Vice (40 page)

George began to feel the ground slipping from beneath his feet. “She denies who she is,” he said. “She ignores me … looks straight through me.”

“I would never have credited her with so much sense,” Amelia murmured.

“Madam, she murdered her husband … my father.” George slammed his empty tankard onto a table.

“Not so hot, sir … not so hot,” Sir Brian advised. “There’s no need for a show of temper.”

“But I will have her brought to justice, I tell you.”

“By all means, you must do what seems best to you,” Sir Brian said calmly. “I wouldn’t stand in your way, my dear sir.”

George looked nonplussed. “But if she refuses to acknowledge her identity, and she has the duke’s protection, then it will be difficult for me to challenge her masquerade, and I must do that if I’m to lay charges against her. I need you to verify my identification,” he explained earnestly, as if his audience might have failed to grasp the obvious point.

Sir Brian’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. “My good sir, you cannot be suggesting I journey to London. I detest the place.”

“But how else are you to see her?” George stumbled.

“I have no intention of seeing her. If, indeed, she is so established, I would be doing her a grave disservice.”

“You won’t have her brought to justice?” George’s eyes popped.

“I find it difficult to believe that Juliana was responsible
for your father’s death,” Sir Brian said consideringly. “It was, of course, a most unfortunate occurrence, but I can’t believe Juliana should be punished for it.”

“I will see her burned at the stake, sir.” George strode to the door. “With or without your assistance.”

“That is, of course, your prerogative,” Sir Brian said.

George turned at the door, his face crimson with rage and frustration. “And I will have my inheritance back, Sir Brian. Don’t think I don’t know why it suits you to let her go unchallenged.”

Sir Brian raised an eyebrow. “My dear sir, I do protest. You’ll be accusing me of ensuring her disappearance next.”

George went out, the door crashing shut behind him.

“Dear me, what a dreadful fellow,” Sir Brian declared in a bored tone.

Lady Forsett’s fan snapped beneath her fingers. “If he has found Juliana and it is as he says, then we cannot acknowledge her. Apart from the scandal over Sir John’s death, her present situation is disgraceful. She may be married, but it’s certain she took the whore’s way to the viscount’s bed, and you may be sure there’s something most irregular about the connection.”

“I doubt Juliana wishes to be acknowledged by us,” her husband observed with an arid smile. “I suggest we wish her the best of luck and wash our hands of the whole business.”

“But what if that oaf manages to bring her before the magistrates on such a charge?”

“Why, then, my dear, we simply repudiate her. She’s been out of our hands since her wedding day. We have no obligation either to help her or to hinder her, as I see it.”

“But if she is discovered, then either way you will lose control of her jointure.”

Sir Brian shrugged. “So be it. But you may be sure that while I have it, I am making the most of it, my dear. The trust is turning a handsome profit at present. And, besides,” he added with another humorless smile, “she may well be carrying a child. In which case her jointure will remain in
my hands if she’s found guilty of her husband’s death. Her first husband’s death,” he amended. “She really has been remarkably busy. I must commend her industry. But, then, she always did have a surplus of energy.”

Amelia dismissed this pleasantry with an irritated wave. “The jointure will remain in your control only if the child can be proved to be Sir John’s.”

“How would they prove otherwise?”

“It would be a matter of dates,” Amelia pointed out. “The child must be born within nine months of Sir John’s death.”

“Quite so,” her husband agreed tranquilly. “Let us see what happens, shall we? If she is found and brought to justice, then we will simply wash our hands of her very publicly. But I trust that won’t happen. I really don’t wish Juliana injury, do you, my dear?”

Amelia considered this with a frown. “No,” she pronounced finally. “I don’t believe I do. She was always a dreadful nuisance, but so long as she doesn’t cause us any further inconvenience, she may marry a duke if she pleases, or go to the devil with my blessing.”

Her husband nodded. “Benign neglect is in everyone’s best interests, ma’am. Except, of course, Sir George’s.”

“Juliana will be a match for that fool,” pronounced Lady Forsett.

“And if she’s not, then we shall rethink our position.” Sir Brian strolled to the door. “I’ll be in my book room until dinner.”

His wife curtsied and rang the bell rope to tell the servants to air the morning room. The man’s pomade had been overpowering, almost worse than the stale sweat it was designed to mask.

Mistress Mitchell crouched closer to the wall, the upturned tumbler pressed to her ear. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The ungrateful hussies were complaining of their usage, of the terms of their employment, were
exchanging stories of mistreatment, and now were proposing to set up against their protectors. They were talking of buying their own supplies of candles, wine, coal. Of having a joint fund to support them in need so they wouldn’t have to go into debt to their abbesses or whoremasters. It was unheard of. It was rebellion. And it was all coming from that sweet-tongued serpent that Elizabeth Dennison had placed with the Duke of Redmayne. She’d clearly got above herself since her removal to His Grace’s establishment. Didn’t she know she owed Mistress Dennison gratitude on her knees? But if she thought she could lead the others astray, then Miss Juliana, or whatever she called herself, was in for a nasty surprise. Indeed, they all were.

Mistress Mitchell forced herself to continue listening, resisting the urge to run immediately to her fellow bawds with the news of this traitorous meeting. She was glad of her restraint when she heard them plan to meet again. There was some discussion as to time and venue, its being agreed that they shouldn’t use the same place twice, in case they aroused suspicion. Mistress Mitchell snorted derisively at this. Whatever precautions they took, how could they possibly expect to carry off such a heinous scheme of treachery under the very noses of those who managed them?

She pressed closer to the wall as the murmur of voices grew more indistinct. Then she heard Mother Cocksedge mentioned. She smiled grimly. A most unpleasant surprise could be arranged if they met in Cocksedge’s house.

From the scrape of chair on floor, the rustle of skirts, the increased volume of their voices, it sounded as if they were preparing to break up the party, so she took her considerable bulk down the back stairs with creditable speed and was hovering in the taproom as they came tripping down in a chattering group.

“Had a good party, dearies?”

“Yes, thank you, Mistress Mitchell.” Deborah dropped a polite curtsy.

“And whose birthday was it?”

There was an infinitesimal silence; then Lilly said firmly, “Mine, ma’am. And I have to thank you kindly for your hospitality.”

“Not at all, dearie, not all.” The woman smiled and nodded, busily polishing a brass candlestick on her apron. “Anytime, my dears.”

Juliana was the last down the stairs. She stood for a moment, Hstening to this exchange, wondering what it was about the woman that made her uneasy. There was something false about her kindly jollity, something artificial in her smile. Then she realized that the smile came nowhere near the woman’s sharp black eyes—that those eyes were shifting and darting around the room, looking everywhere but directly at the group of women.

“Come, Juliana. Will you walk with us to Russell Street?” Lilly turned to her, and Juliana shook herself free of unease. It had been a most heartening meeting. Her proposals had been greeted with more enthusiasm than doubt, although there were some skeptics in the group—those who couldn’t believe a whore could exist without the protecting and exploiting arm of a master.

She went outside with the others, nodding farewell to Mistress Mitchell, whose smile revealed blackened stumps in a flaccid mouth. The bawd was of a different order from Mistress Dennison, Juliana reflected. The social hierarchy in this underworld was as rigidly defined as it was in her own world.

She walked arm in arm with Lilly toward Russell Street, glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see the imperturbable Ted on her heels. She’d managed to evade him with the simple expedient of leaving the house by the back stairs and telling no one. She would face the inevitable fireworks on her return. She didn’t have to admit where she’d been. The duke had not mentioned Lucy’s letter again, so she assumed he hadn’t read the relevant paragraph.

She turned back to Lilly, who was excitedly describing her surprise at how enthusiastic everyone had been at the
meeting. Suddenly Juliana jerked her head sideways again. Immediately she cursed herself for the reflex action. George was standing on the corner of Russell Street, gazing at her. He’d seen her turn. He would have seen the startled flash of recognition in her eyes, however rapidly it was suppressed.

She couldn’t risk taking a chair now on her own. It would be all too easy for George to follow, to force himself upon her. Now she would have given anything for the sight of the imperturbable Ted. She was aware of George following them down the street. He was making no attempt to hide his pursuit; indeed, his step was almost jaunty. It was almost as if he was mocking her, challenging her to evade him.

When they reached the house, she accompanied the others inside, managing not to look behind her, although the skin on her back prickled. “Is there a back way out of the house?”

“Why?” Lilly looked at her in puzzlement.

Juliana frowned, wondering whether she could take them into her confidence. She settled for half the story. “There’s a man following me. I don’t wish to speak with him.”

“Juliana, who is he?” They all pressed closer, eyes shining with curiosity.

“A man from the past,” Juliana said mysteriously. “An odious creature who’s been pestering me for days.”

“Like that dreadful Captain Waters,” Rosamund said. “He followed Lilly around for months. Even after Mr. Garston had warned him off.”

“Lud, he was a vile nuisance.” Lilly fanned herself vigorously as if she would waft away the memory. “He never paid his bill or brought presents, or even left me a little something for myself. It’s no wonder Mr. Dennison barred him from the house.”

“But he still came around making sheep’s eyes at you.” Emma chuckled. “Offered to wed you, didn’t he?”

“La! I’d not throw myself away on a wet-handed pauper,”
Lilly declared with disgust. “I know my worth, let me tell you.”

All interest in Juliana’s pursuer had been forgotten in this reminiscence, and when she asked again for a way out of the back, Rosamund without further question directed her to a door through the kitchens that opened onto a narrow alley piled with kitchen refuse.

George couldn’t believe his luck. Juliana was in the whorehouse again. This time she hadn’t been conveyed in the duke’s chair and there were no stalwart ducal employees to protect her. There was no sign, either, of the ugly-looking customer who had been accompanying her hitherto. The field was clear. He’d tried the legitimate path with his appeal to the Forsetts. Now he would do what he really wanted to do. He would take her off the street. And he would keep her until he’d had enough of her. Then he would give her up to the magistrates. He didn’t need the help of that drunkard Edgecombe. This he could do alone.

But she’d seen him. He’d seen the flash of recognition in her eyes. She wouldn’t walk into his arms. Pleased with his cunning, George retraced his steps, looking for the back of the house. Juliana was an artful bitch. She would attempt to give him the slip, and there was only one way she could do that.

Juliana stepped into the narrow alley and looked around, conscious of the door to safety at her back. A mangy dog sniffed at the refuse in the kennel, but there was no other movement in the alley. She slipped into the open and hastened toward Charles Street, a square of light at the end of the gloomy, noisome cobbled corridor. She emerged into the busy street and looked around for a chair or a passing hackney.

Then it happened. One minute she was standing in the sunshine, the next enveloped in a dense, suffocating blackness.
She had heard nothing, seen nothing. Now her limbs were caught up in thick folds of material. A hand was pressed hard against her face stifling her cries. She was lifted, twisted, bundled, thrust through a narrow aperture, banging her covered head on the edge of something. Arms like iron bands clutched her, holding her still and steady. A whip cracked, and she realized she was in a coach of some kind. The vehicle lurched forward and the arms around her tightened. She struggled and kicked, but the hand pressed the wadded material against her mouth and nose until black spots danced in front of her eyes and her lungs screamed for air. She fell still and immediately the suffocating pressure was eased. She was accustomed to thinking of herself as big-boned and ungainly, strong enough to break most holds, but she couldn’t fight against suffocation.

She forced herself to keep still. The blanket swaddling her smelled strongly of horse. As her mind cleared, she realized that she was in George’s hands. Her captor was a big man, like George, and she could feel his flabbiness, feel the excess flesh rolling over his frame as he held her against him. A shudder of revulsion ripped through her. What was he going to do with her? But she knew the answer to that perfectly well. In her mind’s eye she saw George in his cups, his little eyes lusting, his loose lips wet and hungry. She could almost feel his great hands on her body, pulling the clothes from her, falling onto her as she lay pinned beneath him, his fetid breath suffocating….

Panic flooded her and she began to struggle again, her leg? flailing desperately against the confining folds of her skirts and the enfolding blanket. Again the wadded material pressed against her nose. Again she fought for breath … and then suddenly the vehicle lurched to a halt. There were confused shouts, bumps. A violent thud that set the coach rocking as if someone had jumped into the vehicle. The pressure was abruptly lifted. Her lungs gulped at the hot, stale air trapped in the musty folds of the blanket.