Vice

Chapter 2

By the time the stagecoach lumbered into the yard of the Bell in Wood Street, Cheapside, Juliana had almost forgotten there was a world outside the cramped interior and the company of her six fellow passengers. At five miles an hour, with an enforced stop at sunset because neither coachman nor passengers would travel the highways after dark, it had taken over twenty-four hours to accomplish the seventy miles between Winchester and London. Juliana, like the rest of the passengers, had sat up in the taproom of the coaching inn during the night stop. Despite the discomfort of the hard wooden settles, it was a welcome change from the bone-racking jolting of the iron wheels over the unpaved roads.

They set off again, just before dawn, and it was soon after seven in the morning when she alighted from the coach for the last time. She stood in the yard of the Bell, arching the small of her back against her hands in an effort to get the cricks out. The York coach had also just arrived and was disgorging its blinking, exhausted passengers. The June air was already warm, heavy with city smells, and she wrinkled her nose at the pervading odor of rotting garbage in the kennels, manure piled in the narrow cobbled lanes.

"Ye got a box up 'ere. lad?"

It took Juliana a moment to realize the coachman's question was addressed to her. She was still huddled in her cloak, her cap pulled down over her ears as it had been throughout the journey. She turned to the man sitting atop the coach, unlashing the passenger's baggage.

"No, nothing, thank you."

"Long ways to travel with not so much as a cloak bag," the man remarked curiously.

Juliana merely nodded and set off to the inn doorway. She felt as if she'd traveled not just a long way but into another world… another life. What it would bring her and what she would make of it were the only questions of any interest.

She entered the dark paneled taproom, where a scullery maid was slopping a bucket of water over the grubby flagstones. Juliana skipped over a dirty stream that threatened to swamp her feet, caught her foot on the edge of the bucket, and grabbed at the counter to save herself. Stable again, she nodded cheerfully to the girl.

"I give you good morning."

The girl sniffed and looked as if it was far from a good morning. She was scrawny and pale, her hair almost painfully scraped back from her forehead into a lank and greasy pigtail. "Ye want summat t'eat?"

"If you please," Juliana responded with undiluted cheerfulness. She perched on a high stool at the counter and looked around. The comparison with the country inns with which she was familiar was not favorable. Where she was used to fresh flowers and bunches of dried herbs, polished brass and waxed wood, this place was dark, dirty, and reeked of stale beer and the cesspit. And the people had a wary, hostile air.

The innkeeper loomed out of the dimness behind the counter. "What can I get ye?" The question was courteous enough, but his tone was surly and his eyes bloodshot.

"Eggs and toast and tea, if you please, sir. I've just come off the York stage." Juliana essayed a smile.

The man peered at her suspiciously in the gloom, and she drew the cloak tighter about her.

"I'll see yer coin first," he said.

Juliana reached into her pocket and drew out a shilling. She slapped it onto the counter and glared at him. her jade-green eyes suddenly ablaze.

The innkeeper drew back almost involuntarily from the heat of that anger. He palmed the coin, gave her another searching look, and snapped at the still-mopping scullery-maid, "Ellie, get into the kitchen and bring the gentleman 'is eggs an' toast."

The maid dumped her mop into the bucket with a rough impatience that sent water slurping over the rim and, sighing heavily, marched behind the counter into the kitchen.

The innkeeper's pale, bloodshot eyes narrowed slyly. "A tankard of ale, young sir?"

"No, just tea, thank you."

His crafty glance ran over her swathed figure. "Tea’ll maudle yer belly, lad. It's a drink fit only fer women. Didn't nobody teach ye to take ale with yer breakfast?"

Juliana accepted that her disguise was not convincing, but it had served its purpose thus far. She was certain no one had thought twice about her at the Rose and Crown in Winchester, and as far as the innkeeper was concerned, she'd just alighted from the York stage-almost as far from Winchester as it was possible to be this side of the Scottish border.

"I'm looking for lodging and work," she said casually, confirming his suspicions by default. "D'you know of anything around here?"

The man stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Well, now, I just might be able to think of summat. Let's see what ye've got under that cap."

Juliana shrugged and pulled off her cap. "I fail to see what my hair has to do with getting a job."

Ellie came back with the breakfast at this point and gawped as the fiery mass, released from the confines of the cap, tumbled loose from its pins.

" 'Ere, what ye doin' dressed like a lad?" She thumped the plate in front of Juliana.

"It makes traveling easier," Juliana responded, dipping her toast into her egg. "And could I have my tea, please?"

"Oh, 'oity-toity, an't we?" Ellie said. "I'll bet yer no better than ye ought t' be."

" 'Old yer tongue and fetch the tea, girl," the innkeeper ordered, threatening her with the back of his hand.

Ellie ducked, sniffed, and ran off to the kitchen.

"So jest what's a lady doin', then, wanderin' the streets dressed like a lad?" he inquired with a careless air, polishing a dingy pewter tankard on his sleeve.

Juliana hungrily wiped up the last of her egg yolk with her toast and put down her fork. "I'm looking for work, as I told you."

"Ye speaks like a lady," he persisted. "Ladies don't look fer work 'ereabouts."

"Ladies down on their luck might." She poured tea from the pot Ellie had plumped down at her elbow, put the pot down again, and, as she moved her arm, caught the fold of her cloak on the spout. The pot rocked and clattered on the counter, but she managed to extricate her garment without too much spillage.

"Aye. I suppose they might," the innkeeper agreed, watching her struggles with the teapot.

"So do you know of anything?"

"Reckon I might. Just bide 'ere a while an' I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." She smiled radiantly, and he blinked his little eyes, then stomped off into the nether regions, leaving Juliana alone with her tea.

In the kitchen he summoned a potboy, scrubbing greasy pans in a wooden tub beside the door. "Eh, you, lad. Take yerself to Russell Street in Covent Garden. Mr. Dennison's 'ouse. You tell Mistress Dennison that Josh Bute from the Bell might 'ave summat of interest. Got that?"

"Aye, sir, Mr. Bute," the boy said, tugging a forelock with a wet and greasy hand. "Right away, sir." He scampered off, and Mr. Bute stood for a minute rubbing his hands together. The Dennisons paid a handsome commission for a good piece, and there was something indefinable about the one sitting in his taproom that convinced the innkeeper he'd found a prime article for that very exacting couple.

Nodding to himself, he returned to the taproom. "I reckon I can do summat fer ye, miss," he said with a smile that he considered jovial but that reminded Juliana of a toothless, rabid dog.

"What kind of work?" she asked.

"Oh, good, clean work, miss," he assured her. "Jest as long as ye can please Mistress Dennison, ye'll be all set up."

"Is it live-in work?"

"Oh, aye, miss, that it is," he returned, drawing a tankard of ale for himself. "Genteel, live-in work. Jest the thing fer a young lady on 'er own. Mistress Dennison takes care of 'er girls." He wiped the froth off his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled his rabid smile.

Juliana frowned. It all seemed remarkably convenient, quick and easy. Too much so. Then she shrugged. She had nothing to lose by waiting to meet this Mistress Dennison. and if she was looking for a parlor maid or even a skivvy, then it would give her a start.

"Should I go to her?"

"Bless you, no. Mistress Dennison will come 'ere." he said, drawing another tankard of ale.

"Then I'll sit in the inglenook." Juliana yawned deeply. "I'll take a nap while I'm waiting."

"Right y'are," Mr. Bute said indifferently, but his eyes remained on her until she'd curled up on the wooden settle in the deep inglenook, her cheek pillowed on her hand. Her eyes closed almost immediately.

Mr. Bute sucked at his toothless gums with a slurp of satisfaction. She'd be no trouble until Mistress Dennison arrived. But he remained in the taproom, nevertheless, keeping a weather eye on the sleeping figure, until, two hours later, he heard the rattle of wheels in the stable yard and the sounds of bustle in the passageway outside.

He hastened from behind his counter and greeted his visitor with a deep bow.

"So what have you for me, Bute?" the lady demanded, tapping a high-heeled shoe of pink silk edged with silver lace. "It's devilish early in the morning for making calls, so I trust I'm not on a fool's errand."

"I trust not, madam," the innkeeper said with another bow, his nose almost brushing his knees. "The girl says she's off the York stage."

"Well, where is she?" Elizabeth plied her fan, her nose wrinkling slightly at the stale, unsavory air now embellished with the scent of boiling cabbage.

"In the taproom, madam." The innkeeper held open the door and the lady swished past, deftly twitching aside the hoop of her green satin skirts.

"In the inglenook," Mr. Bute sa:d i tly, pointing.

Mistress Dennison crossed the room, her step light, a speculative gleam in her eyes. She stood looking down at the sleeping figure wrapped in the cloak. Her assessing gaze took in the tumbled richness of the flame-red hair, the creamy pallor of her skin, the shape of the hall, relaxed mouth, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of a strongly defined nose.

Not pretty, Mistress Dennison decided with an expert's eye. Too strongly featured for true prettiness. But her hair was magnificent. And there were man\ gentlemen who preferred something a little out of the ordinary. What in the world was she doing dressed in those clothes? What did she have to hide? Something, for sure. And if she should prove to be a maid…

Elizabeth's beautiful eyes narrowed abruptly. A virgin with something to hide…

She bent over Juliana and shook her shoulder. "My dear, it's time you woke up."

Juliana swam upward from the depths of a dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes and blinked up at the face hovering over her. A lovely face: smiling red lips, kind blue eyes. It was not a face she knew, and for a moment she was completely disoriented.

The woman touched her shoulder again. "My dear, I am Mistress Dennison."

Memory rushed back. Juliana sat up on the settle, swinging her legs over the edge. Beside this radiant creature in rich satin, with a dainty lace cap perched atop dark-brown curls, she felt all grubby elbows and knees. She tucked her feet beneath the settle in the hope that they would stay out of mischief and hastily tried to push her hair back into its pins.

"Mine host seemed to think you might be looking for a parlor maid, ma'am," she began.

"My dear, forgive me, but you don't speak like one accustomed to service," Mistress Dennison said bluntly, taking a seat pushed forward by the eager Mr. Bute. "I understand you traveled on the York stage."

Juliana nodded, but Elizabeth's gaze sharpened. She was too well versed in the ways of the world to be fooled by an inexperienced liar. Besides, this girl had no hint of Yorkshire in her accent.

"Where is your home?"

Juliana pushed the last pin back into her hair. "Is it necessary for you to know that, ma'am?"

Elizabeth leaned over and placed her gloved hand over Juliana's. "Not if you don't wish to tell me, child. But your name and your age, perhaps?"

"Juliana Ri- Beresford," she corrected hastily. They would be looking for Juliana Ridge. "I am just past seventeen, ma'am."

The lady nodded. She hadn't missed the slip. "Well, why don't you come with me, my dear? You need rest and refreshment, and clothes." She rose in a satin rustle, smiling invitingly.

"But… but what work would you have me do, madam?" Juliana was beginning to feel bewildered. Things were happening too fast.

"We'll discuss that when you've refreshed yourself, child." Mistress Dennison drew her to her feet. "My carriage is outside, and it's but a short ride to my house."

Juliana had a single sovereign left from her little hoard. It might buy her food and lodging of a sort for a day or two. But she was hopelessly inexperienced in this alarming city world, and to turn down the protection and hospitality of this charming, kind-eyed woman would be foolish. So she smiled her acceptance and followed her benefactress out of the inn and inside a light town carriage drawn by two dappled horses.

"Now, my dear," Mistress Dennison said confidingly, "why don't you tell me all about it? I can assure you I've heard every story imaginable, and there's little in the world that could surprise or shock me."

Juliana leaned her head against the pale-blue velvet cushions, her tired gaze swimming as she looked across at the gently smiling face. It occurred to her that the only other person who had ever smiled at her with such kindly interest had been Sir John Ridge. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them away.

"My poor child, what has happened to you;" Elizabeth said, leaning over to take her hands. "You may trust me."

Why? But the question was a little niggle in the back of Juliana's mind. The temptation to take someone into her confidence, someone who knew the ways of the world, was overwhelming. If she didn't identify herself or where she came from, she could still keep the essentials of her secret. Still protect herself from the long reach of the law.

"It's a strange story, ma'am," she began.

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If Your Grace would do me the inestimable honor of pay in o a visit to Russell Street this evening, I believe I might have something of interest to show you.

Your obedient servant,

Elizabeth Dennison

The Duke of Redmayne examined the missive, his expression quite impassive. Then he glanced up at the footman. "Is the messenger still here?"

"Yes, Your Grace. He was to wait for an answer."

Tarquin nodded and strolled to the secretaire, where he drew a sheet of vellum toward him, dipped a quill into the inkstand, and scrawled two lines. He sanded the sheet and folded it.

"Give this to the messenger, Roberts." He dropped it onto the silver salver held by the footman, who bowed himself out.

"So what was that about?" Quentin inquired, looking up from his book.

"I doubt you really want to know," the duke said with a half smile. "It concerns a matter that doesn't have your approval, my friend."

"Oh." Quentin's usually benign expression darkened. "Not that business with Lucien and a wife?"

"Precisely, dear boy. Precisely. Sherry?" Tarquin held up the decanter, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"Thank you." Quentin tossed his book aside and stood up. "You're really set on this diabolical scheme?"

"Most certainly." The duke handed his brother a glass. "And why should you call it diabolical, Quentin?" There was a gently mocking light in his eyes, an amused curve to his mouth.

"Because it is," Quentin said shortly. "How will you protect the girl from Lucien? Supposing he decides to exercise his marital rights?"

"Oh, you may safely leave that to me," Tarquin said.

"I don't like it." Quentin scowled into his glass.

"You've made that very clear." Smiling, Tarquin patted his brother's sober-suited shoulder. "But you don't care for most of my schemes."

"No, and I wish the devil I knew why I care for you," the other man said almost bitterly. "You're an ungodly-man, Tarquin. Positively Mephistophelian."

Tarquin sat down, crossing one elegantly shod foot over the other. He frowned down at the sparkle of diamonds in the shoe buckles, musing, "I wonder if jeweled buckles aren't becoming a trifle outre. I noticed Stanhope wearing some very handsome plain silver ones at the levee the other morning… But, then, I doubt that's I topic that interests you, either, Quentin."

"No, I can't say that it does." Quentin cast a cursory glance down at his own sturdy black leather shoes with their plain metal buckles. "And don"t change the subject, Tarquin."

"I beg your pardon, I thought we'd reached an amiable conclusion." Tarquin sipped his sherry.

"Will you give up this scheme?”

"No, brother dear."

"Then there's nothing more to be said."

"Precisely. As I said, we have drawn the topic to an amiable conclusion." The duke stood up in one graceful movement, placing his glass on the table. "Don't fret, Quentin. It will only give you frown lines."

"And don't play the fop with me," Quentin declared with more passion than he usually showed. "I'm not fooled by your games, Tarquin."

His brother paused at the door, a slight smile on his lips. "No, thank God, you're not. Don't ever be so, if you love me, brother."

The door closed behind him and Quentin drained his glass. He'd known his half brother for thirty years. He remembered Tarquin's rage and disillusion as a boy of fifteen, betrayed because he wouldn't buy the friendship of his peers. He remembered the desperation when a year or two later the young man had discovered that the woman he loved with such fervor was interested only in what she could gain from being the mistress of the Duke of Redmayne.

Quentin knew how vitally important the family's heritage was to the third Duke of Redmayne. Tarquin had been brought up as the eldest son and heir to an old title and vast estates. He would uphold the family pride and honor to his dying day.

And Lucien was threatening that pride. For as long as he'd been Tarquin's ward, the duke had managed to keep control of the reins, but now he had no say in the way their cousin conducted his own life or managed his fortune and estates. Quentin understood all this, yet he still couldn't accept Tarquin's demonic scheme to save Edgecombe. Tarquin would come out the winner, of course, at whatever cost.

But surely there had to be another way. Quentin picked up his book again, seeking solace in Plutarch's Parallel Lives. He hoped the archbishop would take his time over the business that had brought Quentin to London. Someone needed to keep a steadying eye on events at Albermarle Street. Sometimes Tarquin would listen to Quentin and could be persuaded to modify his more far-reaching schemes. Quentin loved his half brother dearly. He had hero-worshiped him through their childhood. But he couldn't close his eyes to the darker side of Tarquin's nature.

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"Ah. Your Grace, you are come." Elizabeth rose and curtsied as the duke was shown into her private salon.

"But of course, ma'am. With such incentive, how could I possibly stay away?" He withdrew an enameled snuffbox from his pocket and took a pinch. Mistress Dennison couldn't help but notice that the delicate gold and ivory of the snuffbox exactly matched His Grace's silk coat, waistcoat, and britches.

"Do you wish to see her now. Your Grace?"

“I am all eagerness, madam."

"Come this way. sir." Elizabeth led her guest out of the parlor. It was evening and the house was awake. Two young women in lace negligees sauntered casually down the corridor. They curtsied to the mistress of the house, who greeted them with a smile, before passing on.

A footman bearing a tray with champagne and two glasses and a platter of oysters knocked on a door at the end of the passage.

"The evening is starting early," the duke remarked.

"It often does, my lord," Elizabeth said complacently. "I understand His Royal Highness will be visiting us later."

"Alas, poor Fred," murmured the duke. The bumbling Frederick Louis, Prince of Wales, whose addiction to women was a society joke, was a regular visitor to the Dennisons' harem.

Elizabeth led him up a narrow flight of stairs at the rear of the corridor. It was a route unknown to the duke, and he raised an eyebrow as he followed the swaying, rich crimson hoop ahead of him.

"This is a private passage. Your Grace," Elizabeth explained as they turned down a narrow corridor. "You will understand its purpose in a minute."

She stopped outside a door at the end of the passage and softly opened it, standing aside to permit the duke entrance. He stepped past her into a narrow wardrobe, lit only by the candle in the sconce in the passage behind him.

"In the wall, Your Grace," Elizabeth whispered.

He looked and saw it immediately. Two round peepholes, at eye level and spaced for a pair of eyes.

Wondering if all Mistress Dennisons rooms provided opportunity for the voyeur, the duke stepped up to the peepholes. He looked into a candlelit chamber. He could see a dimity-hung poster bed, matching curtains billowing at an open window, a washstand with a flowered porcelain jug and ewer. It was a bedroom like many in this house.

But it contained a girl. She stood at the open window, idly brushing her hair. The candlelight caught the flames in the glowing tresses as she pulled the brush through with strong, rhythmic strokes. She wore a loose chamber robe that fell open as she turned back to the room.

He glimpsed firm, full breasts, a white belly, a hint of tangled red hair below. Then she moved out of sight. He waited, his eyes focusing hard on the part of the room he could see. She came back into view. With a leisurely movement she threw off the chamber robe, tossing it over an ottoman at the foot of the bed.

The duke neither stirred nor made a sound. Behind him Elizabeth waited anxiously, hoping that he was seeing something worth seeing.

Tarquin looked steadily at the tall figure, noting the generous curve of hip, the fullness of her breasts that accentuated the slenderness of her torso, the tiny waist. He noted the whiteness of her skin against the startling flames of her hair. She moved toward the bed, and he noted the flare of her hips, the smooth roundness of her buttocks, the long sweep of thigh.

She raised one knee, resting it on the bed, then suddenly glanced over her shoulder. For a minute she appeared to be looking directly at him, her eyes meeting his. Those eyes were the color of jade, deep and glowing, wide-spaced beneath the uncompromisingly straight line of her dark brows. Her eyelashes, dark and as straight as her brows, swept down and up as she blinked tiredly. Then she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, and climbed into bed.

Leaning over, she blew out the candle.

The Duke of Redmayne moved out of the wardrobe, back into the light of the passage. He turned to face the expectant Mistress Dennison.

"Is she a maid?"

"I am certain of it, Your Grace."

"Can she be bought?"

"I believe so."

"Then let us talk terms, Elizabeth."