Vice

by Jane Feather

  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 off toward St. James’s Park.

  Chapter 17

  It was three o’clock in the morning when Tarquin re-Led home. He nodded at the night porter, who let 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 swords tick. 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 besi
de the duke, trotting to keep up with Tarquin’s swift, impatient stride.

  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.

  “It’s certainly an education, my lord,” she responded, both surprised and thankful that her voice was clear and steady.

  Lucien frowned, glowering at her in the flickering light of the flambeaux illuminating the path from the cockpit to the gate. The woman was proving a disappointment. He’d expected her to break before now.

  “Gad, man, but I’ve a thirst on me to equal a parched camel’s,” Frank Carson declared, loosening his already crumpled cravat. “Let’s to the Shakespeare’s Head. I’ve a mind for some dicing.”

  “Aye, good thought,” Freddie approved, wiping his perspiring forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. “You comin’, Edgecombe?”

  “Indeed,” the viscount said. “The night’s but barely begun. Come, madam wife.” He grabbed Juliana’s elbow and dragged her beside him down the path and onto the street. “Hackney! Hey, fellow. You there, idle bastard!” He waved belligerently at the driver of a cab, smoking peacefully in the stand of hackneys touting for customers emerging from the Royal Cockpit.

  The jarvey cracked his whip and directed his weary horse across the street. “Where to, guv?”

  “Shakespeare’s Head.” Lucien clambered up, leaving Juliana to follow. Her petticoat was grimy from the filthy matting in the cockpit, her dainty slippers soiled with something unidentifiable but disgusting. She drew her cloak tighter around her, despite the warmth of the night, and huddled into the shadowy corner as the others rowdily entered the vehicle.

  She was extremely weary, and growing increasingly frightened. There was a frenzy to her husband’s behavior, an alarming glitter in his burning eyes. His color was, if anything, worse than usual, and his breath rasped in his chest. She knew instinctively that he intended to make game of her in some way. Foolishly, she had attempted to ally herself with him in opposition to the duke. Foolishly she had thought she’d found the perfect motive for Edgecombe’s cooperation. Foolishly she’d thought she could use him for her own ends. But Lucien was not cooperating with her. He was using her for his own amusement. And he wasn’t finished yet.

  There was nothing she could do, outnumbered as she was, but watch and wait and try to escape. Maybe they would become so involved in the gambling, so besotted with drink, that she could slip away without their noticing. Maybe a visit to the outhouse at the tavern would give her an opportunity.

  Covent Garden was still thronged, but the crowd’s inebriation had reached a new peak. Voices were loud and slurred, raised in anger and curses as often as in laughter. Men and women swayed over the cobbles, clutching stone jugs of gin, and Juliana watched a woman tumble in a drunken heap into the kennel, spilling the drink all over her. The man she was with fell on her with a roar, throwing her skirts up over her head to chanting encouragement from passersby.

  Juliana averted her eyes. She had no idea whether the woman was a willing participant in what was going on, or merely insensible. She didn’t seem to be struggling. Someone screamed from one of the shacks under the Piazza, a loud squeal like a stuck pig. Juliana shuddered, her scalp crawling. A woman came flying out of the building, wearing only a thin shift. A man raced after her, wielding a stick. His face was suffused with fury, the woman’s pale with terror. Juliana waited for someone to intervene, but no one took any notice as the woman weaved and ducked through the crowd, trying to escape the ever-swinging stick.

  “Filthy whore—up to her tricks again,” Bertrand said, grinning. “The trollops think they can get away with murder.”

  “So what’s she done?” Juliana demanded, her eyes snapping in the flickering orange light from flambeaux and oil lamps.

  Bertrand shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “Cheated, most like,” Frank said. “It’s what they all do. Cheat their customers, cheat their whoremasters, cheat their bawds. They all need a spell in Bridewell now and again. Shakes ’em up.”

  Juliana swallowed her rage. It would only amuse them. There had to be a way to improve the conditions under which these women sold themselves. She understood that it was the only living available to them … understood it now from bitter experience. But surely they need not be so vulnerable to the merciless greed of those who exploited them.

  She found herself being ushered with a determined arm toward a tavern, where the door stood open to the square and raucous, drunken voices poured forth with the lamplight on a thick haze of pipe smoke.

  A bare-breasted woman swayed over to them with a tray laden with brimming tankards of ale. “What can I do fer ye, m’lords?” She winked and touched her tongue to her lips in a darting, suggestive fashion.

  “Ale, wench!” Bertrand announced, slapping her backside with unnecessary vigor so that the tray shook in her hand and the ale spilled over. “Clumsy slut,” he said with an offhand shrug, pulling out a bench from under one of the long tables.

  Juliana sat down with the rest. She was parched, and ale was a welcome prospect. On the other side of the room, through the harsh babble of clamoring voices, she could hear the bets being called amid oaths and exclamations as the dice were rolled. There was a sharp edge of acrimony to the hubbub, a warring note that made the hairs on her nape prickle in anticipation of the violence that bubbled just beneath the surface of the apparent excitable jocularity.

  A tankard of ale was thumped in front of her. The resulting spill dripped into her lap, but she’d long given up worrying about her clothes on this horrendous evening. If a soiled petticoat and a beer stain on her gown were the worst that would happen, she’d count herself fortunate. She drank deeply and gratefully.

  After a few minutes, when it seemed that her companions were absorbed in wagering on the possible dimensions of a spreading ale spill, she rose to her feet, trying to slide unobtrusively away.

  Lucien’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She looked down at the thin white fingers and was distantly surprised at how strong they were. The blood fled from her skin beneath the grip. “Where are you off to, madam wife?” he demanded, his tone acerbic, his words slurred.

  “The outhouse,” she responded calmly. “You’re hurting me.

  He laughed and released her wrist. “It’s out the back, past the kitchen. Don’t
be long now.”

  Juliana made her way through the room. She was accosted at almost every step by drunken revelers and dice players, but she avoided eye contact and shook the grasping hands from her arm with a disdainful air.

  The privy was in an enclosed backyard, and Juliana could see no escape route. She wrestled with her skirts in the foul darkness, her head aching with the noise and the smoke, and her bone-deep weariness. How was she to get away? Lucien would delight in thwarting any attempt, and his friends would cheerfully lend their physical support. It wasn’t worth risking the humiliation of defeat and Lucien’s malevolent amusement.

  She paused for a moment in the inn doorway before reentering the taproom. Lucien was watching the door, waiting for her reappearance. He beckoned imperatively and rose unsteadily to his feet as she approached. “We’re going to play,” he announced, taking her elbow. “You shall stand at my shoulder, madam wife, and smile on the dice.”

  Juliana could see no option, so she forced a smile of cheerful compliance and accompanied them to the dice table. They were greeted with rather morose stares, and room was somewhat unwillingly made for them at the table. Juliana yawned, swaying with exhaustion as the excitement grew with each throw of the dice. Lucien’s voice grew increasingly slurred. A hectic flush stood out against his greenish pallor, and his eyes burned with a febrile glitter as the level in the brandy bottle he now held went steadily down.

  He won initially and, thus encouraged, began to bet ever more immoderately. And as he grew more excited, so his losses mounted. He’d lost all his own money at the cockpit and now ran through Bertrand’s loan, threw down his watch, a ring, and his snuffbox before resorting to IOUs, tossing them onto the table with reckless abandon. It was clear to Juliana through “er sleepiness that his fellow players were not happy with these scrawled scraps of paper, and finally one of them declared disgustedly, “If you can’t play with goods or money, man, I’ll not throw again. I’ve no use for promises.”