Vice

Chapter 23

George Ridge threw the dice. They rolled across the square of table cleared of debris and came to a halt in a puddle of ale. A six and a one. He spat disgustedly on the sawdust at his feet and tipped the bottle of port against his mouth, taking a deep draft. His guineas were scooped up with a gleeful grin by his fellow player, who spat twice in his hand, tossed the dice from palm to palm, murmured a blasphemous prayer, and rolled them. A groan went up from the crowd around the table as they saw the numbers. The one-eyed sea captain had had the luck of the devil all evening.

George pushed back his chair. He'd continued playing long past his limit and had the sinking feeling that his losses were probably greater than he realized. His brain was too addled by ale and port to function well enough for accurate calculation, but in the cold, aching light of day he'd be forced to face reality.

As he struggled unsteadily to his feet, a hand descended on his shoulder and a voice spoke quietly into his ear. It was a voice as cold as a winter sea, and it sent shivers down his spine as if he were about to plunge into such waters.

"Going somewhere, Ridge?"

George turned under the hand on his shoulder and found himself looking up into a pair of expressionless gray eyes in a lean and elegant countenance. The thin mouth was curved in the faintest smile, but it was a smile as cold and pitiless as the voice. He recognized the man immediately. His eyes darted around the room, looking for support, but no one was paying attention. Their bleary gazes were focused on the play.

"I think we'll find it more convenient to have our little discussion in the stable yard," said the Duke of Redmayne. He removed his hand from George's shoulder. Suddenly George found himself in the grip of a pair of fists that fastened on his elbows from behind as tenaciously as the tentacles of an octopus.

"This a-way, boyo," an encouraging voice said in his ear. George's feet skimmed the ground as he was propelled through the crowded taproom and out into the yard behind the inn.

The night was hot. Two ostlers, sitting on upturned water butts smoking pipes and chatting in desultory fashion, glanced up, at first with scant interest, at the three men who'd entered the yard. Their eyes widened as they took in the curious group. A gentleman in black, gold-embroidered silk looking as if he'd just walked out of the Palace of St. James's; a second gentleman, bulky and red-faced, in a suit of crimson taffeta and a yellow-striped waistcoat; a third man in the rough leather britches and jerkin of a laborer. The second gentleman was beginning to protest, trying to free himself from the grip of the laborer. The elegant gentleman leaned casually against a low stone wall. He carried a long horsewhip that snaked around his silver-buckled shoes of red leather.

"Take your hands off me!" George blustered thickly, finally managing to get a look at the man holding him. He had but a confused recollection of the disruption in the hackney before he'd lost consciousness, but there was something horribly familiar about his captor. He struggled with renewed violence.

"I just want a word or two," the duke said carelessly, snapping the whip along the ground.

George's eyes darted wildly downward. There was something menacingly purposeful about the thin leather lash flickering and dancing across the cobbles. Ted adjusted his grip almost casually, but his victim immediately recognized that he was held even more firmly than before.

"Listen to 'Is Grace, I should," Ted advised. "Listen well, boyo."

Tarquin subjected George Ridge to a dispassionate scrutiny before saying, "Perhaps you would care to explain why you issued such a pressing invitation to Lady Edgecombe. I understand from her that she was not at all inclined to enter your hackney."

Ted shifted his booted feet on the cobbles and gazed about him incuriously, but his grip tightened yet again, pulling George's arms behind his back.

George licked suddenly dry lips. "You have a murderess under your roof, Your Grace. The murderer of my father, Juliana Ridge's late husband." He tried to sound commanding with this denunciation, full of self-confidence and righteous indignation, but his voice emerged stifled and uncoordinated.

"And just, pray, who is this Juliana Ridge?" the duke inquired in a bored tone, withdrawing his snuffbox from the deep-cuffed pocket of his coat. He flipped the lid and took a leisurely pinch while George struggled to make sense of this. Viscount Edgecombe had been convinced the duke knew all Juliana's skeletons.

He took a deep breath. "The woman living in your house. The woman who calls herself Viscountess Edgecombe. She was married to my father, Sir John Ridge of the village of Ashford, in the county of Hampshire." He paused, regarding the duke anxiously. His Grace's expression hadn't changed; he looked merely politely bored.

George continued somewhat desperately, "I daresay, Your Grace, when you found her in the whorehouse you knew nothing of her history… but.…" His voice faded under the duke's now blazing gaze.

"You appear to have lost your wits, sir," the duke said softy, coiling the whip into his hand. "You would not otherwise insult the name of a woman wedded to my cousin, living under my roof and my protection. Would you?"

The last question was rapped out, and the duke took a step toward George, who couldn't move with the man at his back holding his arms in a vise.

"My lord duke," he said, clear desperation now in voice and eyes. "I do assure you I know her for what she is. She has hoodwinked you and she must be brought to justice. Her husband intends to repudiate her as soon as she's brought before the magistrate and-"

"I think I've heard enough," the duke interrupted. He didn't appear to raise his voice, but the two ostlers sat up attentively.

The duke pushed the shiny wooden handle of the whip beneath George's chin, almost gently, except that its recipient could feel the bruising pressure. "The lady living under my roof is a distant cousin of mine from York. You would do well to check your facts before you slander your betters."

The gray eyes pierced George's blurred gaze like an icicle through snow. But George knew the duke was deliberately lying. The man knew the truth about Juliana. But in the face of that bold statement, the derisive glare mat challenged him to dispute it, George was dumbstruck.

The duke waited for a long moment, holding George's befuddled gaze, before saying almost carelessly, "Do not let me ever see your face within half a mile of Lady Edgecombe again." He removed the whip, tossed it to Ted, who caught it neatly with one hand.

The duke gazed silently at George for what seemed to the disbelieving Ridge to be an eternity of cold intent; then he nodded briefly to Ted, turned on his heel, and walked out of the yard.

"Well, now, boyo," Ted said genially. "Let's us come to an understanding, shall us?" He raised his whip arm. George stared, horror-struck, as the lash circled through the air. Then he bellowed like a maddened bull as he finally understood what was to happen to him.

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Juliana found it impossible to concentrate on the opera, as much because her mind was on the meeting in Covent Garden as because everyone around her was chattering as if the singers on stage were not giving their hearts and souls to the first performance of Pergolesi's new work.

The Italian Opera House in the Haymarket was brilliantly lit throughout the performance with chandeliers and flaming torches along the stage. King George II was in the royal box with Queen Caroline, and Juliana found them more interesting than the incomprehensible Italian coming from the stage. It was probably as close as she would ever get to Their Majesties.

George II was an unimpressive-looking man, florid of face, an untidy white wig standing up around his bullet-shaped head. He had a most disagreeable expression, glaring around at his companions, bellowing critical comments to his aides throughout the performance in his heavily accented broken English that rose easily above the general hubbub.

After the first interval Juliana judged it time to wilt a little. She began to ply her fan with increasing fervor, every now and again sighing a little, passing her hand over her brow.

"Is something the matter, Juliana?" The eldest Bowen daughter, Lady Sarah Fordham, leaned forward anxiously. "Are you unwell?"

"The headache," Juliana said with a wan smile. "I get them on occasion. They come on very suddenly."

"Poor dear." Sarah was instantly sympathetic. She turned to her mother beside her. "Lady Edgecombe is unwell, Mama. She has a severe headache."

"Try this, my dear." Lady Bowen handed over her smelling salts. Juliana received them with another wan smile. She sniffed delicately; her eyes promptly streamed, and she gasped at the powerful burning in her nostrils. Leaning back, she closed her eyes with a sigh of misery and plied her fan with no more strength than an invalid. She'd had to revise her original plan to leave the opera and go to Covent Garden in a hired hackney. Tarquin had insisted she take his own coachman for the evening so she wouldn't be dependent upon Lady Bowen for transport. He'd meant it considerately, but it was a damnable nuisance. Now she would have to get rid of John Coachman.

"I do fear I shall swoon, ma'am," she murmured. "If I could but take the air for a few minutes…"

"Cedric shall escort you." Lady Bowen snapped her fingers at Lord Cedric, a willowy, effete young gentleman who happened to enjoy the opera-not that he had much opportunity to do so in the noisy clamor of his mother's box. "Take Lady Edgecombe for some air, Cedric."

Reluctantly, the young man abandoned the soprano-and-tenor duet that he'd been straining to hear. Bowing, he offered his arm to Juliana, who staggered to her feet with another little moan, pressing her hand to her forehead.

Outside, on the steps of the opera house, she breathed the sultry air and sighed pathetically. "I really think I must go home, sir," she said in a weak voice. "If you could make my excuses to your mama and summon my coachman, I need not keep you from the music another minute."

"No trouble, ma'am… no trouble at all," he stammered, but without the true ring of conviction. Leaving Juliana on the top step, he ran down to the street and sent an urchin to summon the Duke of Redmayne's carriage. It appeared within five minutes. Juliana was installed within, the coachman instructed to return with all speed to Albermarle Street, and Cedric Bowen hastened back to his music.

Juliana banged on the roof of the carriage as it was about to turn right onto Pall Mall. The coachman drew rein and leaned down from his box.

''Take me instead to Covent Garden," Lady Edgecombe instructed in her most imperious tones. "I left my fan in a coffeehouse there this morning. I would see if it's still there."

The coachman had no reason to disobey Her Ladyship's orders. He withdrew to the box, turned his horses, and drove to Covent Garden. Juliana tried to control her apprehension, which was mixed with a curious excitement, as if she were embarking on a great adventure. She was hoping that some of the street women would come to the meeting as well as the more highly placed courtesans. It would be convenient for them to take an hour off work and slip into Cocksedge's tavern, where Juliana hoped to convince them that a simple investment of trust and solidarity could make an enormous difference to their working conditions. A few of the High Impures would be unable to leave their establishments to attend, but there were plenty who could find an excuse for visiting clients outside the house, and Lilly had decided to plead sickness early in the evening in order to make her escape from Russell Street.

But Juliana knew that with or without her friends' support, the success of this embryonic plan depended upon her powers of persuasion and her own energy and commitment. She had to make them see her own vision, and see how to make it reality.

She banged on the roof again when they reached St. Paul's Church. "Wait here for me," she instructed, swinging open the carriage door and stepping to the cobbles, managing to avoid a pile of rotting, slimy cabbage leaves just waiting to catch the foot of the unwary. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she picked her way through the market refuse toward Mother Cocksedge's establishment. The church clock struck midnight.

Noise spilled through the open door of the chocolate house run by Mother Cocksedge. Drunken voices, raucous laughter, the shrill skirl of a pipe.

Juliana stepped through the door and blinked, her eyes slowly adapting to the gloom. The sights were becoming familiar. The whores swayed drunkenly in various stages of undress, either touting for custom or satisfying the demands of a customer. Two dogs fought over a scrap of offal in the center of the room amid a loudly wagering circle of young gentlemen, dressed in the finery of courtiers; their cravats were loose, their wigs in disarray, their stockings twisted. Women crowded around them, touching, stroking, petting, receiving kisses and occasional rowdy slaps in exchange, as the young bloods drank from tankards of blue ruin and shouted obscenities to the rafters.

Juliana felt immediately exposed. This was not like slipping upstairs to Mistress Mitchell's back room. But she knew that the women they were hoping to gather tonight would be more comfortable in this place than in a more exclusive and expensive establishment. She pushed her way through to the back of the taproom, her tall figure and flaming hair attracting immediate attention.

"Hey, where're you off to, my beauty?" A young man grabbed her arm and grinned vapidly at her. "Haven't seen you in these parts before."

"Let me go," Juliana said coldly, shaking her arm free.

"Oho! Hoity-toity madam," another young man bellowed, his eyes small and red in a round, almost childlike, face. "Give us a kiss, m'dear, and we'll let you pass." He lurched toward her, leering.

Juliana gave him a push, and he tumbled backward against the table amid shrieks of laughter. Before he could recoup, Juliana had pushed through to the rear of the room.

"Juliana!" Lilly's fierce whisper reached her as she paused, wondering where to go and whom to ask. The young woman beckoned from a doorway. "Quickly. They don't know we're in here, but if they find out, they'll start such a ruckus." She pulled Juliana into the room, slamming the door behind her. " 'Tis the very devil, but there's no key to the door. And the young bloods are always the worst. They'll start a melee at the drop of a hat, and before we know it, we'll be in the middle of a riot."

"I can believe it," Juliana said grimly, shaking out the folds of her gown, which had become crushed as she'd fought her way through the room. "Nasty little beasts."

"Our bread and butter," a woman said from the table, raising a tankard of ale to her lips. "But not for the likes of you, my lady." She smiled sardonically. "It's all very well to be lull of grand plans when it's not yer livelihood at stake."

"Now, Tina, don't be so sharp. Let the girl say what she 'as in mind." An older woman in a tawdry yellow dress gave Juliana a much nicer smile. "Come on in, dearie. Take no notice of Tina, she's sour because 'er gentleman jest passed out on 'er an' she couldn't get a penny outta him."

Juliana looked around the room, recognizing amid the substantial group some faces from the earlier meeting. Women sat at the table, lounged on the broad windowsill, perched on the settles on either side of the hearth. They were all drinking, even the Russell Street women, and for the most part those unknown to Juliana looked skeptically at her when she introduced herself.

"Well, let's 'ear what ye've to say," Tina said, still belligerently. "We ain't got all night. Some of us 'ave a livin' to earn."

Juliana decided that attempting to justify her own position would be pointless. Let them believe what they would of her. She had more important matters to concentrate on. The street women were harried and thin-faced, their clothes shabby finery that she guessed had been on other backs before. Beside them, the girls from Russell Street and similar houses looked pampered and affluent, but they all shared something: A wariness, a darting mistrust in their eyes, an air of resignation to the vagaries of fate, as if what security they had today could be gone tomorrow and there was nothing they could do about it. Beside them, the safety and permanence of her own situation must look like heaven. And these were not the poorest of the women out there. There were women and young girls, little more than children, lying against the bulks, winter and summer, with whoever could give them a crust of bread or a sip of gin.

She began to explain her idea, slowly and simply, but soon the images of what she'd seen, the knowledge of what lives these women led, the deep knowledge that she had escaped it by a hairbreadth, took over, and her voice grew passionate, her eyes flashing with conviction.

"It's not inevitable that we should be obliged to live as the bawds and whoremasters dictate. It's not inevitable that we should see our earnings disappear into the pockets of greedy masters. It's not inevitable that we should live in fear of prison for the slightest offense, for the smallest word out of turn. None of this is inevitable if we support each other." She had instinctively used "we" throughout. If she didn't identify with the women, she would seem like a preacher, distant on a pulpit. And, besides, she did identify with them, even if her situation was vastly different.

She paused for breath and Lilly jumped in, her eyes misty with tears. "We have to have a fund, as Juliana says. We each put into it whatever we can afford-"

"Afford!" exclaimed Tina, coughing into a handkerchief. "That's rich, that is. It's all right fer you what've got a decent 'ouse an' all found. But fer us… there's nowt twixt us an' the devil but a sixpence now an' agin if we're lucky."

"But that's my point," Juliana said eagerly. "Listen, if you didn't have to pay all those expenses, you would be able to contribute to the Sisterhood's fund. Those of us who have the most will put in the most-that's only fair. And the rest contribute what they can. But we'll find our own suppliers for coal and light and food and wine. If we can guarantee a certain amount of business, I'm sure we'll find some merchants willing to do business with us. Willing to give us credit to get started."

"Lord luv us, darlin', but who's goin' to give us credit?" wheezed a woman on the settle, laughing at the absurdity of such a prospect.

"They'll give Viscountess Edgecombe credit," Juliana said stubbornly.

A thoughtful silence fell at this. Juliana waited, her blood on fire with her passionate need to persuade them that they could take control of their lives. It had to be possible.

"Ye'd be willin' to put yer name out, then?" Tina looked at her with a sudden degree of respect.

"Yes." She nodded in vigorous emphasis. "I will put my own money in every week, just like everyone else, and I will undertake to find the merchants willing to do business with us."

"But, Juliana, they aren't going to be doing business with you," Deborah pointed out. "You have no need to buy supplies to conduct your own business."

Juliana shrugged. "I don't see that that makes any difference."

"Well, if ye don't, then us'll thankee kindly fer yer assistance," Tina stated. "That so, ladies?"

"Aye." There was a chorus of hesitant agreement, and Juliana was about to expand on her plan when the piercing squeal of a whistle drowned her words. There was a crash, a bellow, shrieks, more whistles from the room beyond. The young bloods were calling in their high-pitched excitement, furniture crashed to the floor, the sound of blows.

"Oh, dear God, it's a riot," Emma said, her face as white as a sheet. "It's the beadles."

The women were surging to the back of the room, looking for another door. Someone flung up the casement sash and they hurled themselves at the opening. Juliana just stood there in astonishment, wondering what the panic was all about. The disturbance was all in the room next door. If they stayed quiet, no one would come in. They'd done nothing. They were doing nothing to disturb the peace.

Suddenly a voice bellowed from the open window, "No ye don't, woman. Y'are not gettin' away from me. All right, my pretties, settle down now. Mr. Justice Fielding is awaitin' on ye."

Deborah gave a low moan of despair. Juliana stared at the glowering face of the beadle in the window, his rod of office raised threateningly. Behind him, two others were wrestling with one of the women who'd managed to get through the window. Then the door flew open. She had a glimpse of the room behind, the scene of chaos, the mass of grinning or scowling faces lost in a frenzied orgy of destruction. Then she saw Mistress Mitchell standing with another woman in a print gown and mob cap. They were both talking to a constable as his fellows surged into the room where the women were now huddling, swinging their batons to left and right, grabbing the women, herding them toward the door.

Juliana was caught up with the rest. She lashed out with a fist and a foot and had the satisfaction of feeling them meet their mark, but it did her little good. She was hustled out, pushed and shoved by the officious and none too gentle constables. And as she looked over her shoulder, Mistress Mitchell smiled with cold triumph.

They had been betrayed, and it was clear by whom. The whoremasters of Covent Garden wouldn't see their nymphs escape the yoke without a fight.