Vice

Chapter 19

The duke had not returned when Juliana got back to the house. One less confrontation to worry about, she thought cheerfully. The longer she could keep him in ignorance of her excursions to Russell Street, the simpler life would be. George was a damnable nuisance, though. If he was going to dog her footsteps at every turn, she was going to have to tell Tarquin, which would mean admitting her own journeyings. For some reason she had absolute faith in the duke's ability to dispose of George Ridge in some appropriate fashion . . . and she also had a grim foreboding that he'd be able to put a stop to her own activities if he chose. But that was a bridge to be crossed later.

She sat down at the secretaire in her parlor and drew a sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill into the standish, she began to set out a list of items the Sisterhood's fund would have to cover if it was to do any good. They could support only their contributing members, she decided, although that would leave out many of the most vulnerable women of the streets. The ones who sold themselves for a pint of gin against the tavern wall, or rolled in the gutter with whoever would have them for a groat. But one had to start great enterprises with small steps.

A footman interrupted her calculations with the message that His Grace was at the front door and wished her to join him. Puzzled, she followed the footman downstairs. The front door stood open, and as she approached, she heard Tarquin talking with Quentin.

"Ah, there you are, mignonne," he called as she appeared on the top step. "Come and tell me if you like her."

Juliana caught up her skirts and half tumbled down the stairs in her eagerness. Tarquin was standing beside a roan mare with an elegant head and aristocratic lines.

"Oh, how pretty she is." She stroked the velvety nose. "May I ride her?"

"She's yours."

"Mine?" Juliana stared, wide-eyed. She had never had her own mount, having to make do with whatever animal no one else wished to ride in Sir Brian's stables-doddery-old riding horses for the most part, ready to be put out to pasture. "But why would you give me such a wonderful present?" A glint of suspicion appeared in her gaze, and she stepped almost unconsciously away from the horse.

"I promised to procure you a mount," he said smoothly. "Did you forget?" He could almost see the suspicions galloping through her mind, chasing each other across her mobile countenance. She was wondering what he wanted in exchange.

"No, I haven't forgotten," she said cautiously. "But why such a magnificent animal? I've done nothing to deserve her, have I?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said solemnly. "I can think of certain things, mignonne, that have given me limitless pleasure." His eyes were filled with a seductive smile, making clear his meaning, and Juliana felt her cheeks warm. She glanced sideways at Quentin, who appeared to be taking an inordinate interest in a privet hedge.

Juliana nibbled her bottom lip; then she shrugged and stepped up to the mare again. She decided not to spoil her pleasure in the gift by worrying about whether there were strings attached. If there were, she would ignore them. She took the mare's head between her hands and blew gently into her nostrils. "Greetings."

Once again Tarquin was entranced by her ingenuous delight. Her pleasure in his gift filled him with a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with his intention to keep her so happy and busy that she had neither the time nor the inclination to cause him further trouble.

Quentin smiled with his brother. You couldn't find two women more different from one another than Lydia Melton and Juliana Courtney, he reflected. The one so quiet and composed, with the pale gravity of a cameo. The other a turbulent, wildfire creature, ruled by passion. The comparison struck him to the heart with the familiar shaft of pain that came whenever he thought of Lydia. Of how impossibly unfair it was that Tarquin should have her and not truly want her, and he should be left on the outside, watching, his heart wrung with love and loss. But he must bow his head to God's will. Railing against the Almighty's plans was no proper behavior for a man of the cloth.

"What will you name her?" he asked abruptly.

Juliana patted the silken curve of the animal's neck. "Boadicea."

"Now, why that, in heaven's name?" Tarquin's eyebrows shot into his scalp.

"Because she was a strong, powerful woman who did what she believed in." Juliana's smile was mischievous, but her jade eyes were shadowed. "An example for us all, sir."

Tarquin smiled with resigned amusement and gestured toward the man holding the horses.

"This is Ted, Juliana. He's your groom, and he'll accompany you wherever you go."

Juliana looked startled. The man wore a leather jerkin and britches instead of livery. He had a broken nose, and his face had the misshapen appearance of one that had been in contact with a variety of hard objects over the years. He was very tall and very broad, but Juliana had the impression that his bulk was not fat, but muscle. His hands were huge, with hairy knuckles and splayed fingers.

He offered her a morose nod of the head, not a smile cracking his expression, not a glint of humor or pleasure in his eyes.

"Everywhere?" she queried.

"Everywhere," Tarquin repeated, the smile gone from his eyes.

"But I have no need of a bodyguard," Juliana protested, horrified at the implications of such a restriction.

"Oh, but you do," Tarquin declared. "Since I can't rely upon you to take sensible precautions, someone must take them for you." He reached out a hand and lightly caught her chin in his palm. "No Ted, no horse, Juliana."

It appeared he knew of her expedition. Juliana sighed. "How did you find out? I didn't think you'd come back."

"Not much goes on under my roof without my knowledge." He continued to hold her chin, his expression grave. "Do you accept the condition, Juliana?"

Juliana looked again at the morose Ted. Was he to be spy as well as protector? Presumably so. How was she to manage the projected visit to the Bedford Head in his dour company? Well, she'd get around him somehow. She returned her attention to Boadicea, saying by way of answer, "I should like to ride her immediately."

"It wants but ten minutes to dinner." Quentin said, amused.

"After dinner you may ride her in the park during the promenade, with Ted's escort," Tarquin suggested, hiding his relief at her capitulation. "Everyone will be wondering who you are. You'll create quite a stir."

Juliana laughed at this, not displeased with the idea. "I'd better tidy myself before dinner." She dropped a mischievous curtsy to the brothers and ran back inside.

Quentin chuckled, linking his arm in his brother's as they returned inside. "If she needs protection, Ted's as good a man as any for the task."

Tarquin nodded. "The best." They both smiled, each with his own boyhood memories of the taciturn, uncompromising gamekeeper, who'd taught them to ride, to tickle trout, to snare rabbits and track deer. Ted Rougley was utterly devoted to the Courtney family, with the exception of Lucien, and his loyalty was unwavering. Tarquin would never give him an order, but if he made a request, Ted would carry it out to the letter. Juliana would find it hard to take a step unguarded.

"I understand Juliana needs to be kept away from that stepson of hers, but what of Lucien?" Quentin asked as they entered the dining room.

Tarquin's nostrils flared, his mouth becoming almost invisible. "He hasn't returned to the house as yet. I'll deal with him when he does."

Quentin nodded and dropped the subject as Juliana came into the room.

"So," Juliana said conversationally, helping herself to a spoonful of mushroom ragout. "I'm to receive no visitors and go abroad only escorted by that morose-looking bodyguard. Is that the way it's to be?"

"My dear, you may have all the visitors you wish-"

"Except my friends," she interrupted Tarquin.

"Except Mistress Dennison's girls," he finished without heat.

"I suspect I am going to be bored to tears," she stated, sounding remarkably cheerful at the prospect.

"Heaven preserve us!" the duke declared, throwing up his hands in mock horror. "The combination of you and boredom, my dear Juliana, doesn't bear thinking of. But you will meet plenty of people. There will be those who come to pay a bridal visit. You may go to Vauxhall and Ranelagh, the play, the opera. You will be introduced to people there, and I daresay you'll be invited to soirees and card parties and routs."

"Well, that's a relief," Juliana said as cheerfully as before, popping a roast potato into her mouth.

Tarquin smiled to himself. Quentin sipped his wine, reflecting that there was a rare softness, an indulgence, in Tarquin's eyes when they rested on the girl, even when they were sparring.

Juliana left them when the port decanter appeared, saying she wished to get ready for her ride, and the brothers sat over their port in companionable silence, each with his own thoughts.

Twenty minutes later Juliana's head peeked around the door. "May I come in again, or is it inconvenient?" she asked delicately. Chamber pots were kept in the sideboard for the convenience of gentlemen sitting long over their port, and she knew better than to burst in unannounced.

"Come in by all means," Tarquin invited, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. Quentin saw the warm, amused look spring into his eyes again.

"I thought since you must have chosen my riding dress, you'd like to see what it looked like." Juliana stepped into the room. "It's very beautiful." She couldn't disguise her complacence as she presented herself expectantly for their admiration. "Don't you think the velvet on the collar and cuffs is a clever touch?" She craned her neck to examine her reflection in the glass of the fireplace. "It does such nice things for my eyes and skin." With a critical frown she adjusted the angle of her black, gold-edged hat. "I've never had such an elegant hat, either."

Tarquin smiled involuntarily. He'd amused himself giving orders for this wardrobe, but his enjoyment was tripled with Juliana's clear pleasure and the fact that his eye had been accurate. The green cloth coat and skirt with a cream silk waistcoat and dark-green velvet trimmings accentuated the lustrous jade of her eyes and her vivid hair. The nipped waist of the jacket and graceful sweep of the skirt made the most of the rich lines of her body.

She swept them both a curtsy, then rose and twirled exuberantly. The train of her full skirt swirled and wrapped itself around the leg of a table. With a muttered curse she extricated herself before any damage could be done.

"You look enchanting," Quentin declared. "Tarquin has always had a good eye when it comes to women's clothes."

"Do you spend this amount of time and trouble, not to mention money, on all your mistresses' wardrobes?" Juliana tweaked at her snowy linen cravat, smoothing a fold.

Quentin turned aside to hide his grin as Tarquin stared in disbelief at the insouciant Juliana. "Do I what?"

"Oh, was that indiscreet of me?" She smiled sunnily. "I didn't mean to be. I was only interested. It's unusual, I believe, for men to take such an interest in women's clothes."

"Let's drop the subject, shall we?" The duke sat up straight, his brows coming together in a fierce frown.

"Oh, very well." She shrugged. "But how many do you have?"

"How many what?" he demanded before he could stop himself.

"Mistresses."

Tarquin's face darkened, his indulgent equanimity destroyed. Quentin hastily intervened, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. "Juliana, my dear, I think you had better go for your ride. I'll escort you to the mews and see you mounted." He had swept her from the room before she could say anything else devastating, and before Tarquin could give voice to his bubbling wrath.

"Not exactly the soul of tact, are you?" Quentin observed in the stable yard.

"Did you think it an indelicate question?" Juliana asked airily, stepping up to the mounting block. "I thought it perfectly reasonable." She settled into the saddle, her skirts decorously arranged, and shot Quentin a mischievous grin that he couldn't help but return.

"You're incorrigible. Juliana."

Ted mounted a sturdy cob and examined Juliana critically. "The roan's fresh, ma'am. Think ye can 'andle her wi'out a curb?"

"Of course." Juliana nudged the mare's flanks, and Boadicea plunged forward toward the street. Juliana, unmoved, pulled back on the reins and brought the animal to a stop.

Ted grunted. "Seat's all right," he commented with a nod at Quentin. "Daresay she'll do."

Quentin raised a hand in farewell as the horses walked sedately out of the yard; then he went back into the house to fetch his hat and cane. It was a beautiful afternoon, and a stroll in Hyde Park was a pleasing prospect.

Juliana threw out a few conversational gambits to her escort but received only monosyllabic responses. Soon she gave up and settled down to enjoy her ride in private. She was so intent on managing Boadicea and displaying herself to advantage that she didn't see George slip out of a doorway as they clopped down Albermarle Street. She didn't notice him following at a steady pace and a safe distance; she was far too busy looking around, assessing the reactions of fellow travelers to her passing. It was gratifying to receive curious and admiring glances when at home she was accustomed to drawing not so much as a second look.

Ted, however, was aware of their follower. He took his charge on a roundabout route to the park, down side streets and through alleys, always at a pace that wouldn't outstrip a determined pursuer. The man dogged them every step of the way.

George was filled with an impotent rage. He'd been waiting for her to emerge for hours, imagining how he would go up to her, how he would scoop her up from the street, bundle her away. But she was still way beyond his reach, accompanied by that ugly-looking customer who gave the unmistakable impression of a man who would know how to handle himself in a tight.

George was in the grip of an obsession. He'd lost all interest in the fleshly pleasures of London; his dreams both waking and sleeping were filled with Juliana and the corrosive fear that even though he was so close to her, yet he might still be too far. He had followed her back to Albermarle Street from Russell Street and taken up his usual stand on the basement steps opposite. He'd watched with greedy, predatory eyes when she'd appeared on the steps with the two men and the roan mare. He couldn't hear what they said, but it was clear they were discussing something pleasing. He watched her go into the house, and his gut twisted at the bitter reflection that the men behaved toward her with a consideration more suited to a respectable wife than to a harlot.

And now she was riding through London, dressed in the very peak of fashion, on a well-bred and very expensive lady's horse, in the company of a groom. He had to get his hands on her. Force her to acknowledge him. His hands curled into fists at the thought of how she'd looked straight through him. It had been with such conviction that he could almost have believed that he was mistaken-that this pampered creature of fashion was not Juliana Ridge, the neglected and unsophisticated country girl, his father's murderess and the legal owner of a substantial portion of George Ridge's inheritance.

But he knew from the way his loins were afire and his blood ran swift whenever he was in her vicinity that he was not mistaken. This was Juliana. His Juliana.

His quarry turned into Hyde Park, and he dodged behind a tree as they reined in the horses and seemed to be having a discussion about which direction to take. He could achieve nothing by continuing to follow them. He couldn't haul her from her horse . . . not here . . . not now. They would return to Albermarle Street eventually, and he'd do better to scout around there while he waited, but he couldn't bring himself to turn his back on Juliana. His eyes drew him forward onto the tan strip of sand running beside the pathway, where they put their horses to the trot and then to a canter, too fast now for him to keep them in sight.

He could sit and wait for them to come full circle, or he could go back to his post. His belly squalled, reminding him that he'd been so intent on his vigil, he'd had no dinner. He decided to return to the Gardener's Arms and drown his frustrations. He would return to watch and await his opportunity in the morning. It was the sensible decision, but he still had to force himself to walk away.

Juliana settled comfortably into the roan's rhythm. The mare had an easy gait and seemed to be enjoying the exercise as much as her rider. The dour Ted kept pace on his cob.

They were on their second circuit when she saw Quentin on the path ahead, walking toward them with a lady dressed in black taffeta. Juliana recognized Lady Lydia despite the heavy black veil concealing her face. She drew rein as she came up with them. "I give you good day, Lady Lydia. Lord Quentin."

For a moment she read dismay in Quentin's eyes, and she was convinced her interruption was unwelcome; then his customary serene smile returned. "Dismount and walk with us awhile." He reached up a hand to help her down. "Ted will take Boadicea."

"Boadicea? What an unusual name for such a pretty lady," Lydia said in her soft voice, responding to Juliana's curtsy with her own, but not lifting her veil.

"She's pretty," Juliana agreed, "but I believe she has a mind of her own." She handed the reins to Ted and took Quentin's other arm, turning with them on the path. "How fortuitous that we should all meet like this. I didn't realize you were going to be in the park, too, Lord Quentin."

"It was a sudden impulse," he responded. "Such a beautiful afternoon."

"Yes, quite lovely," Lydia agreed. "I couldn't bear to be inside another minute. We are still in strict mourning, of course, but there can be no objection to my taking a walk when I'm veiled."

"No, of course not," Quentin said warmly.

"Are you enjoying London, Lady Edgecombe?"

"Oh, immensely, Lady Lydia. It's all so very new to me. Hampshire is such a backwater."

Quentin kicked her ankle at the same instant she realized her mistake.

"Hampshire?" Lydia put up her veil to look at her in surprise. "I thought your family came from York, in the north."

"Oh, yes," Juliana said airily. "I was forgetting. I used to visit relatives in Hampshire and liked it much better than York. So I always think of it as home."

"I see." Lydia's veil fell again. "I didn't know there were any Courtneys in Hampshire."

''My cousin's family," Juliana offered. "A very distant cousin."

"How curious that you should be closer to a distant cousin's relatives than to your own," Lydia mused, puzzled.

"Lady Edgecombe has some unusual views on the world," Quentin said flatly. "I'm sure you must wish to continue your ride, Juliana. It must be dull work walking when a new mount awaits you."

Juliana wasn't sure whether he was getting rid of her for his sake or hers, but she took her cue, signaling to Ted, who rode a little way behind them, leading Boadicea.

Lydia put up her veil again to bid her farewell. "I do hope we'll be like sisters," she said, kissing Juliana's cheek. "It will be so pleasant to have another woman in the house."

Juliana murmured something and returned the kiss. She glanced again at Quentin. His face was almost ugly, and she knew he was thinking, as was she, of Tarquin's setting up two families under his roof. Installing the woman Quentin loved as the mother of one of them.

Juliana was no longer in any doubt that Quentin loved Lydia Melton, and she suspected his love was reciprocated. Tarquin had admitted that he did not love Lydia, yet he was her betrothed. There must be a way to sort out this tangle. Quentin was not quite such a magnificent catch as his brother, but he was still the younger son of a duke, wealthy in his own right, and clearly destined for great things in the Church. He would be an excellent match for Lydia-once her engagement to Tarquin could be broken off.

But that would leave Tarquin without a wife. Without a mother for his legitimate heirs.

A problem for another day. She remounted with Ted's assistance, waved a cheerful farewell to Quendn and his lady, and trotted off. "Have you known the Courtney family for long, Ted?"

"Aye."

"Forever?"

"Aye."

"Since His Grace was a boy?"

"Since 'e was nobbut a babby."

That was a long sentence, Juliana thought. Maybe it was a promising sign. "Have you known Lady Lydia and her family for long?"

"Aye."

"Always?"

"Aye."

"So they've known the Courtneys for always?"

"Aye. Melton land marches with Courtney land."

"Ah," Juliana said. That explained a lot, including a marriage of convenience. Ted might well prove a useful source of information if she picked her questions correctly. However, his lips were now firmly closed, and she guessed he'd imparted as much as he was going to for the present.

She dismounted at the front door and Ted took the horses to the mews. Juliana made her way upstairs. As she turned toward her own apartments, she came face-to-face with Lucien. Her heart missed a beat. Tarquin had said she'd never have to face her vile husband again. He'd said he would deal with him. So where was he?

"Well, well, if it isn't my not so little wife." Lucien blocked her passage. The slurring of drink couldn't disguise the malice in his voice, and his eyes in their deep, dark sockets burned with hatred. His chin was blue-bruised. "You left in such a hurry last night, my dear. I gather the entertainment didn't please you."

"Let me pass, please." She kept her voice even, although every millimeter of skin prickled, her muscles tightened with repulsion, and the hot coals of rage glowered in her belly.

"You weren't so anxious to be rid of me yesterday," he declared, gripping her wrist in the way that sent a wave of remembered fear racing through her blood. He twisted her wrist and she gave a cry of pain, her fingers loosening on the riding crop she held. He wrenched it from her slackened grasp.

"What an unbiddable wife you've become, my dear." Catching a clump of her hair that was escaping from her hat brim, he gave it a vicious tug as he pulled her closer to him. "I promised you would pay for that kick last night. It seems you're getting quite above yourself for a Russell Street harlot. I think I must teach you proper respect."

Out of the corner of her eye Juliana caught the flash of movement as he raised the whip. Then she screamed, with shock as much as pain, as it descended across her shoulders in a burning stripe.

Lucien's eyes glittered with a savage pleasure at her cry. He raised his arm again, at the same time pulling brutally on her hair as if he would tear it from her scalp. But he'd underestimated his victim. It was one thing to take Juliana by surprise, quite another to face her when she'd had a chance to gather her forces. She had learned over the years to control the worst of her temper, but she made no effort to quench it now.

Lucien found he had one of the Furies in his hands. He clung on to her hair, but she seemed oblivious of the pain. The whip fell to the ground as her knee came up with lethal accuracy. His eyes watered, he gasped with pain. Before he could protect himself, she kicked his shins and was going for his eyes with her fingers curled into claws. Instinctively, he covered his face with his hands.

"You filthy bastard . . . son of a gutter-born bitch!" she hissed, driving her knee into his belly. He doubled over on an anguished spasm and was racked with a violent coughing fit that seemed to pull his guts up from his belly. Juliana grabbed up the whip, raised her arm to bring it down across his back.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Tarquin's voice pierced the scarlet circle of her blind rage. He had hold of her upraised wrist and was forcing her arm down. "What in the name of damnation is going on here?"

Juliana struggled to regain control. Her bosom was heaving, her cheeks deathly pale, her eyes on fire, seeing nothing but the loathsome, squirming shape of the man who had dared to raise his hand to her. "Gutter sweeping," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "Slubberdegullion whoreson. May you rot in your grave, you green, slimy maggot!"

Tarquin removed the whip from her hand. "Take a deep breath, mignonne."

"Where were you?" she demanded, her voice shaking. "You said I would never have to see him again. You promised you would keep him away from me." She touched her sore scalp and winced as the movement creased the stripe across her back.

"I didn't know until just now that he'd returned," Tarquin said. "I wouldn't have let him near you if I had. Believe me, Juliana." She was shivering violently and he laid a hand on her arm, his expression tight with anger and remorse. "Go to your apartments now and leave this with me. Henny will attend to your hurts. I'll come to you shortly."

"He hit me with that damned whip," Juliana said, catching her breath on an angry sob.

"He'll pay for it," Tarquin said grimly. Fleetingly, he touched her cheek. "Now, do as you're bid."

Juliana cast one last, scornful look at the still convulsed Lucien and trailed away, all the bounce gone from her step.

Tarquin said with soft savagery, "I want you out of my house within the hour, Edgecombe."

Lucien looked up, struggling for breath. His eyes were bloodshot, filled with pain, but his tongue was still pure venom. "Well, well," he drawled. "Reneging on an agreement, my dear cousin! Shame on you. The shining example of honor and duty has feet of clay, after all."

A pulse flicked in Tarquin's temple, but he spoke without emotion. "I was a fool to have thought it possible to have an honorable agreement with you. I consider the contract null and void. Now, get out of my house."

"Giving up on me at last, Tarquin?" Lucien pushed himself up until he was sagging against the wall. His deep-sunk eyes glittered suddenly. "You promised me once you would never give up on me. You said that you would always stand by me even when no one else would. You said blood was thicker than water. Do you remember that?" His voice had a whine to it, but his eyes still glittered with a strange triumph.

Tarquin stared down at him, pity and contempt in his gaze. "Yes, I remember," he said. "You were a twelve-year-old liar and a thief, and in my godforsaken naivete I thought maybe it wasn't your fault. That you needed to be accepted by the family in order to become one of us-"

"You never accepted me in the family," Lucien interrupted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You and Quentin despised me from the first moment you laid eyes on me."

"That's not true," Tarquin said steadfastly. "We gave you every benefit of the doubt, knowing the disadvantages of your upbringing."

"Disadvantages!" Lucien sneered, the blue bruises standing out against his greenish pallor. "A demented father and a mother who never left her bed."

"We did what we could," Tarquin said, still steadily. But as always, even as he asserted this, he wondered if it was true. It was certainly true that he and Quentin had despised their scrawny, deceitful, cunning cousin, but they had both tried to hide their contempt when Lucien had come to live among them, and then, when Tarquin had become his guardian, they had both tried to exert a benign influence on the twisted character. Tried and most signally failed.

For a moment he met his cousin's eyes, and the truth of their relationship lay bare and barren for both of them. Then he said with cold deliberation, "Get out of my house, Edgecombe, and stay out of my sight. I wash my hands of you from this moment."

Lucien's mouth twisted in a sly smile. "And how will that look? Husband and wife living apart after a few days of marital bliss?"

"I don't give a damn how it will look. I don't want you breathing the same air as Juliana." Tarquin turned contemptuously.

"I'll repudiate her," Lucien wheezed. "I'll divorce her for a harlot."

Tarquin turned back very slowly. "You aren't good enough to clean her boots," he said with soft emphasis. "And I warn you now, Edgecombe, you say one word against Juliana, in public or in private, and I will send you to your premature grave, even faster than you can do yourself." His eyes scorched this truth into his cousin's ghastly countenance. Then he swung on his heel and stalked away.

"You'll regret this, Redmayne. Believe me, you'll regret it." But the promise was barely whispered and the duke didn't hear. Lucien stared after him with fear and loathing. Then he dragged himself down the passage to his own apartments, soothing his mortified soul with the promise of revenge.