by Jane Feather
Lucien laughed with the crowd. Juliana, horror-struck, glanced up at him and saw such naked, malevolent enjoyment on his face that she felt nauseated. "What's going on?"
"A wife-selling. Isn't it obvious?" Lucien didn't take his eyes off the scene on the steps as the husband enumerated the wretched woman's various good points.
Suddenly a voice bellowed above the crowd. "Ye've 'ad yer fun, Dick Begg. Now, let's be done with this." A brawny man pushed his way to the steps and jumped up beside the couple. The woman flushed deepest crimson and tried to turn aside, but her husband jerked again on the halter he still held, and she was able only to avert her head.
"Ten pound," the newcomer declared. "An' ye leave 'er alone from now on."
"Done," the husband announced. Both men spat on their palms and clapped them together to seal the bargain. The second man counted ten coins into the other's hand while the crowd roared its approval again; then he took the end of the halter and led the now weeping woman away from the crowd, toward the rear of the church.
Dick Begg pocketed his coins. "Good riddance to bad rubbish," he stated, grinning. "Niver did get on wi' the bitch anyways."
"How disgusting!" Juliana muttered. She'd heard of such auctions but had never seen one before. The crowd was dispersing now that the entertainment was over, until a fight started up between two burly costermongers. They were going at each other with bare fists, and swiftly a cheering, catcalling circle formed around them.
It was Lucien's turn to look disgusted. "Animals," he said with a curling lip. He strode away toward the Green Man tavern, not troubling to wait for Juliana.
She followed him into the low-ceilinged taproom, her eyes immediately beginning to water with the tobacco smoke that hung in a thick blue haze in the air.
"Blue ruin!" Lucien bellowed at a passing potboy as he pulled out a bench at a long table and sat down. The bench was as filthy as the stained encrusted planking of the table. Juliana brushed ineffectually at the grime and then sat down with an internal shrug. Her cloak was dark and would keep most of it off her gown.
"Not too nice in your tastes, I trust," Lucien said with a sneer.
"Not overly," Juliana responded evenly. "But this place is a pig sty."
"Don't let mine host hear you saying that." Lucien chuckled. "Very proud of his establishment is Tom King." He slapped a sixpence on the table when the potboy appeared with a stone jar and two tankards. "Fill 'em up."
The lad did so, wiping the drips from the table with his finger, which he then licked. His hands were as filthy as his apron, and his hair hung in lank, greasy locks to his shoulders. He took the sixpence and vanished into the crowd as someone else yelled for him. He didn't arrive quickly enough, apparently, because he was greeted with a mighty clout that sent him reeling against the wall.
Juliana gazed at the scene in horrified fascination, blinking her watering eyes. When Lucien pushed a tankard toward her with the brisk injunction "Drink," she carried it to her lips and absently took a large gulp.
Her throat was on fire, her belly burning as if with hot coals. She doubled over the table, choking, her eyes streaming.
"Gad, what a milksop you are!" Lucien thumped her back with his flat palm, using considerable force. "Can't stomach a drop of gin!" But she could bear his malicious amusement as he continued to pound her back. Presumably, she was reacting exactly as he'd intended.
"Leave me alone!" she said furiously, straightening and shaking off his hand. "Why didn't you warn me?"
"And spoil my fun?" He clicked his tongue reprovingly.
Juliana set her lips and pushed the tankard as far from her as she could. She wanted a glass of milk to take away the taste, but the thought of asking for such a thing in this place was clearly absurd.
"Gad, it's Edgecombe!" A voice called from the mists of smoke. "Hey, dear fellow, what brings you here? Heard you'd become leg-shackled."
Three men weaved their way through the room toward them, each carrying a tankard. Their wigs were askew, their faces flushed with drink, their gait distinctly unsteady. They Were young, in their early twenties, but the dissipation behind the raddled complexions and bloodshot, hollowed eyes had vanquished all the bloom of youth.
Lucien raised a hand in greeting. "Come and meet my lady wife, gentlemen." He rose from the bench and bowed with mock formality as he indicated Juliana. "Lady Edgecombe, m'dear fellows. Madam wife, pray make your curtsy to Captain Frank Carson, the Honorable Bertrand Peters, and the dearest fellow of them all, Freddie Binkton." He flung his arm around the last named and hugged him before kissing him soundly.
Juliana stood up and curtsied, feeling ridiculous in these surroundings, but not knowing how else to behave. The three men laughed heartily and bowed, but she sensed a hostile curiosity in all their expressions as they scrutinized her in the dim light.
"So why the devil did ye take a wife, Lucien?" Captain Frank demanded, having completed his examination of Juliana. "Thought you was sworn to bachelorhood."
"Oh, family pressure, m'dear." Lucien winked and took another swig of his tankard. "My cousin thought it would avoid scandal."
They all went into renewed laughter at this, and Juliana sat down again. There was something indefinably horrible about the group. They made her skin crawl, and she could feel their covert glances even though they appeared now to ignore her, all of them absorbed in some scandalous tale of the captain's. She glanced toward the door, where an elegant lady stood, a footman at her back, deep in conversation with a rotund gentleman in an old-fashioned curly wig.
As Juliana watched, the elderly gentleman counted out five coins into the lady's hands. She passed them to the footman, who pocketed them; then she tucked her arm into the gentleman's, and they entered the tavern and went up a rickety pair of stairs at the rear of the taproom. The footman leaned against the doorjamb, idly picking his teeth, watching the passersby.
The woman had looked too prosperous to be soliciting on the streets, Juliana reflected. And certainly too well dressed to be taking her clients to a back room in this noisome place. She must remember to ask Lilly to explain it.
"Lud, madam, you're not drinking?" the Honorable Bertrand declared in mock horror. "Lucien, Lucien, you neglect the dear lady shamefully."
Lucien grinned. "Tried her on blue ruin, but it didn't seem to suit her. What else can I offer you, my dear? Ale, perhaps? Port?"
"Milk punch, if you please, sir," Juliana said, her nerves prickling as she realized they wanted to make sport of her in some way. She glanced around, but there would be no help available in this riotous assembly. A couple were rolling around on the floor, the woman's legs in the air, her skirts tumbled about her head, exposing her body to the waist. Juliana felt sick. She pushed back the bench and stood up.
"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I find I have the headache. I'll take a hackney outside."
"Oh, but I don't excuse you," Lucien slurred, grabbing her hand and pulling her back beside him. "You owe obedience to your husband, madam, and your husband bids you keep him company and drink your milk punch."
Juliana thought she could probably break Lucien's hold without too much difficulty, but the eyes of the others were fixed upon her with a sinister intensity, waiting to see what she would do. She couldn't break free from them all if they tried to hold her. No one in this place would come to her aid. And she would be utterly humiliated. And Lucien would relish every minute of it. It was what he'd enjoyed about the wife-selling. The woman's total degradation had made him lick his lips like a hyena salivating over a rotting carcass.
She sat down again with a calm smile. "As you please, my lord."
Lucien looked a trifle disappointed; then he clapped his hands and bellowed for the potboy to bring milk punch. Juliana sat still, trying to maintain her calm smile and an air of nonchalant interest in her surroundings. The woman on the floor was on her hands and knees now, the man behind her, striking her flanks with his open palms as he mimicked the act of copulation to the roaring
acclamation of his audience, who raised their tankards in a series of cheering toasts. The woman was laughing as much as anyone, throwing her head back and thrusting backward as if to meet him with orgasmic enjoyment.
Juliana kept the disgust from her face. She noticed that Lucien seemed to have no interest in the scene, although his friends were participating in the general uproar, thumping their tankards on the table and yelling encouragement.
"Does she get paid for that?" she inquired casually.
Lucien looked startled at the question. His blurry eyes searched her face suspiciously. She gave him a bland smile as if nothing about this place could possibly disturb her.
"I daresay," he said, shrugging. "It's not my idea of entertainment." He pushed back the bench and stood up. "Come."
"Where are we going?"
"To show you a few of the other entertainments available in this salubrious neighborhood. You did ask me to introduce you to London society . . . and your wish is ever my command, my dear ma'am." He bowed ironically.
Juliana curtsied in the same vein and took his arm, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her dismay.
"Oh, must we go?" lamented the captain, getting unsteadily to his feet.
"Oh, yes. Wherever Lucien and his wife go, we go, too," Bertrand said, draining his tankard. "Wouldn't wish 'em to want for company on this bridal evening." He took Juliana's other arm, and she found herself ushered to the door and out into the Piazza.
"Where to now?" Freddie asked, looking around with an assumption of alert interest.
"Hummums," answered Lucien. "Show m'lady wife here what goes on in the steam rooms."
"I don't think a steam room would be a good idea," Juliana demurred. "Won't it ruin my gown?"
"Gad, no, ma'am!" laughed the captain. "They'll take all your clothes from you and give you a towel. Very friendly place, the hummums."
Juliana was not going to the hummums, however friendly. She walked in the midst of her escort, awaiting her moment to break free. They had reached the corner of the Little Piazza, and she paused at the kiosk selling the obscene prints that she'd seen with the duke. "What do you think of these, gentlemen?" she asked with a smile.
Distracted, they peered into the kiosk. Juliana slipped her arms free and turned swiftly. Too swiftly. Her foot slipped on a patch of nameless slime on the cobbles, and she grabbed at the nearest object to save herself. Captain Frank proved a reliable support, although he laughed heartily at her predicament. When she was stable again, her heart was beating violently against her ribs, the captain was holding her too tightly for comfort, and she could see no escape from the hummums.
"I've a mind for a cockfight," announced Bertrand, slipping an arm through Lucien's. "What d'ye think, Lucien? It's been a while since we had a wager on the birds."
"By the devil's grace, so it has." Lucien was immediately diverted. "Madam wife, here, will enjoy it, I'll be bound." He gave Juliana his skeletal grin, and his eyes were filled with spiteful glee. "What d'ye say? The Royal Cockpit or the hummums, m'dear?"
At least in the cockpit she could keep her clothes on. And surely she could endure the cruelty if she kept her eyes closed. "The cockpit, if you please, sir." She managed another insouciant smile and achieved a certain satisfaction in seeing that her carefree response had disconcerted her husband.
"Let's to it, then!" Bertrand hailed a hackney. "After you, Lady Edgecombe."
She found herself hustled into the dark interior, the others piling in after her with much laughter. But there was an edge to their merriment that filled her with trepidation.
"The Royal Cockpit, jarvey." Lucien leaned out of the window to shout their direction. The jarvey cracked his whip, and the horses clopped oft" toward St. James's Park.
Chapter 17
It was three o'clock in the morning when Tarquin returned home. He nodded at the night porter, who let him in, and headed for the stairs. The man shot the bolts again and returned to his cubbyhole beneath the stairs.
The duke strode into his own apartments, shrugging off his gold brocade coat. His sleepy valet jumped up from his chair by the empty fireplace and tried to stifle a yawn.
"Good evening, Your Grace." He hastened to take the coat from his employer, shaking it out before hanging it in the armoire. "I trust you had a pleasant evening."
"Pleasant enough, thank you." Tarquin glanced toward the armoire with its concealed door, wondering if Juliana was awake. Presumably she'd retired hours ago. His valet tenderly helped him out of his clothes and handed him a chamber robe. The duke sat at his dresser, filing his nails, while the man moved around the room, putting away the clothes, drawing back the bed curtains, turning down the bed.
"Will that be all, Your Grace?"
The duke nodded and dismissed him to his bed. Then he stepped through the door in the wardrobe and softly entered the next-door chamber. The bed was unslept in.
Henny snored softly on the chaise longue. Of Juliana there was no sign.
"Where the devil-"
"Oh, lordy me, sir!" Henny jumped to her feet at the sound of his voice. Her faded blue eyes were filmed with sleep. "You did give me a start." She patted her chest with a rapid fluttering hand.
"Where's Juliana?" His voice was sharp, abrupt.
"Why, I don't know, Your Grace. I understand she went out with Lord Edgecombe. They haven't returned as yet. But His Lordship is never one to seek his bed before dawn," she added, smoothing down her apron and tucking an escaping strand of gray hair back under her cap.
Tarquin's initial reaction was fury, mingled immediately with apprehension. Juliana could have no idea where and how Lucien took his pleasures. She was far too innocent of the urban world even to imagine such things. It was that very innocence that he'd believed would make her a compliant tool in his scheme. And now it was the same innocence combined with that defiant spirit that was leading her into the horrors of Lucien's world. Perhaps he'd erred in his choice. Perhaps he should have involved a woman who knew her way around the world, who would have entered a business contract with her eyes open. But such a woman would not have been virgin. And a whore could not be the mother of the heir to Edgecombe.
But he'd made his choice and was stuck with the consequences. He'd assumed he'd be able to put a stop to her mischief with Lucien, but he hadn't expected her to move so fast. He would learn the lesson well.
"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Henny sounded troubled, a deep frown drawing her sparse eyebrows together, as she examined the duke's livid countenance. "If I did wrong-"
"My good woman, of course you didn't," he interrupted brusquely. "Lady Edgecombe is not in your charge. Take yourself to bed now. She won't need you tonight."
Henny looked a little doubtful, but she curtsied and left the chamber. Tarquin stood for a minute, tapping his fingernails on a tabletop, his mouth grim.
He turned on his heel and went back to his own chamber, where he threw off the chamber robe and dressed swiftly in plain buckskin britches, boots, and a dark coat. The sword at his waist was no toy, and his cane was a swordstick. He strode downstairs again, and the puzzled night porter hurried to open the front door.
"Do you know what time Lord and Lady Edgecombe left?"
"No, Your Grace. I understood from Catlett that they left quite early, before Your Grace."
The duke cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn't he thought to check on her before he went out? He'd completely underestimated her, assuming her defiance to be no more than that of a thwarted schoolroom miss.
He left the house and called to a link boy, standing in a doorway opposite, his oil lamp extinguished at his feet. The lad shook himself awake and came running across the street. "Where ye goin', m'lord?"
"Covent Garden." It would be Lucien's first and probably last stop of the evening.
The lad busily trimmed the wick of his lantern before striking flint on tinder. The yellow glow threw a welcoming patch of illumination as the lad hurried along beside the duke, tr
otting to keep up with Tarquin's swift, impatient stride.
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Juliana gulped the fresh air of St. James's Park, trying to get the stench of blood out of her nostrils. She couldn't rid her mind of the images, however. Even though she'd kept her eyes shut much of the time, the torn and mangled birds lying inert in the sawdust ring, surrounded by blood-soaked feathers like so many bloody rags, tormented her inner vision. She could still hear the deafening uproar as the wild betting had grown increasingly frenzied with each new pair of cocks, armed with silver spurs, being set down in the pit. Open mouths screaming encouragement and curses, drink-suffused eyes filled with greedy cruelty, the astonishing determination of the birds, fighting to the death even when clearly mortally wounded, were indelibly printed on her mind, and for the first time in her life she'd been afraid she would swoon.
Somehow she'd held on, aware of Lucien's quick glances at her deathly pallor, her closed eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking down at this hideous sight. His eyes, sunk in their dark sockets, grew more spiteful as the ghastly business progressed. Vaguely, she was aware that he was losing money hand over fist. Bertrand had cheerfully handed over a fistful of coins when Lucien turned out his empty pockets with a vile oath. But it wasn't until the fourth pair of birds had been tearing each other apart for forty-five minutes, blood and feathers spattering the audience on the lower ring of seats, that Lucien stood up from the matted bench and announced that he'd had enough of this insipidity.
Juliana had staggered out of the circular room, into the warm night. She wanted to crawl behind a bush and vomit her heart out. But she would not give her loathsome husband the pleasure.
"Well, my dear, I trust you're enjoying your introduction to London entertainments." Lucien took snuff, regarding her with a sardonic smile.
