Vice

Chapter 20

Lucien emerged at twilight from Mistress Jenkins's Elysium in Covent Garden. He bore the well-satisfied air of a man who has relieved both mind and body. Jenkins's flogging house was a highly satisfactory outlet for anger and frustration. The Posture Molls knew exactly how to accommodate a man, whichever side of the birch he chose to be, and he had given free rein to his need to punish someone for the humiliation of his debacle with his wife and Tarquin's subsequent edict.

His eyes carried a brutal glint, and his mouth had a cruel twist to it as he strolled up Russell Street and into the square. But it didn't take long for the reality of his situation to return. He'd been thrown out of his cousin's house, cut off from that bottomless and ever-open purse. And he had a cursed woman to blame for it.

He entered the Shakespeare's Head, ignored the greetings of acquaintances, and sat down in morose silence at a corner table, isolated from the company. He was well into his second tankard of blue ruin when he became aware of a pair of eyes fixed intently upon him from a table in the window. Lucien glared across the smoke-hazed taproom; then his bleary gaze focused. He recognized the overweight man looking as if he was dressed up to ape his betters, squashed into the clothes of a fashionable man-about-town, his highly colored face already suffused with drink. As Lucien returned the stare, the man wiped a sheen of grease from his chin with his sleeve and pushed back his chair.

He made his ponderous and unsteady way through the crowded tables and arrived in Lucien's corner. "Beggin' your pardon, my lord, but I happened to be here last even when you were selling your wife," George began, as intimidated by the death's-head stare and the man's sickly, greenish pallor as he was by the depthless malice in the sunken eyes.

"I remember," Lucien said grudgingly. "Five hundred pounds you offered for her. Fancied her, did you?"

"Is she truly your wife, sir?" George couldn't disguise the urgency of his question, and Lucien's eyes sharpened.

He buried his nose in his tankard before saying, "What's it to you, may I ask?"

George started to pull back a chair, but the viscount's expression forbade it. He remained standing awkwardly. "I believe I know her," he said.

"Oh, I should think you and half London knew her," Lucien responded with a shrug. "She came from a whorehouse, after all."

"I thought so." George's flush deepened with excitement. "She's not truly your wife, then. A Fleet marriage, perhaps?"

"No such luck." Lucien laughed unpleasantly. "I assure you she's Lady Edgecombe all right and tight. My cursed cousin made sure of that. A plague on him!" He took up his tankard again.

George was nonplussed. His disappointment at hearing that Juliana was legally wed was so great that for a moment he could think of nothing to say. He'd convinced himself that she couldn't possibly be what she seemed, and now all his plans came crashing around his ears like the proverbial house of cards.

"So why are you so interested in the whore?" Lucien demanded.

George licked his dry lips. "She murdered my father."

"Oh, did she now?" Lucien sat up, his eyes suddenly alive. "Well, that doesn't surprise me. She half killed me this afternoon. If I had my way, I'd put a scold's bridle on her, strap her in the ducking chair, and drown her!"

George nodded, his little eyes glittering. "She's a murderess. I won't rest until I see her burn."

"Take a seat, dear fellow." Lucien gestured to the chair and bellowed at a potboy, "A bottle of burgundy here, you idle lout!" He leaned back in his chair and surveyed George thoughtfully. "It seems we have a desire in common. Tell me all about my dear wife's sordid history."

George leaned forward, dropping his voice confidentially. Lucien listened to the tale, his expression unmoving, drinking his way steadily through the bottle, for the most part forgetting to refill the other man's glass. He had no difficulty reading the lust behind Ridge's desire for vengeance, and he knew it could be put to good use. The man was a country-bred oaf, with no subtlety. But when the twin devils of lust and vengeance drove a man, he could be an invincible enemy under proper direction. A most valuable tool.

If Lucien could expose Juliana, could see her quivering in the dock to receive the death sentence, Tarquin's disgrace would be almost as devastating as the girl's. His damnable pride would crumble in the dust. He'd be the jesting stock of London.

George finished the story and drained his glass. "I thought I would tell the duke first," he said, looking mournfully at the empty bottle. "Expose Juliana to him and see what he says."

Lucien shook his head. "Depend upon it, he knows it all."

George pointedly picked up the empty bottle and upended it into his glass. "How can you be sure?"

"Because he as good as told me." Lucien finally beckoned the potboy for another bottle. "Told me the harlot would do his bidding. Thought then he must have something on her. Something to hold over her." His voice was becoming increasingly slurred, but the spite in his eyes grew more pronounced.

"If I laid a charge against her," George said eagerly, "if I did that, she'd have to answer it, even if she denied that she was who she was. But if I could get her guardians to identify her as well as myself, well, surely that should convince the magistrates."

Lucien looked doubtful. "Problem is, Tarquin's up to every trick. A man has to be sharp as a needle and slippery as an eel to put one over on him."

"But even the duke couldn't withstand the testimony of Juliana's guardians. She lived with them from the time she was four years old. If they swear and I swear to her identity, surely that would be enough."

"It might. So long as Tarquin didn't get wind of it first." Lucien stared into his glass, swirling the rich red contents. "It might be easier to work on the whore herself."

"Kidnap her, you mean." George's eyes glittered. "I've been thinkin' along those lines myself. I'd soon get a confession out of her."

George stared into the middle distance. Only when he had Juliana in his hands would he be able to satisfy this all-consuming hunger. Then he would be at peace, able to reclaim his rightful inheritance. He was no longer interested in having her to wife. But he knew he would get no rest until he'd indulged this craving that gnawed at his vitals like Prometheus's vultures.

Lucien's mouth moved in a derisive, flickering smile. He could read the man's thoughts as if they were spelled out. Slobbering, incontinent bumpkin . . . couldn't wait to possess that repellently voluptuous body. "I think we should attempt the legitimate route first," he said solemnly, enjoying the clear disappointment in his companion's fallen face. "Lay a charge against her with the support of her guardians. If that doesn't work, then . . ." He shrugged. "We'll see."

George traced a dark, rusty stain in the table's planking with a splayed fingertip. Red wine or blood, it could be either in this place. The realization entered his befuddled brain that if Juliana was in prison, guards could be bribed. He could have her to himself for as long as it would take. Either plan would give him the opportunity he craved.

He looked up and nodded. "I'll go back to Hampshire in the morning. Lay the matter before the Forsetts. Where will I find you, my lord?"

Lucien scowled, remembering anew that he was now condemned to lodge under his own besieged and uncomfortable roof. "My house is on Mount Street, but here's as good a place as any other. Leave a message with Gideon." He gestured with his head toward the man filling pitchers of ale at the bar counter before taking up his glass again, partially turning his shoulder to George in a gesture that the other man correctly interpreted as dismissal.

George pushed back his chair and stood up. He hesitated over words of farewell. It seemed too inconclusive simply to walk away, but there was no encouragement from the viscount. "I bid you good night, sir," he said finally, receiving not so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. He walked away, intending to return to his previous bench, but he was filled with a restless energy, a surge of elation at the thought that he was no longer alone in his quest. He went outside instead. A slatternly young woman approached him with a near toothless smile.

"Half a guinea, honorable sir?" She thrust her bosom at him, her black eyes snapping.

"Five shillings," he returned.

She shrugged, took his hand, and led him off to the bulks beneath the market holders' stalls. For five shillings, it wasn't worth taking him to her room on King Street, where she'd have to pay for candles and probably change the linen.

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"The Bedford Head on Wednesday forenoon. "

The word flew around the houses of Covent Garden, dropping in the ears of languid women gathered in parlors in the morning's dishabille, idly comparing notes of their previous night's labors, sipping coffee, discussing fashions in the latest periodicals. The word was brought by women from Mistress Dennison's establishment. It was whispered to heads bent in an attentive circle and received with hushed curiosity. The words sisterhood and solidarity were spoken on tongues stumbling over the unfamiliar concepts. And the Russell Street women went on to the next house, leaving the seed to germinate, with Lucy's former plight as fertilizer.

Mistress Mitchell of the Bedford Head had listened to Lilly's explanation that a group of Covent Garden cyprians wished to have a small party to celebrate a birthday. She was asked to provide refreshments, and Lilly didn't bat an eyelid at Mistress Mitchell's exorbitant price for such simple fare as coffee, chocolate, and sweet biscuits. She tripped out of the Bedford Head with a cheerful smile, leaving Mistress Mitchell in frowning thought.

Why would the women wish to rent private space for a party when any one of them could have entertained the others under her own bawd's roof? There wasn't a High Impure in the Garden whose abbess would refuse permission for such an event.

Mistress Mitchell went on her own rounds, consulting her fellow abbesses. None could come up with an explanation. It was decided that Mistress Mitchell would position herself at the peephole to the back room on Wednesday forenoon. With the aid of a glass against the wall, she would be able to hear the women's conversation.

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While she was sitting with Lucy, Juliana received a message from Lilly that the meeting was arranged for Wednesday forenoon. Lucy was sufficiently strong now to leave her bed and was ensconced on the chaise longue beneath the window. Juliana read the note, which contained a variety of messages for Lucy from Russell Street, and then handed it to her companion.

Lucy looked up from the letter. "What is this meeting, Juliana?"

Juliana explained. "It's time we did something," she finished with her usual vehemence. "These people make their living out of us, why should they get away with treating us as badly as they please?"

Lucy looked puzzled. "But not you, Juliana. You're not involved at all. Who's making their living out of you?"

"The duke paid Mistress Dennison three thousand guineas for me," Juliana responded succinctly. "I was bought and sold like a slave, simply because I had no protection, no money of my own, no friends, and nowhere to turn. If the Sisterhood had existed then, I would have had somewhere to go. A few guineas would have made all the difference. And think what it would have done for you."

Lucy leaned back, the letter lying open in her lap. "I don't think you understand the power of the whoremasters and bawds, Juliana."

"I understand it as well as I wish to," Juliana retorted. "And I know that it's that defeatist attitude, Lucy, that gives them the power that they have." She turned at a knock on the door, calling "Come in" before recollecting that it was Lucy's bedchamber not her own.

Tarquin entered the room. Lucy, who'd seen her host only the once when she'd been brought into the house, struggled to stand up.

"Don't disturb yourself," Tarquin said, coming over to the chaise longue. "I wished to find out how you were feeling."

"Oh, much better, Your Grace," Lucy stammered, flushing as she adjusted her wrapper. "I . . . I'm sure I'll be able to leave in the morning if-"

"There's no need for that." He bent to pick up the letter that had fluttered to the floor from Lucy's lap. "You're very welcome under my roof until Henny considers you fit to leave." He handed her back the letter, and Juliana couldn't tell whether he'd seen the contents or not. He hadn't seemed to glance at it, but one could never tell with Tarquin. His eyes were everywhere even when he seemed at his most unconcerned.

He took a pinch of snuff and glanced around the room. "I trust you're quite comfortable, ma'am."

Lucy's flush deepened at both the question and the courtesy title. "Oh, yes, indeed. Your Grace. I can't express my gratitude enough for your kindness. I'm sure I don't deserve such-"

"Of course you do!" Juliana interrupted fiercely. "You are as deserving of kindness and consideration as any other human being. Isn't that so, my lord duke?" Her eyes hurled the challenge at him.

"Oh, Juliana, you mustn't say such things," Lucy protested faintly. "Indeed, I don't wish to be a nuisance."

"You aren't being. Is she, sir?"

Tarquin shook his head with a wry quirk of amusement but refused to be drawn. He pushed himself off the windowsill and tipped her chin, lightly kissing her mouth. "When you've completed your visit with Lucy, come and see me in my book room."

Juliana, thrown off course by the kiss, glanced at Lucy, who was studiously rereading her letter. Lucy, of course, wouldn't think twice about a gentleman's playful dalliance with his mistress.

"I wish you a speedy recovery, ma'am." Tarquin bowed to the flustered Lucy and left them.

"Oh, he's so kind," breathed Lucy.

"It seems so," Juliana said, ruffled. "And yet I don't believe he ever does anything that doesn't suit him. I don't believe he would ever really put himself out for someone. He's kind only when it doesn't inconvenience him. But he would as easily leave someone bleeding by the roadside if his direction took him elsewhere or he didn't have the time to help."

Even as she spoke, she remembered how he'd come to her rescue when Lucien was tormenting her and how overpoweringly grateful she'd been to see him. Lucien was now banned from the house because he'd hurt her. Family quarrels were incredibly inconvenient, and yet the duke had sacrificed his peace to champion Juliana. Of course, he'd exposed her to the dangers of Lucien in the first place, so strictly speaking it was his responsibility to repair the damage.

Lucy was looking reproachful but understanding, and Juliana remembered that she had yet to explain Tarquin's generous offer to set the girl on her feet again. It was.certainly kind of him but would hardly inconvenience him. He had so much wealth, he wouldn't notice such a sum. Quentin had said his brother was generous to a fault, but was it true generosity when one could give without the slightest sacrifice to oneself?

However, she was obliged to listen to Lucy's astonished gratitude, singing the duke's praises to the heavens when she heard of her good fortune.

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Tarquin was seated at his desk, rewriting a speech his secretary had written for him to give to the House of Lords that evening. His secretary was a worthy soul, but somewhat dull, and the duke was convinced the speech would send its presenter to sleep halfway through it, let alone his audience. Not that his peers would pay much attention to the most exciting debate. They'd be snoring off a large and bibulous dinner, for the most part.

He looked up as Juliana came in on her knock. She curtsied demurely. "You wished to see me, my lord duke?"

He pushed back his chair and beckoned to her. When she came to him, he took her hands in his, turning them palm up. To her astonishment he raised them to his lips and kissed her palms. "How are your bruises, mignonne?"

"My shoulders are still sore, despite Henny's arnica," she responded, her voice strangely thick. His breath rustled warmly over her hands, which he now held clasped together against his mouth. He kissed each pointed knuckle in turn, his tongue darting snakelike between her bent fingers, each moist, swift, unexpected stroke lifting the fine hairs on her nape, her skin prickling with excitement.

"Have you forgiven me for not getting to Lucien in time?" The wicked little caresses continued, his lips now nuzzling the backs of her hands, his teeth playfully grazing the skin.

Juliana was losing her grip on reality. She barely heard his words. Her feet shifted on the Persian carpet, and she gazed down at the top of his bent head, distractedly noticing how his hair waved thickly back from his broad forehead. How could she say she hadn't forgiven him for anything when one loving touch could turn her body to molten lava?

He looked up, folding her hands securely in his. His eyes were smiling but his tone was grave. "There is so much to enjoy, mignonne. Can we take a pleasanter path from here on?"

Juliana could find no words. Her body said one thing, her mind another. How could she possibly forget that she was still captive to his plan? She was still to bear his child, to give it up to his sole control, to live a life of deceit, emotionally dependent on the duke's continuing favor. She looked down at him, her eyes bewildered but her tongue silent.

After a long minute Tarquin released her hands. There was regret in his eyes, but he said in an equably normal tone, "I think it's time for you to return Lady Melton's visit. One mustn't be backward in the courtesies."

"No," Juliana agreed, eagerly grasping this ordinary topic as a lifeline through the labyrinth of her confusion. "Should I go alone?"

"No, I'll take you up in my phaeton." He examined her appearance with a critical air. "I don't care for the breast knot on that gown. It spoils the line of the bodice."

Juliana looked down at the little posy of silk orchids sown to the low neck of her gown. "I thought them pretty."

"So they are, but not on you. They're too frilly . . . fussy." He waved a hand in an impatient gesture. "Your bosom needs no decoration."

"Oh," said Juliana.

"Change your gown now, and tell Henny to remove the flowers before you wear it again."

"As you command, my lord duke." Juliana swept him a low curtsy. "Do you have any other instructions regarding my costume, sir?"

"Not for the moment," he replied, ignoring her sardonic tone. "Except that I have yet to see you in the blue-sprigged muslin. It opens over a dark-blue petticoat, as I recall. There's a lace fichu that will be sufficiently modest for paying a visit to a house in mourning."

Juliana confined her response to another exaggeratedly submissive curtsy. Tarquin's eyes glowed with amusement. "You may have half an hour." He sat down at his desk again, picking up his quill in pointed dismissal.

Juliana stalked upstairs to change into the required gown. It was such a wonderful relief to be simply annoyed with him again. Her emotions were so much clearer when she was responding to his dictatorial manner than when he confused her with softness and the spellbinding invitation of his caresses.

He was awaiting her in the hall when she came down just within the half hour, carrying her gloves and fan. She paused on the bottom step, tilting her head to one side inquiringly as she invited his inspection.

Tarquin solemnly ran his eyes from the top of her head to the toe of her kid slippers. Then he described a circle with his forefinger. Juliana stepped to the hall and slowly turned around.

"Yes, much better," he pronounced. "Let us go. The phaeton is at the door."

He handed her up and took his seat beside her. "It won't be necessary to spend more than fifteen minutes with Lady Melton. If she's unavailable, you may leave your card."

"But I don't have a card."

"Yes, you do." He reached into his breast pocket and handed her a crisp white card on which, in an elegant hand, was inscribed, "Viscountess, Lady Edgecombe." "My secretary took the task upon himself. He has a good hand, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Better than mine," Juliana responded, turning the card between her fingers. It seemed to give her a sense of permanence, as if she could really begin to see herself as Lady Edgecombe. As if nothing could now dislodge her from this extraordinary peak.

At the Melton residence Tarquin handed the reins to his groom, who leaped from the back ledge to take them, and stepped to the street. Juliana gathered her skirts around her and prepared to alight, holding prudently on to the side of the carriage as she gingerly put her foot on the top step.

"I think it might be safer all round if I lift you down," Tarquin said, observing these wise precautions. Taking her around the waist, he swung her to the ground and remained holding her waist until he was certain she was firmly lodged on her two feet.

His hands at her waist were hard and warm, and he held her for a fraction longer than strictly necessary. Juliana felt the old confusion rushing back, but then he was ushering her up the steps through the door held by a bowing footman, and into the hall. He handed the footman his card and gestured to Juliana that she should do the same. The footman bowed them into the salon.

Once more in possession of her senses, Juliana looked around with interest. The furnishings were old-fashioned and heavy, for the most part draped in dark holland covers. The curtains were pulled halfway over the long windows, plunging the room into gloom.

"Lady Melton observes the most strict mourning," Tarquin answered her unspoken question. He took a pinch of snuff and leaned against the mantel, his eyes, suddenly inscrutable, resting on Juliana.

"Lucy received a letter from her friends this morning?"

Juliana jumped, guilt flying flags in her cheeks. Had he read the note in its entirety? He couldn't have had time, surely. But if he had, he would know of the projected meeting on Wednesday forenoon. And he would know she was intending to be there. "Do you object?" She took refuge in challenge, hoping annoyance would explain her sudden flush.

"Not at all. Should I?" He continued to regard her in that unreadable fashion.

"I can't imagine why you would. But since you won't permit her friends to visit her in person, I wasn't sure whether a sullied piece of paper could be allowed through your door."

Tarquin's response died at birth with the return of the footman. Her Ladyship and Lady Lydia would be happy to receive them in the family's parlor.

The family parlor was not much less gloomy than the salon, despite its air of being lived in. The curtains and chair covers were dark and heavy, the pictures all carried a black border, and there were no flowers in the vases.

Lady Melton held out her hand to Juliana with a gracious nod and greeted the duke with a complacent smile. Lydia rose and gave Juliana her hand with a warm smile before offering her reverence to the duke with downcast eyes. He drew her to her feet with a pleasant word of greeting, raising her hand to his lips.

Quentin, who had been seated beside Lydia on the sofa, stood up to greet Juliana with a brotherly kiss on the cheek.

"Quentin, I was unaware you intended to call upon Lady Melton this morning," Tarquin said.

Juliana was immediately aware of a slight stiffening from Lady Lydia beside her, but Quentin said easily that he had been passing the door and thought he would discuss a sermon with Lady Melton, but he was about to take his leave. He bowed to Her Ladyship before kissing Lydia's hand. "I must remember to bring the book of gardens to show you, Lydia, next time I'm passing. The fourteenth-century herb garden is most interesting."

"Thank you, Lord Quentin. I look forward to it." She left her hand in his for a moment, then very slowly withdrew it, her fingers lightly brushing his as she did so.

Juliana glanced at Tarquin. He appeared to notice nothing, devoting his attention to his hostess. Juliana quirked an eyebrow at this, remembering her old nursemaid's frequent mutter that there's none so blind as those who won't see. But, of course, it wouldn't occur to the Duke of Redmayne that something as frivolous and inconvenient as misplaced love could upset his plans.

"Do sit by me, Juliana," Lydia invited with her soft smile, patting the sofa beside her before picking up her embroidery frame. Juliana took the seat and settled down to observe, maintaining an easy conversation with Lydia with half her mind. The duke remained beside Lady Melton, deep in some discussion. He'd barely exchanged two words with his betrothed, beyond the courtesies, and Lydia showed no sign of feeling neglected. Presumably a marriage of convenience didn't require close attention between the partners.

The arrival of two other somewhat formidable ladies prevented Juliana's making any further observations of the betrothed couple. She was introduced, questioned as to her husband's whereabouts.

"You reside under His Grace's roof at present, I understand," declared the dowager Duchess of Mowbray.

"My husband's house is in need of repair," Juliana replied. "His Grace has kindly offered his hospitality until it's ready to receive us."

"I see. So Edgecombe's residing at Albermarle Street also. Redmayne?"

"My cousin is occupied with the renovations to his house," Tarquin said smoothly. "He finds it more convenient to live there while he supervises the work."

Juliana swallowed a laugh at this astonishing fabrication. Surely no one who knew Lucien would believe it. She glanced covertly around the room, gauging their reactions.

"What's that you say?" demanded the dowager's companion, Lady Briscow, leaning forward and cupping her ear.

The dowager took a speaking trumpet from the lady's hand and bellowed, "Redmayne says Edgecombe is livin' in his own house. The gal's sheltered under Redmayne's roof."

Lady Briscow seemed to take a minute to absorb this, while the boomed words echoed around the room. "Ah," she pronounced finally. "Well, I daresay that's for the best." She turned to examine Juliana. "Very young, isn't she?"

"I am past seventeen, ma'am." Juliana decided it was time to speak up for herself.

"Too young for Edgecombe," declared the lady loudly. "Besides, I thought he didn't care for women."

"Now, Cornelia, that's not a fit subject in front of the young ladies," the duchess protested.

"What's that you say? Thought the man only liked little boys."

"Cornelia!" pleaded the duchess through the ear trumpet. "That's not for the ears of the young ladies."

"Pshaw!" declared Lady Briscow. "Innocence isn't going to do the gal much good with that husband of hers."

"We must take our leave, Lady Melton." Tarquin rose to his feet, his expression as bland as if he'd heard nothing of the preceding exchange. Juliana jumped up hastily, too hastily, and a dish of tea resting on the chair arm crashed to the floor. Dregs of tea splattered on the carpet, and the delicate cup rolled against a chair leg and shattered.

She bent to pick up the pieces with a mortified exclamation. Lydia dropped to her knees beside her. "Oh, pray don't worry, Lady Edgecombe." She gathered up the shards swiftly, her cheeks on fire. The conversation had amused Juliana, but Lydia was deeply shocked. But, then, she was probably as innocent as Juliana had been on her wedding night with John Ridge. Juliana could no longer imagine such naivete, and yet it was only a few short weeks since she'd been a country virgin with no prospect of ever venturing farther afield than Winchester or Portsmouth.

She stood up, apologizing profusely for her clumsiness, though her diversion had relieved everyone but Lady Briscow, who clearly needed no relief.

Lady Melton said hastily, "It was so easy to do, Lady Edgecombe. Such a stupid place to put the dish. I can't think why the footman would have placed it there."

Juliana attempted to excuse the footman and blame herself, but Tarquin said coolly, "Come, my dear Lady Edgecombe. No harm's done, and you're making a great matter out of a very little one." He swept her with him out of the parlor.

"I wish I weren't so damnably clumsy," Juliana lamented, once more ensconced in the phaeton. "It's so embarrassing."

"Well, on this occasion your clumsiness did everyone a good turn," the duke said wryly. "Cornelia Briscow has the crudest tongue in town."

"But is my husband's . . . uh . . . predilection . . . generally known, then?"

"Of course. He's caused enough scandal in his time to ruin a dozen families. But it's not generally the subject for polite conversation."

"Nor a subject to be mentioned before his bride gets to the altar," she said tartly.

Tarquin glanced sideways at her. "I couldn't imagine what possible good it would do you to know."

He sounded so infuriatingly certain of himself. Did he never question his actions, or their consequences? But he had shown remorse for the whole debacle with Lucien, she reminded herself, so there was nothing to be gained by continuing to pluck that crow.

"Lord Quentin seems to find Lady Lydia's company agreeable," she observed casually after a minute.

"So do most people," the duke said, sounding a trifle surprised at this conversational turn.

"Yes, of course," Juliana agreed. "She's a most charming lady. Very kind, I believe."

"She's certainly that."

"Very pretty, too. I think men find pale fairness most appealing."

"Now, what would you know about it?" Tarquin looked at her again with an amused smile.

"Well, I can't see how they wouldn't. Lord Quentin certainly seems to find Lady Lydia very attractive."

"She's a very old friend," he said with a slight frown. "Quentin has known Lydia from early childhood."

"I wonder when he'll get married." Juliana mused. "Canons do get married, don't they?"

"Certainly. Bishops too." He turned his horses into the mews behind his house. "Quentin will find himself the perfect bishop's wife, one who will grace the bishop's palace and set a fine example to the wives of his clergy, and they'll have a quiverful of children."

He tossed the reins to a groom and jumped to the cobbles. "Come."

Juliana took his proffered hand and jumped down beside him, her hoop swinging around her. She stood frowning at a rain barrel, where a water beetle was scudding across the murky surface.

"Hey, penny for your thoughts?" Tarquin tilted her chin.

She shook her head dismissively. She wasn't about to tell him that she was trying to think of a way to sow a little seed in his stubborn brain. "I was thinking perhaps Lucy might like an airing in the barouche."

"By all means," he said. "But you will take Ted as escort."

Juliana grimaced but made no demur. She dropped him a tiny curtsy and went into the house through the back door.

Tarquin gazed after her. She hadn't been thinking about Lucy at all. Something much more complicated had been going on behind those great green eyes.

He found himself wishing that he could know her thoughts, wishing that he could slide behind her eyes into the private world of Juliana herself. She gave so much or herself, but there was always a little that was kept back. He would like to know her as well as she knew herself . . . maybe even better than she knew herself. And with that urge came another: That she should know and understand him as no one else had ever done.

He shook his head as if to dispel these extraordinary fancies. Romantic nonsense that had no place in his scheme of things. He'd never been troubled by such sentimental notions before. Maybe he had a touch of fever. He passed a hand across his brow, but it felt quite cool. With another irritated head shake he followed Juliana into the house.