Vice

by Jane Feather

  “How is Lucy, Juliana?” Rosamund, her pretty face grave with concern, was the first into the room. The others followed in a gay flutter of filmy wrappers and lace-edged caps. They were still in dishabille, as Juliana remembered from her own days in the house. They wouldn’t dress formally until just before dinner.

  “She was sleeping when I left. But I think she’s recovering quickly. Henny is looking after her.” Juliana perched on the arm of a brocade sofa. “His Grace will not permit her to have visitors, because she needs to rest,” she explained tactfully. “So I’ll have to act as your messenger.”

  Fortunately no one questioned this polite fabrication, and Lilly launched into a description of the Dennisons’ reaction to Lucy’s plight and the request that they consider taking her in when she was well enough to work again.

  “Mistress Dennison was pleased to say that since Lucy appeared to have His Grace’s favor, then they would consider it,” Emma said, sitting on the sofa and patting Juliana’s arm confidingly.

  “What a difference it makes to have an influential patron,” sighed Rosamund, shaking her curls vigorously.

  “Actually, I don’t think it has much to do with the duke,” Lilly declared acerbically. “It’s just that Mistress Dennison would be delighted to thwart Mother Haddock.”

  There was a chuckle at this; then Lilly said, “So what was this plan you had, Juliana?”

  “Ah.” She opened and closed her fan restlessly. “Well, I thought that if we all banded together, we could look after each other. Protect each other so that what happened to Lucy couldn’t happen again.”

  “How?” asked one of the girls with a mop of dark-brown curls and a sharp chin.

  “If everyone in the various houses agreed to contribute a small sum every week from their earnings, we could have a rescue fund. We could pay debts like Lucy’s … bail people out of debtors’ prison.”

  The circle of faces looked at her in dubious silence. Then someone said, “That might be all right for us … and for girls in some of the better houses, but for most of them, they don’t earn enough to keep body and soul together after they’ve paid their whoremasters for the drink and the candles, and coal, and a gown, and linen. Molly Higgins told me she spent over five pounds last week because she had to have wax candles for her clients and new ribbons for her nightcap because she can’t look shabby if she’s to attract the right kind of customers. And the five pounds didn’t include the present she had to give to madam to keep her sweet.”

  “But if they didn’t have to buy all those things from their masters, then they would be better off,” Juliana pointed out.

  “But those are the terms on which they rent the places where they do business,” Emma pointed out with an air of patience, as if explaining self-evident truths to an infant.

  “But if they all refused to accept those terms, and if we managed to collect enough money to lend them for those necessary supplies, then they wouldn’t be dependent on the whoremasters and bawds.”

  “It seems to me that you’re talking of a vast deal of money,” a dark girl said, nibbling a fingernail.

  “Money’s the key to everything,” Rosamund replied gloomily. “I don’t see how we can do it, Juliana.”

  “It’s not money so much as solidarity,” Juliana persisted. “If everyone agrees to put in what they can, you’d be surprised how it will mount up. But everyone has to take part. Everyone has to agree to stand by each other. If we do that, then we can stand up to the bawds and whoremasters.”

  There was another doubtful silence, and Juliana realized she had her work cut out. These women were so accustomed to a life of exploitation and powerlessness that they couldn’t grasp the idea of taking their lives back. She opened her reticule and drew out her remaining twenty-pound note.

  “I’ll start the fund with this.” She put the note on the table in front of her.

  “But, Juliana, why should you contribute?” Lilly asked. “You’re not one of us. In fact, you never have been.”

  “Oh, but I am,” she said firmly. “My position is a little different, a little more secure, but I’m still in a situation I didn’t choose, because I was alone and friendless and vulnerable. I was as much exploited as any one of you. And I’m as much dependent on the goodwill of a man who wouldn’t call himself my whoremaster, but in essence that’s exactly what he is.”

  Juliana glanced involuntarily toward the window as she said this, suddenly afraid that she might see the Duke of Redmayne standing there. If he heard himself described in such terms, his reaction didn’t bear thinking about. But, then, he wasn’t a man to appreciate the unvarnished truth when applied to his own actions.

  “We should discuss it with the girls in the other houses,” Lilly said. “If no one else wants to take part, then it won’t work. We couldn’t do it all ourselves.”

  “No,” Juliana agreed. “It must be a real sisterhood.”

  “Sisterhood,” mused Rosamund. “I like that word. I like what it means. Will you come with us to talk to the others, Juliana? You sound so convincing … so certain. And it was your idea.”

  Juliana nodded. “But not today.” She didn’t explain that she thought she’d been out of the house long enough. An extended absence would inevitably come to the duke’s notice, but a short airing in his own chair would probably draw no more than a sigh and a raised eyebrow in their present state of accord.

  “It would be best if we could gather everyone together,” Emma said. “We should send round a message with a meeting place and a time.”

  “Where should we meet?” All eyes turned to Lilly, who seemed to have the role of natural leader.

  “The Bedford Head,” she said promptly. “We’ll ask Mistress Mitchell if she’ll lend us the back room one forenoon. She won’t be busy then.”

  Juliana had seen the Bedford Head during her nightmare with Lucien. It was a tavern in the center of Covent Garden—not a place she was eager to revisit. However, needs must when the devil drives, and the Garden was bound to be less wild in the morning.

  A footman entered with tea and cakes and the message that Mistress Dennison requested Lady Edgecombe’s company in her parlor when she’d completed her visit with the young ladies.

  “A request, not a demand,” Juliana mused with a wicked grin. “That’s a novelty.”

  A chorus of laughter greeted this, and the mood lost its solemnity. The conversation became as light and fizzy as champagne, with much laughter and fluttering of fans. Juliana had once wondered if their gaiety was genuine, not merely a performance to hide their real feelings, but she’d soon become convinced that it was perfectly real. They allowed little to upset them. Presumably because if they stopped too often to reflect and look around, they’d never laugh again.

  She’d never enjoyed female company before. Her friends in Hampshire had been restricted by Lady Forsett to the vicar’s solemn daughters, both of whom had regarded Juliana as if she were some dangerous species of the animal kingdom, shying away from her whenever they were alone in her company. Of course, she had developed the reputation as a hoyden when she’d fallen from the great oak at the entrance to Forsett Towers and broken her arm. It had been a youthful indiscretion, but one that had blackened her among the ladies of the county. The cheerful and undemanding camaraderie of the women on Russell Street was therefore a delightful new experience.

  Outside George Ridge was engaged in idle conversation with the duke’s chairmen. Initially they’d regarded the large young man, sweating in his lavishly trimmed coat of scarlet velvet, with contempt and suspicion. But it didn’t take them long to figure out that he was the classic pig’s ear struggling to make a silk purse of himself. Their manner became more open, although none the less slyly derisive.

  “So what kind of a house is this?” George gestured to the front door with his cane.

  “’Ore’ ouse, like as not.” The chairman spat onto the cobbles and resumed picking his teeth. “An ’igh-class one, mind ye.”

&n
bsp; “The lady didn’t look like a whore,” George remarked casually, feeling for his snuffbox.

  “What? Lady Edgecombe?” The second chairman guffawed. “Proper little lady she is … or so that maid of ’er’s says. ’Is Grace keeps a wary eye on ’er. Told Mistress ’Enny she needed a bit o’ motherin’. ’E didn’t want no ’ighfalutin abigail attendin’ to ’er.”

  “That so?” The first chairman looked interested. “A’course, Mistress ’Enny’s yer brother’s mother-in-law, so I daresay she’d tell ye these things.”

  “Aye,” the other agreed with a complacent nod. “Tells me most everythin’. Except,” he added with a frown, “what’s goin’ on wi’ that girl what ’Er Ladyship brought to the ’ouse yesterday. Mr. Catlett said as ’ow ’Is Lordship weren’t best pleased about it. But Lord Quentin, ’e told ’im ’e ’ad a duty … or summat like that.” He spat again, hunching his shoulders against a momentary sharp breeze coming around the street corner. “Blessed if I can get a thing outta ’Enny, though. Mouth’s tighter than a trap.”

  “So what’s Lady Edgecombe doing visiting a whorehouse?” George wondered aloud. Both chairmen looked at him suspiciously.

  “What’s it to you?” There was a belligerence to the question, and George thought that perhaps he’d got as much out of them as he was going to.

  He shrugged. “Nothing, really. It’s just that I thought I saw her in the Shakespeare’s Head last even. With a group of men. Perhaps her husband….?”

  Both men spat in unison. “The viscount’s no ’usband fer anyone. Can’t think what persuaded ’im to take that poor young thing to wife. A dog’s life, ’e’ll lead ’er.”

  “But ’Is Grace is keepin’ an eye out,” his companion reminded him. “Eh, man, the affairs of the quality is no concern of ours. Couldn’t understand ’em in a million years.”

  “Aye, that’s a fact.”

  They both fell into a ruinative silence, and George finally offered a brief farewell and walked away. The mystery was growing ever deeper. Was Juliana really married to the viscount, who’d tried to sell her last night? Or was she embroiled in some whore’s masquerade? The latter seemed the most likely, since it was impossible to imagine the real Viscountess Edgecombe taking part in that business in the tavern. A man of the viscount’s breeding would never expose his wife to such ghastly humiliation. Whores were paid to participate in such playacting. But if the duke’s servants believed she was truly wedded to the viscount, then something very deep was afoot. The woman, Mistress Henny, an old family retainer who’d been assigned to look after Juliana, was a very convincing detail in the narrative. But why would Juliana be part of such a deception?

  Money, of course. She had left her husband’s home without a penny, hadn’t even taken her clothes. Somehow she’d fallen under the duke’s influence, and he was requiring her to earn her keep by playing this part. He’d come to her rescue last night, so he must be deeply involved. But did he know that the strumpet he was employing was wanted for murder? Perhaps someone should tell him.

  George turned into a tavern under the Piazza and called for ale. Perhaps he should confront Juliana before exposing her to her protector. Maybe she would be so intimidated by seeing him and understanding how much power he now held over her, that she would capitulate without a murmur. So long as she wasn’t legally married, then nothing stood in the way of his own possession. She hadn’t appeared to recognize him last night, but she’d been in great distress then and probably unaware of anything around her. He would ensure that next time she looked him full in the face and acknowledged his power.

  George drained his tankard and called for a bottle of burgundy. He was beginning to feel that he would soon steer a path through this muddle and emerge triumphant. All he had to do now was to waylay Juliana when she was alone and with no easy exit. He would easily convince her to see which side her bread was buttered.

  The burgundy arrived, but after a few sips he stood up and walked restlessly to the tavern door. The thought of Juliana drew him like a lodestone. His feet carried him almost without volition back to Russell Street, where he took up a stand on the steps of the bookshop, apparently minding his own business.

  Juliana found Mistress Dennison friendly and hospitable. She bade her sit down and pressed a glass of sherry on her, then sat down herself and said with crisp matter-of-fact-ness, “Do you know yet whether you’ve conceived?”

  Juliana nearly choked on her sherry before she reminded herself that in this household there were no taboo intimate subjects when it came to female matters.

  “It’s too early to tell, ma’am,” she responded with creditable aplomb.

  Mistress Dennison nodded sagely. “You do, of course, know the signs?”

  “I believe so, ma’am. But anything you wish to impart, I should be glad to hear.”

  Mistress Forster had broken her silence on all such matters only once, to tell Juliana that if she missed her monthly terms, she could assume she had conceived. Juliana suspected that there was more to the business than that bald fact, so she was grateful for Elizabeth’s interest.

  Elizabeth poured herself another glass of sherry and began to describe the symptoms of conception and the method of calculating the date of an expected birth. Juliana listened, fascinated. Mistress Dennison minced no words, called a spade a spade, and left no possibility for misunderstanding.

  “There, child. I trust you understand these things now.”

  “Oh, yes, completely, ma’am” Juliana rose to take her leave. “I’m very thankful for the enlightenment.”

  “Well, my dear, you must always remember that even when a girl leaves here for such a splendid establishment as yours, she is still one of my girls. Any questions you may have, you will find the answers here. And when the time comes, I shall gladly assist at the birth. We are a close family, you understand.” She smiled warmly at Juliana.

  “I trust you’ll see your way to opening your family to Lucy Tibbet, ma’am.” Juliana dropped a demure curtsy. “His Grace has been kind enough to say that he’ll give her a sum of money when she leaves his house so she’ll be able to set herself up, but she will need friends. As we all do,” she added.

  Mistress Dennison looked a trifle vexed at being pressed on this matter, but she said a little stiffly, “His Grace is all condescension as always, Juliana. Lucy is very fortunate. Perhaps more than she deserves. But it’s to be hoped she’s learned a valuable lesson and will be a little more obedient in future.”

  Juliana dropped her eyes to hide the tongues of fire. “I’m sure you will do what you think best, ma’am.”

  “Yes, indeed, child. I always do.” Elizabeth inclined her head graciously. “And I daresay, if Lucy is truly penitent, then Mr. Dennison and I will see our way to assisting her.”

  “Ma’am.” Juliana curtsied again and turned to leave the room before her unruly tongue betrayed her. In her haste she tripped over a tiny spindle-legged table and sent the dainty collection of objects d’art it supported flying to the four corners of the room. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” She bent to pick up the nearest object, and her hoop swung wildly and knocked over an alabaster candlestick on a low table.

  “Never mind, my dear.” Elizabeth rose rather hastily to her feet and reached for the bellpull. “A servant will see to it. Just leave everything as it is.”

  Juliana backed cautiously from the room, her high color due not to embarrassment but to hidden anger.

  She made her way down the stairs. The women had all retired to their chambers to dress for the clay’s work. A maid bustled across the hall with a vase of fresh flowers for the salon. Juliana glimpsed a footman refilling the decanters on the pier table. In a couple of hours the clients would begin to arrive.

  Mr. Garston bowed her ceremoniously out of the door, clicking his fingers imperiously to the idling chairmen. “Look sharp, there. ’Er Ladyship’s ready fer ye.”

  The chairmen snarled at Garston but jumped to attention as Juliana came down the
steps. As she turned to step into the chair, she saw George watching her from the steps of the bookshop at Number 8. He offered her a clumsy bow, his lips twisting in a humorless grin. Juliana frowned as if in puzzlement. She spoke in carrying tones.

  “Chairman, that man over there is staring at me in the most particular way. I find it offensive.”

  The first chairman touched his forelock. “Ye want me to wipe the grin off ’is face, m’lady?”

  “No,” Juliana said hastily. “That won’t be necessary. Just carry me back to Albermarle Street.”

  George cursed her for an arrogant strumpet. How dare she look through him as if he were no more than a slug beneath her feet? What did she think she was playing at? But now that he’d found her, now that he knew that she went out alone, he could plan his campaign. Next time she left Albermarle Street alone, he would take her. He’d bring her to a proper respect for her late husband’s heir. He returned to his burgundy with renewed thirst.

  Chapter 19

  The duke had not returned when Juliana got back to the house. One less confrontation to worry about, she thought cheerfully. The longer she could keep him in ignorance of her excursions to Russell Street, the simpler life would be. George was a damnable nuisance, though. If he was going to dog her footsteps at every turn, she was going to have to tell Tarquin, which would mean admitting her own journeyings. For some reason she had absolute faith in the duke’s ability to dispose of George Ridge in some appropriate fashion … and she also had a grim foreboding that he’d be able to put a stop to her own activities if he chose. But that was a bridge to be crossed later.

  She sat down at the secretaire in her parlor and drew a sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill into the standish, she began to set out a list of items the Sisterhood’s fund would have to cover if it was to do any good. They could support only their contributing members, she decided, although that would leave out many of the most vulnerable women of the streets. The ones who sold themselves fer a pint of gin against the tavern wall, or rolled in the gutter with whoever would have them for a groat. But one had to start great enterprises with small steps.