Vice

by Jane Feather

  There didn’t seem much she could do about the situation at present, so, thoughtfully, she returned upstairs to the peace of her own chamber to consider the situation. She couldn’t be kept there against her will indefinitely, and Mistress Dennison had so far given no indication of wishing to do so.

  The maid who answered the bell seemed tongue-tied, capable of little more than a curtsy and a murmured “Yes, miss” to all conversational sallies. She either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer direct questions about Mistress Dennison’s establishment, and when she left, Juliana found her appetite for her breakfast tray had diminished considerably under her growing unease.

  When a few minutes later she heard the key turn in the lock outside, she started from her chair, raced across the room to try the door, and found it locked. For ten minutes she banged on the door and called at the top of her voice. But she could hear nothing in the passage outside.

  She ran to the window and gazed at the street three floors down. There were no handholds in the brickwork, no convenient wisteria or creepers. The windows on the floor below had small wrought-iron balconies, but Juliana couldn’t imagine dropping safely onto one of them from the narrow sill outside her own chamber. She contemplated calling to the passersby in the street, but what could she say? That she was a prisoner? Who would take any notice? They’d assume she was an errant servant, locked in her garret for some peccadillo. No one would involve themselves in the domestic affairs of another householder.

  Juliana flopped onto the chaise longue, nibbling at a fingernail, her brows drawn together in a fierce frown. It was her own fault for trusting a kind-seeming face. Just another piece of clumsiness, really. Tripping over her feet and stumbling headlong into something nasty. But there was nothing she could do until someone chose to explain matters to her and she fully understood the pickle she was in.

  But the morning wore slowly onward, and it was early afternoon before the key turned again in the lock and the door opened to admit the little maid.

  “Mistress is waitin’ on ye in the small salon, miss.” She curtsied. “If ye’d be pleased to come wi’ me.”

  “It’s about time,” Juliana said, sweeping past the girl, who scurried after her, ducking ahead so she could precede her along the corridor, down a flight of stairs to a pair of double doors at the head of the main staircase.

  The girl flung open the doors, announcing in shrill tones, “Miss is ’ere, madam.”

  A smiling Mistress Dennison rose from her chair. “My dear, I do apologize for the locked door,” she said, coming forward with her hands outstretched to take Juliana’s. “But after your little escapade this morning, I was so afraid you would run away before I’d had a chance to explain matters to you. Now, do say you forgive me.” She grasped the girl’s hands and smiled winningly.

  Juliana could see no treachery in the wide blue eyes, could hear no devious undertone in the smooth and gentle voice. But she withdrew her hands firmly, although not discourteously, and said, “Madam, I find it hard to forgive something I don’t understand. Had you asked me to remain within doors, of course I would have done so, after your kindness yesterday.”

  Elizabeth regarded her quizzically. “Would you?” Then she nodded. “Yes, perhaps you would have. Living in town makes one so suspicious, I’m afraid. One forgets the ingenuousness of the country girl.”

  She sat down on a velvet chaise longue and patted the seat beside her. “Do sit down, my dear. I have a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Juliana sat down. “I am willing to work, madam, as I made clear yesterday. If you have work for me, then of course I shall be most grateful.”

  “Well, I don’t know whether you would describe my proposition as work precisely,” the lady said with a judicious little frown. “But I suppose it is work of a certain kind.”

  Juliana looked around the room. It was smaller and more intimate than the salon downstairs, its opulent, elegant furnishings seeming to invite the sensual pleasures of idleness.

  “Madam, is this establishment a bawdy house?” She asked the question to which she’d already guessed the answer during her long hours of cogitation.

  “Indeed not.” Mistress Dennison drew herself up on the chaise, looking distinctly put out. “We have only the most select company in our salons, and our young ladies take their places in the best circles of society.”

  “I see,” Juliana said aridly. “A high-class bawdy house.”

  Mistress Dennison abruptly lost some of her smiling good humor. “Now, don’t be foolish and missish, child. You have barely a penny to your name. You are being pursued for the murder of your husband. You are cast upon the town with neither friend nor fortune. I am offering you both friendship and the means to make your fortune.”

  “I am not interested in whoredom, madam.” Juliana rose from the chaise. “If you will return my clothes, I will leave here as I came. I’m grateful for your hospitality and will willingly pay for it by working in your kitchens if you wish it.”

  “Don’t be absurd!” Mistress Dennison seized Juliana’s hands, examining the long fingers, the soft skin. “You’ve never done a day’s manual work in your life, I’ll lay any odds.”

  “I am perfectly ready to begin now.” She pulled her hands free with an angry gesture. “I’m no milksop, Mistress Dennison. And I’m not in the least interested in harlotry. So if you’ll excuse me—”

  “Perhaps I can be a little more persuasive.”

  Juliana spun around at the soft drawl. A man stepped through a crimson velvet curtain at the end of the room, and she glimpsed a small chamber behind him. He wore riding britches and a deep-cuffed black coat edged with silver lace. A single diamond winked from the folds of his starched white stock.

  He stood against the curtain, negligently taking a pinch of snuff. All the while his gray eyes rested on her face, and Juliana had the uncomfortable fancy that he was seeing into her soul, was seeing much more than she had ever revealed to anyone.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her voice sounding raw. She cleared her throat and took a step back toward the double doors behind her.

  “Don’t run away,” the newcomer said gently. He dropped the silver snuffbox into his pocket. “There’s no need to be alarmed, as Mistress Dennison will assure you.”

  “No, indeed not, my dear. This is His Grace the Duke of Redmayne,” Elizabeth said, placing an arresting hand on Juliana’s arm. “He has a proposition to put to you.”

  “I have told you, I am not in the least interested in your propositions,” Juliana declared, her voice shaking with anger. She flung Mistress Dennison’s hand from her. “I no more care whether they come from a duke or a night-soil collector.” She turned on her heel and made for the door, thus missing the startled look in His Grace’s eyes.

  Annoyance chased astonishment across the cool gray surface, to be banished by interest and a reluctant admiration. The duke, accustomed to fawning obsequiousness, was surprised that he found such cavalier dismissal of his rank somewhat amusing. But his reaction didn’t sound in his voice.

  “The penalty for murdering a husband is death at the stake, I believe.”

  Juliana stopped at the duke’s low, considering drawl. Her hand on the door was suddenly slippery with sweat, and the blood pounded in her temples. Slowly she turned back to the room, and her great green eyes, living coals in her deathly pale complexion, fixed accusingly upon Mistress Dennison. “You broke my confidence.”

  “My dear, it’s for the best,” Elizabeth said. “You’ll see what a wonderful opportunity this is, if you’ll only listen to His Grace. I know a hundred girls who’d give their eyes for such an opportunity. A life of luxury, of—”

  “Allow me to lay out the benefits and rewards, madam.” The duke spoke with open amusement now, and the cleft in his chin deepened as his lips quirked in a tiny smile. “It seems the young lady requires a deal of persuasion.”

  “Persuasion … blackmail, you mean,” Juliana snapped. “You would ho
ld that over my head?”

  “If I must, my dear, yes,” the duke said in tones of the utmost reason. “But I trust you’ll agree to accept my proposition simply because it’s a solution to your problems, will not be too arduous for you, I believe, and will solve a major difficulty for myself.”

  Juliana turned the porcelain handle of the door. All she had to do was push it, race across the hall and out into the street. But if she left the house in the clothes given her by Mistress Dennison, her erstwhile benefactress could set up a hue and cry and accuse her of theft. She wouldn’t get far in those crowded streets once the cry went up. They’d hang her for theft. They’d burn her for petty treason.

  “Elizabeth, would you leave us, please?” The duke’s soft, courteous tones broke through the desperate maelstrom of Juliana’s thoughts.

  Her hand dropped from the doorknob. She was caught in the trap that she’d sprung herself with that foolish burst of confidence yesterday. There was nothing to be gained at this point by fighting the gin. Like a snared rabbit, she’d simply chew off her own foot.

  She stepped away from the door as Elizabeth billowed across the room.

  “Listen well to His Grace, my dear,” Mistress Dennison instructed, patting Juliana’s cheek. “And don’t show him such a long face. Lud, child, you should be dancing for joy. When I think what’s being offered—”

  “Thank you, madam.” There was a touch of frost in the duke’s interruption, and a tinge of natural color augmented the rouge on Elizabeth’s smooth cheek.

  She curtsied to the duke, cast another look, half warning, half encouragement, at Juliana, and expertly swung her wide hoop sideways as she passed through the door.

  “Close it.”

  Juliana found herself obeying the quiet instruction. Slowly she turned back to face the room. The Duke of Redmayne had moved to stand beside one of the balconied windows overlooking the street. A ray of sunlight caught an auburn glint in his hair, tied at his nape with a silver ribbon.

  “Come here, child.” A white, slender-fingered hand beckoned her.

  “I am no child.” Juliana remained where she was, her back to the door, her hands behind her, still clutching the doorknob as if it were a lifeline.

  “Seventeen from the perspective of thirty-two has a certain youthfulness,” he said, smiling suddenly. The smile transformed his face, set the gray eyes asparkle, softened the distinctive features, showed her a full set of even white teeth.

  “What else do you know of me, sir?” she inquired, refusing to respond to that smile, refusing to move from her position.

  “That you are called Juliana Beresford … although I expect that’s a false name,” he added musingly. “Is it?”

  “If it is, you wouldn’t expect me to tell you,” she snapped.

  “No. True enough,” he conceded, reaching for the bell-pull over the chimney piece. “Do you care for ratafia?”

  “No,” Juliana responded bluntly, deciding it was time to take the initiative. “I detest it.”

  The duke chuckled. “Sherry, perhaps?”

  “I drink only champagne,” Juliana declared with a careless shrug, moving away from the door. She brushed at her skirt with an air of lofty dismissal, and her fingertips caught a delicate porcelain figurine on a side table, sending it toppling to the carpet.

  “A plague on it!” she swore, dropping to her knees, momentarily forgetting all else but this familiar, potential disaster. “Pray God, I haven’t broken it…. Ah, no, it seems intact … not a crack.”

  She held the figurine up to the light, her fingers tracing the surface. “I dareswear it’s a monstrous expensive piece. I’d not have knocked it over otherwise.” She set the figurine on the table again and stepped swiftly away from the danger zone.

  The duke regarded these maneuvers with some astonishment. “Are you in the habit of destroying expensive articles?”

  “It’s my cursed clumsiness,” Juliana explained with a sigh, watching the figurine warily to make sure it didn’t decide to tumble again.

  Any response her companion might have made was curtailed by the arrival of Mr. Garston in response to the bell.

  “Champagne for the lady, Garston,” the duke ordered blandly. “Claret for myself. The forty-three, if you have it.”

  “I believe so, Your Grace.” Garston bowed himself out.

  Juliana, annoyed that her clumsiness had distracted her at a moment when she’d felt she was regaining some measure of self-possession in this frightful situation, remained silent. The duke seemed perfectly content with that state of affairs. He strolled to a bookshelf and gave great attention to the gilded spines of the volumes it contained until Garston returned with the wine.

  “Leave it with me, Garston.” He waved the man away and deftly eased the cork from the neck of the champagne bottle. “I trust this will find favor, ma’am.” He poured a glass and took it to Juliana, still standing motionless by the table.

  Juliana had but once tasted champagne, and that on her wedding day. She was accustomed to small beer and the occasional glass of claret. But with the bravado of before, she took the glass and sipped, nodding her approval.

  The duke poured a glass of claret for himself, then said gently, “If you would take a seat, ma’am, I might also do so.”

  It was such an unlooked-for courtesy in the circumstances that Juliana found herself sitting down without further thought. The duke bowed and took a chair opposite her sofa.

  Tarquin took the scent of his wine and examined the still figure. She reminded him of a hart at bay, radiating a kind of desperate courage that nevertheless acknowledged the grim reality of its position. Her eyes met his scrutiny without blinking, the firm chin tilted, the wide, full mouth taut. There was something uncompromising about Juliana Beresford, from the tip of that flaming head of hair to the toes of her long feet. The image of her naked body rose unbidden in his mind. His eyes narrowed as his languid gaze slid over her, remembering the voluptuous quality of her nudity, the smooth white skin in startling contrast to the glowing hair.

  “If you insist upon making this proposition, my lord duke, I wish you would do so.” Juliana spoke suddenly, breaking the intensity of a silence that had been having the strangest effect upon her. Her skin was tingling all over, her nipples pricking against her laced bodice, and she had to fight against the urge to drop her eyes from that languid and yet curiously penetrating gray scrutiny.

  “By all means,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “But I must first ask you a question. Are you still virgin?”

  Juliana felt the color drain from her face. She stared at him in disbelief. “What business is that of yours?”

  “It’s very much my business,” the duke said evenly. “Whether or not I make this proposition depends upon your answer.”

  “I will not answer such a question,” Juliana declared from a realm of outrage beyond anger.

  “My dear, you must. If you wish to spare yourself the inconvenience of examination,” he said in the same level tones. “Mistress Dennison will discover the answer for herself, if you will not tell me.”

  Juliana shook her head, beyond words.

  He rose from his chair and crossed the small space between them. Bending over her, he took her chin between finger and thumb and tilted her face to meet his steady gaze. “Juliana, you told Mistress Dennison that your husband died before your marriage was consummated. Is that the truth?”

  “Why would I say it if it wasn’t?” Somehow she still managed to sound unyielding, even as she yielded the answer because she knew she had no choice but to do so.

  He held her chin for a long moment as she glared up at him, wishing she had a knife. She imagined plunging it into his chest as he stood so close to her she could smell his skin, and a faint hint of the dried lavender that had been strewn among his fresh-washed linen.

  Then he released her with a little nod. “I believe you.”

  “Oh, you do me too much honor, sir,” she said, her voice shaking with fury
. Springing to her feet, she drove her fist into his belly with all the force she could muster.

  He doubled over with a gasp of pain, but as she turned to run, he grabbed her and held on even as he fought for breath.

  Juliana struggled to free her wrist from a grip like steel. She raised a leg to kick him, but he swung sideways so her foot met only his thigh.

  “Be still!” he gasped through clenched teeth. “Hell and the devil, girl!” He jerked her wrist hard and finally she stopped fighting.

  Slowly Tarquin straightened up as the pain receded and he could breathe again. “Hair as hot as the fires of hell goes with the devil’s own temper, I suppose,” he said, and to Juliana’s astonishment his mouth quirked in a rueful smile, although he still held her wrist tightly. “I must bear that in mind in future.”

  “What do you want of me?” Juliana demanded. An overwhelming sense of helplessness began to eat away at her, challenging bravado; and even as she tried to fight it, she recognized the futility of the struggle.

  “Quite simply, child, I wish you to marry my cousin, Viscount Edgecombe.” He released her wrist as he said this and calmly straightened his coat and the disordered lace ruffles at his cuffs.

  “You want me to do what?”

  “I believe you heard me.” He strolled away from her to refill his wineglass. “More champagne, perhaps?”

  Juliana shook her head. She’d barely touched what was in her glass. “I don’t understand.”

  The duke turned back to face her. He sipped his wine reflectively. “I need a wife for my cousin, Lucien. A wife who will bear a child, an heir to the Edgecombe estate and tide.

  “The present heir is, to put it kindly, somewhat slow-witted. Oh, he’s a nice enough soul but could no more pull Edgecombe out of the mire into which Lucien has plunged it than he could read a page of Livy. Lucien is dismembering Edgecombe. I intend to put a stop to that. And I intend to ensure that his heir is my ward.”

  He smiled, but it had none of the pleasant quality of his earlier smiles. “I shall thus have twenty-one years to put Edgecombe back together again … to repair the damage Lucien has done—as much as anything, I believe, to spite me.