Vice

Chapter 27

“Mercy me, but I don't know what the world's coming to when you young things can get yourselves into this state." Henny shook her head as she untied the bandages on Juliana's ruined hands the following morning.

"How is Rosamund?" Juliana was feeling limp, filled with a deep and most unusual languor. She'd slept all day and all night and now couldn't seem to drag herself fully awake. Rain drummed against the windowpane, and her chamber was candlelit, which didn't help matters.

"She'll do. Had a nasty shock, but she's recoverin' nicely. That Mistress Dennison came and took them both home."

"Already?" Juliana winced as a strand of bandage stuck to an open cut. "Why didn't someone tell me?"

"You were sleeping, and His Grace gave order that you weren't to be disturbed until you rang." Henny dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. "When y'are dressed, he'd like to see you in the library. If you feel up to it, that is." She bathed Juliana's palms and patted them dry before applying fresh salve.

Juliana closed her heavy eyes, wondering if she could have unknowingly swallowed a sleeping draft. She could remember nothing after Tarquin had left her in yesterday's morning sunshine. Who had informed Mistress Dennison that Lilly and Rosamund were here? Did she bear them a grudge? It would seem not, if they were received back into the fold so quickly. Tarquin would have the answers.

Depression slopped over her as she remembered how he'd left her in anger, without saying a word to her bitter accusations. She'd most effectively doused whatever warmth he'd been feeling toward her. She didn't regret what she'd said, she'd meant every word of it, but now it seemed mean-spirited to have attacked him on the heels of his ministrations.

"I think ye'd be best off back in bed, dearie," Henny clucked, deftly retying the bandages. "I'll let His Grace know that y'are not ready to go downstairs."

"No… no, of course I am." Juliana forced her eyes open. She couldn't avoid seeing him for long, and, besides, she wanted answers to her questions. "I'll wash my face and drink some coffee, and then I'll be wide-awake. It's because it's raining and so close in here."

Henny tutted but made no further demur, and half an hour later Juliana surveyed herself dispiritedly in the cheval glass. Her hair was particularly unruly this morning, star-tlingly vivid against her face, which was even paler than usual. Her eyes seemed very large, dark shadows beneath them that she decided gave her a rather interesting look. Mysterious and haunted. The whimsical notion made her feel slightly more cheerful. Anyone less mysterious and haunted than her own ungainly, big-footed, clumsy self would be hard to find. But the pale-lavender muslin and her white-bandaged hands did give her a more delicate air than usual.

"Off you go, then. But don't stay down too long. You'll need to rest before dinner."

"You're so kind to me," Juliana said. "No one ever took care of me before or worried about me." Impulsively, she gave Henny a kiss that made the woman smile with pleasure as she shooed her away with a "Get along with you, now, m'lady."

Juliana didn't at first see Tarquin's visitor as she entered the library, her questions tumbling from her lips even before she was through the door. "Was Mistress Dennison angry with Lilly and Rosamund, sir? How did she know they were here? Are you sure she won't be unkind to them?"

"No. I told her. Yes," Tarquin replied, rising from his chair. "Take a deep breath, mignonne, and make your curtsy to Mr. Bonnell Thornton."

Juliana took a deep breath. To her amazement she saw that the duke was smiling, and the same warm light was still in his eyes. There was no sign of the chill she'd been expecting.

"Juliana?" he prompted, gesturing to his companion, when she didn't immediately move forward.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't see you at first." Juliana recollected herself and curtsied to the tall, lean gentleman in an astonishing pink satin suit.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am.' The gentleman bowed. "His Grace has told me all about your misadventures and their cause."

Juliana looked inquiringly toward Tarquin, unsure how to take this. He handed her a broadsheet. "Read this, and you may begin to understand that you're not the only champion of the cause, Juliana."

She had not come across the Drury Lane Journal before. Its subtitle, Have at Ye became clear as soon as she began to read. It was a scurrilous, gossipy Journal, full of innuendo and supposedly truthful accounts of scandalous exploits among the members of London's fashionable and political world. It was also wickedly amusing. But Juliana was puzzled as to what Tarquin had meant. She skimmed through reviews and critiques of plays and operas and then looked up. "It's very amusing, sir, but I don't see…"

"In the center you'll find an article by one Roxanna Termagant," Mr. Thornton pointed out.

She went back and found the column. Her lips parted on a soundless O. Miss Termagant had given a precise description of the so-called riot at Cocksedge's, directly accusing both Mitchell and Cocksedge of orchestrating the riot and the subsequent raid in order to achieve the arrest of four women-one of whom was no whore but the wife of a viscount. The account was followed by an impassioned castigation of the authorities, who'd allowed themselves to serve the devious purposes of the bawds and had imprisoned innocent women who'd merely been gathering for a peaceful discussion on how to improve their working and living conditions.

"Who is this lady?"

Mr. Thornton bowed with a flourish. "You see her before you, ma'am." He grinned mischievously.

Maybe it explained the pink satin. However, she was still confused. "My lord duke told you all of this?"

"It's not an unusual story, my lady. Any attempt by the women to demand basic rights of their so-called employers is always defeated. However"-he took the paper from her, tapping it against the palm of his hand-"we can make life uncomfortable for them with public ridicule and public outrage. Unfortunately, it's difficult for me to find out about all the horrors that go on. I didn't know about the case of Miss Lucy Tibbet, for instance. So I have a proposition for you, Lady Edgecombe."

Juliana perched on the arm of the sofa. She glanced at Tarquin, who was leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled against his mouth, his eyes resting on her face. "Not all members of our society close our eyes to injustice, mignonne. Mr. Thornton has a powerful voice in Covent Garden. I believe his methods are more effective than inciting harlots to rebellion and landing yourself in Bridewell."

"So you… you want to help too?" she asked with a doubtful frown. It seemed impossible to believe, but what else could he mean?

"Let's just say you've opened my eyes," he said wryly.

Juliana was so taken aback, she wasn't aware for a moment that Mr. Thornton had begun to talk again. He coughed pointedly to attract her attention and continued. "As I was saying, Lady Edgecombe, I understand you have friends in the Garden. Women who are in a position to know what goes on. If you can encourage them to confide in you, then I will have the material to make war."

"Act as a spy, you mean?"

"An informant," Tarquin said.

"I will also hold whatever funds you're able to collect," Mr. Thornton went on, "and take responsibility for disbursing them to those women in need. Their employers may quarrel with my apparent philanthropy, but they'll have no excuse to be avenged upon the women, so no one need fear reprisals." Mr. Thornton nodded his head decisively.

"I prefer to be doing things," Juliana said. "Just telling tales seems a little pathetic."

"But when you do things, Juliana, you fall head over heels into trouble," the duke pointed out. Bonnell Thornton chuckled, and Juliana flushed but didn't attempt to deny the truth.

"Your fault, mignonne, lies in overestimating your abilities to change the world," continued Tarquin. "You can't do it without assistance."

"That's what I said yesterday."

"And as you see, I took it to heart."

"Yes," she agreed slowly. It was still hard to believe her words could have had such an effect. She turned back to Bonnell Thornton. "Well, if you think this will work, Mr. Thornton, then of course I'll help however I can."

"Good. You will see that we can make a difference little by little… Well, I'll take my leave now. Your Grace…" He bowed to the duke, who rose politely and escorted him to the door. Juliana curtsied as the visitor took her bandaged hand gently and lightly kissed her fingertips. "Good day, Lady Edgecombe. I look forward to our association."

Tarquin closed the door after him, then turned back to Juliana. "I know you think it poor work, my dear, but believe me, it's the best you can do."

Juliana was not too sure about that. She could think of many ways in which she could become more actively involved in Mr. Bonnell Thornton's activities. But it would not be politic to mention them at this point. "I can't do Mr. Thornton's work without visiting my friends," she pointed out.

"No," he agreed, strolling to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. "But you won't forget to take Ted with you, will you?"

Juliana shook her head. "Why have you changed your mind?"

He set down the decanter and came across to her. Cupping her face between his hands, he brushed her eyelids with his lips. "You work the strangest magic, mignonne. I believe if you put your mind to it, you could melt a heart of marble." He ran his thumb over her mouth, his smile rueful. "I can't say I enjoy being the target of your reforming zeal." He kissed her as she was still searching for a response. "Go back upstairs now. You look exhausted."

She was suddenly feeling both queasy and overwhelmingly sleepy. Her brain couldn't get around his words. Were they really a declaration of some kind? A promise of some kind? She tried to find a response, but there was something in his eyes that told her he didn't want her to say anything. His hands on her shoulders were turning her toward the door. "Go to Henny, Juliana." And she went without a word.

She lay back on the chaise longue beneath the bedroom window while Henny took off her shoes and unlaced her bodice. Her hand drifted to her belly. This child would know only a guardian and an uncle. He would never know a father. All the loving tenderness in the world couldn't soften that fact. And once Tarquin knew she was carrying his child, it would no longer be exclusively hers, even in her womb. How long could she keep it to herself?

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"Henny says Juliana can't seem to wake up today." Quentin sounded worried as he stood before the library fire, lit against the damp chill of the rainy day. "Could she have suffered more than we saw?"

"I don't believe so." Tarquin sipped his port. "I believe there's something else behind it."

"What?" Quentin reached for his own glass on the mantel.

Tarquin yawned. "It's for Juliana to say. I daresay she'll tell me in her own good time." He stretched his legs to the tire. "There are times when an evening at home is most delightful."

"Particularly listening to that." Quentin gestured to the window where the rain drummed monotonously. "It's a foul night to be abroad."

"Yes, and the thought that my troublesome mignonne is tucked up safely in her bed is very comforting." Tarquin yawned again.

Quentin looked into his glass. "Will you hide this liaison from Lydia when she's your wife?" His voice was stiff, his eyes strained.

Tarquin looked up, the sleepy indolence vanishing from his eyes. "What do you mean, Quentin?"

"What do you think I mean?" Quentin jumped to his feet. The agony of his frustration was suddenly no longer bearable. "You will have both Juliana and Lydia under your roof. Will you conceal your true relationship with Juliana from Lydia?"

Tarquin stared at him in astonishment. Quentin's face was pale, his lips bloodless.

"I cannot endure it, Tarquin! I cannot endure that you would treat Lydia in such fashion. I love her, God help me. And I will not stand by and watch you ruin both our lives." His hands twisted themselves into impossible knots, his gray eyes burning holes in his white face.

"You… you and Lydia!" Tarquin stuttered. "You and Lvdia?"

"Yes."

"Lydia… Lydia knows how you feel?" He still couldn't seem to grasp this.

"Yes."

"And… and does she return your feelings?"

Quentin nodded.

"Dear God!" Tarquin ran a hand through his hair. "You and Lydia love each other? I know you've always had a special regard for her, but…"

"Sometimes, Tarquin, you are so damned blind you can't see the nose on your face!" Quentin declared, feeling suddenly purged, as if a great load had been taken from him. "It took Juliana five minutes to see-"

"Juliana!" Now he remembered her hints. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he muttered.

"I will not stand by and see you insult Lydia by keeping your mistress under the same roof," Quentin reiterated, his voice now strong.

Tarquin said nothing, merely stared into the fire. He was realizing that he couldn't imagine insulting Juliana in such fashion either. What in the devil's name was happening to him?

"Do you hear me, Tarquin?"

He looked up and shook his head with a half laugh of disbelieving resignation. "Oh, yes, I hear you, brother. As clearly as I hear myself."

Quentin waited for more, but his brother turned back to the fire, twisting his port glass between his fingers. It was as if he'd put up a wall around himself. The silence lengthened and finally Quentin left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Nothing had been resolved, but he'd made his statement. The truth was in the open, and instead of feeling bad about it, he felt only an overpowering relief.

Tarquin remained immobile for a long time. Eventually he rose and refilled his port glass. His eye fell on the miniature of Lydia Melton on the mantel. Grave, composed, dignified. The perfect wife for a bishop.

Suddenly he laughed aloud. How very simple it all was if one looked at the world through Juliana's eyes.

He was still chuckling to himself when there was a knock at the door and Catlett entered with a note on a silver salver. "I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a messenger has just brought this. He says it's of the utmost urgency."

Tarquin frowned, taking the wafer-sealed paper. He read the ill-penned, ill-spelled contents, his expression darkening. "Damn that degenerate, profligate fool!" He scrunched the note and hurled it into the fire. "Have my carriage brought around."

"You're going out, Your Grace?" Cadett's eyes darted to the rain-blackened window.

"You may assume so from my order," the duke said acidly. "Tell my man to bring my cloak and cane."

Damn Lucien! Lying sick unto death in a sponging house. The note had come from the owner of the house, presumably at Lucien's urging. A debt of five hundred pounds to be cleared to obtain his release. Until then he was lying in the cold and the damp, coughing his heart out, without medicines, food, or blankets.

Tarquin didn't question the situation. It was not the first time it had happened in the last five years. It didn't occur to him either to abandon Lucien to his fate, despite casting him from his door with such finality. He knew just as Lucien had known that in extremis Tarquin would always come to his aid. However vile and despicable Lucien had become, Tarquin couldn't free himself from the chains of responsibility.

He opened the strongbox in his book room and took out five hundred pounds. It was a minute part of Lucien's overall debt, so presumably he'd been caught by one of his minor creditors. A tailor or a hatter, probably.

His valet brought him a heavy caped cloak and his swordstick. Tarquin turned up the deep collar, thrust his hands into his gloves, and went out into the driving rain. The coachman shivered on his box.

"Ludgate Hill." Tarquin didn't glance at him as he gave the order and climbed into the coach.

The coachman cracked his whip. He was new to the duke's service and far too anxious to make a good impression to complain about turning out in the middle of such a foul night.

After the coach disappeared into the sheeting rain, George and Lucien emerged from the basement steps opposite. "Hell and the devil," grumbled Lucien, water pouring from the brim of his hat. "Why this night of all nights? It hasn't rained in a month."

George dived across the street, head down against the wall of water. He was unaware of the rain, the hot blood of vengeance warming him to his core. He was so close now. He darted around the side of the house into the alley that led to the mews and stopped, leaning against the wall, panting.

Lucien appeared beside him, a drenched wraith in comparison with his companion's bulk. "You'll owe me another five hundred for this," he said, coughing into his sleeve.

George merely gestured impatiently to the door set into the wall of the house. "Will the servants be up?"

"Not at this hour… unless Catlett's still roaming." Lucien hawked into the street. "The night watchman will be in his cubbyhole under the stairs, but we'll not be going anywhere near the front of the house."

"What of this Catlett?"

"He'll be in his pantry if he's not abed. I know the routine." Lucien fitted the key into the lock, and the door swung open without so much as a creak. "Well-maintained household we have here," he observed sardonically, stepping into a narrow foyer. "Now, keep your mouth shut and be light on your feet."

He opened another door, revealing a set of stairs set into the wall. It was pitch-dark, no candles in the sconces, but Lucien went up with the sure-footed tread of one who could find his way in the dark. George fumbled behind him, trying not to breathe, conscious of his rasping excitement, of a heaviness in his loins that hitherto he had associated only with carnal congress.

Lucien opened another door at the head of the stairs and peered around. The corridor was dimly lit with sconces at wide intervals along the wall. There was not a sound. He slipped into the corridor, George looming behind him, the man's shadow huge on the wall ahead.

The house was as quiet as the grave when they reached Juliana's door. Lucien stepped back, pressing himself against the wall. "She's in there. You find your own way out. I'll fetch a hackney and bring it to the street corner."

George nodded, his eyes glittering in the waxy, sweating face, his lips wet. He put a hand on the latch as Lucien flitted away to safety. The viscount had no desire to get any closer to this abduction.

George pushed the door, and it opened soundlessly. The room was in darkness, except for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. The bed curtains were not drawn around the bed, and he had a clear view of the sleeping figure. For a minute he watched her. Watched the way the sheet lifted over her bosom with each even breath. The way her hair spread out in a rich pool against the white lawn of the pillow. He frowned at her bandaged hands, then shrugged. She wouldn't be needing them for what he had in mind.

He bent over her, his hands large, heavy, the fingers strong as any laborer's. Those fingers went around Juliana's throat and squeezed.

Her eyes shot open, filled with sleep and terror; her bandaged hands scrabbled at the fingers pressing her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but not a sound came out. She was drowning, suffocating, and her befuddled brain didn't know whether this was real or nightmare. The face hanging over her, so intent, so closed in on its purpose, was familiar, and yet it wasn't. It was a mask… a mask of hideous menace… a mask from a nightmare. Surely only a nightmare. Please, dear God, only a nightmare. But she couldn't breathe. She struggled to wake up. Her eyes were popping in their sockets. Her chest was collapsing. A black wave rolled over her.

George released his hold as she sank limply into the pillows, her eyelids drooping over her terrorized eyes. The marks of his fingers were shadows in the darkness on the white of her throat. He placed his hand over her mouth. She was still breathing, but light and shallow. He took a thick scarf from his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it at the back of her head. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and looked at her unconscious form, every curve and hollow outlined beneath the thin lawn shift.

He dragged his eyes from her, conscious of the passing of every minute, and opened the armoire. He pulled out a thick cloak and rummaged through the dresser drawers, finding a pair of silk stockings.

Bending over her, he bound her ankles together with one stocking, pulled her arms in front of her, and tied her wrists with the other; then he swaddled her still form in the cloak, bringing the hood over her head. Her breathing was still shallow, but it was regular. He maneuvered her over his shoulder, took one last look around, then made for the door. His excitement was such that it was difficult to move slowly and cautiously along the deserted corridor. At any moment he expected a door to open, to be accosted with a shout of outrage. But he reached the door to the internal staircase without mishap.

He slipped into the darkness, closing the door behind him. The house was pitch-black and there was no Lucien to guide him. He waited, his heart hammering, his hands wet, until he was steady enough to step down the steep, narrow flight, an arm encircling his burden. He could feel the shape of her, could smell her hair and skin, could feel her breath warm on his neck.

At the foot of the stairs he stepped into the narrow lobby. The side door was slightly ajar, and his heart leaped. He was a second away from success. He stepped through the door and into the alley.

A shrill whistle made him jump. Bur it was Lucien, beckoning from the end of the alley. George set off at a lumbering run, Juliana's head bumping against his back. A hackney stood in the street, Lucien already inside, shivering with cold and wet.

"Goddammit, but I'll get an ague with this night's work." he complained as George tipped Juliana off his shoulder onto the bench and clambered up after her. "So you got her." He examined his wife's unconscious body with an air of mild curiosity. "What did you do to her? She's not dead, is she?"

George loosened the cloak, tipped back the hood. Juliana's head fell back against the stained leather squabs. Lucien raised his eyebrows at the gag, then leaned over and lightly touched the bruises on her throat, observing casually, "Dear me, quite rough weren't you, dear boy?"

"I wasn't taking any chances," George replied, sitting beside Lucien, where he could see his victim as she lolled against the cushions with each jolt of the iron wheels over the cobbles. He smiled and stroked his chin.

Lucien's teeth chattered, and he fumbled for the flask of cognac in his pocket. With a shudder he put the neck to his mouth and tipped the contents down his throat. "Dear God, but I'm cold." He drank again, desperate to warm the icy void in his belly. His hands and feet were numb, his fingers blue-white, as if his blood had stopped flowing. He cursed again as his chest heaved and he was convulsed with a violent spasm of coughing.

George had never seen anyone cough with such violence. Lucien grabbed for a handkerchief and held it over his mouth. George saw the white cloth darken with blood. Instinctively, he moved a little away from him along the bench, fearing some contamination. He reached into his pocket for a small vial of smelling salts.

Lucien continued to cough, his hollow eyes blood-streaked with the strain. But he watched through the paroxysms as his companion uncorked the vial, leaned forward, and pushed it beneath Juliana's nose.

"What d'you want to wake her for?" Lucien croaked. "Wait until we get there, you fool. You don't want her making any trouble."

"She won't," George said sullenly, but he sat back again, replacing the vial in his pocket. He wanted to be there when she came to. He wanted to see her eyes open. He wanted to see her realize what had happened to her. He wanted to see her eyes fall upon him and know that she was powerless as she felt the bonds at her wrists and ankles, the gag in her mouth. But he would wait. He turned his head to look out at the black night, and he missed the moment when Juliana's eyes fluttered, opened, then closed again.

Her throat hurt. It was agony to swallow. She couldn't move. She couldn't open her mouth. The faint stinging tang of smelling salts was in her nose. She kept her eyes shut. What had happened? The memory of the terrifying nightmare flooded back. The hands at her throat. George's face, swollen and greasy and triumphant.

No nightmare.

She kept still, trying to work out why she couldn't move; her befuddled brain took what seemed an eternity to conclude that she was gagged and bound.

"We're coming up to the Bell now."

Lucien's voice. Dear God, she had both of them to contend with. A cold sweat broke out on her back. How could they possibly have spirited her away from the house without someone's knowing? Where was Tarquin' Why hadn't he been there? Tears pricked behind her eyes, and she tried to swallow them. Her throat was agony, but she couldn't bear the idea of tears seeping down her face, into the gag, and she unable to move her hands to wipe them away.

The hackney rattled to a halt. There were noises. Running feet, shouting voices. Light shone on her closed eyelids as she was hauled up and out of the chaise, still swaddled tightly in the cloak. George hoisted her over his shoulder again. She risked opening her eyes and saw that they were in the familiar yard of the Bell of Cheapside. A postchaise stood at the door, horses in the traces, ostlers sheltering from the rain under the eaves of the inn.

She was carried across. George thrust her into the interior of the chaise and slammed the door. "The lady's sick," he told the ostlers. "Sleeping, so don't disturb her. We'll be back in a minute." To Lucien he said, "Let's get a bite of supper. I'm wet as a drowned hen, and parched as the desert."

Lucien glanced at the closed door of the chaise, then shrugged and followed George into the taproom. "What happens if someone looks in?"

"No one's business but mine," George growled into a cognac bottle. "Besides, she's not going to make a sound. She can't move. Who's to look inside?"

It wasn't his business, Lucien reflected, shivering with that bone-deep cold. He'd not been responsible for the abduction. He drank thirstily of the brandy but waved away the meat pie and bread and cheese that George was eating with greedy gusto. He felt ill and knew from experience that the ice in his marrow presaged one of his serious bouts of fever. Perhaps he should take a room there and sweat it out.

But he wanted his thousand guineas, and he wasn't prepared to leave George until he had them firmly in his hand. He understood the man couldn't lay hands on such a sum until he got home; therefore, Lucien would accompany him home. Besides, it might be amusing to see how his wife reacted when she recovered her senses.

Juliana lay in the chaise just as she'd been thrust, half on and half off the seat. She thought she could maneuver herself fully onto the bench, but if she did that, they would know she had moved. Instinctively, she knew that she must maintain her unconsciousness until they reached wherever they were going. At some point they would have to untie her. She was acutely uncomfortable, every muscle twisted and crying out for relief. She tried to take her mind off her discomfort, wondering what the time was. How close to dawn. What time had she been abducted? And where, for pity's sake, were they taking her?

George needed her dead or convicted of murder in order to reclaim her jointure. So which of the two did he have in mind? Neither alternative appealed.

They came back. She could smell cognac as they breathed heavily into the cramped space, thumping down on the bench opposite. Lucien's cough rasped, hacked. She kept her eyes tightly closed when hands moved beneath her legs and lifted her fully onto the seat. She was grateful for the small mercy. A whip cracked, the chaise rattled over the cobbles. Where in the name of pity were they taking her?

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Tarquin stood in the rain, staring in disbelief at the ruined building on Ludgate Hill. It was burned out… had been for months. A roofless, blackened shell. He knew he had the address right. There was no sponging house here.

Lucien had tricked him. Had wanted him out of the house.

He spun on his heel. "Home!" he snapped to the drenched coachman. "And be quick about it." He leaped into the chaise, slamming the door shut as the horses plunged forward under the zealous coachman's whip.

His mind was in a ferment. Whatever reason Lucien had had for luring him away must have to do with Juliana. But what? It was so unlike the impulsively vicious Lucien to plan.

He was out of the carriage almost before it had halted. "Stay here. I may need you again."

The coachman nodded miserably and pulled his hat brim farther down.

The night porter opened the door at the duke's vigorous banging. "Who's been here in my absence?" the duke snapped.

The man looked alarmed, defensive, as if he were being accused of something. "No one, Your Grace. I've been sittin' 'ere all alone. Not a soul 'as come in or out, I'll swear to it."

Tarquin didn't respond but raced up the stairs two at a time. He flung open Juliana's door, knowing what he would find and yet praying that he was mistaken.

He stared at the empty bed. There were no signs of a struggle. The armoire door was ajar, the dresser drawers opened, their contents tumbled. He pulled the bell rope again and again until feet came running along the corridor. Catlett pulling on his livery, Henny bleary-eyed, Quentin in his nightshirt, eyes filled with alarm.

“Lady Edgecombe is not in the house," the duke rasped. "Henny, find out what's missing from her clothes. Catlett, ask the servants if they heard anything… saw anything unusual in the last two hours."

Quentin stared stupidly at the empty bed. "Where would she go on a night like this?"

"Nowhere of her own volition," Tarquin said bleakly. "Lucien has a hand in this, but how in God's name did he manage to spirit her out of here? She's stronger than he is. And even if he managed to overpower her, he couldn't possibly carry her down the stairs."

"Why would he?"

"Why does Lucien ever plot mischief?… Well?" he demanded of Henny, who'd finished her examination of the armoire and dresser.

"Just a heavy cloak, Your Grace, and a pair of stockings," she said. "Can't see nothin' else missing."

"No shoes?"

Henny shook her head. "Seems like she's gone in nothin' but her shift, sir."

"George," said Tarquin softly, almost to himself. "George Ridge." He'd miscalculated, grossly misread the man's character. Instead of intimidating him, he'd succeeded in rousing the devil. Lucien would have provided the means to get to her, George the brute force to remove her.

"What are you saying?" asked Quentin, still too shocked to absorb the situation.

"George and Lucien, the devil's partnership," Tarquin said bitterly. "God, I've been a fool." He turned as Catlett hurried in, his livery now neat, his wig straight. "Well? Anything?"

"No, Your Grace. The household's been abed since before you left. I was up myself for a short while, in my pantry, but I retired soon after your departure."

Tarquin nodded, tapping his lips with his fingertips as he thought. They all watched him, hanging on every nuance of his expression. "We have to guess," he said finally. "And God help us all if I guess wrong. Henny, pack up a cloak bag for Lady Edgecombe. Basic necessities… her riding habit, boots. You'll know what she needs. Catlett, tell the coachman to bring around my phaeton with the grays harnessed tandem. Quentin, do you accompany me?"

"Of course. I'll dress." Quentin didn't ask where they were going; he would know soon enough. A night drive in an open phaeton in the pouring rain was not a particularly appealing prospect, but speed was obviously of the essence, and the light vehicle would make much better time than a coach.