Vice

Chapter 18

Tarquin awoke to filtered sunlight behind the bed curtains. The covers had been thrown back, and his naked body stirred deliciously as he felt the moist, fluttering caresses over his loins. Juliana's skin was warm against his, her hair flowing over his belly, her breath rustling on his inner thighs. Her fingers were as busy as her mouth, and he closed his eyes on a wave of delight, yielding to pleasure. His hand moved over her curved body, caressing the small of her back, smoothing over her bottom, tiptoeing over her thighs. He felt her skin quiver beneath his fingers and smiled.

He'd helped her undress and tumbled her into bed in the clear light of a rosy dawn, and by the time he'd thrown off his own clothes and prepared to join her, she'd been sleeping like an exhausted child, her cheek pillowed on her hand. He'd slipped in beside her, wondering why he chose to share her bed only to sleep when his own waited next door. He made it an invariable practice never to spend an entire night with his mistresses, but there had been something so appealing about Juliana. The deep, even breathing, the dark crescent of her eyelashes against the pale cheeks, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the turn of her bare shoulder against the pillow, the vibrant cascade of her hair escaping from her lace-trimmed nightcap. Unable to resist, he'd slid in beside her, and she'd stirred and nuzzled against him like a small animal in search of warmth and comfort.

He'd fallen asleep smiling and awoken with the same smile. Now he smacked her bottom lightly. "Mignonne, come up."

Juliana raised her head and turned on her belly to look up at him. "Why?" She pushed her hair away from her face and gave him a quizzical smile.

"Because you are about to unman me," he replied.

Juliana reversed herself neatly and stretched her body over his, her mouth nuzzling the hollow of his throat, her loins moving sinuously over his. "Better?" she mumbled against his pulse.

With a lazy twist of his hips he entered her as she lay above him. He watched the surprise dawn in her eyes, to be followed immediately by a wondering pleasure. "This is different."

He nodded. "If you kneel up, you'll find it's even more so."

Juliana pushed herself onto her knees. She gasped at the changed sensation and slowly circled her body around the hard, impaling shaft. She touched his erect nipples with a feathery fingertip, searching his face for his response, chuckling when he groaned with pleasure.

"Does it feel good when I do this, sir?" She rose on her knees, then slowly sank down again, arching her back as she grasped her ankles with her hands. His flesh pressed against her body's sheath, and she suddenly lost interest in Tarquin's reaction as a wave of glorious sensation broke over her. She cried out, her body arched like a bow, the near unbearable tension building in ever tightening circles.

Tarquin lay still, knowing she needed no help from him to reach this peak. He watched her through half-closed eyes, reveling in the innocent candor of her joy. And when she cried out again, he grasped her hips and held her tightly as she rocked on his thighs with each succeeding wave of her climax.

"But what happened to you?" she gasped when she could finally speak, tears of joy glistening in her eyes. "Did I leave you behind?"

"Not for long," he promised softly. The exquisitely sensitized core of her body lay open for his touch, and he played delicately upon her as Juliana moved herself over and around him, her tongue caught between her teeth as she concentrated on her lover's pleasure, her own ever present but taking secondary importance. But when he drove upward with another almost leisurely twist, she was surprised yet again by the rushing, heated flood of ecstasy that dissolved muscle and sinew like butter in the sun.

He gripped her hips, his fingers biting deep into the rich curves, holding her as if she were his only anchor to reality in the storm-tossed sea of sensual bliss. And when it was over and he became aware of the lines and contours of his body on the mattress, of the dust motes in the ray of sun creeping through the curtains, he drew her down to lie along his length, his hand stroking over her damp back, his flesh diminishing slowly within her.

What was it about this woman that she could so transport him? Make him forget everything but the glories of their joining? What was it that made him want to protect her, to make her happy? He was thirty-two, affianced from childhood to a perfect match-a woman who would be his wife but who would not object to his mistresses. A woman who knew the rules of their society. A woman he wanted to marry. So why, then, did the prospect suddenly seem drab? When he thought of the well-ordered years ahead, he felt dull and depressed. But why? He and Lydia were two grown people who knew what each expected of the other. His marriage would follow the rules of all successful relationships. He gave people what they expected from his money, position, and influence, and he made sure he received what he was due in his turn.

It had always worked before, but it wasn't working with Juliana. He was convinced that another woman in her position would have jumped at the chance of a tide and a comfortable settlement for life. But not Juliana. She wasn't interested in what he had to offer; she seemed to want something more. She wanted something from him. Something far deeper than mere material offerings. And the thought stirred him, filled him with a restless excitement, was the source of this sudden impatience with his carefully laid-out future.

And holding this long, luscious body, feeling her jade gaze on his face, fiery tendrils of hair tickling his nose, he understood deep at his core that he lacked something fundamental to his happiness. He held it in his arms, but he couldn't grasp it and make it his. He didn't know how to. It was embodied in Juliana's unusual, tempestuous, forthright spirit, and he didn't know how to capture it. He didn't understand Juliana's rules.

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 fully 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 tiling 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 my 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?" Cadett 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.

Shuddering, she turned from the window as the door opened on a babble of excited voices.

"How is Lucy, Juliana?" Rosamund, her pretty face grave with concern, was the first into the room. The others followed in a gay flutter of filmy wrappers and lace-edged caps. They were still in dishabille, as Juliana remembered from her own days in the house. They wouldn't dress formally until just before dinner.

"She was sleeping when I left. But I think she's recovering quickly. Henny is looking after her." Juliana perched on the arm of a brocade sofa. "His Grace will not permit her to have visitors, because she needs to rest," she explained tactfully. "So I'll have to act as your messenger."

Fortunately no one questioned this polite fabrication, and Lilly launched into a description of the Dennisons' reaction to Lucy's plight and the request that they consider taking her in when she was well enough to work again.

"Mistress Dennison was pleased to say that since Lucy appeared to have His Grace's favor, then they would consider it," Emma said, sitting on the sofa and patting Juliana's arm confidingly.

"What a difference it makes to have an influential patron." sighed Rosamund, shaking her curls vigorously.

"Actually, I don't think it has much to do with the duke," Lilly declared acerbically. "It's just that Mistress Dennison would be delighted to thwart Mother Haddock."

There was a chuckle at this; then Lilly said, "So what was this plan you had, Juliana?"

"Ah." She opened and closed her fan restlessly. "Well, I thought that if we all banded together, we could look after each other. Protect each other so that what happened to Lucy couldn't happen again."

"How?" asked one of the girls with a mop of dark-brown curls and a sharp chin.

"If everyone in the various houses agreed to contribute a small sum every week from their earnings, we could have a rescue fund. We could pay debts like Lucy's . . . bail people out of debtors' prison."

The circle of faces looked at her in dubious silence. Then someone said, "That might be all right for us . . . and for girls in some of the better houses, but for most of them, they don't earn enough to keep body and soul together after they've paid their whoremasters for the drink and the candles, and coal, and a gown, and linen. Molly Higgins told me she spent over five pounds last week because she had to have wax candles for her clients and new ribbons for her nightcap because she can't look shabby if she's to attract the right kind of customers. And the five pounds didn't include the present she had to give to madam to keep her sweet."

"But if they didn't have to buy all those things from their masters, then they would be better off,'' Juliana pointed out.

"But those are the terms on which they rent the places where they do business," Emma pointed out with an air of patience, as if explaining self-evident truths to an infant.

"But if they all refused to accept those terms, and if we managed to collect enough money to lend them for those necessary supplies, then they wouldn't be dependent on the whoremasters and bawds."

"It seems to me that you're talking of a vast deal of money," a dark girl said, nibbling a fingernail.

"Money's the key to everything," Rosamund replied gloomily. "I don't see how we can do it, Juliana."

"It's not money so much as solidarity," Juliana persisted. "If everyone agrees to put in what they can, you'd be surprised how it will mount up. But everyone has to take part. Everyone has to agree to stand by each other. If we do that, then we can stand up to the bawds and whoremasters."

There was another doubtful silence, and Juliana realized she had her work cut out. These women were so accustomed to a life of exploitation and powerlessness that they couldn't grasp the idea of taking their lives back. She opened her reticule and drew out her remaining twenty-pound note.

"I'll start the fund with this." She put the note on the table in front of her.

"But, Juliana, why should you contribute?" Lilly asked. "You're not one of us. In fact, you never have been."

"Oh, but I am," she said firmly. "My position is a little different, a little more secure, but I'm still in a situation I didn't choose, because I was alone and friendless and vulnerable. I was as much exploited as any one of you. And I'm as much dependent on the goodwill of a man who wouldn't call himself my whoremaster, but in essence that's exactly what he is."

Juliana glanced involuntarily toward the window as she said this, suddenly afraid that she might see the Duke of Redmayne standing there. If he heard himself described in such terms, his reaction didn't bear thinking about. But, then, he wasn't a man to appreciate the unvarnished truth when applied to his own actions.

"We should discuss it with the girls in the other houses," Lilly said. "If no one else wants to take part, then it won't work. We couldn't do it all ourselves."

"No," Juliana agreed. "It must be a real sisterhood."

"Sisterhood," mused Rosamund. "I like that word. I like what it means. Will you come with us to talk to the others, Juliana? You sound so convincing … so certain. And it was your idea."

Juliana nodded. "But not today." She didn't explain that she thought she'd been out of the house long enough. An extended absence would inevitably come to the duke's notice, but a short airing in his own chair would probably draw no more than a sigh and a raised eyebrow in their present state of accord.

"It would be best if we could gather everyone together," Emma said. "We should send round a message with a meeting place and a time."

"Where should we meet?" All eyes turned to Lilly, who seemed to have the role of natural leader.

"The Bedford Head," she said promptly. "We'll ask Mistress Mitchell if she'll lend us the back room one forenoon. She won't be busy then."

Juliana had seen the Bedford Head during her nightmare with Lucien. It was a tavern in the center of Covent Garden-not a place she was eager to revisit. However, needs must when the devil drives, and the Garden was bound to be less wild in the morning.

A footman entered with tea and cakes and the message that Mistress Dennison requested Lady Edgecombe's company in her parlor when she'd completed her visit with the young ladies.

"A request, not a demand," Juliana mused with a wicked grin. "That's a novelty."

A chorus of laughter greeted this, and the mood lost its solemnity. The conversation became as light and fizzy as champagne, with much laughter and fluttering of fans. Juliana had once wondered if their gaiety was genuine, not merely a performance to hide their real feelings, but she'd soon become convinced that it was perfectly real. They allowed little to upset them. Presumably because if they stopped too often to reflect and look around, they'd never laugh again.

She'd never enjoyed female company before. Her friends in Hampshire had been restricted by Lady Forsett to the vicar's solemn daughters, both of whom had regarded Juliana as if she were some dangerous species of the animal kingdom, shying away from her whenever they were alone in her company. Of course, she had developed the reputation as a hoyden when she'd fallen from the great oak at the entrance to Forsett Towers and broken her arm. It had been a youthful indiscretion, but one that had blackened her among the ladies of the county. The cheerful and undemanding camaraderie of the women on Russell Street was therefore a delightful new experience.

Outside George Ridge was engaged in idle conversation with the duke's chairmen. Initially they'd regarded the large young man, sweating in his lavishly trimmed coat of scarlet velvet, with contempt and suspicion. But it didn't take them long to figure out that he was the classic pig's ear struggling to make a silk purse of himself. Their manner became more open, although none the less slyly derisive.

"So what kind of a house is this?" George gestured to the front door with his cane.

" 'Ore'ouse, like as not." The chairman spat onto the cobbles and resumed picking his teeth. "An 'igh-class one, mind ye."

"The lady didn't look like a whore," George remarked casually, feeling for his snuffbox.

"What? Lady Edgecombe?" The second chairman guffawed. "Proper little lady she is … or so that maid of 'er's says. 'Is Grace keeps a wary eye on 'er. Told Mistress 'Enny she needed a bit o' motherin'. 'E didn't want no 'ighfalutin abigail attendin' to 'er."

"That so?" The first chairman looked interested. "A'course, Mistress 'Enny's yer brother's mother-in-law, so I daresay she'd tell ye these things."

"Aye," the other agreed with a complacent nod. "Tells me most everythin'. Except," he added with a frown, "what's goin' on wi' that girl what 'Er Ladyship brought to the 'ouse yesterday. Mr. Catlett said as 'ow 'Is Lordship weren't best pleased about it. But Lord Quentin, 'e told 'im 'e 'ad a duty … or summat like that." He spat again, hunching his shoulders against a momentary sharp breeze coming around the street corner. "Blessed if I can get a thing outta 'Enny, though. Mouth's tighter than a trap."

"So what's Lady Edgecombe doing visiting a whorehouse?" George wondered aloud. Both chairmen looked at him suspiciously.

"What's it to you?" There was a belligerence to the question, and George thought that perhaps he'd got as much out of them as he was going to.

He shrugged. "Nothing, really. It's just that I thought I saw her in the Shakespeare's Head last even. With a group of men. Perhaps her husband . . . ?"

Both men spat in unison. "The viscount's no 'usband fer anyone. Can't think what persuaded 'im to take that poor young thing to wife. A dog's life, 'e'll lead 'er."

"But 'Is Grace is keepin' an eye out," his companion reminded him. "Eh, man, the affairs of the quality is no concern of ours. Couldn't understand 'em in a million years."

"Aye, that's a fact."

They both fell into a ruminative silence, and George finally offered a brief farewell and walked away. The mystery was growing ever deeper. Was Juliana really married to the viscount, who'd tried to sell her last night? Or was she embroiled in some whore's masquerade? The latter seemed the most likely, since it was impossible to imagine the real Viscountess Edgecombe taking part in that business in the tavern. A man of the viscount's breeding would never expose his wife to such ghastly humiliation. Whores were paid to participate in such playacting. But if the duke's servants believed she was truly wedded to the viscount, then something very deep was afoot. The woman, Mistress Henny, an old family retainer who'd been assigned to look after Juliana, was a very convincing detail in the narrative. But why would Juliana be part of such a deception?

Money, of course. She had left her husband's home without a penny, hadn't even taken her clothes. Somehow she'd fallen under the duke's influence, and he was requiring her to earn her keep by playing this part. He'd come to her rescue last night, so he must be deeply involved. But did he know that the strumpet he was employing was wanted for murder? Perhaps someone should tell him.

George turned into a tavern under the Piazza and called for ale. Perhaps he should confront Juliana before exposing her to her protector. Maybe she would be so intimidated by seeing him and understanding how much power he now held over her, that she would capitulate without a murmur. So long as she wasn't legally married, then nothing stood in the way of his own possession. She hadn't appeared to recognize him last night, but she'd been in great distress then and probably unaware of anything around her. He would ensure that next time she looked him full in the face and acknowledged his power.

George drained his tankard and called for a bottle of burgundy. He was beginning to feel that he would soon steer a path through this muddle and emerge triumphant. All he had to do now was to waylay Juliana when she was alone and with no easy exit. He would easily convince her to see which side her bread was buttered.

The burgundy arrived, but after a few sips he stood up and walked restlessly to the tavern door. The thought of Juliana drew him like a lodestone. His feet carried him almost without volition back to Russell Street, where he took up a stand on the steps of the bookshop, apparently minding his own business.

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Juliana found Mistress Dennison friendly and hospitable. She bade her sit down and pressed a glass of sherry on her, then sat down herself and said with crisp matter-of-factness, "Do you know yet whether you've conceived?"

Juliana nearly choked on her sherry before she reminded herself that in this household there were no taboo intimate subjects when it came to female matters.

"It's too early to tell, ma'am," she responded with creditable aplomb.

Mistress Dennison nodded sagely. "You do, of course, know the signs?"

"I believe so, ma'am. But anything you wish to impart, I should be glad to hear."

Mistress Forster had broken her silence on all such matters only once, to tell Juliana that if she missed her monthly terms, she could assume she had conceived. Juliana suspected that there was more to the business than that bald fact, so she was grateful for Elizabeth's interest.

Elizabeth poured herself another glass of sherry and began to describe the symptoms of conception and the method of calculating the date of an expected birth. Juliana listened, fascinated. Mistress Dennison minced no words, called a spade a spade, and left no possibility for misunderstanding.

"There, child. I trust you understand these things now."

"Oh, yes, completely, ma'am." Juliana rose to take her leave. "I'm very thankful for the enlightenment."

"Well, my dear, you must always remember that even when a girl leaves here for such a splendid establishment as yours, she is still one of my girls. Any questions you may have, you will find the answers here. And when the time comes, I shall gladly assist at the birth. We are a close family, you understand." She smiled warmly at Juliana.

"I trust you'll see your way to opening your family to Lucy Tibbet, ma'am." Juliana dropped a demure curtsy. "His Grace has been kind enough to say that he'll give her a sum of money when she leaves his house so she'll be able to set herself up, but she will need friends. As we all do," she added.

Mistress Dennison looked a trifle vexed at being pressed on this matter, but she said a little stiffly, "His Grace is all condescension as always, Juliana. Lucy is very fortunate. Perhaps more than she deserves. But it's to be hoped she's learned a valuable lesson and will be a little more obedient in future."

Juliana dropped her eyes to hide the tongues of fire. "I'm sure you will do what you think best, ma'am."

"Yes, indeed, child. I always do." Elizabeth inclined her head graciously. "And I daresay, if Lucy is truly penitent, then Mr. Dennison and I will see our way to assisting her."

"Ma'am." Juliana curtsied again and turned to leave the room before her unruly tongue betrayed her. In her haste she tripped over a tiny spindle-legged table and sent the dainty collection of objets d'art it supported flying to the four corners of the room. "Oh. I do beg your pardon." She bent to pick up the nearest object, and her hoop swung wildly and knocked over an alabaster candlestick on a low table.

"Never mind, my dear." Elizabeth rose rather hastily to her feet and reached for the bellpull. "A servant will see to it. Just leave everything as it is."

Juliana backed cautiously from the room, her high color due not to embarrassment but to hidden anger.

She made her way down the stairs. The women had all retired to their chambers to dress for the day's work. A maid bustled across the hall with a vase of fresh flowers for the salon. Juliana glimpsed a footman refilling the decanters on the pier table. In a couple of hours the clients would begin to arrive.

Mr. Garston bowed her ceremoniously out of the door, clicking his fingers imperiously to the idling chairmen. "Look sharp, there. 'Er Ladyship's ready fer ye."

The chairmen snarled at Garston but jumped to attention as Juliana came down the steps. As she turned to step into the chair, she saw George watching her from the steps of the bookshop at Number 8. He offered her a clumsy bow, his lips twisting in a humorless grin. Juliana frowned as if in puzzlement. She spoke in carrying tones.

"Chairman, that man over there is staring at me in the most particular way. I find it offensive."

The first chairman touched his forelock. "Ye want me to wipe the grin off 'is face, m'lady?"

"No," Juliana said hastily. "That won't be necessary. Just carry me back to Albermarle Street."

George cursed her for an arrogant strumpet. How dare she look through him as if he were no more than a slug beneath her feet? What did she think she was playing at? But now that he'd found her, now that he knew that she went out alone, he could plan his campaign. Next time she left Albermarle Street alone, he would take her. He'd bring her to a proper respect for her late husband's heir. He returned to his burgundy with renewed thirst.