by Jane Feather
The burgundy arrived, but after a few sips he stood up and walked restlessly to the tavern door. The thought of Juliana drew him like a lodestone. His feet carried him almost without volition back to Russell Street, where he took up a stand on the steps of the bookshop, apparently minding his own business.
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Juliana found Mistress Dennison friendly and hospitable. She bade her sit down and pressed a glass of sherry on her, then sat down herself and said with crisp matter-of-factness, "Do you know yet whether you've conceived?"
Juliana nearly choked on her sherry before she reminded herself that in this household there were no taboo intimate subjects when it came to female matters.
"It's too early to tell, ma'am," she responded with creditable aplomb.
Mistress Dennison nodded sagely. "You do, of course, know the signs?"
"I believe so, ma'am. But anything you wish to impart, I should be glad to hear."
Mistress Forster had broken her silence on all such matters only once, to tell Juliana that if she missed her monthly terms, she could assume she had conceived. Juliana suspected that there was more to the business than that bald fact, so she was grateful for Elizabeth's interest.
Elizabeth poured herself another glass of sherry and began to describe the symptoms of conception and the method of calculating the date of an expected birth. Juliana listened, fascinated. Mistress Dennison minced no words, called a spade a spade, and left no possibility for misunderstanding.
"There, child. I trust you understand these things now."
"Oh, yes, completely, ma'am." Juliana rose to take her leave. "I'm very thankful for the enlightenment."
"Well, my dear, you must always remember that even when a girl leaves here for such a splendid establishment as yours, she is still one of my girls. Any questions you may have, you will find the answers here. And when the time comes, I shall gladly assist at the birth. We are a close family, you understand." She smiled warmly at Juliana.
"I trust you'll see your way to opening your family to Lucy Tibbet, ma'am." Juliana dropped a demure curtsy. "His Grace has been kind enough to say that he'll give her a sum of money when she leaves his house so she'll be able to set herself up, but she will need friends. As we all do," she added.
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 objets 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 day'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.
Chapter 19
The 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 for 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 took 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.
She swept them both a curtsy, then rose and twirled exuberantly. The train of her full skirt swirled and wrapped itself around the leg of a table. With a muttered curse she extricated herself before any damage could be done.
"You look enchanting," Quentin declared. "Tarquin has always had a good eye when it comes to women's clothes."
"Do you spend this amount of time and trouble, not to mention money, on all your mistresses' wardrobes?" Juliana tweaked at her snowy linen cravat, smoothing a fold.
Quentin turned aside to hide his grin as Tarquin stared in disbelief at the insouciant Juliana. "Do I what?"
"Oh, was that indiscreet of me?" She smiled sunnily. "I didn't mean to be. I was only interested. It's unusual, I believe, for men to take such an interest in women's clothes."
"Let'
s drop the subject, shall we?" The duke sat up straight, his brows coming together in a fierce frown.
"Oh, very well." She shrugged. "But how many do you have?"
"How many what?" he demanded before he could stop himself.
"Mistresses."
Tarquin's face darkened, his indulgent equanimity destroyed. Quentin hastily intervened, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. "Juliana, my dear, I think you had better go for your ride. I'll escort you to the mews and see you mounted." He had swept her from the room before she could say anything else devastating, and before Tarquin could give voice to his bubbling wrath.
"Not exactly the soul of tact, are you?" Quentin observed in the stable yard.
"Did you think it an indelicate question?" Juliana asked airily, stepping up to the mounting block. "I thought it perfectly reasonable." She settled into the saddle, her skirts decorously arranged, and shot Quentin a mischievous grin that he couldn't help but return.
"You're incorrigible. Juliana."
Ted mounted a sturdy cob and examined Juliana critically. "The roan's fresh, ma'am. Think ye can 'andle her wi'out a curb?"
"Of course." Juliana nudged the mare's flanks, and Boadicea plunged forward toward the street. Juliana, unmoved, pulled back on the reins and brought the animal to a stop.
Ted grunted. "Seat's all right," he commented with a nod at Quentin. "Daresay she'll do."
Quentin raised a hand in farewell as the horses walked sedately out of the yard; then he went back into the house to fetch his hat and cane. It was a beautiful afternoon, and a stroll in Hyde Park was a pleasing prospect.
Juliana threw out a few conversational gambits to her escort but received only monosyllabic responses. Soon she gave up and settled down to enjoy her ride in private. She was so intent on managing Boadicea and displaying herself to advantage that she didn't see George slip out of a doorway as they clopped down Albermarle Street. She didn't notice him following at a steady pace and a safe distance; she was far too busy looking around, assessing the reactions of fellow travelers to her passing. It was gratifying to receive curious and admiring glances when at home she was accustomed to drawing not so much as a second look.
