Vice (35 page)

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.

T
he 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.

A footman interrupted her calculations with the message that His Grace was at the front door and wished her to join him. Puzzled, she followed the footman downstairs. The front door stood open, and as she approached, she heard Tarquin talking with Quentin.

“Ah, there you are,
mignonne,”
he called as she appeared on the top step. “Come and tell me if you like her.”

Juliana caught up her skirts and half tumbled down the stairs in her eagerness. Tarquin was standing beside a roan mare with an elegant head and aristocratic lines.

“Oh, how pretty she is.” She stroked the velvety nose. “May I ride her?”

“She’s yours.”

“Mine?” Juliana stared, wide-eyed. She had never had her own mount, having to make do with whatever animal no one else wished to ride in Sir Brian’s stables—doddery old riding horses for the most part, ready to be put out to pasture. “But why would you give me such a wonderful present?” A glint of suspicion appeared in her gaze, and she stepped almost unconsciously away from the horse.

“I promised to procure you a mount,” he said smoothly. “Did you forget?” He could almost see the suspicions galloping through her mind, chasing each other across her mobile countenance. She was wondering what he wanted in exchange.

“No, I haven’t forgotten,” she said cautiously. “But why such a magnificent animal? I’ve done nothing to deserve her, have I?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said solemnly. “I can think of certain things,
mignonne
, that have given me limitless pleasure.” His eyes were filled with a seductive smile, making clear his meaning, and Juliana felt her cheeks warm. She glanced sideways at Quentin, who appeared to be taking an inordinate interest in a privet hedge.

Juliana nibbled her bottom lip, then she shrugged and stepped up to the mare again. She decided not to spoil her pleasure in the gift by worrying about whether there were strings attached. If there were, she would ignore them. She
Cook the mare’s head between her hands and blew gently into her nostrils. “Greetings.”

Once again Tarquin was entranced by her ingenuous delight. Her pleasure in his gift filled him with a deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with his intention to keep her so happy and busy that she had neither the time nor the inclination to cause him further trouble.

Quentin smiled with his brother. You couldn’t find two women more different from one another than Lydia Melton and Juliana Courtney, he reflected. The one so quiet and composed, with the pale gravity of a cameo. The other a turbulent, wildfire creature, ruled by passion. The comparison struck him to the heart with the familiar shaft of pain that came whenever he thought of Lydia. Of how impossibly unfair it was that Tarquin should have her and not truly want her, and he should be left on the outside, watching, his heart wrung with love and loss. But he must bow his head to God’s will. Railing against the Almighty’s plans was no proper behavior for a man of the cloth.

“What will you name her?” he asked abruptly.

Juliana patted the silken curve of the animal’s neck. “Boadicea.”

“Now, why that, in heaven’s name?” Tarquin’s eyebrows shot into his scalp.

“Because she was a strong, powerful woman who did what she believed in.” Juliana’s smile was mischievous, but her jade eyes were shadowed. “An example for us all, sir.”

Tarquin smiled with resigned amusement and gestured toward the man holding the horses.

“This is Ted, Juliana. He’s your groom, and he’ll accompany you wherever you go.”

Juliana looked startled. The man wore a leather jerkin and britches instead of livery. He had a broken nose, and his face had the misshapen appearance of one that had been in contact with a variety of hard objects over the years. He was very tall and very broad, but Juliana had the impression that his bulk was not fat, but muscle. His hands were huge, with hairy knuckles and splayed fingers.

He offered her a morose nod of the head, not a smile cracking his expression, not a glint of humor or pleasure in his eyes.

“Everywhere?” she queried.

“Everywhere,” Tarquin repeated, the smile gone from his eyes.

“But I have no need of a bodyguard,” Juliana protested, horrified at the implications of such a restriction.

“Oh, but you do,” Tarquin declared. “Since I can’t rely upon you to take sensible precautions, someone must take them for you.” He reached out a hand and lightly caught her chin in his palm. “No Ted, no horse, Juliana.”

It appeared he knew of her expedition. Juliana sighed. “How did you find out? I didn’t think you’d come back.”

“Not much goes on under my roof without my knowledge.” He continued to hold her chin, his expression grave. “Do you accept the condition, Juliana?”

Juliana looked again at the morose Ted. Was he to be spy as well as protector? Presumably so. How was she to manage the projected visit to the Bedford Head in his dour company? Well, she’d get around him somehow. She returned her attention to Boadicea, saying by way of answer, “I should like to ride her immediately.”

“It wants but ten minutes to dinner,” Quentin said, amused.

“After dinner you may ride her in the park during the promenade, with Ted’s escort,” Tarquin suggested, hiding his relief at her capitulation. “Everyone will be wondering who you are. You’ll create quite a stir.”

Juliana laughed at this, not displeased with the idea. “I’d better tidy myself before dinner.” She dropped a mischievous curtsy to the brothers and ran back inside.

Quentin chuckled, linking his arm in his brother’s as they returned inside. “If she needs protection, Ted’s as good a man as any for the task.”

Tarquin nodded. “The best.” They both smiled, each with his own boyhood memories of the taciturn, uncompromising gamekeeper, who’d taught them to ride, to
tickle trout, to snare rabbits and track deer. Ted Rougley was utterly devoted to the Courtney family, with the exception of Lucien, and his loyalty was unwavering. Tarquin would never give him an order, but if he made a request, Ted would carry it out to the letter. Juliana would find it hard to take a step unguarded.

“I understand Juliana needs to be kept away from that stepson of hers, but what of Lucien?” Quentin asked as they entered the dining room.

Tarquin’s nostrils flared, his mouth becoming almost invisible. “He hasn’t returned to the house as yet. I’ll deal with him when he does.”

Quentin nodded and dropped the subject as Juliana came into the room.

“So,” Juliana said conversationally, helping herself to a spoonful of mushroom ragout. “I’m to receive no visitors and go abroad only escorted by that morose-looking bodyguard. Is that the way it’s to be?”

“My dear, you may have all the visitors you wish—”

“Except my friends,” she interrupted Tarquin.

“Except Mistress Dennison’s girls,” he finished without heat.

“I suspect I am going to be bored to tears,” she stated, sounding remarkably cheerful at the prospect.

“Heaven preserve us!” the duke declared, throwing up his hands in mock horror. “The combination of you and boredom, my dear Juliana, doesn’t bear thinking of. But you will meet plenty of people. There will be those who come to pay a bridal visit. You may go to Vauxhall and Ranelagh, the play, the opera. You will be introduced to people there, and I daresay you’ll be invited to soirees and card parties and routs.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Juliana said as cheerfully as before, popping a roast potato into her mouth.

Tarquin smiled to himself. Quentin sipped his wine, reflecting that there was a rare softness, an indulgence, in Tarquin’s eyes when they rested on the girl, even when they were sparring.

Juliana left them when the port decanter appeared, saying she wished to get ready for her ride, and the brothers sat over their port in companionable silence, each with his own thoughts.

Twenty minutes later Juliana’s head peeked around the door. “May I come in again, or is it inconvenient?”. she asked delicately. Chamber pots were kept in the sideboard for the convenience of gentlemen sitting long over their port, and she knew better than to burst in unannounced.

“Come in by all means,” Tarquin invited, leaning back in his chair, legs stretched out and ankles crossed. Quentin saw the warm, amused look spring into his eyes again.

“I thought since you must have chosen my riding dress, you’d like to see what it looked like.” Juliana stepped into the room. “It’s very beautiful.” She couldn’t disguise her complacence as she presented herself expectantly for their admiration. “Don’t you think the velvet on the collar and cuffs is a clever touch?” She craned her neck to examine her reflection in the glass of the fireplace. “It does such nice things for my eyes and skin.” With a critical frown she adjusted the angle of her black, gold-edged hat. “I’ve never had such an elegant hat, either.”

Tarquin smiled involuntarily. He’d amused himself giving orders for this wardrobe, but his enjoyment was tripled with Juliana’s clear pleasure and the fact that his eye had been accurate. The green cloth coat and skirt with a cream silk waistcoat and dark-green velvet trimmings accentuated the lustrous jade of her eyes and her vivid hair. The nipped waist of the jacket and graceful sweep of the skirt made the most of the rich lines of her body.