Vice

Chapter 24

The duke's coachman was sitting on an ale bench outside a tavern under the colonnades of the Piazza, pleasantly awaiting the return of his passenger. He could see the carriage and the urchin who held the horses, but he could see little else beyond the sea of bodies eddying around the square. He heard the ruckus from Cocksedge's as just another exploding bubble in the general cacophonous stew and called for another tankard of ale.

"Beadles is raidin' some 'ouse," a shabby bawd observed from the bench beside him. "Daresay some of them varmints from up town are causin' trouble. Breakin' 'eads no doubt, drunk as lords… a'course, most of'em is lords." She cackled and drained her tankard. "Not that that Sir John'U do much more 'an turn a blind eye to their goings-on. It's the women who'll suffer, as usual."

She stared into her empty tankard for a minute, then gathered herself to her feet with a sigh. "That ale does go through a body summat chronic." She staggered into the road, raising an imperative hand to a flyter, who stood with his pail and telltale voluminous cloak a few yards away. He trotted over to her, and she gave him a penny. The flyter set his bucket on the cobbles and then spread his cloak as a screen for the woman, who disappeared into its folds to relieve herself in relative privacy.

John Coachman paid scant interest to a sight that could be seen on every street corner in the city. He eyed his carriage in case the disturbance should show signs of coming this way. There were the sounds of running feet, more yelling and cursing, mostly female. With a grunt he hauled himself to his feet and clambered onto the box of the coach to see over the heads to the turmoil across the square.

He could make out little, except a group of constables herding a crowd of women toward Bow Street, presumably to bring them before Sir John Fielding, the local magistrate. Around the beadles and their prisoners surged a crowd of raging women, throwing rotten fruit at the constables, cursing them with fluent vigor. The constables ducked the missiles, ignored the curses, and moved their prisoners along with the encouragement of their rods. The young men from Cocksedge's roared and swayed in a drunken circle before suddenly affected by a common impulse; like lemmings, they turned in a body and reentered Cocksedge's. The sound of breaking glass and smashing furniture was added to the general tumult, Mother Cocksedge's vituperations and desperate pleas rising above it all.

John Coachman began to feel a little uneasy. Where in all this chaos was Lady Edgecombe? Presumably he should have accompanied her on her errand, but she hadn't really given him the opportunity to offer. A little shiver of apprehension ran down his spine at the thought of the duke's possible reaction to this dereliction of duty.

He stood on his box and gazed intently over the throng. The party of women and beadles was reaching the corner of Russell Street. He caught a glimpse of a flaming red head in the midst, and his heart jumped. Then he sat down again with a thump. Lady Edgecombe couldn't possibly be in the company of a group of arrested whores. Presumably she was waiting for the tumult to die down before she came back to the carriage. He couldn't leave the horses to go and look for her, even if he knew where in this inferno she had gone. If she came back to find him not there, they would be worse off than they already were. He yawned, sleepy from the ale he'd been imbibing freely, and settled down on the box, arms folded, to await Lady Edgecombe's return.

Juliana was continuing to struggle and protest as she was borne out of Covent Garden toward Bow Street. She could see only Lilly and Rosamund of the Russell Street girls and hoped that the others had escaped. The beadles couldn't possibly arrest the entire roomful of women, and it seemed to her that they were somewhat selective in the ones they harried along the street. She noticed that several women at the outskirts of the group were permitted to duck away from their captors and disappear into the dark mouths of alleys as they passed. But there was no possibility of such a move for herself. She had a beadle all to herself, gripping her elbow as he half pulled her along.

Rosamund was weeping; Lilly, on the other hand, cursed at her captors with all the vigor of a Billingsgate fishwife. Her face was tight and set, but Juliana didn't think she was going to break down. "Where are they taking us?" she asked.

"Fielding's," Lilly said shortly through compressed lips. "And then Bridewell, I expect."

Juliana gulped. "Bridewell? But what for?"

"It's a house of correction for debauched females," Lilly told her with the same curtness. "Surely you're not so naive you don't know that."

"Yes, of course I know it. But we weren't doing anything." Juliana tried to keep her temper, knowing that Lilly's impatience was fueled by apprehension.

"We were in the middle of a riot. That's all it takes."

Juliana chewed her lip. "Mistress Mitchell was there, together with some grimy-looking creature I assume was Mother Cocksedge."

"I saw her."

"D'you think she put the beadles on to us?"

"Of course." Lilly turned to look at Juliana and her fear was now clear in her eyes. "We tried to tell you that it's impossible to escape the rule of the bawds," she said bleakly. "I was a fool to be carried away by your eloquence, Juliana. There was a moment this evening when I thought it might happen. We would buy our own necessities, look after each other in illness or ill luck, thumb our noses at the bastards." She shook her head in angry impatience. "Fools… we were all fools."

Juliana said no more. Nothing she could say at this moment would improve the situation, and she needed to concentrate on her own plight. She couldn't admit her identity to the magistrates-neither of her identities. She had to keep the Courtney name out of her own disgrace. The duke, for all his deviousness, didn't deserve to have his cousin's wife publicly hauled off to Bridewell.

Hauled off? Or carted? Her blood ran cold, and a clammy sweat broke out on her hands and forehead. Would they drive them to Bridewell at the cart's tail? Was she about to be whipped through the streets of London?

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She knew it was part of the customary punishment for bawds. But they weren't bawds. They were the slaves of bawds. Surely that would be a lesser offense in the stern eyes of Sir John Fielding.

They reached a tall house on Bow Street, and one of the constables banged on the door with his staff. A sleepy footman answered it. "We've harlots to be brought before Sir John," the constable announced with solemnity. "Creating a fracas… debauching… soliciting… inciting to riot."

The footman looked over his head to the surrounded women. He grinned lasciviously as he noted their disordered dress. Even the well-dressed women had suffered in the arrest and now tried to hold together torn bodices and ripped sleeves. "I'll waken Sir John," he said, stepping back to open the door fully. "If ye takes 'em into the front parlor where Sir John does 'is business, I'll fetch 'im fer ye."

The constables herded their little flock into the house and into a large paneled room on the left of the hall. It was sparsely furnished, with a massive table and a large chair behind it, rather giving the impression of a throne. The women were pushed into a semicircle around the table while another yawning footman lit the candles and oil lamps, throwing a gloomy light over the bare room.

Then silence fell, as deep as a crypt-not so much as the rustle of a skirt, the scrape of a foot on the bare floor. It was as if the women were afraid to speak or to move, afraid that it might worsen their condition. The beadles kept quiet, as if awed by their surroundings. Only Juliana looked around, taking in details of the molding on the ceiling, the embossed paneling, the waxed oak floorboards. She was as scared as the rest of them, but it didn't show on her countenance as she tried to think of a way out of this dismal situation.

After an eternal fifteen minutes the double doors opened and a voice intoned, "Pray stand for 'Is Honor, Sir John Fielding."

As if they had any choice, Juliana thought with a brave attempt at humor, unable to ignore the shiver that ran through her companions.

Sir John Fielding, in a loose brocade chamber robe over his britches and shirt, his hastily donned wig slightly askew, took his seat behind the table. He surveyed the women with a steady, reproving stare.

"Charges?"

"Disorderly be'avior, Sir John," the head beadle spoke ponderously. "Inciting to riot… debauchery… damage to property."

"Who brings the charges?"

"Mother Cocksedge and Mistress Mitchell, Yer 'Onor."

"Are they here?"

"Awaitin' yer summons, sir." The beadle tapped his staff on the floor and twitched his nose with an air of great self-importance.

"Then summon them."

Juliana turned her head toward the door. The two women bustled in. Mistress Mitchell looked like a respectable housewife in her print dress and mob cap; Mother Cocksedge had thrown her apron over her head and appeared much affected by something, her shoulders heaving, great sobs emerging from beneath the apron.

"Cease yer blubbin', woman, an' tell 'Is Lordship yer complaint," instructed one of the constables.

"Oh, I'm ruint, Yer 'Onor, quite ruint," came from beneath the apron. "It's all thanks to those evil girls… them what encouraged the young gennelmen to break up my 'ouse. Flaunted theirselves at 'em, got 'em all excited like, then wouldn't deliver. An' them three…" With a dramatic gesture Mother Cocksedge flung aside her apron and pointed at Juliana, Lilly, and Rosamund. "Them three, what ought to know better, they was encouragin' the others, poor souls what don't 'ave 'alf the advantages, to use my establishment fer himmoral purposes."

Juliana gasped. "Why, you old-"

"Silence!" The justice glared at Juliana. "Open your mouth once more, woman, and you'll be carted from St. Paul's Church to Drury Lane and back again."

Juliana shut her mouth, seething as she was forced to listen to the two women spin their tales. Mistress Mitchell was all hurt feelings and good nature taken advantage of as she explained that she'd allowed some girls to use her best parlor for a birthday party, but instead they'd been preparing to create a riot at Mother Cocksedge's oh-so-respectable chocolate house. They had a grievance against Mother Cocksedge and intended to be avenged upon her by causing her house to be wrecked by a group of angry young bloods.

They were evil, fallen women with no morals, set on their wicked ways, put in Mother Cocksedge, once more retreating beneath her apron. "But me an' Mistress Mitchell, 'ere, Yer 'Onor, we don't think as 'ow they should all be punished as much as them what lead 'em into evil. Them three from Russell Street."

Mistress Mitchell bristled and agreed with a dignified nod.

Sir John Fielding regarded the two complainants with an expression of distaste. He was as aware as anyone of the true nature of their trade. But they were not on this occasion brought before him, and their complaint was legitimate enough. His head swung slowly around the semicircle of defendants, and his gaze rested on the three chief malefactors.

Lilly and Rosamund immediately dropped their eyes, but the bold-eyed redhead met his accusatory glare head-on, her green eyes throwing a challenge at him.

'"Name?" he demanded.

"Juliana Beresford." She spoke clearly and offered neither curtsy nor salutation.

Lilly and Rosamund, on the other hand, both curtsied low and murmured their names when asked, with an "If it please Your Honor."

"Do you have anything to say to these charges?" He gestured to Juliana.

"Only that they're barefaced lies." she replied calmly.

"You were not gathered in this woman's chocolate house?" The justice's eyebrows rose in a bushy white arc.

"Yes, we were, but-"

"You weren't gathered behind a closed door?" he interrupted.

"Yes, but-"

He thumped his fist on the table, silencing her again. "That's all I wish to know. It is against the law for people to gather together for the purposes of incitement to violence and riot. I sentence you and your two companions to three months in the Tothill Bridewell. Those whom you have corrupted are free on payment of a five-shilling fine."

With that he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, yawning prodigiously. "I sat overlate last even, and then to be dragged from my bed in the small hours to deal with a trio of hotheaded troublemaking harlots is more than a man can abide," he remarked loudly to a somber-suited man who had stood behind him throughout the trial and who now accompanied him from the room.

"Ye'll be showin' a little more respect to yer betters after three months beatin' 'emp,'' Mother Cocksedge declared, coming up to the three young women with a leer in her little pink eyes. "I doubt Mistress Dennison and 'er man’ll be ready to take ye back afterward. We don't like troublemakers in the Garden, and don't ye ferget it, missie." She jabbed a finger at Juliana's chest. Juliana would have retaliated if she hadn't been held so tightly by a constable. The urge to spit in the woman's face was almost overpowering, but somehow she resisted it and looked away from the hateful, triumphant grin.

"Rosamund cannot survive Bridewell," Lilly whispered to Juliana. "I can, and you can. But Rosamund is fragile. She'll not last on her feet for more than a week."

"She won't have to," Juliana declared with a confidence she didn't feel. They were binding her hands in front of her with coarse rope, and with each twist and knot she was secured in the chains of powerlessness.

Lilly gave her a scornful look as if to say "Face reality" and endured her own bonds with tight lips. Rosamund continued to weep softly as she was similarly bound. The other women had been hustled from the room and could be heard across the hall, declaring penitence and gratitude as the two bawds paid their fines. They'd just been given a lesson on which side their bread was buttered, and it would be a rainy day in hell before they would contemplate standing up for themselves again.

"Come along, then, me pretties." A beadle grinned at them and chucked Rosamund beneath the chin. "Ye'll spoil them lovely eyes with yer tears, missie. Save 'em for the Bridewell, I should." A hearty laugh greeted this sally, and Juliana, Lilly, and Rosamund were half pushed, half dragged out of the house to an open cart waiting outside.

Juliana waited in sick dread for them to fasten her bound hands to a rope behind the cart and pull her bodice to her waist. But they were shoved upward into the cart, and her relief was so great that for the first time since this ordeal had begun, she thought she might faint. She put an arm around Rosamund and took Lilly's hand in a fierce grip as they stood in the benchless vehicle, swaying and lurching over the cobbles.

Dawn was breaking, and the city streets were filling with costermongers, night-soil collectors, barrow boys, servants of all kinds hurrying to the market. The nighttime din had died down in Covent Garden, replaced with the coarse cries of the market people, the rattle of wheels and the clop of horses. As the cart bearing the three bound women was drawn through the streets, people jeered and threw clods of mud and pieces of rotten fruit; small boys ran along beside the cart, chanting obscene songs.

Juliana thought of being burned at the stake. She imagined being tied to the stake in front of a jeering crowd. She thought of the noose around her neck, mercifully squeezing consciousness from her body before they lit the faggots. She lived that nightmare and thus defeated the ghastly reality of the humiliating journey.

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John Coachman had fallen asleep on the driver's box. He'd intended to nod off for a minute or two, but when he awoke, it was almost full light. He leaped from the carriage with an oath, still thick with sleep but his heart pounding with fear. Abandoning his horses, he plunged across the Garden, dodging the market folk as they put up their stalls. He'd seen Lady Edgecombe disappear in this direction, but where had she gone then? He stood wildly looking around as if he would see her sitting at her ease under the Piazza. But he knew that something was very wrong. And he'd slept through it. The duke would have his hide and throw him without a character into the street to starve.

"Lost summat, mate?" a friendly carter inquired, pausing with his laden basket of cabbages delicately balanced on his head.

John Coachman looked bewildered. "My lady," he stammered. "I've lost my lady."

The carter chuckled. "Covent Garden's the place fer losin' a lady friend, mate. But there's plenty 'ere where that one came from."

The coachman didn't attempt to explain something that he didn't understand himself. His great fear was that Lady Edgecombe had been abducted, a fine lady in this den of iniquity. It wouldn't be the first time. And it must have happened at least an hour ago. She could be anywhere in the city's maze of mean, narrow streets and dark, dank courts.

"D'ye 'ear of the business last night at Cocksedge's?" the carter asked, reaching in his pocket for his clay pipe, his basket immobile on his head despite his movements. He struck flint on tinder and lit the pungent tobacco.

The coachman hardly heard him. He was still gazing frantically around, trying to think of his next course of action.

"A group of them 'igh-class nymphs w as taken up by the beadles at Cocksedge's," the informative carter rattled on between leisurely puffs. "Incitin' a riot, or so the old bawd says. Got summat agin 'em, I'll bet. She's got the evil eye, that one, make no mistake."

Slowly the words sank in. John remembered the scene he'd witnessed earlier. The flame-red hair stuck in his memory. "What's that you say?"

The carter repeated himself cheerfully. "Took 'em to Fielding's, so I 'eard, but…" He stared after the coachman, who was now racing back to his carriage and the stamping, restless horses.

John Coachman clambered onto the box, cracked his whip with a loud bellow of encouragement, and the horses broke almost immediately into a canter, the coach swaying and lumbering behind. They sideswiped a stall and the owner raced after them, yelling curses. A child was snatched just in time from beneath the pounding hooves by an irate woman. A mangy dog dived between the wheels of the carriage and miraculously emerged unscathed on the other side.

Outside the magistrate's house on Bow Street, the coachman pulled up his sweating horses and with trembling hands descended to the street and ran up the steps to bang the knocker. The footman who answered was lofty and unhelpful until he saw the ducal coronet on the panels of the carriage. Then he was all affability. Yes, there had been a group of whores brought before Sir John an hour or so ago. Three of them sentenced to Tothill Bridewell, the others let off with a fine that their bawds had paid. And, yes, one of the women sent to Tothill had been a tall green-eyed redhead. He vaguely remembered that she'd been wearing a dark-green gown.

John Coachman thanked the man and retreated to his carriage. His world seemed to have run amuck. Lady Edgecombe taken up for a whore; hauled off to Tothill Bridewell. It made no sense. And yet there was no other explanation for Her Ladyship's inexplicable disappearance.

He turned his horses toward Albermarle Street, his mind reeling. It was backstairs gossip that there was something smoky about the way Lady Edgecombe had come to the house. The whole marriage with the viscount reeked to the heavens. And she was installed in the chamber next to the duke, her bridegroom now gone from the house.

He knew well, however, that the conclusions he drew would avail him nothing when facing the duke's wrath. It was with sinking heart that he drove into the mews, handed the horses over to a groom, and entered the house by the back door.

The house was in its customary quiet but efficient early-morning bustle, waxing, polishing, brushing, dusting. The kitchen was filled with the rich aromas of bacon and black pudding, the boot boy and scullery maid carrying steaming salvers into the servants' hall. The coachman knew he would have to confide in Catlett if he was to speak with the duke. And he knew that he must speak with His Grace before many minutes had passed.

He approached the august figure of Catlett, seated at the head of the long table sampling his ale and examining with a critical eye the offerings laid before him by the boot boy. The lad's mouth watered as he watched the dishes move down the table. He and the scullery maid would have to wait until everyone had eaten before they'd be allowed to rummage for scraps to break their own lasts.

"Eh, John Coachman, and 'ow be you this fine mornin'?" Catlett asked genially, spearing a chunk of black pudding with the end of his knife.

"I'd like a word in private, if ye please, Mr. Catlett." The coachman turned his hat between his hands, his eyes filled with anxiety.

"What? In the middle of me breakfast?"

"It's very urgent, Mr. Catlett. Concerns 'Er Ladyship and 'Is Grace."

Catlett irritably pushed back his chair. "Best come into me pantry, then. You, lad. Put me plate on the 'ob to keep 'of. I'll dust yer jacket fer ye if 'tis a mite less 'of than 'tis now."

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he led the way to his pantry. "So what is it?"

He listened, his eyes widening, as the coachman told him of the night's happening and the total absence of Lady Edgecombe.

"Taken up fer a whore?" Catlett shook his head in incredulity. " 'Ow could that be?"

"Dunno. Accident, I daresay. She went to fetch a fan, got caught up in the riot." John snapped his fingers.

"Sir John wouldn't send Lady Edgecombe to Tothill Bridewell," Catlett declared. "So she must not 'ave told 'im 'oo she is."

"Aye. But why?"

"Not fer us to ask," Cadett pronounced. "But 'Is Grace must be told at once. Ye'd best come wi' me to 'is chamber. 'E's only been back fer a couple of hours."

The coachman followed Catlett into the front of the house and up the stairs. A parlor maid, waxing the banister, gave him a curious look, then dropped her eyes immediately as Catlett clipped her around the ear. "You got nuthin' better to do, my girl, than gawp at yer betters?"

"Yes, sir… Mr. Catlett… no, sir," she mumbled.

Outside the duke's bedchamber Catlett said, "Wait 'ere." He pushed open the door and entered the darkened chamber. The bed curtains were drawn around the bed. He twitched them aside and coughed portentously.

The duke seemed to be deeply asleep, an arm flung above his head, his face in repose curiously youthful, his mouth relaxed, almost smiling.

Catlett coughed again and, when that produced no response, went to draw back the window curtains, flooding the room with light.

"What the devil…,?" Tarquin opened his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it's a matter of some urgency." Catlett moved smoothly back to the bed, his practiced working accents crisp and well modulated.

Tarquin struggled up onto an elbow and blinked at the man. "Why are you waking me, Catlett, and not my valet?"

Catlett coughed. "I thought. Your Grace, that you'd prefer as few people as possible to be a party to the situation."

Tarquin sat up, instantly awake. His eyes flew to the armoire and its concealed door. Juliana. She hadn't returned when he'd come in earlier, but he hadn't thought twice about it. She was with his own coachman, escorted by the formidable and ultrarespectable Lady Bowen.

"Tell me."

"John Coachman's waiting outside, Your Grace. It's probably best if he tells it in his own words." Catlett bowed

"Fetch him."

Visibly trembling, the coachman approached the duke's bed. He was still twisting his hat between his hands, his cheeks flushed as he stammered through his recital. The duke listened without a crack in his impassivity, his eyes flat, his mouth thin.

When the coachman had finished his tale and stood miserably pulling at his hat brim, eyes lowered, the duke flung aside the bedclothes and stood up. "I'll deal with you later," he said grimly. "Get out of my sight."

The coachman scuttled off. Catlett moved to pull the bell rope. "You'll be wanting your valet. Your Grace."

"No." Tarquin waved him away. "I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself. Have my phaeton brought round immediately." He threw off his nightshirt and pulled a pair of buckskin britches from the armoire.

Catlett left with a bow, and Tarquin flung on his clothes, his mind racing. He could think of no rational explanation for Juliana's predicament. But, then, Juliana didn't need logical reasons for getting herself into trouble, he thought grimly. He knew that George Ridge couldn't have been involved, since he'd been occupied elsewhere. It was the kind of vengeance that would appeal to Lucien, certainly, but he hadn't the patience to orchestrate such a sophisticated plan. He was a man who acted on vicious impulse. But what in the name of all that was good had taken Juliana, against his express orders and her own past experiences, to Covent Garden at the height of the night's debauchery?

Simple mischief? Pure deviltry? Another demonstration of her refusal to yield to his authority? Somehow he didn't think it was that simple. Juliana wasn't childish… hotheaded, certainly; but she was also surprisingly mature for her years-a product presumably of her loveless childhood. She was probably involved in another misguided mission like the one that had taken her to the Marshalsea. For some reason the women of Russell Street held a dangerous fascination for her.

He ought to leave her in Bridwell for a few days, he thought wrathfully, thrusting a thick billfold into the pocket of his britches. She'd soon learn just how dangerous a fascination it was.

But he knew it was fear more than anger that spoke. The purity of his anger was muddled with a piercing dread. He couldn't endure the idea of Juliana's being hurt or frightened. It was as if some part of himself was suffering and he couldn't detach himself from the pain.

It was inexplicable, and a damnable nuisance. He strode out of his chamber, slamming the door behind him, and headed at a run for the stairs.

"Good morning, Tarquin. Where are you off to at the peep of day?" Quentin's voice hailed him from the library as he crossed the hall. Quentin, always an early riser, looked fresh and serene.

"Juliana has contrived to get herself sent to Bridewell," he told Quentin tersely. "Against my better judgment I'm about to spring her loose before she endures too much punishment in that hellhole."

Quentin stared in disbelief. "But how for mercy's sake did- "

"I've no idea," Tarquin interrupted. "The temperamental chit is a loose cannon. And, by God, I'm going to keep her on a leash in future!"

"I'll accompany you." Quentin dropped the prayer book he'd been carrying onto a side table.

"There's no need. I can handle Juliana without assistance."

"I'm sure you can." Quentin followed him out into the bright morning. "Nevertheless, you might need a supporting cast. You don't know what you're going to find."

Tarquin shot him a bleak look, and their eyes held for a minute. They both knew that Quentin's remark was not lightly made. Then the duke climbed with an agile spring into the waiting phaeton, followed by his brother.

Quentin felt Tarquin deliberately relax as he took up the reins. He glanced up at his profile and saw that all emotion was wiped clear from his countenance. He was not fooled by this apparently calm exterior. He'd been convinced for some time now that the careless affection Tarquin showed for his mignonne masked a much deeper feeling.

Tarquin whipped up his horses. It was the only indication of his urgency as he fought to subdue the images of what Juliana could be going through at this moment. She was so intractable, so bold and challenging, that it wouldn't be long before she would provoke the jailers to break her spirit. They had crude but sure methods of doing so.