by Jane Feather
“’Ere y’are, guv. Ranelagh Gardens,” the jarvey yelled down, coming to a halt before the wrought-iron gates. “Ye want me to go on in after ’em?”
“No, I’ll go on foot.” George jumped down, paid the jarvey, and hurried into the gardens, paying his half-a-crown entrance fee before making his way to the rotunda, where he guessed he would find them.
For the rest of the evening he dogged Juliana’s footsteps, always careful to keep himself out of her line of sight. He watched her eat supper in one of the boxes in the rotunda, listening to the orchestra in the center. She was animated, but he could see no sign of a physical relationship with her two escorts. If she was there as their whore, he would have expected to see wandering fingers, a kiss or two, definitely flirtation; and yet, despite her elegant gown, the trio reminded him of a young girl being taken for a treat by two indulgent uncles.
Greatly puzzled, he followed them back out of the garden just as dawn was breaking. He set another hackney in pursuit of the yellow-and-black chaise, and when the ducal carriage stopped outside a house on Albermarle Street and its three passengers alighted, he instructed the jarvey to drive on past. He fixed the house in his memory as the three disappeared into its lighted hallway. Then he sat back and contemplated the evening’s puzzles.
Juliana had entered the house with two men. It could only mean that she had joined the oldest profession in the world. And joined it high up the ladder. But she was still his father’s murderess. A whore couldn’t expect to duck such a charge, however powerful her protector.
He would find out what he could about the two men; then he would wait his moment. Then he would surprise her.
Chapter 12
Good morning, my lady.”
Juliana disentangled herself from the strands of a warm and fuzzy dream as bright sunlight poured over the bed. She blinked and hitched herself onto an elbow.
A small woman, round as a currant bun, with faded blue eyes and gray hair beneath a neat white cap, stood by the bed where she’d just pulled back the curtains to let in the daylight. She bobbed a curtsy.
“Good morning,” said Juliana. “You must be …”
“Mistress Henley, m’lady. But the family call me Henny, so if ye’d care to do the same, we’ll do very well together.”
“Very well, Henny.” Juliana sat up and gazed around the handsome bedchamber, memory of the evening returning. She blushed as her eye fell on the heap of carelessly discarded clothes by the window. The duke had insisted on playing lady’s maid when they’d come back from Ranelagh and had shown little regard for the fine silks and delicate lawn of her undergarments. “I beg your pardon for leaving my clothes in such a mess,” she said.
“Good heavens, my lady, what am I here for?” Henny responded cheerfully. “I’ll have them picked up in no rime while you take your morning chocolate.” She turned to pick up a tray and placed it on Juliana’s knees. Steam curled fragrantly from the spout of a silver chocolate pot.
Juliana’s eyes widened at this unheard-of luxury. The routine at Forsett Towers had had her dressed and breakfasting by seven o’clock every morning. Lady Forsett had been a firm believer in the evils of the soft life on the young, and on winter mornings Juliana had had to crack the ice in the ewer before she could wash.
Carefully she poured the chocolate into the wide, shallow cup. The china was gold-rimmed and paper thin, alarmingly fragile. She leaned back against the pillows and took a cautious sip, then, emboldened, took a biscuit from the matching plate and dunked it into the chocolate. A soggy morsel splashed back into the cup when she carried the biscuit to her lips, and drops of chocolate splattered the coverlet.
“Is something the matter, my lady?” Henny, shaking out the folds of the lavender silk dress, turned at Juliana’s mortified exclamation.
“I’ve spilled chocolate all over the bed,” she said, biting her lip as she rubbed at the splashes. “I’m certain it’ll stain.”
“The laundress won’t be defeated by a little chocolate.” Henny bustled over to examine the damage. “Dearie me, it’s hardly anything.”
“It looks like a lot to me,” Juliana said disgustedly. “Perhaps I’d better drink it sitting in a chair.” She handed the tray to Henny and jumped out of bed.
“I give you good day, madam wife.”
Juliana whirled to the door that had opened without warning. Lucien came into the room. He was fully dressed but looking very disheveled, as if he’d slept in his clothes. He carried a glass of cognac and regarded his wife with a satirical gleam in his bloodshot, hollowed eyes.
“My lord.” She took a hasty step backward, catching the hem of her nightgown under her heel.
“Lud, but you seem surprised to see me, my lady. I made sure it was customary for a husband to visit his bride on the morning after their wedding night.” He sipped brandy, his eyes mocking her over the rim of his glass. But there was more than mockery in his gaze. There was a touch of repulsion as he examined the shape of her body beneath the fine lawn of her nightgown.
Juliana decided abruptly to return to bed. “You startled me, my lord,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. She climbed back into bed, pulling the covers up to her neck. “Henny, I’ll take my chocolate again.”
The woman gave her the tray back and curtsied to the viscount. “Should I leave, my lord?”
“No,” Juliana said swiftly. “No, there’s no need for you to go.”
Lucien merely smiled and shrugged. He lounged over to the bed and perched on the end. “So you passed a pleasant evening, I trust.” He took a gulp of cognac.
It seemed best to play this straight … behave as if it were a perfectly ordinary conversation with a man who had every right to be where he was. “Yes, thank you, sir. We went to the play and after to Ranelagh.” She dunked another biscuit into her cup with what she hoped was an air of insouciance and successfully conveyed it, intact, to her mouth.
“Insipid entertainment!” Lucien’s hp curled. “If you really wished to see the town, madam, you should put yourself in my hands.”
“I doubt His Grace would approve of such a scheme,” she responded, leaning back against the pillows, her eyes suddenly narrowed.
Lucien gave a shout of laughter that disintegrated into another of his violent coughing spasms. He doubled over on the bed, the emaciated body racked as his chest convulsed and he grabbed for air.
“There, there, my lord. Take it easy, now.” Henny took the cognac from his hands and stood waiting until the spasms diminished. “Drink it down, sir.” She handed it back with the air of one who knew the remedy. Presumably, as an old family retainer, she knew their skeletons.
Lucien drained the glass in one gulp and sighed with relief. “Forgive me, m’dear. An unpleasant habit for a bridegroom.” He grinned, and Juliana noticed for the first time that he was missing four of his front teeth. It was hard to pinpoint his age, but even at her most generous estimate, he was too young to be losing teeth to decay.
“Now, what was it you said that made me laugh … ? Oh, yes … Tarquin most certainly wouldn’t look kindly on my acting as your guide to London life.” He chuckled, but carefully this time.
Juliana nodded thoughtfully. It was not difficult to imagine the Duke of Redmayne gnashing his teeth in such a case. Not difficult … indeed, positively delicious … an utterly delectable prospect …
“Good morning, Lady Edgecombe…. Ah, Lucien. I see you’re paying your bride a morning visit.” The Duke of Redmayne materialized from her thoughts. Juliana, startled, turned to the doorway. Tarquin, in a brocade chamber robe, lounged against the doorjamb, but his indolent air was belied by the harsh light in his eyes.
For some reason no one in this household thought it appropriate to knock upon her door, Juliana reflected. “I give you good day, Your Grace.” She took another sip of chocolate, trying to appear as if she were perfectly accustomed to entertaining gentlemen in bed in her nightgown. Of course, it was a perfectly appropriate venue for bo
th husbands and lovers, and she had one of each. A bubble of laughter threatened. Hastily she put down her cup and pushed the tray to safety on the far edge of the bed.
“You seem mighty free with my lady’s bedchamber, Tarquin,” Lucien sneered. “Should I play the outraged husband, I wonder?”
“Don’t be a fool.” Tarquin looked merely bored by his cousin’s barb as he strolled into the room. “I suppose you haven’t been to bed as yet?”
“You suppose right, dear boy.” Lucien held his empty glass to the light. “Dear me, empty again. I swear the glass must have a leak. D’you still keep a decanter in your room, Redmayne?”
“Go to your own chamber, Lucien,” Tarquin instructed in the same bored tone. “Your man is waiting for you, and I’m certain you’ll find everything necessary for your comfort.”
Lucien yawned profoundly and stood up. “Well, perhaps you’re right. Desolated to bring this enchanting little chat to a close, my dear bride.”
“I consider it merely postponed, sir.”
Tarquin’s air of indolent boredom vanished. “I beg your pardon, Juliana?”
Juliana’s smile was all innocence. “I merely said I look forward to continuing the discussion with my husband, sir. Is something wrong?”
Tarquin looked so dumbfounded, she was hard-pressed to keep a straight face.
“Can’t keep a wife from her lawful husband, y’know, Tarquin,” Lucien stated, fumbling with his snuffbox. He had no idea why Juliana should be intent on needling the duke, but he was more than willing to join in the mischief.
Tarquin walked to the door and opened it. “Good day, Lucien.”
Lucien looked hurt. “Throwing me out of my own wife’s bedchamber, cousin? Seems I have the right to throw you out, not the other way round.”
“Get out.” The duke’s voice was very soft, but the pulse in his temple was throbbing and his nostrils were pinched and white.
Lucien glanced toward Juliana, who, having decided prudently to withdraw from the confrontation, avoided eye contact. She didn’t care for the look of the Duke of Redmayne at the moment and was not prepared to provoke him further by obviously aligning herself with the viscount. At least not until she’d formulated a coherent plan.
Lucien shrugged and made for the door, knowing that without an ally he couldn’t hold his ground. He wasn’t too sure what the issue was anyway, but, surprisingly, it seemed that young Juliana was not a completely compliant participant in the duke’s schemes. He offered his cousin a mocking bow as he went past him into the corridor.
“Lady Edgecombe will ring when she needs you, Henny,” the duke said curtly, still holding the door.
The abigail bobbed a curtsy, picked up Juliana’s neglected chocolate tray, and bustled out.
“Now, just what was all that about?” The duke came over to the bed.
“All what?” Juliana’s smile was as innocent as ever. “My husband came to visit me. We were talking.”
“I see.” Tarquin’s eyes searched hers. “Are you throwing down the glove, Juliana?”
“Why ever should I do such a thing?”
“I don’t know. But if you are, I should warn you that I will pick it up.”
“There would be little point in throwing it, my lord, if you did not…. Not,” she added sweetly, “that I am, of course.”
Tarquin stood frowning at her. She was radiating mischief, vibrating with a current of energy that seemed to make her hair crackle. But he couldn’t begin to think what pleasure or point there might be for her in cultivating Lucien, unless it was to annoy Tarquin himself. Deciding not to encourage her by pursuing the subject further, he changed the topic with an amiable smile. “I forgot to tell you last night that you’ll probably receive a bridal visit this morning from Lady Lydia Melton and her mother.”
“Oh? Your betrothed is very kind,” she said distantly.
“It’s hardly kindess to pay a duty visit to her fiancé’s newly acquired relative, who also happens to be living under his roof.”
“No, I suppose not,” Juliana mused. “Is she aware, I wonder, that this newly acquired relative is also installed in the duchess’s apartments?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
Juliana plaited the coverlet with busy fingers. “I presume I’ll be moved elsewhere once your marriage is celebrated … or will this arrangement be terminated when I conceive your child?”
“You seem determined to quarrel with me this morning,” Tarquin observed. “I woke up half an hour ago feeling as if I’d been touched by magic.” His voice deepened, his eyes glowed, and his mouth curved in a smile of rich sensual pleasure. “The memory of you was on my skin, running in my blood.”
Leaning over her, he planted his hands on the pillow on either side of her head. Juliana couldn’t tear her eyes from his, so close to her now, compelling her response. His breath was warm on her cheek, his mouth poised above hers … poised for an eternity until, with a little moan of defeat, she grasped his face with her hands and pulled his mouth to hers. She kissed him hungrily, pushing her tongue into his mouth, tasting him, drawing his own special scent into her lungs. He kept himself still for her exploration, leaving her with the initiative, until, breathless, she released his face and moved her mouth from his.
“A much more pleasing greeting,” Tarquin said, smiling. “Are you always bad-tempered in the morning? Or did you not get enough sleep last night?”
“My questions were perfectly reasonable,” Juliana replied, but her voice was low and sweet, her mouth soft, her eyes aglow.
He sat down on the bed beside her. “Maybe I should have mentioned before that I was to be married, but I really didn’t think it important. No matter what our arrangements are my dear, I must be married at some point. And no matter what I might prefer,” he added a trifle ruefully, “I have a family duty.”
“Would you rather not marry Lady Lydia?” Juliana forgot her own concerns in this much more intriguing question.
“It’s a marriage of convenience,” he explained evenly. “In my position one does not wed for anything else. For amusement, passion—love, even—one keeps a mistress. Surely that doesn’t come as a surprise?”
“No, I suppose not. Do you have other mistresses? Someone … someone you love, perhaps?” Her fingers were busier than ever with the counterpane, and she couldn’t look up at him.
All expression died out of Tarquin’s eyes; his face became blank, featureless. “Love, my dear, is a luxury a man in my position must learn to do without.”
She looked up now, startled at the bitterness she sensed beneath his flat tone. “Why must you learn to do without it?”
“What an inquisitive child you are.” He looked at her for a moment in silence as she gazed back at him with frank curiosity. “If a man has power and wealth, he can never really trust the sincerity of those around him. Perhaps it takes a certain amount of trust to be able to love,” he said simply.
“How wretched!” Juliana reached a hand to touch his as it rested on the bed. “Have people pretended to love you, then, but all they wanted was what you could give them?”
He looked down at her hand curled over his. Such an instinctive and generous gesture of comfort, he thought, gently sliding his hand out from under hers. “When I was young and foolish,” he said lightly. “But I learned my lesson.”
“At least people pretended to like you,” Juliana said thoughtfully. “No one even pretended to like me. I don’t know which would be worse.”
“Of course people liked you,” he protested, shocked despite his own cynicism at this matter-of-fact statement from one so young and appealing.
Juliana shook her head. “No,” she stated. “I wasn’t what anyone wanted, except Sir John, of course. I do think he genuinely liked me … or perhaps it was only lust. George said he was a perverted old man who lusted after schoolgirls.”
Tarquin leaned over and caught her chin on the tip of his finger, lifting it to meet his steady gaze. “I like you, Juliana.”<
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Her eyes gazed into his, searching for evidence of the kindly He beneath the surface. She couldn’t see it; in fact, his eyes were suddenly unreadable, glittering with a strange intensity that made her uncomfortable. She blundered onto a new tack, shattering the mesmerizing focus like a sheet of crystal under a fork of lightning.
“So when Lady Lydia becomes your duchess, where had you intended to put me?”
Tarquin dropped her chin, the strange mood broken. “I hadn’t intended to put you anywhere. Of course, if you produce an heir to Edgecombe, you will move to your own suite of apartments, both in this house and at Redmayne Abbey. Where you choose to be will be entirely up to you. If you wish to leave this house and set up your own establishment, then you may do so; the child, however, will remain here.”
“And if I do not have a child?”
“I thought we had discussed this with Copplethwaite,” he said, impatiently now.
“The question of your marriage was not raised.”
With an air of forbearance, he began to enumerate points on his fingers. “After my marriage … after your husband’s death … whether or not you have a child, you will be free to take up residence at Edgecombe Court as the viscount’s widow. However, the child, if there is one, will remain under my roof. If there is no child, the arrangement is perfectly simple. If there is, and you choose to live elsewhere, you will have generous access to the child. I thought that had all been made clear.”
“I daresay I’m a trifle slow-witted, Your Grace.”
“And the moon is made of cheese.”
Juliana fought a silent battle to keep her bitter resentment hidden. All her instincts rebelled against this cold, rational disposition of maternal rights. Supposing she and the duke fell out irrevocably, had some dreadful quarrel that couldn’t be papered over? How was she to continue under his roof in such circumstances? And how could she possibly move out and leave her own child behind?