Vice (39 page)

“Thank you, Lord Quentin. I look forward to it.” She
left her hand in his for a moment, then very slowly withdrew it, her fingers lightly brushing his as she did so.

Juliana glanced at Tarquin. He appeared to notice nothing, devoting his attention to his hostess. Juliana quirked an eyebrow at this, remembering her old nursemaid’s frequent mutter that there’s none so blind as those who won’t see. But, of course, it wouldn’t occur to the Duke of Redmayne that something as frivolous and inconvenient as misplaced love could upset his plans.

“Do sit by me, Juliana,” Lydia invited with her soft smile, patting the sofa beside her before picking up her embroidery frame. Juliana took the seat and seeded down to observe, maintaining an easy conversation with Lydia with half her mind. The duke remained beside Lady Melton, deep in some discussion. He’d barely exchanged two words with his betrothed, beyond the courtesies, and Lydia showed no sign of feeling neglected. Presumably a marriage of convenience didn’t require close attention between the partners.

The arrival of two other somewhat formidable ladies prevented Juliana’s making any further observations of the betrothed couple. She was introduced, questioned as to her husband’s whereabouts.

“You reside under His Grace’s roof at present, I understand,” declared the dowager Duchess of Mowbray.

“My husband’s house is in need of repair,” Juliana replied. “His Grace has kindly offered his hospitality until it’s ready to receive us.”

“I see. So Edgecombe’s residing at Albermarle Street also, Redmayne?”

“My cousin is occupied with the renovations to his house,” Tarquin said smoothly. “He finds it more convenient to live there while he supervises the work.”

Juliana swallowed a laugh at this astonishing fabrication. Surely no one who knew Lucien would believe it. She glanced covertly around the room, gauging their reactions.

“What’s that you say?” demanded the dowager’s companion,
Lady Briscow, leaning forward and cupping her ear.

The dowager took a speaking trumpet from the lady’s hand and bellowed, “Redmayne says Edgecombe is livin’ in his own house. The gal’s sheltered under Redmayne’s roof.”

Lady Briscow seemed to take a minute to absorb this, while the boomed words echoed around the room. “Ah,” she pronounced finally. “Well, I daresay that’s for the best.” She turned to examine Juliana. “Very young, isn’t she?”

“I am past seventeen, ma’am.” Juliana decided it was time to speak up for herself.

“Too young for Edgecombe,” declared the lady loudly. “Besides, I thought he didn’t care for women”.

“Now, Cornelia, that’s not a fit subject in front of the young ladies,” the duchess protested.

“What’s that you say? Thought the man only liked little boys.”

“Cornelia!” pleaded the duchess through the ear trumpet. “That’s not for the ears of the young ladies.”

“Pshaw!” declared Lady Briscow. “Innocence isn’t going to do the gal much good with that husband of hers.”

“We must take our leave, Lady Melton.” Tarquin rose to his feet, his expression as bland as if he’d heard nothing of the preceding exchange. Juliana jumped up hastily, too hastily, and a dish of tea resting on the chair arm crashed to the floor. Dregs of tea splattered on the carpet, and the delicate cup rolled against a chair leg and shattered.

She bent to pick up the pieces with a mortified exclamation. Lydia dropped to her knees beside her. “Oh, pray don’t worry, Lady Edgecombe.” She gathered up the shards swiftly, her cheeks on fire. The conversation had amused Juliana, but Lydia was deeply shocked. But, then, she was probably as innocent as Juliana had been on her wedding night with John Ridge. Juliana could no longer imagine such naïveté, and yet it was only a few short weeks since she’d been a country virgin with no prospect of ever venturing farther afield than Winchester or Portsmouth.

She stood up, apologizing profusely for her clumsiness, though her diversion had relieved everyone but Lady Briscow, who clearly needed no relief.

Lady Melton said hastily, “It was so easy to do, Lady Edgecombe. Such a stupid place to put the dish. I can’t think why the footman would have placed it there.”

Juliana attempted to excuse the footman and blame herself, but Tarquin said coolly, “Come, my dear Lady Edgecombe. No harm’s done, and you’re making a great matter out of a very little one.” He swept her with him out of the parlor.

“I wish I weren’t so damnably clumsy,” Juliana lamented, once more ensconced in the phaeton. “It’s so embarrassing.”

“Well, on this occasion your clumsiness did everyone a good turn,” the duke said wryly. “Cornelia Briscow has the crudest tongue in town.”

“But is my husband’s … uh … predilection … generally known, then?”

“Of course. He’s caused enough scandal in his time to ruin a dozen families. But it’s not generally the subject for polite conversation.”

“Nor a subject to be mentioned before his bride gets to the altar,” she said tardy.

Tarquin glanced sideways at her. “I couldn’t imagine what possible good it would do you to know.”

He sounded so infuriatingly certain of himself. Did he never question his actions, or their consequences? But he had shown remorse for the whole debacle with Lucien, she reminded herself, so there was nothing to be gained by continuing to pluck that crow.

“Lord Quentin seems to find Lady Lydia’s company agreeable,” she observed casually after a minute.

“So do most people,” the duke said, sounding a trifle surprised at this conversational turn.

“Yes, of course,” Juliana agreed. “She’s a most charming lady. Very kind, I believe.”

“She’s certainly that.”

“Very pretty, too. I think men find pale fairness most appealing.”

“Now, what would you know about it?” Tarquin looked at her again with an amused smile.

“Well, I can’t see how they wouldn’t. Lord Quentin certainly seems to find Lady Lydia very attractive.”

“She’s a very old friend,” he said with a slight frown. “Quentin has known Lydia from early childhood.”

“I wonder when he’ll get married,” Juliana mused. “Canons do get married, don’t they?”

“Certainly. Bishops too.” He turned his horses into the mews behind his house. “Quentin will find himself the perfect bishop’s wife, one who will grace the bishop’s palace and set a fine example to the wives of his clergy, and they’ll have a quiverful of children.”

He tossed the reins to a groom and jumped to the cobbles. “Come.”

Juliana took his proffered hand and jumped down beside him, her hoop swinging around her. She stood frowning at a rain barrel, where a water beetle was scudding across the murky surface.

“Hey, penny for your thoughts?” Tarquin tilted her chin.

She shook her head dismissively. She wasn’t about to tell him that she was trying to think of a way to sow a little seed in his stubborn brain. “I was thinking perhaps Lucy might like an airing in the barouche.”

“By all means,” he said. “But you will take Ted as escort.”

Juliana grimaced but made no demur. She dropped him a tiny curtsy and went into the house through the back door.

Tarquin gazed after her. She hadn’t been thinking about Lucy at all. Something much more complicated had been going on behind those great green eyes.

He found himself wishing that he could know her thoughts, wishing that he could slide behind her eyes into the private world of Juliana herself. She gave so much of
herself, but there was always a little that was kept back. He would like to know her as well as she knew herself … maybe even better than she knew herself. And with that urge came another: That she should know and understand him as no one else had ever done.

He shook his head as if to dispel these extraordinary fancies. Romantic nonsense that had no place in his scheme of things. He’d never been troubled by such sentimental notions before. Maybe he had a touch of fever. He passed a hand across his brow, but it felt quite cool. With another irritated head shake he followed Juliana into the house.

H
ere’s that horrible man again.” Lady Forsett turned from the drawing-room window, her aquiline nose twitching with disdain.

“What horrible man, my dear?” Sir Brian looked up from his newspaper.

“John Ridge’s son. Such an uncouth oaf. What can he possibly want now?”

“I would imagine it has something to do with Juliana,” her husband observed calmly. Amelia had conveniently forgotten all about their erstwhile ward. He couldn’t remember hearing her refer to the girl once since her disappearance.

Lady Amelia’s nose twitched again, as if it had located a particularly unpleasant odor. “The child has never been anything but trouble,” she declared. “It would be just like her to plague us with that vulgar man.”

“I doubt Juliana would be encouraging George Ridge to pester us,” Sir Brian pointed out mildly. “Knowing Juliana, I would imagine she would be wishing her stepson to the devil.”

“Really, Sir Brian, must you use such language in my company?” Lady Forsett opened and closed her fan with reproving clicks.

“I do beg your pardon, my dear…. Ah, Dawkins, show the gentleman in.” The footman, who’d arrived to announce the visitor, looked surprised at having his errand anticipated.

“Not in my drawing room,” Amelia protested. “He’s bound to have manure on his boots. Show him into the morning room.”

The footman bowed and removed himself. “I daresay you don’t wish to meet Badge,” Sir Brian said, rising reluctantly from his chair. “I’ll see him alone.”

“Indeed, sir, but I wish to hear what he’s come about,” his wife declared firmly. “If he has news of Juliana, then I want to hear it.” She sailed to the door in a starched rustle of taffeta. “You don’t suppose he could have found her, do you, sir?” Her pale eyes reflected only dismay at the prospect.

“I trust not, my dear. The man couldn’t find an oak tree if it stood in his path. I daresay he’s come to demand Juliana’s jointure or some such bluster.” Sir Brian followed his lady to the morning room.

George was standing ill at ease in the middle of the small room. He was very conscious of his London finery and tugged at his scarlet-and-green-striped waistcoat as the door opened to admit his hosts. He bowed with what he hoped was a London flourish, determined that these supercilious folk would acknowledge the town bronze he’d acquired in the last week.

“Sir George.” Sir Brian sketched a bow in return. Lady Forsett merely inclined her head, disdaining to offer a curtsy. George visibly bristled. She was looking at him as if he’d come to call reeking of the farmyard with straw in his hair.

“Sir Brian … madam,” he began portentously, “I am come with news that in happier circumstances would bring you comfort, but, alas, in prevailing circumstances I fear it can only bring you the utmost distress.” He waited for a response, and waited in vain. His hosts merely regarded him with an air of scant interest. He licked his dry lips and
involuntarily loosened his stiffly starched cravat. He was parched, and no mention had been made of refreshment … not even a glass of wine.

“Juliana,” he tried again. “It concerns Juliana.”

“I rather assumed so,” Sir Brian said politely. “You seem a little warm, Sir George. I daresay you had a hot ride.”

“Devilish hot … oh, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” He flushed and tumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his brow.

“Maybe you’d like a glass of lemonade,” Amelia said distantly, reaching for the bell rope.

George cast Sir Brian an anguished look, and his host took pity on him. “I daresay the man would prefer a tankard of ale on such a hot afternoon.” He gave order to the footman who had appeared in answer to the summons, then turned back to George. “Am I to assume you’ve found Juliana, Sir George?”

“Oh, yes, yes, indeed, sir.” George stepped forward eagerly. Sir Brian stepped back. “But I found her in the most distressing circumstances.”

“She is in want?” Lady Forsett asked coldly.

“No … no, I don’t believe so, ma’am. But the truth is … well the truth is … not something for the lady’s ears, sir.” He turned with a significant nod to Sir Brian.

“I can assure you my ears aren’t so nice,” Amelia said. “Do, I pray you, get to the point.”

George took a deep breath and rushed headlong into his tale. His audience gave him all their attention, interrupting him only to press upon him a foaming tankard of ale. Lady Forsett took a seat on a delicate gilt chair and remained motionless, her hands clasped on her fan in her lap. Sir Brian tapped his mouth with a forefinger but other than that showed no emotion.

When George had reached the conclusion of his narrative and was thirstily drinking his ale, Sir Brian said, “Let me just clarify this, Sir George. You’re saying that Juliana is now Viscountess Edgecombe, lodged under the roof of the Duke of Redmayne?”

“Yes, sir.” George nodded vigorously, wiping a mustache of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.

“Legally married?”

“Apparently so.”

“Then surely she’s to be congratulated.”

George looked confused. “She’s turned whore, sir. I thought I explained that.”

“But she’s respectably wed to a member of the peerage?” Sir Brian offered a puzzled frown. “I fail to see how the two states can coexist.”