace on his wedding night with a fresh filly of barely seventeen.

Juliana would agree. But first he had to find her.

He swung his mount to the right and headed for Winchester. She had to have left the area. And the only way to do that was by carriage or on horseback. No horses had been taken from the stables at Ridge Hall. But the stagecoaches departed from Winchester in the very early morning. He would inquire at the Rose and Crown, and he would post notices around the city just in case a wagoner or carter had taken up a lone woman in the middle of the night.

Juliana spent her next three days in the house on Russell Street in relative isolation, talking only to Bella, the maid who attended her and brought her meals. Her memory of the moments in the salon immediately after the duke’s infamous proposition was vague. She had been devastated by outrage, rendered speechless; not trusting herself to remain in his company, she’d fled the room. No one had come after her, and no one had mentioned the matter to her again. Her chamber door was no longer locked, but on the one occasion she had ventured down to the hall, Mr. Garston had appeared out of nowhere and asked her in tones that brooked no argument to return to her chamber. She had been provided with everything she’d asked for: books, writing and drawing materials. But she was still unmistakably a prisoner in this topsy-turvy establishment that slept all day and awoke at night.

She would lie abed throughout the night listening to the strains of music from the salons, the bursts of feminine laughter, the sonorous male voices on the stairs, the chink of china and glass. Rich aromas from the kitchens wafted
beneath her door, and she would entertain herself trying to identify the delicacies from which they emanated. Her own fare was the plain and plentiful food she assumed was served in the kitchens, but clearly the clients and the working ladies of the house dined very differently.

She would doze lightly throughout the night, usually falling deeply asleep at dawn as the door knocker finally ceased its banging and the sounds of merriment faded. As the sky lightened, she would hear voices in the corridor outside, soft and weary women’s voices, the occasional chuckle, and once the sound of heart-wrenching weeping. The weeper had been comforted by a murmur of women, and then Mistress Dennison’s voice had broken into the whisperings. Kindly but firm. Juliana had listened as she’d dispatched the women to their beds and taken the weeper away with her.

Apart from apprehension, which she fought to keep under control, Juliana’s main complaint was boredom. She was accustomed to an active existence, and by the third day being penned in her chamber was becoming insupportable. She had asked no questions, made no demands for her freedom, stubborn pride insisting that she not give her captors the satisfaction of seeing her dismay. She would show them that she could wait them out, and when they saw she was adamant, then they would release her.

But on the early afternoon of the fourth day things changed. The little maid appeared in Juliana’s chamber with her arms full of silk and lace.

“Y’are to dine downstairs, miss,” she said, beaming over the gauzy, colorful armful. “And then be presented in the drawing room.” She opened her arms, and her burdens toppled to the bed. “See what a beautiful gown Mistress Dennison ’as ’ad fashioned for ye.” She shook out the folds of jade-green silk and held it up for Juliana’s inspection.

“Take it away, Bella,” Juliana instructed. Her heart was jumping in her breast, but she thought her voice sounded reassuringly curt and firm.

“Eh, miss, I can’t do that.” Bella stopped admiring the
gown in her hands and stared at Juliana. “Mistress Dennison ’ad it made up specially for ye. It wasn’t ready till this morning, so ye’ve been kept up ’ere. But now y’are all set.” She turned enthusiastically to the pile of material on the bed. “See … fresh linen, two petticoats, silk stockings, and look at these pretty slippers. Real silver buckles, I’ll lay odds, miss! Mistress Dennison ’as only the best fer ’er girls.” She held out a pair of dainty apple-green silk shoes with high heels.

Juliana took them in a kind of trance, measuring the heel with her finger. Her feet were unruly enough when they were flat on the ground; what they would get up to in these shoes didn’t bear thinking of.

She dropped them onto the floor. “Would you inform Mistress Dennison that I have no intention of wearing these clothes or of being presented … or, indeed, of anything at all.”

Bella looked aghast. “But, miss—”

“But nothing,” Juliana said brusquely. “Now, deliver my message … and take these harlot’s garments away with you.” She gestured disdainfully to the bed.

“Oh, no, miss, I dursn’t.” Bella dropped a curtsy and scuttled from the room.

Juliana sat down on the window seat, ignored her pounding heart, folded her hands in her lap, and awaited developments.

They came with the arrival of both Dennisons within ten minutes. Elizabeth, resplendent in a gown of tangerine silk over a sky-blue petticoat, sailed into the room, followed by a tall gentleman clad in a suit of canary-yellow taffeta, his hair powdered and curled.

Juliana, reasoning that she had nothing to lose by showing courtesy, rose and curtsied, but her eyes were sharply assessing as they rested on her visitors. She had never met Richard Dennison but guessed his identity from Bella’s descriptions.

“Now, what nonsense is this, child?” Elizabeth came straight to the point, sounding annoyed.

“I might ask the same of you, madam,” Juliana said evenly. Her mind raced. Could they force her into prostitution? Could they have her raped and ruined, so she’d have nothing further to lose? Her skin was clammy, but her voice remained steady, and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the Dennisons.

“There’s no need for discourtesy, my dear.” Richard Dennison’s voice was deep and mild, but the tone was belied by his keenly penetrating eyes. He stepped up to the bed. “Do you find fault with the gown … or the linen?”

“They are the garments of a harlot, sir. I am not a harlot.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, girl!” exclaimed Elizabeth. “This gown is the dernier cri at court. Everything here is of the best quality and design.”

“I thank you for your kindness, ma’am, but I will not take your charity.”

“This is not
my
gift, child, but—” She stopped abruptly as her husband coughed behind his hand, his eyes darting a warning.

Juliana bit her lip. If the clothes were not the gift of the Dennisons, then there was only one explanation. “I beg you will inform His Grace, the Duke of Redmayne, that I have no need of
his
charity either.”

“Why do you keep prating of charity, child?” demanded Richard. “You are being asked to perform a service in exchange for our hospitality and His Grace’s generosity.”

“A service I will
not
perform,” she stated, astonished at how firm she sounded when her knees were quaking like a blancmange and her palms were slippery with sweat. “I am not a whore.”

“As I understand it, His Grace is offering to make you a viscountess … a far cry from a whore,” Mr. Dennison observed aridly.

“There is a buyer and a seller, sir. I see no difference.”

“Obstinate ingrate,” declared Mistress Dennison. “His
Grace insisted you should have time to reconsider his offer without persuasion, but—”

“Madam!” Juliana interrupted passionately. “I ask only to be allowed to leave this house unmolested. If you will return my original garments, I will go as I came and be no trouble to anyone. Why would you keep me here against my will?”

“Because it is our considered opinion, my girl, that you don’t know what’s good for you,” Richard said. “How long do you think you’ll last on the streets? You have no idea how to go on in London. You have no money, no friends, no protection of any sort. In this house you have been offered all that and more. In exchange we ask only that you put on those clothes and come downstairs to dinner.”