Vice (11 page)

“Your passion for little boys has become something of a family liability,” he observed, withdrawing a Sevres snuffbox from his pocket. “That rather nasty business with the Dalton boy seems to have become common knowledge.”

Lucien had ceased to look amused. His expression was sullen and wary. “It was all hushed up quite satisfactorily.”

Tarquin shook his head. “Apparently not.” He took a pinch of snuff and replaced the box before continuing. “If you wish to continue with your present lifestyle in London, you need to protect yourself from further whispers. A charge against you would inevitably mean your exile … unless, of course, you were prepared to hang for your preferences.”

Lucien glowered. “You’re making mountains out of molehills, cousin.”

“Am I?” The duke raised an eyebrow. “Read this.” He drew a broadsheet out of his waistcoat pocket and tossed it across. “That story on the front has been providing entertaining gossip in every coffeehouse in town. Remarkable likeness, I think. The artist has a fine eye for caricature.”

Lucien read the story, his scowl deepening. The artist’s caricature of himself was as lewd and suggestive as the scurrilous description of an incident in the Lady Chapel involving a nobleman and an altar boy at St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“Who wrote this?” He hurled the sheet to the floor. “I’ll have his ears pinned to the pillory.”

“Certainly. If you want everyone to know who you are,” the duke observed, bending to pick up the sheet. He shook his head, marveling, “It really is a remarkably good likeness. A stroke of genius.”

Lucien tore savagely at his thumbnail with his teeth. “A plague on him! Just let me find out who he is, and I’ll run him through.”

“Not, I trust, in the back,” Tarquin said, his voice mild but his eyes snapping contempt.

Lucien flushed a dark, mottled crimson. “That never happened.”

“Of course not,” Tarquin said in silken tones. “Never let it be said that an Edgecombe would put his sword into a man’s back.”

Lucien sprang to his feet. “Accuse me of that again, Redmayne, and I’ll meet you at Barnes Common.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Tarquin responded, his lip curling. “I’ve no intention of committing murder.”

“You think you could—”

“Yes!” the duke interrupted, his voice now sharp and penetrating. “Yes, I would kill you, Lucien, with swords or pistols, and you know it. Now, stop sparring with me and sit down.”

Lucien flung himself into the chair again and spat a piece of thumbnail onto the carpet.

“I lost interest long ago in trying to persuade you to choose another way of life,” Tarquin said. “You are a vicious reprobate and a pederast, but I’ll not have you bringing public dishonor on the family name. Which is what will happen if the parent of some other altar boy decides to bring charges against you. Take a wife and be discreet. The rumors and the scandals will die immediately.” He tapped the broadsheet with a finger.

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not foolin’ me, Redmayne. You wouldn’t give a damn if they hanged me, except for the blot on the family escutcheon.” He
smiled, looking very pleased with himself as if he’d just successfully performed a complex intellectual exercise.

“So?” Tarquin raised an eyebrow.

“So … why should I do what you want, cousin?”

“Because I’ll make it worth your while.”

A crafty gleam appeared now in Lucien’s pale-brown eyes. “Oh, really? Do go on, dear boy.”

“I’ll take your creditors off your back,” the duke said. “And I’ll keep you in funds. In exchange you will marry a woman of my choosing, and you will both reside under this roof. That shouldn’t trouble you, since Edgecombe House is in such disrepair at the present, and it will relieve you of the burden of maintaining a household.”

“A woman of
your
choosing!” Lucien stared at him. “Why can’t I choose my own?”

“Because no one remotely suitable would take you.”

Lucien scowled again. “And just whom do you have in mind? Some ancient antidote, I suppose. A spinster who’ll take anything.”

“You flatter yourself,” the duke said dryly. “No woman, however desperate, would willingly agree to be shackled to you, Edgecombe. The woman I have in mind will do my bidding. It is as simple as that. You don’t need to concern yourself about her. You will have separate quarters and you will leave her strictly alone in private. In public, of course, you will be seen to have a young wife of good breeding. It should provide you with a satisfactory public facade.”

Lucien stared at him. “Do your bidding! Gad, Tarquin, what kind of devil are you? What hold do you have over this woman to compel her in such a matter?”

“That’s no concern of yours.”

Lucien stood up and went to refill his glass at the sideboard. He tossed the contents down his throat and refilled the glass. “All my expenses … all my debts … ?” he queried.

“All of them.”

“And you’ll not be prating at me every minute?”

“I have no interest in your affairs.”

“Well, well.” He sipped his brandy. “I never thought to see the day the Duke of Redmayne begged
me
for a favor.”

Tarquin’s expression didn’t alter.

“I have very expensive habits,” Lucien mused. He glanced slyly at the duke, who again showed no reaction. “I’ve been known to drop ten thousand guineas at faro in an evening.” Again no reaction. “Of course, you’re rich as Croesus, we all know that. I daresay you can afford to support me. I wouldn’t like to bankrupt you, cousin.” He grinned.

“You won’t.”

“And this woman … ? When do I see her?”

“At the altar.”

“Oh, that’s going too far, Tarquin! You expect me to trot along to church like the veritable lamb to the slaughter without so much as a peek at the woman?”

“Yes.”

“And what does she say about it? Doesn’t she want to see her bridegroom?”

“It doesn’t matter what she wants.”

Lucien took a turn around the room. He hated it when his cousin offered him only these flat responses. It made him feel like a schoolboy. But then again … the thought of Tarquin’s funding Lucien’s lifestyle despite his unconcealed contempt and loathing brought a smile to the viscount’s lips. Tarquin would squirm at every bank draft he signed, but he wouldn’t go back on his word. And he had set no limits on Lucien’s expenditure.

And to live here, in the lap of well-ordered luxury. His own house barely ran at all. He could rarely keep servants beyond a month. Something always happened to send them racing for the door without even asking for a character. But here he could indulge himself to his heart’s content, live as wild and reckless as he pleased, all at his cousin’s expense.

It was a delicious thought. In exchange he simply had to go through the motions of a marriage ceremony to some unknown woman. He’d never have to have anything to do with her. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.

“Very well, dear boy, I daresay I could oblige you in this.”

“You overwhelm me, Edgecombe.” Tarquin rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”

“Go to it, dear fellow, go to it. I’ll just sip a little more of this excellent cognac.” He rubbed his hands. “You have such a magnificent cellar, I can hardly wait to sample it…. Oh, Quentin, my dear …” He turned at the opening of the door and greeted his cousin with a flourishing bow. “Guess what. I’m to take a wife … settle down and become respectable. What d’you think of that, eh?”

Quentin shot his half brother a look more in sorrow than in anger. “So you are proceeding with this, Tarquin.”

I am.

“And my wife and I will be taking up residence under Tarquin’s roof,” Lucien continued. “More suitable for the young lady … more comfortable. So you’ll be seeing a lot of us, my dear Quentin.”

Quentin sighed heavily. “How delightful.”

“How un-Christian of you to sound so doubtful,” scolded Lucien, upending the decanter into his glass. “Seems to be empty.” He pulled the bell rope.

“Good day, Lucien.” Abruptly Tarquin strode to the door. “Quentin, did you wish to see me?”

“No,” his brother said. “It would only be a waste of breath.”

“My poor brother!” Tarquin smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t despair of me. This is not going to turn out as badly as you think.”

“I wish I could believe that.” Quentin turned to follow Tarquin from the library. Lucien’s chuckle rang unpleasantly in his ears.

“Last Friday, you say?” Joshua Bute pulled his left ear, regarding his customer with a benign attention that belied his shrewd, cunning calculations.

“Friday or possibly Saturday,” George Ridge said, raising his tankard to his lips and taking a deep, thirsty gulp of ale. “Off the Winchester coach.”

“A young lady … unattended?” Joshua pulled harder at his ear. “Can’t say I did see such a one, guv. A’course, the York stage comes in at the same time. Quite a bustle it is ’ereabouts.”

George leaned heavily on the stained counter of the taproom. Gold glinted between his thick fingers as he spun a guinea onto the countertop. “Maybe this might refresh your memory.”

Joshua regarded the guinea thoughtfully. “Well, per’aps ye could describe the young person agin?”

“Red hair, green eyes,” George repeated impatiently. “You couldn’t mistake her hair. Like a forest fire, all flaming around her face. Pale face … very pale … deep-green eyes … tall for a woman.”

“Ah.” Joshua nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll jest go an’ ask in the kitchen. Mebbe one of the lads saw such a one in the yard, alightin’ from the coach.”

He trundled off into the kitchen, and George cursed under his breath. The Rose and Crown in Winchester had been no help. They couldn’t remember who was on the waybill for either Friday or Saturday. The scullery maid thought she remembered a lad boarding on the Friday, but the information had been elicited after the outlay of several sixpences, and George couldn’t be sure whether it was a true recollection. Anyway, a lad didn’t fit the description of the voluptuous Juliana.

He loosened the top button of his waistcoat and fanned his face with his hand. A bluebottle buzzed over a round of runny Stilton on the counter. His only other companion was an elderly man in the inglenook, smoking a churchwarden pipe, alternately spitting into the sawdust at his feet and blowing foam off the top of his ale.

The sounds of the city came in through the open door, together with the smells. George was no stranger to the farmyard, but the rank odor of decaying offal and excrement
in the midday sun was enough to put a man off his dinner. A wagon rattled by on its iron wheels, and a barrow boy bellowed his wares. A woman screamed. There was the ugly sound of a violent blow on soft flesh. A dog barked shrilly. A child wailed.

George resisted the country boy’s urge to cover his ears. The noise and the bustle made him nervous and irritable, but he was going to have to get used to it if he was to find Juliana. He was convinced she was in the city somewhere. It was the only logical place for her. There was nowhere for her to hide in the countryside, and she would never escape detection in Winchester or any of the smaller towns. Her story was by now on every tongue.

“Well, seems like y’are in luck, sir.” Beaming, Joshua emerged from the kitchen.

“Well?” George couldn’t keep the eagerness from his voice or countenance.

“Seems like one of the lads saw a young person summat like what ye described.” Joshua’s eyes were fixed on the guinea still lying on the counter. George pushed it across to him. The innkeeper pocketed it.

“’E didn’t rightly know which stage she come off, guv. But it could’ve been the Winchester coach.”

“And where did she go?”

Joshua pulled his ear again. “’E couldn’t rightly say, Yer ’Onor. She disappeared outta the yard with all the other folk.”

Dead end. Or was it? George frowned in the dim, dusty, stale-smelling taproom. At least he knew now that she was in London, and that she’d arrived in Cheapside. Someone would remember her. As far as he knew, she had no money. It appeared that she’d taken nothing from the house … a fact that mightily puzzled the constables and the magistrates. Why would a murderess not complete the crime with robbery? It made no sense.

“What was she wearing?”

Joshua’s little eyes sharpened. “I dunno, guv. The lad
couldn’t rightly say. It was early mornin’. Not much light. An’ the yard was a mad’ouse at that time o’ day. Always is.”

George’s frown increased. “Bring me a bottle of burgundy,” he demanded suddenly. “And I presume you can furnish a mutton chop.”

“Aye, guv. A fine mutton chop, some boiled potatoes, an’ a few greens, if’n ye’d like.” Joshua beamed. “An’ there’s a nice piece o’ Stilton, too.” He slapped at the bluebottle, squashing it with the palm of his hand. “I’ll fetch up the burgundy.”

He went off, and George walked over to the open door. It was hot and sultry, and he wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He had to find lodgings and then a printer. Reaching into his inside pocket, he drew out a sheet of paper. He unfolded it and examined its message with a critical frown. It should do the trick. He would have twenty or so printed; then he could hire a couple of street urchins for a penny to post the bilk around the area. A reward of five guineas should jog someone’s memory.

“’Ere y’are, sir. Me finest burgundy,” Joshua announced. He drew the cork and poured two glasses. “Don’t mind if I joins ye, guv? Yer ’ealth, sir.” He raised his glass and drank. Everything was very satisfactory. He had a guinea in his pocket from this gent, and there’d be at least another coming from Mistress Dennison when his message reached her. In fact, he could probably count on two from that quarter. She was bound to be interested in this gentleman and his curiosity about her latest acquisition. Not to mention the fact that the girl hadn’t come off the York stage, as she’d maintained, but from Winchester. It was all most intriguing. And bound to be lucrative.

Joshua refilled their glasses and beamed at his customer.