by Jane Feather
“May I offer you some refreshment, Lucien?” Tarquin strolled to the decanters on the sideboard. “Oh, but I see you’ve already taken care of yourself” he added, noting the brandy goblet in the younger man’s hand. “You don’t think it’s a little early in the morning for cognac?”
“Dear boy, I haven’t been to bed as yet,” Lucien said with a yawn. “Far as I’m concerned, this is a nightcap.” He put down the glass and strolled to the door, somewhat unsteadily. “You don’t object to putting me up for a few nights?”
“How should I?” returned Tarquin with a sardonically raised eyebrow.
“Fact is, my own house is under siege,” Lucien declared, leaning against the door and fumbling in his pocket for his snuffbox. “Damned creditors and bailiffs bangin’ at the door at all hours of the day and night. Man can’t get a decent night’s rest.”
“And what are you going to sell to satisfy them this time?” the duke asked, pouring madeira for himself and his brother.
“Have to be Edgecombe,” Lucien said, taking a pinch of snuff. He sighed with exaggerated heaviness. “Terrible thing. But I can’t see what else to do … unless, of course, you could see your way to helpin’ a relative out.”
His pale-brown eyes, burning in their deep sockets like the last embers of a dying fire, suddenly sharpened, and he regarded his cousin with sly knowledge. He smiled as he saw the telltale muscle twitch in Tarquin’s jaw as he fought to control his anger.
“Well,” he said carelessly. “We’ll discuss it later … when I’ve had some sleep. Dinner, perhaps?”
“Get out of here,” Tarquin said, turning his back.
Lucien’s chuckle hung in the air as the door closed behind him.
“There’s going to be little enough left of Edgecombe for poor Godfrey to inherit,” Quentin said, sipping his wine. “Since Lucien gained his majority a mere six months ago, he’s run through a fortune that would keep most men in luxury for a lifetime.”
“I’ll not stand by and see him sell Edgecombe,” Tarquin stated almost without expression. “And neither will I stand by and see what remnants are left pass into the hands of Lucien’s pitiful cousin.”
“I fail to see how you can stop it,” Quentin said in some surprise. “I know poor Godfrey has no more wits than an infant, but he’s still Lucien’s legitimate heir.”
“He would be if Lucien left no heir of his own,” the duke pointed out, casually riffling through the pages of the Gazette.
“Well, we all know that’s an impossibility,” Quentin declared, stating what he had always believed to be an immutable fact. “And Lucien’s free of your rein now; there’s little you can do to control him.”
“Aye, and he never ceases to taunt me with it,” Tarquin responded. “But it’ll be a rainy day in hell, my friend, when Lucien Courtney gets the better of me.” He looked up and met his half brother’s gaze.
Quentin felt a little shiver prickle his spine at this soft-spoken declaration. He knew Tarquin as no one else did. He knew the softer side of an apparently unbending nature; he knew his half brother’s vulnerabilities; he knew that the hard cynicism Tarquin presented to the world was a defense learned in his youth against those who would use the friendship of a future duke for their own ambitions.
Quentin also knew not to underestimate the Duke of Redmayne’s ruthlessness in getting what he wanted. He asked simply “What are you going to do?”
Tarquin drained his glass. He smiled, but it was not a humorous smile. “It’s time our little cousin took himself a wife and set up his nursery,” he said. “That should settle the matter of an heir to Edgecombe.”
Quentin stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “No one’s going to marry Lucien, even if he was prepared to marry. He’s riddled with the pox, and the only women who figure on his agenda of pleasure are whores from the stews prepared to play the lad.”
“True. But how long do you think he has to live?” Tarquin inquired almost casually. “You only have to look at him. He’s burned out with debauchery and the clap. I’d give him maybe six months … a year at the outside.”
Quentin said nothing, but his gaze remained unwaveringly on his brother’s countenance.
“He knows it, too,” Tarquin continued. “He’s living each day as if it’s his last. He doesn’t give a damn what happens to Edgecombe or the Courtney fortune. Why should he? But I intend to ensure that Edgecombe, at the very least, passes intact into competent hands.”
Quentin looked horrified. “In the name of pity, Tarquin! You couldn’t condemn a woman to share his bed, even if he’d take her into it. It would be a death sentence.”
“Listen well, dear brother. It’s perfectly simple.”
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 slappe
d 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 calk, 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 said softly, 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 full, 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 many 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.