Vice (27 page)

“Catlett, you may leave.” The duke interrupted her with this curt order to the servant, who was staring at the pale, crumpled figure of Lucy, as fascinated as if she were a two-headed woman at the fair.

“Now you may continue,” Tarquin said as Catlett melted away into the shadows behind the stairs.

Juliana took a deep breath. “If you please, sir—”

Lucy moaned faintly, and Quentin, with a muttered exclamation, pushed past his brother and bent over her.

Juliana tried again. “She’s been starved,” she said, her voice stronger as she thought of Lucy’s plight. “Tortured with starvation and left to die in that filthy place. She needs to be looked after, and I said she could come here.”

“Indeed, Tarquin, the girl has been shockingly mistreated.” Quentin straightened, his expression stricken. “We should send for the physician as soon as she’s put to bed.”

The duke looked over at Lucy and his expression softened for a minute, but when he turned his eyes back to Juliana, they cooled again. “For the time being you may take her upstairs and hand her over to Henny. She will know what to do for her. But then I would like to speak with you in my book room.”

Juliana stepped back from him and dropped a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord duke. I am yours to command.” She lowered her eyes in feigned submission and thus missed the spark of reluctant amusement that flared in his eyes. When she looked up, it was extinguished. He gave her a curt nod and stalked off to his book room.

“Come, Juliana, I’ll help you get the poor girl upstairs. She’s barely conscious.” Quentin lifted Lucy into his arms, seeming unaware of her filthy clothes and hair pressed to his immaculate white shirt and gray silk coat. He carried her to the stairs, Juliana following.

“I’ll put her in the yellow bedchamber,” Quentin said almost to himself, turning right at the head of the stairs. “Then we’ll ring for Henny.”

He laid Lucy on the bed and drew the coverlet over her with all the tenderness of a skilled nurse. Juliana rang for Henny and then sat on the edge of the bed beside Lucy. “How
dare
they?” she said with soft ferocity. “Look at her! And that place was full of skeletons … little children…. Oh, it’s disgusting!”

“I wish it were possible to change such things,” Quentin said uncomfortably.

“But
you
could!” Juliana sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing with a zealot’s enthusiasm. “You and people like you. You’re powerful and rich. You could make things happen. You
know
you could.”

Quentin was saved from a reply by the arrival of Henny,
who took charge with smooth efficiency, showing no apparent surprise at the condition of her patient.

“Come, let’s leave Henny to tend her.” Quentin drew Juliana toward the door. “And you must go to Tarquin.”

Juliana grimaced. “He seems very vexed.”

“You could say that.” A smile touched his mouth. “But if you play your cards right, he won’t remain so. Believe it or not, he’s really a very fair man. He was easygoing as a boy … except in the face of injustice or deliberate provocation.” Quentin’s smile broadened as he recollected certain incidents of their shared boyhood. “At those times we all learned to keep out of his way.”

“I don’t seem to be able to stay out of his way,” she said with a helpless shrug. “If I’d been able to do that, I wouldn’t be living here now.”

Tarquin had been trying to recapture a sense of control over events. He couldn’t understand how a chit of a girl could have such a profoundly disturbing effect on the smooth running of his life. But ever since he’d seen her through the peephole, naked in the candlelight, she’d exerted some power over him … a power that had intensified as he’d introduced her to the ways of passion. He was moved by her. He no longer knew what to expect—from her, from himself. It was not a pleasant sensation; indeed, he found it almost frightening.

When Juliana tapped at the door, he flung himself into the chair behind the massive mahogany desk and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Enter.” He didn’t look up from the documents as the door opened.

Juliana stood in the doorway, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Instead he said, still without looking up, “Close the door.”

Juliana did so and stepped into the room. Her chin went up. If he was intending to humiliate her by this insulting treatment, he would find it didn’t work. Without invitation she sat down casually on a chair, her wide skirts flowing
gracefully around her, and picked up a copy of the
Morning Post
from a side table.

Tarquin glanced up, and that same glimmer of reluctant laughter sprang to his eyes as he surveyed the red head bent over the newspaper, the graceful curve of her neck, the absolute resistance radiating from the still figure. Viscountess Edgecombe wasn’t yielding an inch.

He put the papers aside and said, “Let’s not beat around the bush,
mignonne.
As I understand it, you intend to form an alliance with Lucien. Is that correct?”

Juliana’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t know what you mean, sir. The viscount is my husband. I am absolutely allied with him in the eyes of the Church and the law.”

Tarquin’s lips thinned. “I tell you straight, Juliana, that I will not tolerate it. Also, as of now, you will have nothing further to do with Mistress Dennison’s girls. They will not visit you here, and you will not visit them. You mustn’t be tainted with the whorehouse.”

“But am I not already tainted? What am I but your whore, bought under contract to a bawd?”

“You are my mistress, Juliana. That doesn’t make you a whore.”

“Oh, come now, my lord duke,” she said scornfully. “You bought me for three thousand pounds, as I recall. Or was it guineas? I’m flattered that I should be worth so much to you, but I suppose the breeding aspect to this arrangement makes me more valuable. I may be naive, but I
do
know that men don’t buy their mistresses. They buy whores.”

“I think you’ve said all there is to say on that subject,” the duke said coldly. “Repeatedly, I might add. I will now repeat myself. You will have no further contact with the girls on Russell Street. Henny will take care of that unfortunate creature upstairs until she’s well enough to leave, at which point I’ll give her a sum of money that will enable her to establish herself without a protector.”

Quentin had said the duke was generous to a fault. It seemed he hadn’t exaggerated, and this liberal benevolence
toward a girl he didn’t know from Eve rather took the edge off Juliana’s hostility. However, since it didn’t suit her plans to be cut off from Russell Street, the battle must continue.

“You’re very kind, sir,” she said formally. “I’m certain Lucy will be suitably grateful.”

“For God’s sake, girl, I’m not asking for gratitude,” he snapped. “Only for your obedience.”

“As I’m aware, I owe obedience only to my husband, sir.”

“You owe obedience to the man who provides for you,” he declared, standing up in one fluid movement. Juliana had to force herself to stand her ground as she found herself looking up at him.

He leaned forward, his flat palms resting on the desk. “You have already played into Lucien’s hands by encouraging him to embarrass me. God only knows who saw you this morning. Who knew where you were going. Whom he will tell. He paraded you through the streets of fashionable London with a trio of High Impures, and he played you for a fool, you silly child. These naive schemes of retaliation will hurt you a damn sight more than they’ll hurt me.

Juliana paled. It hurt her that he believed Lucien had made a fool of her. Surely, she deserved more credit than that. “Your cousin’s conduct doesn’t appear to have affected your standing in society so far, sir,” she said with icy calm. “I fail to see why his wife should alter the situation.” She curtsied again. “I beg leave to leave you, sir.”

Tarquin came out from behind the desk. He took her chin and brought her upright. “Don’t do this, Juliana,” he said quietly. “Please.”

She looked up at him, read the sincerity in his eyes and the harsh planes of his face. She recognized that he was offering her an opening to back down without loss of face, but her anger and resentment ran too deep and too hot to be swept away so easily.

“My lord, you reap what you sow.”

For a long moment their eyes held, and she read a confusion
of emotion in his. There was anger, puzzlement, resignation, regret. And beneath it all a torch of desire.

“So be it,” he said slowly. “But bear in mind that
you
also reap what you sow.” He bent his head to take her mouth with his. It was a kiss of war, and her blood rose to meet the power and the passion, the bewildering knowledge that she could fight tooth and nail yet respond with desperate hunger to the touch and the feel, the scent, the taste, the glorious rhythms, of his body.

When he released her, his gaze still held hers, taking in the full red richness of her lips, the delicate flush of desire against the creamy pallor of her cheeks, the deep jade depths of her eyes, the flame of her hair. He could feel her arousal pulsing like an aura, and he knew she was as aroused by the declaration of war as she was by passion.

“You have leave to leave me,” he said.

Juliana curtsied and left, closing the door gently behind her. She passed an unfamiliar footman as she walked down the corridor toward the hall. “Do you know if Viscount Edgecombe has returned to the house?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance beyond her head, and it occurred to Juliana that, with the exception of Henny, the servants in this house had been trained to avoid eye contact with their employers.

“Would you inform me when he does return?” she asked pleasantly. “I shall be in my parlor.”

The footman bowed and she went on her way, her mind whirling as she tried to organize her thoughts. She couldn’t free her mind from the bubbling volcano of her body. The duke had started something with that kiss that wouldn’t be soon extinguished. She wondered if he’d known it … if it was the same for him. She guessed grimly that he knew what he’d done to her, and that unlike her, he was able to control his own responses.

Upstairs in the yellow bedchamber she found Lucy propped up on pillows, with Henny feeding her gruel. “Oh, you look so much better,” she said, approaching the
bed. Lucy’s hair was clean, although dull and straggly, and her thin face was no longer grime encrusted. She wore a white nightgown that clearly swamped her, but her dark eyes had regained some life.

She turned her head toward Juliana and smiled weakly. “I don’t know who you are. Or where I am. But I owe you my life.”

Juliana shook her head briskly. She’d done no more than any compassionate human being would have done, and gratitude struck her as both unnecessary and embarrassing. “My name’s Juliana,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “And you’re in the house of the Duke of Redmayne. I’m married to his cousin, Viscount Edgecombe.”

Lucy looked even more bewildered. She shook her head as Henny offered her another spoonful of gruel. “I don’t think I could eat any more.”

“Aye, I daresay your belly’s not used to being full,” Henny said cheerfully, removing the bowl. “I’ll leave you with her Ladyship. Just ring the bell if you want me.” She indicated the rope hanging beside the bed and bustled out.

“How do you know Lilly and the others?” Lucy asked, lying back against the pillows.

“Ah, there hangs a tale,” Juliana said with a grin. “But you look as if you need to sleep, so I’ll tell you later, when you’re stronger.”

Lucy’s eyes were closing and she did not protest. Juliana drew the curtains around the bed and tiptoed from the room. She went to her own parlor and stood at the window, looking out over the garden, her brow knitted in thought. Tarquin could prevent Lucy’s friends from visiting her in his house, but she couldn’t see how he could prevent her from visiting Russell Street if she had her husband’s permission to do so. It sounded as if he thought he could, but how would he do so?

By compelling Lucien to withhold his permission, of course. He could do that by withdrawing his financial support. So she had to get to Lucien before the duke did. She had to find a way to persuade him to stand against Tarquin,
whatever pressure was brought to bear. It ought to be possible. Lucien didn’t strike her as particularly clever. Vindictive, spiteful, degenerate, but not needle-witted. She should be able to run rings around him if she came up with the right motivation.

Quentin walked into the garden below her and strolled down a flagstone path. He carried a pair of secateurs and stopped beside a bush of yellow roses. He cut half a dozen and then added another six white ones from the neighboring bush. Juliana watched him arrange them artistically into a bouquet, a little smile on his face. It was astonishing how different he was from his half brother. In fact, it was astounding how vastly different the three Courtney men were from each other. Lucien was utterly vile. She believed that Tarquin, beneath the domineering surface, was essentially decent. She was not afraid she would come to harm under his protection. But he lacked his brother’s sensitivity and gentleness.

Quentin came back into the house with his bouquet of roses, and she wondered who they were for. Lady Lydia, perhaps?

The thought popped into her head. Something had given her the impression that that would be a match made in heaven. And from what she’d seen, she guessed it was a match they both yearned for. Or at least
would
yearn for if they thought it could ever be a possibility. But the Duke of Redmayne stood between them. And the duke had little interest in taking Lady Lydia to wife—he was merely satisfying an obligation. Maybe she could change that. People often didn’t know how to get out of their own tangles. Witness herself, she thought wryly.

There was a tap at her door, and Lord Quentin came in at her response. He carried the roses, and for a minute she thought they were for her. But he said with a quick smile, “I thought your friend might take comfort from some flowers. They have such a lovely scent and they’re so fresh and alive. I don’t wish to burst in upon her unannounced,
so I wondered if you would accompany me to her chamber.”