by Jane Feather
"But what if that oaf manages to bring her before the magistrates on such a charge?"
"Why, then, my dear, we simply repudiate her. She's been out of our hands since her wedding day. We have no obligation either to help her or to hinder her, as I see it."
"But if she is discovered, then either way you will lose control of her jointure."
Sir Brian shrugged. "So be it. But you may be sure that while I have it, I am making the most of it, my dear. The trust is turning a handsome profit at present. And, besides," he added with another humorless smile, "she may well be carrying a child. In which case her jointure will remain in my hands if she's found guilty of her husband's death. Her first husband's death," he amended. "She really has been remarkably busy. I must commend her industry. But, then, she always did have a surplus of energy."
Amelia dismissed this pleasantry with an irritated wave. "The jointure will remain in your control only if the child can be proved to be Sir John's."
"How would they prove otherwise?"
"It would be a matter of dates," Amelia pointed out. "The child must be born within nine months of Sir John's death."
"Quite so," her husband agreed tranquilly. "Let us see what happens, shall we? If she is found and brought to justice, then we will simply wash our hands of her very publicly. But I trust that won't happen. I really don't wish Juliana injury, do you, my dear?"
Amelia considered this with a frown. "No," she pronounced finally. "I don't believe I do. She was always a dreadful nuisance, but so long as she doesn't cause us any further inconvenience, she may marry a duke it she pleases, or go to the devil with my blessing."
Her husband nodded. "Benign neglect is in everyone's best interests, ma'am. Except, of course. Sir George's."
"Juliana will be a match for that fool," pronounced Lady Forsett.
"And if she's not, then we shall rethink our position." Sir Brian strolled to the door. "I'll be in my book room until dinner."
His wife curtsied and rang the bell rope to tell the servants to air the morning room. The man's pomade had been overpowering, almost worse than the stale sweat it was designed to mask.
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Mistress Mitchell crouched closer to the wall, the upturned tumbler pressed to her ear. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The ungrateful hussies were complaining of their usage, of the terms of their employment, were exchanging stories of mistreatment, and now were proposing to set up against their protectors. They were talking of buying their own supplies of candles, wine, coal. Of having a joint fund to support them in need so they wouldn't have to go into debt to their abbesses or whoremasters. It was unheard of. It was rebellion. And it was all coming from that sweet-tongued serpent that Elizabeth Dennison had placed with the Duke of Redmayne. She'd clearly got above herself since her removal to His Grace's establishment. Didn't she know she owed Mistress Dennison gratitude on her knees? But if she thought she could lead the others astray, then Miss Juliana, or whatever she called herself, was in for a nasty surprise. Indeed, they all were.
Mistress Mitchell forced herself to continue listening, resisting the urge to run immediately to her fellow bawds with the news of this traitorous meeting. She was glad of her restraint when she heard them plan to meet again. There was some discussion as to time and venue, its being agreed that they shouldn't use the same place twice, in case they aroused suspicion. Mistress Mitchell snorted derisively at this. Whatever precautions they took, how could they possibly expect to carry off such a heinous scheme of treachery under the very noses of those who managed them?
She pressed closer to the wall as the murmur of voices grew more indistinct. Then she heard Mother Cocksedge mentioned. She smiled grimly. A most unpleasant surprise could be arranged if they met in Cocksedge's house.
From the scrape of chair on floor, the rustle of skirts, the increased volume of their voices, it sounded as if they were preparing to break up the party, so she took her considerable bulk down the back stairs with creditable speed and was hovering in the taproom as they came tripping down in a chattering group.
"Had a good party, dearies?"
"Yes, thank you, Mistress Mitchell." Deborah dropped a polite curtsy.
"And whose birthday was it?"
There was an infinitesimal silence; then Lilly said firmly, "Mine, ma'am. And I have to thank you kindly for your hospitality."
"Not at all, dearie, not all." The woman smiled and nodded, busily polishing a brass candlestick on her apron. "Anytime, my dears."
Juliana was the last down the stairs. She stood for a moment, listening to this exchange, wondering what it was about the woman that made her uneasy. There was something false about her kindly jollity, something artificial in her smile. Then she realized that the smile came nowhere near the woman's sharp black eyes-that those eyes were shifting and darting around the room, looking everywhere but directly at the group of women.
"Come, Juliana. Will you walk with us to Russell Street?" Lilly turned to her, and Juliana shook herself free of unease. It had been a most heartening meeting. Her proposals had been greeted with more enthusiasm than doubt, although there were some skeptics in the group- those who couldn't believe a whore could exist without the protecting and exploiting arm of a master.
She went outside with the others, nodding farewell to Mistress Mitchell, whose smile revealed blackened stumps in a flaccid mouth. The bawd was of a different order from Mistress Dennison, Juliana reflected. The social hierarchy in this underworld was as rigidly defined as it was in her own world.
She walked arm in arm with Lilly toward Russell Street, glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see the imperturbable Ted on her heels. She'd managed to evade him with the simple expedient of leaving the house by the back stairs and telling no one. She would face the inevitable fireworks on her return. She didn't have to admit where she'd been. The duke had not mentioned Lucy's letter again, so she assumed he hadn't read the relevant paragraph.
She turned back to Lilly, who was excitedly describing her surprise at how enthusiastic everyone had been at the meeting. Suddenly Juliana jerked her head sideways again. Immediately she cursed herself for the reflex action. George was standing on the corner of Russell Street, gazing at her. He'd seen her turn. He would have seen the startled flash of recognition in her eyes, however rapidly it was suppressed.
She couldn't risk taking a chair now on her own. It would be all too easy for George to follow, to force himself upon her. Now she would have given anything for the sight of the imperturbable Ted. She was aware of George following them down the street. He was making no attempt to hide his pursuit; indeed, his step was almost jaunty. It was almost as if he was mocking her, challenging her to evade him.
When they reached the house, she accompanied the others inside, managing not to look behind her, although the skin on her back prickled. "Is there a back way out of the house?"
"Why?" Lilly looked at her in puzzlement.
Juliana frowned, wondering whether she could take them into her confidence. She settled for half the story. "There's a man following me. I don't wish to speak with him."
"Juliana, who is he?" They all pressed closer, eyes shining with curiosity.
"A man from the past," Juliana said mysteriously. "An odious creature who's been pestering me for days."
"Like that dreadful Captain Waters," Rosamund said. "He followed Lilly around for months. Even after Mr. Garston had warned him off."
"Lud, he was a vile nuisance." Lilly fanned herself vigorously as if she would waft away the memory. "He never paid his bill or brought presents, or even left me a little something for myself. It's no wonder Mr. Dennison barred him from the house."
"But he still came around making sheep's eyes at you." Emma chuckled. "Offered to wed you, didn't he?"
"La! I'd not throw myself away on a wet-handed pau per," Lilly declared with disgust. "I know my worth, let me tell you."
All int
erest in Juliana's pursuer had been forgotten in this reminiscence, and when she asked again for a way out of the back, Rosamund without further question directed her to a door through the kitchens that opened onto a narrow alley piled with kitchen refuse.
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George couldn't believe his luck. Juliana was in the whorehouse again. This time she hadn't been conveyed in the duke's chair and there were no stalwart ducal employees to protect her. There was no sign, either, of the ugly-looking customer who had been accompanying her hitherto. The field was clear. He'd tried the legitimate path with his appeal to the Forsetts. Now he would do what he really wanted to do. He would take her off the street. And he would keep her until he'd had enough of her. Then he would give her up to the magistrates. He didn't need the help of that drunkard Edgecombe. This he could do alone.
But she'd seen him. He'd seen the flash of recognition in her eyes. She wouldn't walk into his arms. Pleased with his cunning, George retraced his steps, looking for the back of the house. Juliana was an artful bitch. She would attempt to give him the slip, and there was only one way she could do that.
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Juliana stepped into the narrow alley and looked around, conscious of the door to safety at her back. A mangy dog sniffed at the refuse in the kennel, but there was no other movement in the alley. She slipped into the open and hastened toward Charles Street, a square of light at the end of the gloomy, noisome cobbled corridor. She emerged into the busy street and looked around for a chair or a passing hackney.
Then it happened. One minute she was standing in the sunshine, the next enveloped in a dense, suffocating blackness. She had heard nothing, seen nothing. Now her limbs were caught up in thick folds of material. A hand was pressed hard against her face stifling her cries. She was lifted, twisted, bundled, thrust through a narrow aperture, banging her covered head on the edge of something. Arms like iron bands clutched her, holding her still and steady. A whip cracked, and she realized she was in a coach of some kind. The vehicle lurched forward and the arms around her tightened. She struggled and kicked, but the hand pressed the wadded material against her mouth and nose until black spots danced in front of her eyes and her lungs screamed for air. She fell still and immediately the suffocating pressure was eased. She was accustomed to thinking of herself as big-boned and ungainly, strong enough to break most holds, but she couldn't fight against suffocation.
She forced herself to keep still. The blanket swaddling her smelled strongly of horse. As her mind cleared, she realized that she was in George's hands. Her captor was a big man, like George, and she could feel his flabbiness, feel the excess flesh rolling over his frame as he held her against him. A shudder of revulsion ripped through her. What was he going to do with her? But she knew the answer to that perfectly well. In her mind's eye she saw George in his cups, his little eyes lusting, his loose lips wet and hungry. She could almost feel his great hands on her body, pulling the clothes from her, falling onto her as she lay pinned beneath him, his fetid breath suffocating. . . .
Panic flooded her and she began to struggle again, her legs flailing desperately against the confining folds of her skirts and the enfolding blanket. Again the wadded material pressed against her nose. Again she fought for breath . . . and then suddenly the vehicle lurched to a halt. There were confused shouts, bumps. A violent thud that set the coach rocking as if someone had jumped into the vehicle. The pressure was abruptly lifted. Her lungs gulped at the hot, stale air trapped in the musty folds of the blanket.
George was bellowing, still clutching at her but not as securely as before. She renewed her struggles to free herself from the blanket. She had no idea what was going on around her, but whatever it was, it gave her a slim chance to escape.
George's arms suddenly went slack, and she tumbled off his knee and onto the floor of the carriage. She rolled over onto her hands and knees and heaved herself upright, throwing off the blanket, emerging pink, breathless, and sweaty … to find George slumped unconscious against the squabs of the hackney and Ted, his hand still in a fist, regarding her with undisguised irritation.
"I've better things to do than chasin' all over town looking for you," he stated before throwing open the door and calling up to the box. "Hey . . . jarvey. 'Elp me get rid of this bloke."
The jarvey appeared in the open door. He gazed dispassionately at the unconscious George. "Who'll be payin' me fare, then?"
Ted didn't answer. He grabbed George by the shoulders and hauled him off the bench. " 'Ere, take his legs."
The jarvey obliged. A small crowd had gathered around them, but no one seemed concerned as the two men swung George out of the carriage and propped him up against the wall of a tavern.
"Right," Ted said, brushing off his hands. "Albermarle Street, now, jarvey."
"So ye'll be payin' the bloke's fare as well as your'n?" the jarvey asked suspiciously.
"Ye'll be paid," Ted said impatiently, swinging himself into the vehicle with surprising agility for such a big man. It occurred to Juliana that the thump she'd heard must have been Ted's surprise entrance into the hackney.
"Right y'are." The driver, whistling cheerfully, mounted his box. "Go anywhere, do anything, that's Joe Hogg fer ye. Jest as long as I gets me fare. All in a day's work to me."
Juliana kicked the smelly horse blanket under the seat. Presumably the obliging jarvey had lent it to George. After what she'd seen in the streets of London since her arrival in the city, she was not surprised that George had been able to abduct her without interference.
Ted slumped in a corner, regarding her in morose silence.
"How did you know where to look for me?" Juliana asked tentatively.
" 'Is Grace 'ad an inklin'."
So he had read the letter. But why hadn't he said anything… done anything to prevent her giving Ted the slip? But perhaps she hadn't given Ted the slip. "Have you been following me all morning?"
Ted grunted an affirmative.
"So I was never really in any danger from George," Juliana mused, relief giving way to anger. Ted had deliberately let her walk into George's ambush.
Ted made no response. The carriage drew up at Albermarle Street, and Juliana jumped to the ground after Ted. Leaving him haggling with the jarvey, she stalked up the steps and into the house.
"Where's His Grace, Catlett?"
"Here." The duke spoke from the library door before Catlett could answer. His gray eyes were cold as a winter sky, his mouth tight. "Let us go to your bedchamber. Lady Edgecombe." He gestured that she should precede him up the stairs.
Juliana hesitated, then acquiesced, reasoning that she couldn't give full rein to her own outrage in front of the butler. The duke might consider he had a grievance, but she had one as well.
She marched up the stairs and threw open the door of her bedchamber, swinging round to face him as he entered behind her. He slammed the door and, before she could open her mouth, took her by the shoulders and shook her. "Just look at you, Juliana. You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backward. You're a disgraceful sight." He propelled her toward the cheval glass. "Take a look at yourself! Anyone would think you'd been rolling in a ditch with a farmhand!"
Juliana was so taken aback by this seemingly irrelevant attack that she couldn't speak for a minute. She stared at her image in the glass. Her hair was tumbling loose around her shoulders, bits of fluff and what looked like straw clinging to the curls. Her gown was covered in dust and woolen fibers and what were clearly horse hairs. Her face was smudged with dirt.
She found her voice. "What do you expect me to look like after I've been manhandled by that oaf, rolled in a stinking horse blanket, and half suffocated? And whose fault is it, I should like to know? You let me walk into his trap." Her voice shook with renewed anger. "You're an unmitigated whoreson!" She rubbed the side of her hand over her mouth, trying to rid her tongue and lips of still
-clinging threads of blanket hair.
"So George is responsible for your state! Dear God, you are an incorrigible chit!" Tarquin exclaimed. "He does what he's been threatening to do for weeks because you almost invite him to, and then you dare blame me for your reckless stupidity."
"Yes, I do," she cried. "Ted was following me all morning. You read Lucy's letter and you knew where I was going, and you told Ted to let George abduct me."
"Oh, now wait a minute!" His hands closed hard over her shoulders again. "Hold your tongue and listen to me. You deliberately exposed yourself to a danger that you knew was out there. You deliberately chose to evade the protection I had provided for you. You did the same with Lucien, and though I'm willing to accept some share of the blame there, I will not shoulder any responsibility for this morning! Do you hear me?" He shook her in vigorous emphasis.
"Maybe I did underestimate George, but you aided and abetted him," Juliana stated, aware, to her fury, that tears were starting in her eyes. "You're a treacherous cur!" She sniffed and dashed a hand across her eyes. "Of all the heartless, vile, despicable things to do. You let me walk into George's trap. You let me be frightened and manhandled. You let me think I was in danger when I wasn't."
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said impatiently. "I had no idea George was on the scene this morning. I knew only that you were planning some expedition with Dennison's girls. I didn't tell you I knew because I rather hoped that your better judgment would prevail. When it didn't, I sent Ted after you. I never tell Ted how to do his job. His instructions were to see that no harm came to you and to bring you back, when I intended to make my feelings known to you in no uncertain terms. How he accomplished his task was his business."
Juliana swallowed, her anger doused as effectively as a fire with a bucket of water. "You didn't tell him to let me be kidnapped?"
"No, of course I didn't. But he obviously thought you needed a lesson. Ted doesn't take kindly to people attempting to get the better of him."
"Oh." Rather forlornly, Juliana wiped her nose with the back of her hand.