Vice

Chapter 15

The carriage drew up on Albermarle Street and Juliana alighted, reaching up to help Lucy as her friends half lifted her down.

"Should we come in with you?"

Juliana, after a moment's reflection, shook her head. "No, I think I'd better do this alone, Emma. It could be a little awkward. I can manage to get Lucy up the steps without help."

"If you're sure," Rosamund said, trying to conceal her relief but not quite succeeding.

"You would be better employed persuading the Dennisons to shelter Lucy when she's recovered her strength," Juliana said, supporting Lucy with a strong arm at her waist. "I'll come to Russell Street tomorrow and tell you how she is. Also," she added with an intent frown. "I have an idea that I want to talk over with you all. And the other girls, too, if they'd be interested."

"Interested in what?" Lilly leaned forward, her eyes sharp.

"I can't explain here. I have to think it through myself first, anyway." She smiled and raised a hand in farewell. "Until tomorrow."

There was a chorus of good-byes as she supported Lucy up the steps to the front door. Catlett opened it before she could knock, and for once his impassive expression cracked when he saw her companion. Juliana couldn't blame him. Lucy was a dreadful sight. Rosamund's incongruous, delicate, muslin-frilled cloak only accentuated her half-naked condition. However, Juliana merely nodded to Cadett as she helped the girl into a chair in the hall.

Lucy fell back, her face whiter than milk, her eyes closed, her heart racing with the effort of getting from the carriage to the chair. Juliana stood looking at her, for the moment nonplussed. What orders should she give? There must be spare bedchambers in the house, but did she have the right to dispose of one without the duke's leave? Probably not, she decided, but there didn't really seem to be much option.

"Catlett, would you ask the housekeeper to show me to-"

"What in the devil's name is going on here?"

Juliana spun round at the duke's voice. So he hadn't recovered his good humor in her absence-not that she'd expected that he would have. She glimpsed Quentin behind him, overshadowed by his brother, not so much by height as by Tarquin's sheer presence.

She cleared her throat and began, "My lord duke, this is the woman we brought from the Marshalsea, and-"

"Catlett, you may leave." The duke interrupted her with this curt order to the servant, who was staring at the pale, crumpled figure of Lucy, as fascinated as if she were a two-headed woman at the fair.

"Now you may continue," Tarquin said as Catlett melted away into the shadows behind the stairs.

Juliana took a deep breath. "If you please, sir-"

Lucy moaned faintly, and Quentin, with a muttered exclamation, pushed past his brother and bent over her.

Juliana tried again. "She's been starved." she said, her voice stronger as she thought of Lucy's plight. "Tortured with starvation and left to die in that filthy place. She needs to be looked after, and I said she could come here."

"Indeed, Tarquin, the girl has been shockingly mistreated." Quentin straightened, his expression stricken. "We should send for the physician as soon as she's put to bed."

The duke looked over at Lucy and his expression softened for a minute, but when he turned his eyes back to Juliana, they cooled again. "For the time being you may take her upstairs and hand her over to Henny. She will know what to do for her. But then I would like to speak with you in my book room."

Juliana stepped back from him and dropped a curtsy. "Thank you, my lord duke. I am yours to command." She lowered her eyes in feigned submission and thus missed the spark of reluctant amusement that flared in his eyes. When she looked up, it was extinguished. He gave her a curt nod and stalked off to his book room.

"Come, Juliana, I'll help you get the poor girl upstairs. She's barely conscious." Quentin lifted Lucy into his arms, seeming unaware of her filthy clothes and hair pressed to his immaculate white shirt and gray silk coat. He carried her to the stairs, Juliana following.

"I'll put her in the yellow bedchamber," Quentin said almost to himself, turning right at the head of the stairs. "Then we'll ring for Henny."

He laid Lucy on the bed and drew the coverlet over her with all the tenderness of a skilled nurse. Juliana rang for Henny and then sat on the edge of the bed beside Lucy. "How dare they?" she said with soft ferocity. "Look at her! And that place was full of skeletons… little children… Oh, it's disgusting!"

"I wish it were possible to change such things," Quentin said uncomfortably.

"But you could!" Juliana sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing with a zealot's enthusiasm. "You and people like you. You're powerful and rich. You could make things happen. You know you could."

Quentin was saved from a reply by the arrival of Henny, who took charge with smooth efficiency, showing no apparent surprise at the condition of her patient.

"Come, let's leave Henny to tend her." Quentin drew Juliana toward the door. "And you must go to Tarquin."

Juliana grimaced. "He seems very vexed."

"You could say that." A smile touched his mouth. "But if you play your cards right, he won't remain so. Believe it or not, he's really a very fair man. He was easygoing as a boy… except in the face of injustice or deliberate provocation." Quentin's smile broadened as he recollected certain incidents of their shared boyhood. "At those times we all learned to keep out of his way."

"I don't seem to be able to stay out of his way," she said with a helpless shrug. "If I'd been able to do that, I wouldn't be living here now."

Tarquin had been trying to recapture a sense of control over events. He couldn't understand how a chit of a girl could have such a profoundly disturbing effect on the smooth running of his life. But ever since he'd seen her through the peephole, naked in the candlelight, she'd exerted some power over him… a power that had intensified as he'd introduced her to the ways of passion. He was moved by her. He no longer knew what to expect-from her, from himself. It was not a pleasant sensation; indeed, he found it almost frightening.

When Juliana tapped at the door, he flung himself into the chair behind the massive mahogany desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. "Enter." He didn't look up from the documents as the door opened.

Juliana stood in the doorway, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Instead he said, still without looking up, "Close the door."

Juliana did so and stepped into the room. Her chin went up. If he was intending to humiliate her by this insulting treatment, he would find it didn't work. Without invitation she sat down casually on a chair, her wide skills flowing gracefully around her, and picked up a copy of the Morning Post from a side table.

Tarquin glanced up, and that same glimmer of reluctant laughter sprang to his eyes as he surveyed the red head bent over the newspaper, the graceful curve of her neck, the absolute resistance radiating from the still figure. Viscountess Edgecombe wasn't yielding an inch.

He put the papers aside and said, "Let's not beat around the bush, mignonne. As I understand it, you intend to form an alliance with Lucien. Is that correct?"

Juliana's eyebrows lifted. "I don't know what you mean, sir. The viscount is my husband. I am absolutely allied with him in the eyes of the Church and the law."

Tarquin's lips thinned. "I tell you straight, Juliana, that I will not tolerate it. Also, as of now, you will have nothing further to do with Mistress Dennison's girls. They will not visit you here, and you will not visit them. You mustn't be tainted with the whorehouse."

"But am I not already tainted? What am I but your whore, bought under contract to a bawd?"

"You are my mistress, Juliana. That doesn't make you a whore."

"Oh, come now, my lord duke," she said scornfully. "You bought me for three thousand pounds, as I recall. Or was it guineas? I'm flattered that I should be worth so much to you, but I suppose the breeding aspect to this arrangement makes me more valuable. I may be naive, but I do know that men don't buy their mistresses. They buy whores."

"I think you've said all there is to say on that subject," the duke said coldly. "Repeatedly, I might add. I will now repeat myself. You will have no further contact with the girls on Russell Street. Henny will take care of that unfortunate creature upstairs until she's well enough to leave, at which point I'll give her a sum of money that will enable her to establish herself without a protector."

Quentin had said the duke was generous to a fault. It seemed he hadn't exaggerated, and this liberal benevolence toward a girl he didn't know from Eve rather took the edge off Juliana's hostility. However, since it didn't suit her plans to be cut off from Russell Street, the battle must continue.

"You're very kind, sir," she said formally. "I'm certain Lucy will be suitably grateful."

"For God's sake, girl, I'm not asking for gratitude," he snapped. "Only for your obedience."

"As I'm aware, I owe obedience only to my husband, sir."

"You owe obedience to the man who provides for you," he declared, standing up in one fluid movement. Juliana had to force herself to stand her ground as she found herself looking up at him.

He leaned forward, his flat palms resting on the desk. "You have already played into Lucien's hands by encouraging him to embarrass me. God only knows who saw you this morning. Who knew where you were going. Whom he will tell. He paraded you through the streets of fashionable London with a trio of High Impures, and he played you for a fool, you silly child. These naive schemes of retaliation will hurt you a damn sight more than they'll hurt me."

Juliana paled. It hurt her that he believed Lucien had made a fool of her. Surely, she deserved more credit than that. "Your cousin's conduct doesn't appear to have affected your standing in society so far, sir," she said with icy calm. "I fail to see why his wife should alter the situation." She curtsied again. "I beg leave to leave you, sir."

Tarquin came out from behind the desk. He took her chin and brought her upright. "Don't do this, Juliana," he said quietly. "Please."

She looked up at him, read the sincerity in his eyes and the harsh planes of his face. She recognized that he was offering her an opening to back down without loss of face, but her anger and resentment ran too deep and too hot to be swept away so easily.

"My lord, you reap what you sow."

For a long moment their eyes held, and she read a confusion of emotion in his. There was anger, puzzlement, resignation, regret. And beneath it all a torch of desire.

"So be it," he said slowly. "But bear in mind that you also reap what you sow." He bent his head to take her mouth with his. It was a kiss of war, and her blood rose to meet the power and the passion, the bewildering knowledge that she could fight tooth and nail yet respond with desperate hunger to the touch and the feel, the scent, the taste, the glorious rhythms, of his body.

When he released her, his gaze still held hers, taking in the full red richness of her lips, the delicate flush of desire against the creamy pallor of her cheeks, the deep jade depths of her eyes, the flame of her hair. He could feel her arousal pulsing like an aura, and he knew she was as aroused by the declaration of war as she was by passion.

"You have leave to leave me," he said.

Juliana curtsied and left, closing the door gently behind her. She passed an unfamiliar footman as she walked down the corridor toward the hall. "Do you know if Viscount Edgecombe has returned to the house?"

"I don't believe so, my lady."

He kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance beyond her head, and it occurred to Juliana that, with the exception of Henny, the servants in this house had been trained to avoid eye contact with their employers.

"Would you inform me when he does return?" she asked pleasantly. "I shall be in my parlor."

The footman bowed and she went on her way, her mind whirling as she tried to organize her thoughts. She couldn't free her mind from the bubbling volcano of her body. The duke had started something with that kiss that wouldn't be soon extinguished. She wondered if he'd known it… if it was the same for him. She guessed grimly that he knew what he'd done to her, and that unlike her, he was able to control his own responses.

Upstairs in the yellow bedchamber she found Lucy propped up on pillows, with Henny feeding her gruel. "Oh, you look so much better," she said, approaching the bed. Lucy's hair was clean, although dull and straggly, and her thin face was no longer grime encrusted. She wore a white nightgown that clearly swamped her, but her dark eyes had regained some life.

She turned her head toward Juliana and smiled weakly. "I don't know who you are. Or where I am. But I owe you my life."

Juliana shook her head briskly. She'd done no more than any compassionate human being would have done, and gratitude struck her as both unnecessary and embarrassing. "My name's Juliana," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And you're in the house of the Duke of Redmayne. I'm married to his cousin, Viscount Edgecombe."

Lucy looked even more bewildered. She shook her head as Henny offered her another spoonful of gruel. "I don't think I could eat any more."

"Aye, I daresay your belly's not used to being full," Henny said cheerfully, removing the bowl. "I'll leave you with her Ladyship. Just ring the bell if you want me." She indicated the rope hanging beside the bed and bustled out.

"How do you know Lilly and the others?" Lucy asked, lying back against the pillows.

"Ah, there hangs a tale," Juliana said with a grin. "But you look as if you need to sleep, so I'll tell you later, when you're stronger."

Lucy's eyes were closing and she did not protest. Juliana drew the curtains around the bed and tiptoed from the room. She went to her own parlor and stood at the window, looking out over the garden, her brow knitted in thought. Tarquin could prevent Lucy's friends from visiting her in his house, but she couldn't see how he could prevent her from visiting Russell Street if she had her husband's permission to do so. It sounded as if he thought he could, but how would he do so?

By compelling Lucien to withhold his permission, of course. He could do that by withdrawing his financial support. So she had to get to Lucien before the duke did. She had to find a way to persuade him to stand against Tarquin, whatever pressure was brought to bear. It ought to be possible. Lucien didn't strike her as particularly clever. Vindictive, spiteful, degenerate, but not needle-witted. She should be able to run rings around him if she came up with the right motivation.

Quentin walked into the garden below her and strolled down a flagstone path. He carried a pair of secateurs and stopped beside a bush of yellow roses. He cut half a dozen and then added another six white ones from the neighboring bush. Juliana watched him arrange them artistically into a bouquet, a little smile on his face. It was astonishing how different he was from his half brother. In fact, it was astounding how vastly different the three Courtney men were from each other. Lucien was utterly vile. She believed that Tarquin, beneath the domineering surface, was essentially decent. She was not afraid she would come to harm under his protection. But he lacked his brother's sensitivity and gentleness.

Quentin came back into the house with his bouquet of roses, and she wondered who they were for. Lady Lydia, perhaps?

The thought popped into her head. Something had given her the impression that that would be a match made in heaven. And from what she'd seen, she guessed it was a match they both yearned for. Or at least would yearn for if they thought it could ever be a possibility. But the Duke of Redmayne stood between them. And the duke had little interest in taking Lady Lydia to wife-he was merely satisfying an obligation. Maybe she could change that. People often didn't know how to get out of their own tangles. Witness herself, she thought wryly.

There was a tap at her door, and Lord Quentin came in at her response. He carried the roses, and for a minute she thought they were for her. But he said with a quick smile, "I thought your friend might take comfort from some flowers. They have such a lovely scent and they're so fresh and alive. I don't wish to burst in upon her unannounced, so I wondered if you would accompany me to her chamber."

"Yes, of course." Juliana sprang to her feet. Her hoop swung in a wide arc as she hastened eagerly to the door. A small round table rocked under the impact of the hoop. She paused to steady the table automatically before resuming her swift progress. "She was feeling sleepy when I left her, but it would be lovely to open one's eyes on a bowl of roses. Aren't they beautiful?"

Quentin smiled as she buried her nose in their fragrance. "You have only to give order for the servants to cut some for your own apartments."

Juliana looked up quickly, afraid that he might have read her mind earlier. "Oh, I would pick them myself," she said. "But someone has already put roses in my bedchamber and boudoir." She accompanied him down the corridor to Lucy's chamber, wishing she had the art of small talk to cover her moment of awkwardness.

She opened Lucy's door quietly and tiptoed in, peeping behind the bed curtains. Lucy opened her eyes and offered a tired smile.

"Lord Quentin has brought you some roses." Juliana stood aside so that Quentin could approach the sickbed. "I'll ring for a maid to put them in water." She reached for the bellpull, then stepped back in case Quentin wished to talk to Lucy alone. He might intend to have a pastoral conversation. But Quentin's voice was cheerful, and more avuncular than clerical, as he asked Lucy how she did and laid the roses on the bedside table.

"The maid will look after these. I don't wish to disturb your rest."

"Thank you. sir." Lucy's smile brightened considerably. "I don't know what I've done to deserve such kindness."

"You don't have to deserve it," Juliana stated with a touch of indignation. "When someone's been so ill treated, they're entitled to all the compassion and care that decent people can offer. Isn't that so, Lord Quentin?"

"Indeed." he agreed, even as he wondered why he found her passionate declaration such a novel concept. As a man of the cloth, he should have been expounding the principle himself, but somehow it hadn't crossed his mind until now. The poor were a fact of life. Cruelty and indifference were everywhere in their lives. If he'd thought of their plight at all, he'd simply considered it to be one of the inevitable evils of their world. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate. Juliana was opening his eyes on a new landscape.

Lucy looked incredulous, and he was glad he hadn't shown his own surprise at Juliana's revolutionary doctrine. "I'll leave you to your rest," he said. "But should you ever wish to talk to me, please send for me." He bowed and eased out of the room.

"What would I talk to him about:" Lucy inquired, struggling up on the pillows. "I wouldn't dare to send for him."

"He's a clergyman," Juliana informed her, sitting on the edge of the bed. "So if you wanted to talk on churchy matters, then, of course, he'd be available."

"Oh, I see." Lucy looked less bewildered. "Tell me your story, Juliana. I feel much stronger now."

Juliana told her as much as the other girls knew, breaking off when a maid entered to put the roses in water. Henny came in a few minutes later with a hot posset for the invalid. Juliana left to dress for dinner.

In her bedchamber she examined herself in the cheval mirror, frowning at her untidy appearance. Her morning's activities in the Marshalsea had wreaked havoc with her earlier elegance. It was disconcerting to think that she'd had her confrontation with the duke looking like a grubby schoolgirl. That hadn't prevented him from kissing her, however. She knew she hadn't mistaken the desire in his eyes, and surely he couldn't have feigned the passion of that kiss. Perhaps he found scruffy gypsies arousing. Bella at Russell Street had described in her worldly way some of the strange fancies of the men who visited there. Nuns and schoolgirls… who was to say the duke was any different?

Henny bustled in at that point, and she put the interesting question aside, submitting to the deft, quick hands of the abigail, who plaited her hair and arranged the unruly-curls that wouldn't submit to the pins into artful ringlets framing her face. She didn't ask Juliana's opinion about her gown but chose a sacque gown of violet tabby opened over a dark-green petticoat. She arranged a muslin fichu at the neck, adjusted the lace ruffles at her elbows, twitched the skirt straight over the hoops, handed her a fan and her long silk gloves, and shooed her downstairs like a farmer's wife with her chickens. But Juliana found this treatment wonderfully comforting. She had not the slightest inclination to argue with the woman or play the mistress to her servant.

"Ah, well met, my lady. Shall we go down together?" Lucien emerged from his bedchamber as she passed. His voice was slightly slurred, his eyes unfocused, his gait a trifle unsteady. The reek of cognac hung around him. "Don't in general dine at m'cousin's table. Dull work, except that the wine's good and his chef is a marvel. But thought I'd honor my bride, eh?" He chuckled in a restrained fashion so that it brought forth no more than a wheeze. "Take my arm, m'dear."

Juliana took the scarlet-taffeta arm. It was utterly unimpeachable for her to go into dinner on her husband's arm. But how it would plague the Duke of Redmayne! She smiled up at Lucien. "Alter dinner, my lord, perhaps I could speak with you in private."

"Only it you promise not to bore me."

"Oh. I can assure you, sir, I shall not bore you." Her eyes, almost on a level with his. met and held his suddenly sharp gaze as he looked across at her. Then he smiled, a spiteful smile.

"In that case, my lady. I shall be honored to give you a moment of my time." He stood aside with a bow to allow her to precede him into the drawing room.