Vice

Chapter 17

It was three o'clock in the morning when Tarquin returned home. He nodded at the night porter, who let him in, and headed for the stairs. The man shot the bolts again and returned to his cubbyhole beneath the stairs.

The duke strode into his own apartments, shrugging off his gold brocade coat. His sleepy valet jumped up from his chair by the empty fireplace and tried to stifle a yawn.

"Good evening, Your Grace." He hastened to take the coat from his employer, shaking it out before hanging it in the armoire. "I trust you had a pleasant evening."

"Pleasant enough, thank you." Tarquin glanced toward the armoire with its concealed door, wondering if Juliana was awake. Presumably she'd retired hours ago. His valet tenderly helped him out of his clothes and handed him a chamber robe. The duke sat at his dresser, filing his nails, while the man moved around the room, putting away the clothes, drawing back the bed curtains, turning down the bed.

"Will that be all, Your Grace?"

The duke nodded and dismissed him to his bed. Then he stepped through the door in the wardrobe and softly entered the next-door chamber. The bed was unslept in.

Henny snored softly on the chaise longue. Of Juliana there was no sign.

"Where the devil-"

"Oh, lordy me, sir!" Henny jumped to her feet at the sound of his voice. Her faded blue eyes were filmed with sleep. "You did give me a start." She patted her chest with a rapid fluttering hand.

"Where's Juliana?" His voice was sharp, abrupt.

"Why, I don't know, Your Grace. I understand she went out with Lord Edgecombe. They haven't returned as yet. But His Lordship is never one to seek his bed before dawn," she added, smoothing down her apron and tucking an escaping strand of gray hair back under her cap.

Tarquin's initial reaction was fury, mingled immediately with apprehension. Juliana could have no idea where and how Lucien took his pleasures. She was far too innocent of the urban world even to imagine such things. It was that very innocence that he'd believed would make her a compliant tool in his scheme. And now it was the same innocence combined with that defiant spirit that was leading her into the horrors of Lucien's world. Perhaps he'd erred in his choice. Perhaps he should have involved a woman who knew her way around the world, who would have entered a business contract with her eyes open. But such a woman would not have been virgin. And a whore could not be the mother of the heir to Edgecombe.

But he'd made his choice and was stuck with the consequences. He'd assumed he'd be able to put a stop to her mischief with Lucien, but he hadn't expected her to move so fast. He would learn the lesson well.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Henny sounded troubled, a deep frown drawing her sparse eyebrows together, as she examined the duke's livid countenance. "If I did wrong-"

"My good woman, of course you didn't," he interrupted brusquely. "Lady Edgecombe is not in your charge. Take yourself to bed now. She won't need you tonight."

Henny looked a little doubtful, but she curtsied and left the chamber. Tarquin stood for a minute, tapping his fingernails on a tabletop, his mouth grim.

He turned on his heel and went back to his own chamber, where he threw off the chamber robe and dressed swiftly in plain buckskin britches, boots, and a dark coat. The sword at his waist was no toy, and his cane was a swordstick. He strode downstairs again, and the puzzled night porter hurried to open the front door.

"Do you know what time Lord and Lady Edgecombe left?"

"No, Your Grace. I understood from Catlett that they left quite early, before Your Grace."

The duke cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn't he thought to check on her before he went out? He'd completely underestimated her, assuming her defiance to be no more than that of a thwarted schoolroom miss.

He left the house and called to a link boy, standing in a doorway opposite, his oil lamp extinguished at his feet. The lad shook himself awake and came running across the street. "Where ye goin', m'lord?"

"Covent Garden." It would be Lucien's first and probably last stop of the evening.

The lad busily trimmed the wick of his lantern before striking flint on tinder. The yellow glow threw a welcoming patch of illumination as the lad hurried along beside the duke, trotting to keep up with Tarquin's swift, impatient stride.

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Juliana gulped the fresh air of St. James's Park, trying to get the stench of blood out of her nostrils. She couldn't rid her mind of the images, however. Even though she'd kept her eyes shut much of the time, the torn and mangled birds lying inert in the sawdust ring, surrounded by blood-soaked feathers like so many bloody rags, tormented her inner vision. She could still hear the deafening uproar as the wild betting had grown increasingly frenzied with each new pair of cocks, armed with silver spurs, being set down in the pit. Open mouths screaming encouragement and curses, drink-suffused eyes filled with greedy cruelty, the astonishing determination of the birds, fighting to the death even when clearly mortally wounded, were indelibly printed on her mind, and for the first time in her life she'd been afraid she would swoon.

Somehow she'd held on, aware of Lucien's quick glances at her deathly pallor, her closed eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking down at this hideous sight. His eyes, sunk in their dark sockets, grew more spiteful as the ghastly business progressed. Vaguely, she was aware that he was losing money hand over fist. Bertrand had cheerfully handed over a fistful of coins when Lucien turned out his empty pockets with a vile oath. But it wasn't until the fourth pair of birds had been tearing each other apart for forty-five minutes, blood and feathers spattering the audience on the lower ring of seats, that Lucien stood up from the matted bench and announced that he'd had enough of this insipidity.

Juliana had staggered out of the circular room, into the warm night. She wanted to crawl behind a bush and vomit her heart out. But she would not give her loathsome husband the pleasure.

"Well, my dear, I trust you're enjoying your introduction to London entertainments." Lucien took snuff, regarding her with a sardonic smile.

"It's certainly an education, my lord," she responded, both surprised and thankful that her voice was clear and steady.

Lucien frowned, glowering at her in the flickering light of the flambeaux illuminating the path from the cockpit to the gate. The woman was proving a disappointment. He'd expected her to break before now.

"Gad, man, but I've a thirst on me to equal a parched camel's," Frank Carson declared, loosening his already crumpled cravat. "Let's to the Shakespeare's Head. I've a mind for some dicing."

"Aye, good thought," Freddie approved, wiping his perspiring forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. "You comin', Edgecombe?"

"Indeed," the viscount said. "The night's but barely begun. Come, madam wife." He grabbed Juliana's elbow and dragged her beside him down the path and onto the street. "Hackney! Hey, fellow. You there, idle bastard!" He waved belligerently at the driver of a cab, smoking peacefully in the stand of hackneys touting for customers emerging from the Royal Cockpit.

The jarvey cracked his whip and directed his weary horse across the street. "Where to, guv?"

"Shakespeare's Head." Lucien clambered up, leaving Juliana to follow. Her petticoat was grimy from the fdthy matting in the cockpit, her dainty slippers soiled with something unidentifiable but disgusting. She drew her cloak tighter around her, despite the warmth of the night, and huddled into the shadowy corner as the others rowdily entered the vehicle.

She was extremely weary, and growing increasingly frightened. There was a frenzy to her husband's behavior, an alarming glitter in his burning eyes. His color was, if anything, worse than usual, and his breath rasped in his chest. She knew instinctively that he intended to make game of her in some way. Foolishly, she had attempted to ally herself with him in opposition to the duke. Foolishly she had thought she'd found the perfect motive for Edgecombe's cooperation. Foolishly she'd thought she could use him for her own ends. But Lucien was not cooperating with her. He was using her for his own amusement. And he wasn't finished yet.

There was nothing she could do, outnumbered as she was, but watch and wait and try to escape. Maybe they would become so involved in the gambling, so besotted with drink, that she could slip away without their noticing. Maybe a visit to the outhouse at the tavern would give her an opportunity.

Covent Garden was still thronged, but the crowd's inebriation had reached a new peak. Voices were loud and slurred; raised in anger and curses as often as in laughter. Men and women swayed over the cobbles, clutching stone jugs of gin, and Juliana watched a woman tumble in a drunken heap into the kennel, spilling the drink all over her. The man she was with fell on her with a roar, throwing her skirts up over her head to chanting encouragement from passersby.

Juliana averted her eyes. She had no idea whether the woman was a willing participant in what was going on, or merely insensible. She didn't seem to be struggling. Someone screamed from one of the shacks under the Piazza, a loud squeal like a stuck pig. Juliana shuddered, her scalp crawling. A woman came flying out of the building, wearing only a thin shift. A man raced after her, wielding a stick. His face was suffused with fury, the woman's pale with terror. Juliana waited for someone to intervene, but no one took any notice as the woman weaved and ducked through the crowd, trying to escape the ever-swinging stick.

"Filthy whore-up to her tricks again," Bertrand said, grinning. "The trollops think they can get away with murder."

"So what's she done?" Juliana demanded, her eyes snapping in the flickering orange light from flambeaux and oil lamps.

Bertrand shrugged. "How should I know?"

"Cheated, most like," Frank said. "It's what they all do. Cheat their customers, cheat their whoremasters, cheat their bawds. They all need a spell in Bridewell now and again. Shakes 'em up."

Juliana swallowed her rage. It would only amuse them. There had to be a way to improve the conditions under which these women sold themselves. She understood that it was the only living available to them . . . understood it now from bitter experience. But surely they need not be so vulnerable to the merciless greed of those who exploited them.

She found herself being ushered with a determined arm toward a tavern, where the door stood open to the square and raucous, drunken voices poured forth with the lamplight on a thick haze of pipe smoke.

A bare-breasted woman swayed over to them with a tray laden with brimming tankards of ale. "What can I do fer ye, m'lords?" She winked and touched her tongue to her lips in a darting, suggestive fashion.

"Ale, wench!" Bertrand announced, slapping her backside with unnecessary vigor so that the tray shook in her hand and the ale spilled over. "Clumsy slut," he said with an offhand shrug, pulling out a bench from under one of the long tables.

Juliana sat down with the rest. She was parched, and ale was a welcome prospect. On the other side of the room, through the harsh babble of clamoring voices, she could hear the bets being called amid oaths and exclamations as the dice were rolled. There was a sharp edge of acrimony to the hubbub, a warring note that made the hairs on her nape prickle in anticipation of the violence that bubbled just beneath the surface of the apparent excitable jocularity.

A tankard of ale was thumped in front of her. The resulting spill dripped into her lap, but she'd long given up worrying about her clothes on this horrendous evening. If a soiled petticoat and a beer stain on her gown were the worst that would happen, she'd count herself fortunate. She drank deeply and gratefully.

After a few minutes, when it seemed that her companions were absorbed in wagering on the possible dimensions of a spreading ale spill, she rose to her feet, trying to slide unobtrusively away.

Lucien's hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She looked down at the thin white fingers and was distantly surprised at how strong they were. The blood fled from her skin beneath the grip. "Where are you off to, madam wife?" he demanded, his tone acerbic, his words slurred.

"The outhouse," she responded calmly. "You're hurting me."

He laughed and released her wrist. "It's out the back, past the kitchen. Don't be long now."

Juliana made her way through the room. She was accosted at almost every step by drunken revelers and dice players, but she avoided eye contact and shook the grasping hands from her arm with a disdainful air.

The privy was in an enclosed backyard, and Juliana could see no escape route. She wrestled with her skirts in the foul darkness, her head aching with the noise and the smoke, and her bone-deep weariness. How was she to get away? Lucien would delight in thwarting any attempt, and his friends would cheerfully lend their physical support. It wasn't worth risking the humiliation of defeat and Lucien's malevolent amusement.

She paused for a moment in the inn doorway before reentering the taproom. Lucien was watching the door, waiting for her reappearance. He beckoned imperatively and rose unsteadily to his feet as she approached. "We're going to play," he announced, taking her elbow. "You shall stand at my shoulder, madam wife, and smile on the dice."

Juliana could see no option, so she forced a smile of cheerful compliance and accompanied them to the dice table. They were greeted with rather morose stares, and room was somewhat unwillingly made for them at the table. Juliana yawned, swaying with exhaustion as the excitement grew with each throw of the dice. Lucien's voice grew increasingly slurred. A hectic flush stood out against his greenish pallor, and his eyes burned with a febrile glitter as the level in the brandy bottle he now held went steadily down.

He won initially and, thus encouraged, began to bet ever more immoderately. And as he grew more excited, so his losses mounted. He'd lost all his own money at the cockpit and now ran through Bertrand's loan, threw down his watch, a ring, and his snuffbox before resorting to IOUs, tossing them onto the table with reckless abandon. It was clear to Juliana through her sleepiness that his fellow players were not happy with these scrawled scraps of paper, and finally one of them declared disgustedly, "If you can't play with goods or money, man, I'll not throw again. I've no use for promises."

"Aye, what good's a piece of paper when a man wants to buy ale?" The chorus swelled and the faces pressed closer to the table, glaring at Lucien.

"Devil take you all," he swore. "My IOUs are as good as gold, I'll have you know. Underwritten by His Grace, the Duke of Redmayne. Present them at his house on Albermarle Street in the morning, and he'll pay you with interest."

"Who wants to wait till mornin'?" There was a rumble around the table, and one man half rose from his seat. He had massive fists, like sledgehammers, and a wandering eye that lent added menace to his drunken squint. "Pay up, my lord," he said with sneering emphasis, "or I'll 'ave the coat off yer back."

Lucien fumbled for his sword but not before Captain Frank Carson had hurled back his chair and leaped to his feet, his sword in his hand. "You dare to insult the honor of a gentleman!" he bellowed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he struggled to focus them. "Have at you, sir!" He lunged across the table. The burly man sidestepped with surprising agility, and the candlelight flickered on the blade of a cutlass. A woman screamed and the crowd in the taproom drew closer, some standing on their chairs to get a better view.

Juliana was now wide-awake. Her eyes flew to the door, tantalizingly open. But eager spectators pressed close behind them, and she was pinned to the table's edge. The mood in the room was ugly. Lucien and his friends, with drawn swords, faced a veritable army of knife-wielding rogues. The dice lay abandoned in the middle of the table, and the rowdy clamor died as a moment of expectant silence fell.

It was Freddie Binkton who broke the menacing tension. They were hopelessly outnumbered, their retreat cut off by the spectators. "Let's not be hasty, now," he said with a nervous titter. "Lucien, dear fellow, you must have something about you to raise a bit of blunt. We can all contribute something." He patted his pockets as if he could conjure coins from their depths.

"I'd put in my watch," Bertrand said, adding dolefully, "but I wagered it on that damn red cock . . . had no more spirit than a mewling lamb. Gave up without a fight. . . lost my watch . . . worth all of fifty guinea . . . lost it for a paltry ten-pound wager." His voice trailed off with his wandering attention, the sword in his hand drooping.

As if acceding to the truce, the ruffianly group lowered their knives, relaxed their aggressive stance, and glared at Lucien, waiting for his response.

Lucien looked around, his mouth tight, a pulse throbbing in his temples, the same febrile flush on his face, as garish as a clown's paint. Juliana, standing so close to him, could feel the savage fury emanating from his skin, mingling with the sour smell of fear and sweat. His gaze fell on her, and she shrank back, instinctively trying to merge with the people around her. Something flared suddenly in the pale-brown eyes, and he smiled slowly with a ghastly menace.

"Oh, I believe I've something to sell," he said, barely moving his lips.

"No!" Juliana whispered, her hand at her throat as she understood what he intended. "No, you cannot!"

"Oh, but I believe I can, madam wife," he said airily. "Wives are their husbands' chattel. You are mine, and I may dispose of you how I please. You should be glad to be of service, my dear." His hand shot out and gripped her wrist again in that painful vise. "Someone bring me a length of rope. We should do this properly."

"Come now, Lucien, it isn't right." Frank mumbled, half-apologetically. He looked uneasily at Juliana, who simply stared back at him, unseeing in her horror.

"Don't be such a ninny," Lucien said with a petulant scowl. "It's not for you to say what's right or not when it comes to my wife. Ah, rope." He took the rope handed him by a grinning ostler and looped it into a halter. "Here, madam. Bend your head."

"No!" Juliana pulled back from him, terrified as much by the evil embodied in the grinning death's-head countenance as by his intention. Someone grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her so she was forced to stand still. Lucien, still with that venomous grin, roughly pulled the halter over her head. Hands tugged and pulled at her, shoving her up onto the table. She fought them, her rage now superseding her terror. She kicked and scratched, barking her shins on the edge of the table as she was pushed and pulled and dragged upward. But despite her struggles, they got her onto the table, and Lucien seized the end of the halter.

Juliana, blinded by her wild rage, kicked at him. catching him beneath the chin with the sole of her shoe. He went reeling backward, dropping the rope. She made to jump from the table, but two men grabbed her ankles, holding her still as Lucien came up again, his eyes narrowed, one hand to his chin.

"Bitch," he said softly. "You'll pay for that."

She would have kicked him again if they hadn't been holding her ankles so tightly. She swayed dizzily on her perch, nausea rising in her throat, a cold sweat breaking out on her back. How had she walked into this nightmare? She'd known Lucien was vile, but not even in her darkest imaginings could she have suspected him capable of such viciousness. But the duke had known. He had always known what his cousin was capable of. He'd known but it hadn't stopped him from using her . . . from exposing her to this evil.

Lucien was calling in a drunken singsong, "So what am I bid for this fine piece, gentlemen? Shall we start at twenty guineas?"

A chorus of responses filled the air. Juliana looked down and saw little red eyes peering greedily up at her. stripping her naked, violating her with their lascivious grins. She couldn't move, her ankles were circled so tightly, and Lucien was pulling on the rope so that it cut into the back of her neck.

George Ridge awoke from his postprandial sleep as the shouts around him grew even more raucous. He raised his head, blinking, for a moment disoriented. He remembered where he was when he saw that he'd been sleeping in the midst of the detritus of his dinner. He belched loudly and lifted the bottle of port to his lips. There was a swallow left, and he smacked his lips, set the bottle down, and turned to call for another.

His eyes fell on the scene at the far side of the room. At first he couldn't make out what was going on, the noise was so loud, the crowd so thick. They were wagering on something, and there was a frenzied edge to the bidding that struck him forcefully. He blinked, shaking his head to rid his brain of muzziness. Then he blinked again and sat up.

Juliana was standing on the table. It couldn't be anyone else. Not with that tumbling forest fire of hair, those jade-green eyes flashing with such desperate fury, that tall, voluptuous figure.

But what in the devil's name was going on here? He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly, trying to isolate the words from the general hubbub. He heard someone call, "A hundred guineas. Come, gentlemen. My wife is worth at least that."

Wife! He approached the outskirts of the crowd. The bidding was getting livelier. A hundred and fifty, two hundred. Juliana stood like a stone. The man holding the rope, the man calling himself her husband, worked the crowd to renewed frenzy as he began to point out Juliana's attractions.

George's mouth was dry. He swallowed, trying to produce some saliva. The situation was unbelievable, and yet it was real. He pushed through the crowd, cleared his throat. "Five hundred guineas!" His voice sounded cracked and feeble, and at first no one seemed to hear him. He tried again, shouting. "I bid five hundred guineas for her."

Juliana heard George's voice, penetrating the trance into which she'd retreated from the unbearable humiliation, the waves of terror sucking at her. Don 't look at him. Don 't react. The instruction screamed in her brain even through her daze. She mustn't acknowledge him. If she refused to know him, then he couldn't prove her identity. She was still Viscountess Edgecombe. She was still under the protection of the Duke of Redmayne. Dear God, was she?

"Five hundred guineas'," Lucien said, turning to George with another of his savage grins. "Why, sir, that's a jump bid if ever I heard one. But she's a prime article, and you've a fine eye."

George didn't seem to hear him. He was staring at Juliana, willing her to look at him. But she was a graven image, her eyes fixed straight ahead. He reached to touch her ankle, and she didn't move.

"Any advance on five hundred for my dear wife, or shall this gentleman have her?" Lucien called out merrily. "He's got a bargain, I'm telling you."

"There are times, Edgecombe, when you surprise even me with the depths of your depravity." The cool voice cut through the raucous merriment as the Duke of Redmayne crossed the room from the door, where he'd been standing unnoticed for the last few minutes.

The nightmare had such a grip upon her that for a moment Juliana didn't react. Then the clear tones of salvation pierced her trance. Slowly she turned on her perch, George forgotten in the flood of incredulous relief. He'd come for her.

"Tarquin . . ." It was more plea than statement, as if she still didn't dare to believe that he was there.

"I'm here," he affirmed. His voice was a caress, the soft reassurance balm to her agonized soul. His gray gaze encompassed her, all-seeing; then he turned on Lucien.

Lucien shrank back against the table as his cousin's livid eyes blazed at him. A muscle twitched in the duke's cheek, but he said nothing, merely tapped one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. Then, very slowly, he brought up the fist and-almost gently, it seemed-touched Lucien on the edge of his chin. The viscount fell back into the crowd without a sound.

A murmur passed through the throng as the duke's eyes ran slowly around them. Suddenly a wicked blade flickered in his hand at the end of the swordstick. He still said nothing, but the crowd fell back, and the two men holding Juliana's ankles stepped away from the table.

George Ridge cleared his throat. He didn't know what was going on here, but he could see his prize slipping away from him. The newcomer spun round at the sound, and George flinched from the piercing stare, as cold and lethal as an arrowhead. He dropped his gaze in involuntary submission to this unknown but infinitely more powerful force.

Tarquin turned back to Juliana. He reached up and lifted her to the ground. He removed the halter and threw it into the crowd.

His eyes were still those he'd turned upon Lucien, cold and deadly, but he touched her hair, brushing a strand from her forehead. His long fingers moved fleetingly over the curve of her cheek. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head. Her voice was barely a whisper, but she managed to say frankly, "Only my pride."

Surprise glimmered in his eyes, softening the implacable steadiness of his gaze. Any other woman would have broken down in tears and hysteria. But Juliana was unique. "Can you walk?"

Her knees were quivering uncontrollably, but there was something in his appraising scrutiny that gave her strength to say "Of course," even as she clutched his arm for support. Somehow she put one foot in front of the other as the crowd fell back. Then they were outside. Dawn was breaking, and a curious quiet had fallen over the Piazza and the square. A few bodies lay sleeping under the colonnades, a pair of slatternly women leaned in a doorway, drinking ale between yawns. A shout and a crash came from Tom King's coffeehouse as a man flew through the door to land in the gutter, where he lay in a heap, clutching a stone jar of gin.

The duke raised a finger and a hackney appeared as if by magic. Tarquin gave Juliana a boost into the interior with an unceremonious hand under her backside and followed almost in the same movement, pulling the door shut with a slam.

For the first time in hours Juliana was no longer terrified. The gloomy, musty interior of the carriage was a haven, private and utterly protected. Faint gray light came through the window aperture, showing her the duke's countenance as he sat opposite, regarding her in reflective silence.

"What are you thinking?" Her voice sounded shrunken, as if the events of the night had leached all strength from it.

"Many things," he replied, running his fingertips over his lips. "That you are the most perverse, stubborn, willful wench it's ever been my misfortune to have dealings with.. . . No, let me finish answering the question." He held up an arresting hand as Juliana's mouth opened indignantly. "That Lucien's evil tonight surpassed even my expectations; and most of all, that I should never have let you set eyes on him."

"So you're sorry you devised this demonic scheme?"

"No, I didn't say that. But I deeply regret involving you."

"Why?"

Tarquin didn't immediately reply. It was on the tip of his tongue to say simply that she wasn't cut out for the role, not sufficiently compliant. It was how he believed he would have responded just a few short hours ago. But something had happened to him when he'd seen her on that table, exposed to the sweating, lusting, depraved gaze of London's vicious underworld. When he'd seen her freshness, her simplicity, her ingenuous candor mentally fingered by that vile mob, he'd known a rage greater than any he could remember. And to his discomfort and confusion that rage was directed at himself as much as at Lucien.

"Why?" Juliana repeated. "Am I not sufficiently biddable, my lord duke?" As her terror receded, her bitterness grew. On one level Tarquin was as guilty of that hideous violation as Lucien had been. "I'm sorry to have put you to such inconvenience this evening." She tore angrily at a loose cuticle on her thumb, stripping the skin away with her teeth.

Tarquin leaned over and took her hand from her mouth. He clasped the abused thumb in his warm palm and regarded her gravely in the growing light. "I'm willing to accept a hefty share of the blame for this night's doings, Juliana, but you, too, bear some responsibility. You chose to cultivate Edgecombe to be avenged upon me. Will you deny it?"

Honesty forced her to shake her head. "But what else would you expect me to do?"

The exasperated question brought a low, reluctant chuckle to his lips. "Oh, I expected you to be good and obedient and allow me to know what's best for you. Foolish of me, wasn't it?"

"Very." Juliana tried to extricate her hand, but his fingers closed more firmly around hers.

"I will ensure that Lucien doesn't come near you ever again. Do I have your assurance that you won't seek him out?"

"I learn from my mistakes, sir," she said with acid dignity.

"I shall endeavor to learn from mine," he said wryly, releasing her hand as the carriage came to a halt on Albermarle Street. "And maybe we can look forward to a harmonious future."

Maybe, Juliana thought, but without too much optimism. She'd finished with Lucien, but after tonight she was more than ever determined to help the women of Covent Garden.

Her head swam suddenly as she stepped to the pavement. Her knees buckled under an invincible wash of fatigue, and she reached blindly for support. Tarquin caught her against him, holding her strongly.

"Easy now, mignonne." His voice steadied her, and she leaned into the warmth and strength of his hold.

"I'm all wobbly," she mumbled apologetically into his coat. "I don't know why."

He laughed softly. "Well, I do. Come on, let's get you to bed." He lowered his shoulder against her belly and tipped her over. "Forgive the indignity, sweetheart, but it's the easiest way to accomplish the task."

Juliana barely heard him. She was almost asleep already, her body limp and unresisting as he carried her inside.