Vice v-7

by Jane Feather

  Lucy looked incredulous, and he was glad he hadn't shown his own surprise at Juliana's revolutionary doctrine. "I'll leave you to your rest," he said. "But should you ever wish to talk to me, please send for me." He bowed and eased out of the room.

  "What would I talk to him about:" Lucy inquired, struggling up on the pillows. "I wouldn't dare to send for him."

  "He's a clergyman," Juliana informed her, sitting on the edge of the bed. "So if you wanted to talk on churchy matters, then, of course, he'd be available."

  "Oh, I see." Lucy looked less bewildered. "Tell me your story, Juliana. I feel much stronger now."

  Juliana told her as much as the other girls knew, breaking off when a maid entered to put the roses in water. Henny came in a few minutes later with a hot posset for the invalid. Juliana left to dress for dinner.

  In her bedchamber she examined herself in the cheval mirror, frowning at her untidy appearance. Her morning's activities in the Marshalsea had wreaked havoc with her earlier elegance. It was disconcerting to think that she'd had her confrontation with the duke looking like a grubby schoolgirl. That hadn't prevented him from kissing her, however. She knew she hadn't mistaken the desire in his eyes, and surely he couldn't have feigned the passion of that kiss. Perhaps he found scruffy gypsies arousing. Bella at Russell Street had described in her worldly way some of the strange fancies of the men who visited there. Nuns and schoolgirls… who was to say the duke was any different?

  Henny bustled in at that point, and she put the interesting question aside, submitting to the deft, quick hands of the abigail, who plaited her hair and arranged the unruly-curls that wouldn't submit to the pins into artful ringlets framing her face. She didn't ask Juliana's opinion about her gown but chose a sacque gown of violet tabby opened over a dark-green petticoat. She arranged a muslin fichu at the neck, adjusted the lace ruffles at her elbows, twitched the skirt straight over the hoops, handed her a fan and her long silk gloves, and shooed her downstairs like a farmer's wife with her chickens. But Juliana found this treatment wonderfully comforting. She had not the slightest inclination to argue with the woman or play the mistress to her servant.

  "Ah, well met, my lady. Shall we go down together?" Lucien emerged from his bedchamber as she passed. His voice was slightly slurred, his eyes unfocused, his gait a trifle unsteady. The reek of cognac hung around him. "Don't in general dine at m'cousin's table. Dull work, except that the wine's good and his chef is a marvel. But thought I'd honor my bride, eh?" He chuckled in a restrained fashion so that it brought forth no more than a wheeze. "Take my arm, m'dear."

  Juliana took the scarlet-taffeta arm. It was utterly unimpeachable for her to go into dinner on her husband's arm. But how it would plague the Duke of Redmayne! She smiled up at Lucien. "Alter dinner, my lord, perhaps I could speak with you in private."

  "Only it you promise not to bore me."

  "Oh. I can assure you, sir, I shall not bore you." Her eyes, almost on a level with his. met and held his suddenly sharp gaze as he looked across at her. Then he smiled, a spiteful smile.

  "In that case, my lady. I shall be honored to give you a moment of my time." He stood aside with a bow to allow her to precede him into the drawing room.

  Chapter 16

  George Ridge sat staring into his turtle soup with the air of a man who has undergone a deep shock. Around him the noise and revelry in the Shakespeare's Head tavern rose to a raucous level as the customers washed down the tavern's famous turtle soup with bumpers of claret. A group of Posture Molls was performing in the middle of the room, but George barely noticed their lewdly provocative positions as they exposed the most intimate parts of their bodies to the patrons. Posture Molls operated on a look-but-don't-touch principle, arousing the spectators to wild heights but refusing to make good the promises of their performance.

  It was a lucrative business and ran less risk of the pox than more conventional whoredom. But George was unmoved. He believed in getting his money's worth and considered this form of entertainment to be a snare and a delusion. When the girls crawled around to pick up the coins showered upon them by the overexcited audience, he turned his back in a pointed gesture of dismissal. One of the women approached him, her petticoat lifted to her waist. She pushed her pelvis in his face and reached to stroke his hair. He slapped her hand away and cursed her, half rising from his chair in a threatening movement.

  "Stinking whoreson," the woman said, her lip curling. "You look but you don't pay. A plague on you." She spat contemptuously into the sawdust at his feet and stalked off, still holding her shift to her waist as she went in search of a more appreciative member of the audience.

  George took up his tankard of punch and drained it, reaching forward to the bowl in the middle of the table and ladling the fragrant contents into the pewter tankard. He gulped down half of it and returned to his turtle soup.

  Juliana was married to a viscount! He dropped his spoon into the pewter bowl with a clatter as for the first time this fact really penetrated his brain. He hadn't been able to credit it at first, when the groom in the stables had told him nonchalantly that he was in the employ of the Duke of Redmayne. George had offered a description of the two men he'd seen with Juliana, and the groom had identified them as the duke and his brother, Lord Quentin. A description of the sickly-looking gentleman who'd gone off with the women that morning brought forth a contemptuous curl of the lip and the information that it must have been Viscount Edgecombe, His Grace's cousin. And then the startling words: "Just married yesterday. Brought 'is wife back 'ere . . . poor creature!"

  Wife! It wasn't possible, but the groom had absolutely identified Lady Edgecombe as a lady with unmistakably striking hair and a taller than usual figure. There could be no possible doubt.

  George picked up his spoon again. No sense wasting an expensive delicacy. He scraped the bowl with his spoon, then wiped it out with a hunk of bread. Then he sat back and glared at the grimy wall. Behind him there were bursts of laughter and applause. He sneaked a look over his shoulder and then hastily turned his eyes away. Two women were apparently coupling on a table. George found it deeply offensive. Such depravity didn't go on in Winchester, or even in the stews of Portsmouth, where you could find a sailor and his whore making the beast with two backs on every park bench.

  He would have left the Shakespeare's Head at this point, except that he'd ordered a goose to follow the soup, thinking that a good dinner might quell the roiling turmoil in his belly. If Juliana was truly married to a viscount, then she couldn't marry George Ridge. Unless it had been a Fleet marriage. The thought gave him some hope, so he was able to face the platter of roast goose swimming in its own grease with more enthusiasm than he might otherwise have shown.

  He chewed with solemn gusto, tearing the bird apart with his fingers, spearing potatoes on the point of his knife, heedless of the grease running down his chin, as he drank liberally of the bottle of claret that the landlord had thumped down at his elbow. He was now oblivious of the riotous goings-on behind him. A Fleet marriage seemed more and more likely. How could Juliana in such a few days be truly married to a duke's cousin? George didn't know much about the highest echelons of the aristocracy, but he was pretty certain they didn't marry on a whim. And they didn't marry women with no name, even if they were gently bred, as Juliana certainly was. So it must be some whoredom arrangement. Presumably she'd been tricked by an illegal ceremony. It made perfect sense, since George had had difficulty imagining Juliana's seeking her bread by selling her body.

  Feeling immeasurably more cheerful, he wiped his chin with his sleeve and called for a bottle of port and a dish of lampreys. Juliana would have to be grateful for the prospect of rescue once she understood the falsity of her present position. He, of course, would have to be very magnanimous. Not many men would wed a harlot. He would be sure to point this out to Juliana. That and the promise to remove all suspicions of her involvement in his father's death should produce abject submission to his every fancy.

&nb
sp; He grinned wolfishly and stuck his fork into the dish of eel-like fish, scooping them into his mouth without pause until the dish was empty; then he launched an attack on a steamed pudding studded with currants

  Two hours later, overcome by sleepiness, but having first ensured that he was sitting firmly upon his money pouch, he allowed his head to fall upon the table and was soon snoring loudly amid the debris of his dinner. No one took the slightest notice of him.

  ******************************************************************

  Viscount Edgecombe took a gulp of cognac and gave a crack of amusement as he stared at his wife in her parlor after dinner. "By all means, I'll show you the town, m'dear." He hiccuped once and chortled again. "I can show you some sights. Gad, yes." He drained his glass and laughed again.

  Juliana said steadily, "His Grace will not care for it."

  "Oh, no, that's for sure." Lucien blearily tried to focus his eyes, producing only a squint. "He'll forbid it, of course." He frowned. "Could make himself a nuisance, you know."

  "But you're not under his control, are you, sir?" She opened her eyes wide. "I can't imagine your submitting to the orders of anyone."

  "Oh, ordinarily, I wouldn't," he agreed, refilling his glass from the decanter. "But I'll tell you straight: Tarquin holds the purse strings. Very generous, he is, but I'd not care to risk his closing the purse on me. I can't tell you how expensive it is to live these days."

  "Why does he finance you?" She waited for a coughing fit to subside as he choked on the cognac.

  "Why, m'dear, in exchange for agreeing to this sham marriage," he told her with a final wheeze.

  "Then surely you could say that if he doesn't continue, you'll repudiate me as your wife," suggested Juliana, idly smoothing the damask on the sofa where she sat.

  Lucien stared at her. "Gad, but you're a devious creature. Why's it so important to have at Tarquin?"

  Juliana shrugged. Lucien presumably didn't know the full details of her contract with the duke. "I object to being manipulated in this way."

  A sly look crept into Lucien's hollowed eyes. "Ah," he said. "Tarquin said you would do his bidding. Have something on you, does he?"

  "Merely that I am friendless and without protection," she said calmly. "And therefore dependent upon him."

  "So why would you want to put his back up?" The sly look hadn't left his eyes. "Not in your interests, I would have said."

  "I have a legal contract that he can't renege upon," Juliana replied with a cool smile. "It was drawn up by a lawyer and witnessed by Mistress Dennison. He is obliged to provide for me whatever happens."

  Lucien produced his skeletal grin at this. "Out of the goodness of my heart, m'dear, I'll tell you you'll have to get up very early in the morning to put one over on Tarquin."

  "That may be so," Juliana said with a touch of impatience. "But I wish to go to Covent Garden. I wish to see what it's like there, how the people live, particularly the women. Your cousin wouldn't take me to the places I wish to visit, but you can. Since you spend your time there, anyway, as I understand it, taking me along shouldn't inconvenience you in any way."

  "Well, I daresay it won't. But it'll inconvenience Tarquin." He took more cognac and surveyed her costume critically. "Of course, society women do frequent the bagnios. Poor Fred always has some courtier's lady in tow."

  "Poor Fred?"

  "Prince of Wales. Everyone calls him Poor Fred-poor devil can never get anything right, leads a dog's life. His father loathes him. Humiliates him in public at every opportunity. Wouldn't change places with him for all the crowns in Europe."

  "So there wouldn't be anything really objectionable about my coming with you?"

  He choked again on his cognac. "Nothing objectionable! Little simpleton!" he exclaimed. "It ain't respectable, m'dear girl. But not everyone in society is as high starched as my estimable cousins." He set his glass down with a snap. "It'll be worth it, just to see Tarquin's face. We'll do it, and if he threatens to cut me off, I'll threaten him back."

  "I knew you had spirit," Juliana declared warmly, hiding her revulsion under a surge of triumph. "Shall we go at once?"

  "If you like." Lucien surveyed her again with a critical frown. "Don't suppose you've a pair of britches, have you?"

  "Britches?" Juliana looked astonished. "I did have, but-"

  "No matter," he said, brusquely interrupting her. "You've too many curves to be appealing. No way you could look like a lad, however hard you tried."

  For a moment Juliana could think of nothing to say. She remembered the look of repulsion in his eyes when he'd seen her in her nightgown. Finally she asked slowly, "You like your women to dress up as lads, sir?"

  He grimaced. "I prefer the lads themselves, my dear. But if it must be a woman, then I've a fancy for the skinny kind, who can put on a pair of britches and play the part."

  Dear God, what else was she going to learn about her husband? She'd heard of men who liked men, but it was a capital crime, and in the bucolic peace of Hampshire such preferences carried the touch of the devil.

  "What a little innocent you are," Lucien mocked, guessing her thoughts. "It'll be a pleasure to rid you of some of that ignorance. I'll introduce you to the more unusual amusements to be had in the Garden. And who knows, maybe you'll take to them yourself. Fetch a cloak."

  Juliana had a moment of misgiving. What was she getting herself into? She was putting herself in the hands of this vile, pox-ridden degenerate . . . but, no, she wasn't. She had money of her own and could return home at any time without his escort. And she did want to see for herself what happened to the women who earned their living in the streets of Covent Garden.

  "I'll only be a moment." She went to the door. "Will you await me here?"

  "My pleasure," he said with a bow. "So long as the decanter's full." He strolled to the table to refill his glass.

  Juliana took a dark hooded cloak from her wardrobe and clasped it at her throat. She wore no jewelry because she had none, except for the slim gold band on her wedding finger, and the richness of her gown was concealed by the cloak. It made her feel a little easier about this expedition, almost as if she were going incognito.

  She hastened back to her parlor, where Lucien was slumped on the sofa, sunk in reverie, twirling the amber contents of his glass. He looked up as she came in, and it seemed to take a minute for recognition to enter his dull eyes. "Oh, there you are." He stood somewhat unsteadily, and Juliana noticed that his speech had become more slurred in the few minutes she'd been absent.

  "Are you sure you're well enough to go out?"

  "Don't be a fool!" He threw back his head and in one movement poured the remaining liquid in his glass down his throat. "I'm fit as a flea. And I've no intention of spending the evening in this mausoleum." He weaved his way toward her where she stood in the doorway and rudely pushed past her.

  Frowning, she followed him out of the house and into a passing hackney.

  Five minutes later Tarquin emerged from the drawing room. He had decided to go to White's Chocolate House on St. James's Street for an evening's political discussion and a game of faro. Taking his cloak and gloves from the footman, he told him to leave the front door in the charge of the night watchman since he expected to be back late. He then went forth into the balmy evening. It didn't occur to him to ask where Juliana might be. He assumed she was in her parlor, or sitting with the invalid in the yellow bedchamber.

  ******************************************************************

  Juliana, swathed in her cloak, sat back in a corner of the hackney, watching the scene through the window as the vehicle stopped and started through streets as thronged as if it were midmorning. The main thoroughfares were lit with oil lamps, but when they turned onto a side street, the only light came from a link boy's lantern as he escorted a pair of gentlemen, who walked with their hands on their sword hilts.

  Covent Garden was as lively as it had been the previous evening. The theater doors were already
closed, the play having begun, but the hackney took them to the steps of St. Paul's Church and halted. Juliana alighted, drawing her cloak tightly around her. Lucien followed somewhat unsteadily and tossed a coin up to the jarvey, who, judging by his scowl, considered it less than adequate payment.

  A noisy crowd was gathered before the steps of the church; a man played a fife barely heard above the ribald yells and drunken curses as the throng swayed and surged.

  "What's going on over there?"

  Lucien shrugged. "How should I know? Go and look."

  Juliana made her way to the outskirts of the crowd, standing on tiptoe to see over the heads.

  "Push your way to the front," Lucien said at her shoulder. "Politeness won't get you anywhere in this place." He began to shove his way through the throng, and Juliana followed, trying to keep at his heels before the path closed behind him. She remembered how Tarquin and Quentin had cleared a way through the crowd at the theater; but they'd done it almost by magic, never raising their voices or appearing to push at all. Lucien cursed vilely, using his thin body like a battering ram, and he received as many curses as he threw out. Somehow they reached the front of the crowd.

  A man in rough laborer's clothes stood on the steps, beside him a woman in a coarse linen smock and apron, her hair hidden beneath a kerchief. Her hands were bound and she had a rope halter around her neck. She kept her eyes on the ground, her shoulders hunched as it she could make herself invisible. The crowd roared with approval when the man caught her chin and forced her to look up.

  "So what am I bid?" he called loudly above the noise. "She's good about the 'ouse. Sound in wind and limb . . . good, strong legs and wide 'ips." He touched the parts in question and the woman shivered and tried to draw back. But the man grabbed the loose end of the halter and jerked her forward again.