Vice (43 page)

“This a-way, boyo,” an encouraging voice said in his ear. George’s feet skimmed the ground as he was propelled through the crowded taproom and out into the yard behind the inn.

The night was hot. Two ostlers, sitting on upturned water butts smoking pipes and chatting in desultory fashion, glanced up, at first with scant interest, at the three men who’d entered the yard. Their eyes widened as they took in the curious group. A gentleman in black, gold-embroidered silk looking as if he’d just walked out of the Palace of St. James’s; a second gentleman, bulky and red-faced, in a suit of crimson taffeta and a yellow-striped waistcoat; a third man in the rough leather britches and jerkin of a laborer. The second gentleman was beginning to protest, trying to free himself from the grip of the laborer. The elegant gentleman leaned casually against a low stone wall. He carried a long horsewhip that snaked around his silver-buckled shoes of red leather.

“Take your hands off me!” George blustered thickly, finally managing to get a look at the man holding him. He had but a confused recollection of the disruption in the hackney before he’d lost consciousness, but there was something horribly familiar about his captor. He struggled with renewed violence.

“I just want a word or two,” the duke said carelessly, snapping the whip along the ground.

George’s eyes darted wildly downward. There was something menacingly purposeful about the thin leather lash nickering and dancing across the cobbles. Ted adjusted his grip almost casually, but his victim immediately recognized that he was held even more firmly than before.

“Listen to ’Is Grace, I should,” Ted advised. “Listen well, boyo.”

Tarquin subjected George Ridge to a dispassionate scrutiny before saying, “Perhaps you would care to explain why you issued such a pressing invitation to Lady Edgecombe. I understand from her that she was not at all inclined to enter your hackney.”

Ted shifted his booted feet on the cobbles and gazed about him incuriously, but his grip tightened yet again, pulling George’s arms behind his back.

George licked suddenly dry lips. “You have a murderess under your roof, Your Grace. The murderer of my father, Juliana Ridge’s late husband.” He tried to sound commanding with this denunciation, full of self-confidence and righteous indignation, but his voice emerged stifled and uncoordinated.

“And just, pray, who is this Juliana Ridge?” the duke inquired in a bored tone, withdrawing his snuffbox from the deep-cuffed pocket of his coat. He nipped the lid and took a leisurely pinch while George struggled to make sense of this. Viscount Edgecombe had been convinced the duke knew all Juliana’s skeletons.

He took a deep breath. “The woman living in your house. The woman who calls herself Viscountess Edgecombe. She was married to my father, Sir John Ridge of the village of Ashford, in the county of Hampshire.” He paused, regarding the duke anxiously. His Grace’s expression hadn’t changed; he looked merely politely bored.

George continued somewhat desperately, “I daresay, Your Grace, when you found her in the whorehouse you
knew nothing of her history … but …” His voice faded under the duke’s now blazing gaze.

“You appear to have lost your wits, sir,” the duke said softly, coiling the whip into his hand. “You would not otherwise insult the name of a woman wedded to my cousin, living under my roof and my protection. Would you?”

The last question was rapped out, and the duke took a step toward George, who couldn’t move with the man at his back holding his arms in a vise.

“My lord duke,” he said, clear desperation now in voice and eyes. “I do assure you I know her for what she is. She has hoodwinked you and she must be brought to justice. Her husband intends to repudiate her as soon as she’s brought before the magistrate and—”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” the duke interrupted. He didn’t appear to raise his voice, but the two ostlers sat up attentively.

The duke pushed the shiny wooden handle of the whip beneath George’s chin, almost gently, except that its recipient could feel the bruising pressure. “The lady living under my roof is a distant cousin of mine from York. You would do well to check your facts before you slander your betters.”

The gray eyes pierced George’s blurred gaze like an icicle through snow. But George knew the duke was deliberately lying. The man knew the truth about Juliana. But in the face of that bold statement, the derisive glare that challenged him to dispute it, George was dumbstruck.

The duke waited for a long moment, holding George’s befuddled gaze, before saying almost carelessly, “Do not let me ever see your face within half a mile of Lady Edgecombe again.” He removed the whip, tossed it to Ted, who caught it neatly with one hand.

The duke gazed silently at George for what seemed to the disbelieving Ridge to be an eternity of cold intent; then he nodded briefly to Ted, turned on his heel, and walked out of the yard.

“Well, now, boyo,” Ted said genially. “Let’s us come to an understanding, shall us?” He raised his whip arm. George stared, horror-struck, as the lash circled through the air. Then he bellowed like a maddened bull as he finally understood what was to happen to him.

Juliana found it impossible to concentrate on the opera, as much because her mind was on the meeting in Covent Garden as because everyone around her was chattering as if the singers on stage were not giving their hearts and souls to the first performance of Pergolesi’s new work.

The Italian Opera House in the Haymarket was brilliantly lit throughout the performance with chandeliers and naming torches along the stage. King George II was in the royal box with Queen Caroline, and Juliana found them more interesting than the incomprehensible Italian coming from the stage. It was probably as close as she would ever get to Their Majesties.

George II was an unimpressive-looking man, florid of face, an untidy white wig standing up around his bullet-shaped head. He had a most disagreeable expression, glaring around at his companions, bellowing critical comments to his aides throughout the performance in his heavily accented broken English that rose easily above the general hubbub.

After the first interval Juliana judged it time to wilt a little. She began to ply her fan with increasing fervor, every now and again sighing a little, passing her hand over her brow.

“Is something the matter, Juliana?” The eldest Bowen daughter, Lady Sarah Fordham, leaned forward anxiously. “Are you unwell?”

“The headache,” Juliana said with a wan smile. “I get them on occasion. They come on very suddenly.”

“Poor dear.” Sarah was instantly sympathetic. She turned to her mother beside her. “Lady Edgecombe is unwell, Mama. She has a severe headache.”

“Try this, my dear.” Lady Bowen handed over her smelling salts. Juliana received them with another wan smile. She sniffed delicately; her eyes promptly streamed, and she gasped at the powerful burning in her nostrils. Leaning back, she closed her eyes with a sigh of misery and plied her fan with no more strength than an invalid. She’d had to revise her original plan to leave the opera and go to Covent Garden in a hired hackney. Tarquin had insisted she take his own coachman for the evening so she wouldn’t be dependent upon Lady Bowen for transport. He’d meant it considerately, but it was a damnable nuisance. Now she would have to get rid of John Coachman.

“I do fear I shall swoon, ma’am,” she murmured. “If I could but take the air for a few minutes …”

“Cedric shall escort you.” Lady Bowen snapped her fingers at Lord Cedric, a willowy, effete young gentleman who happened to enjoy the opera—not that he had much opportunity to do so in the noisy clamor of his mother’s box. “Take Lady Edgecombe for some air, Cedric.”

Reluctantly, the young man abandoned the soprano-and-tenor duet that he’d been straining to hear. Bowing, he offered his arm to Juliana, who staggered to her feet with another little moan, pressing her hand to her forehead.

Outside, on the steps of the opera house, she breathed the sultry air and sighed pathetically. “I really think I must go home, sir,” she said in a weak voice. “If you could make my excuses to your mama and summon my coachman, I need not keep you from the music another minute.”

“No trouble, ma’am … no trouble at all,” he stammered, but without the true ring of conviction. Leaving Juliana on the top step, he ran down to the street and sent an urchin to summon the Duke of Redmayne’s carriage. It appeared within five minutes. Juliana was installed within, the coachman instructed to return with all speed to Albermarle Street, and Cedric Bowen hastened back to his music.

Juliana banged on the roof of the carriage as it was about
to turn right onto Pall Mall. The coachman drew rein and leaned down from his box.

“Take me instead to Covent Garden,” Lady Edgecombe instructed in her most imperious tones. “I left my fan in a coffeehouse there this morning. I would see if it’s still there.”

The coachman had no reason to disobey Her Ladyship’s orders. He withdrew to the box, turned his horses, and drove to Covent Garden. Juliana tried to control her apprehension, which was mixed with a curious excitement, as if she were embarking on a great adventure. She was hoping that some of the street women would come to the meeting as well as the more highly placed courtesans. It would be convenient for them to take an hour off work and slip into Cocksedge’s tavern, where Juliana hoped to convince them that a simple investment of trust and solidarity could make an enormous difference to their working conditions. A few of the High Impures would be unable to leave their establishments to attend, but there were plenty who could find an excuse for visiting clients outside the house, and Lilly had decided to plead sickness early in the evening in order to make her escape from Russell Street.

But Juliana knew that with or without her friends’ support, the success of this embryonic plan depended upon her powers of persuasion and her own energy and commitment. She had to make them see her own vision, and see how to make it reality.

She banged on the roof again when they reached St. Paul’s Church. “Wait here for me,” she instructed, swinging open the carriage door and stepping to the cobbles, managing to avoid a pile of rotting, slimy cabbage leaves just waiting to catch the foot of the unwary. Gathering her skirts in her hands, she picked her way through the market refuse toward Mother Cocksedge’s establishment. The church clock struck midnight.

Noise spilled through the open door of the chocolate house run by Mother Cocksedge. Drunken voices, raucous laughter, the shrill skirl of a pipe.

Juliana stepped through the door and blinked, her eyes slowly adapting to the gloom. The sights were becoming familiar. The whores swayed drunkenly in various stages of undress, either touting for custom or satisfying the demands of a customer. Two dogs fought over a scrap of offal in the center of the room amid a loudly wagering circle of young gentlemen, dressed in the finery of courtiers; their cravats were loose, their wigs in disarray, their stockings twisted. Women crowded around them, touching, stroking, petting, receiving kisses and occasional rowdy slaps in exchange, as the young bloods drank from tankards of blue ruin and shouted obscenities to the rafters.

Juliana felt immediately exposed. This was not like slipping upstairs to Mistress Mitchell’s back room. But she knew that the women they were hoping to gather tonight would be more comfortable in this place than in a more exclusive and expensive establishment. She pushed her way through to the back of the taproom, her tall figure and naming hair attracting immediate attention.

“Hey, wbere’re you off to, my beauty?” A young man grabbed her arm and grinned vapidly at her. “Haven’t seen you in these parts before.”

“Let me go,” Juliana said coldly, shaking her arm free.

“Oho! Hoity-toity madam,” another young man bellowed, his eyes small and red in a round, almost childlike, face. “Give us a kiss, m’dear, and we’ll let you pass.” He lurched toward her, leering.

Juliana gave him a push, and he tumbled backward against the table amid shrieks of laughter. Before he could recoup, Juliana had pushed through to the rear of the room.

“Juliana!” Lilly’s fierce whisper reached her as she paused, wondering where to go and whom to ask. The young woman beckoned from a doorway. “Quickly. They don’t know we’re in here, but if they find out, they’ll start such a ruckus.” She pulled Juliana into the room, slamming the door behind her. “’Tis the very devil, but there’s no key to the door. And the young bloods are always the
worst. They’ll start a melee at the drop of a hat, and before we know it, we’ll be in the middle of a riot.”

“I can believe it,” Juliana said grimly, shaking out the folds of her gown, which had become crushed as she’d fought her way through the room. “Nasty little beasts.”

“Our bread and butter,” a woman said from the table, raising a tankard of ale to her lips. “But not for the likes of you, my lady.” She smiled sardonically. “It’s all very well to be full of grand plans when it’s not yer livelihood at stake.”

“Now, Tina, don’t be so sharp. Let the girl say what she ’as in mind.” An older woman in a tawdry yellow dress gave Juliana a much nicer smile. “Come on in, dearie. Take no notice of Tina, she’s sour because ’er gentleman jest passed out on ’er an’ she couldn’t get a penny outta him.”

Juliana looked around the room, recognizing amid the substantial group some faces from the earlier meeting. Women sat at the table, lounged on the broad windowsill, perched on the settles on either side of the hearth. They were all drinking, even the Russell Street women, and for the most part those unknown to Juliana looked skeptically at her when she introduced herself.

“Well, let’s ’ear what ye’ve to say,” Tina said, still belligerently. “We ain’t got all night. Some of us ’ave a livin’ to earn.”

Juliana decided that attempting to justify her own position would be pointless. Let them believe what they would of her. She had more important matters to concentrate on. The street women were harried and thin-faced, their clothes shabby finery that she guessed had been on other backs before. Beside them, the girls from Russell Street and similar houses looked pampered and affluent, but they all shared something: A wariness, a darting mistrust in their eyes, an air of resignation to the vagaries of fate, as if what security they had today could be gone tomorrow and there was nothing they could do about it. Beside them, the safety and permanence of her own situation must look like heaven. And these were not the poorest of the women out there. There were women and young girls, little more than
children, lying against the bulks, winter and summer, with whoever could give them a crust of bread or a sip of gin.