Vice

by Jane Feather

  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 Cook 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?”. sh
e 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 frill 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.

  Ted, however, was aware of their follower. He took his charge on a roundabout route to the park, down side streets and through alleys, always at a pace that wouldn’t outstrip a determined pursuer. The man dogged them every step of the way.

  George was filled with an impotent rage. He’d been waiting for her to emerge for hours, imagining how he would go up to her, how he would scoop her up from the street, bundle her away. But she was still way beyond his reach, accompanied by that ugly-looking customer who gave the unmistakable impression of a man who would know how to handle himself in a fight.

  George was in the grip of an obsession. He’d lost all interest in the fleshly pleasures of London; his dreams both waking and sleeping were filled with Juliana and the corrosive fear that even though he was so close to her, yet he might still be too far. He had followed her back to Albermarle Street from Russell Street and taken up his usual stand on the basement steps opposite. He’d watched with greedy, predatory eyes when she’d appeared on the steps with the two men and the roan mare. He couldn’t hear what they said, but it was clear they were discussing something pleasing. He watched her go into the house, and his gut twisted at the bitter reflection that the men behaved toward her with a consideration more suited to a respectable wife than to a harlot.

  And now she was riding through London, dressed in the very peak of fashion, on a well-bred and very expensive lady’s horse, in the company of a groom. He had to get his hands on her. Force her to acknowledge him. His hands curled into fists at the thought of how she’d looked straight through him. It had been with such conviction that he could almost have believed that he was mistaken—that this pampered creature of fashion was not Juliana Ridge, the neglected and unsophisticated country girl, his father’s murderess and the legal owner of a substantial portion of George Ridge’s inheritance.

  But he knew from the way his loins were afire and his blood ran swift whenever he was in her vicinity that he was not mistaken. This was Juliana. His Juliana.

  His quarry turned into Hyde Park, and he dodged behind a tree as they reined in the horses and seemed to be having a discussion about which direction to take. He could achieve nothing by continuing to follow them. He couldn’t haul her from her horse … not here … not now. They would return to Albermarle Street eventually, and he’d do better to scout around there while he waited, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn his back on Juliana. His eyes drew him forward onto the tan strip of sand running beside the pathway, where they put their horses to the trot and then to a canter, too fast now for him to keep them in sight.

  He could sit and wait for them to come full circle, or he could go back to his post. His belly squalled, reminding him that he’d been so intent on his vigil, he’d had no dinner. He decided to return to the Gardener’s Arms and drown his frustrations. He would return to watch and await his opportunity in the morning. It was the sensible decision, but he still had to force himself to walk away.

  Juliana settled comfortably into the roan’s rhythm. The mare had an easy gait and seemed to be enjoying the exercise as much as her rider. The dour Ted kept pace on his cob.

  They were on their second circuit when she saw Quentin on the path ahead, walking toward them with a lady dressed in black taffeta. Juliana recognized Lady Lydia despite the heavy black veil concealing her face. She drew rein as she came up with them. “I give you good day, Lady Lydia. Lord Quentin.”

  For a moment she read dismay in Quentin’s eyes, and she was convinced her interruption was unwelcome; then his customary serene smile returned. “Dismount and walk with us awhile.” He reached up a hand
to help her down. “Ted will take Boadicea.”

  “Boadicea? What an unusual name for such a pretty lady,” Lydia said in her soft voice, responding to Juliana’s curtsy with her own, but not lifting her veil.

  “She’s pretty,” Juliana agreed, “but I believe she has a mind of her own.” She handed the reins to Ted and took Quentin’s other arm, turning with them on the path. “How fortuitous that we should all meet like this. I didn’t realize you were going to be in the park, too, Lord Quentin.”

  “It was a sudden impulse,” he responded. “Such a beautiful afternoon.”

  “Yes, quite lovely,” Lydia agreed. “I couldn’t bear to be inside another minute. We are still in strict mourning, of course, but there can be no objection to my taking a walk when I’m veiled.”

  “No, of course not,” Quentin said warmly.

  “Are you enjoying London, Lady Edgecombe?”

  “Oh, immensely, Lady Lydia. It’s all so very new to me. Hampshire is such a backwater.”

  Quentin kicked her ankle at the same instant she realized her mistake.

  “Hampshire?” Lydia put up her veil to look at her in surprise. “I thought your family came from York, in the north.”

  “Oh, yes,” Juliana said airily. “I was forgetting. I used to visit relatives in Hampshire and liked it much better than York. So I always think of it as home.”

  “I see.” Lydia’s veil fell again. “I didn’t know there were any Courtneys in Hampshire.”

  “My cousin’s family,” Juliana offered. “A very distant cousin.”

  “How curious that you should be closer to a distant cousin’s relatives than to your own,” Lydia mused, puzzled.

  “Lady Edgecombe has some unusual views on the world,” Quentin said flatly. “I’m sure you must wish to continue your ride, Juliana. It must be dull work walking when a new mount awaits you.”

  Juliana wasn’t sure whether he was getting rid of her for his sake or hers, but she took her cue, signaling to Ted, who rode a little way behind them, leading Boadicea.