by Jane Feather
“What’s that you say? Thought the man only liked little boys.”
“Cornelia!” pleaded the duchess through the ear trumpet. “That’s not for the ears of the young ladies.”
“Pshaw!” declared Lady Briscow. “Innocence isn’t going to do the gal much good with that husband of hers.”
“We must take our leave, Lady Melton.” Tarquin rose to his feet, his expression as bland as if he’d heard nothing of the preceding exchange. Juliana jumped up hastily, too hastily, and a dish of tea resting on the chair arm crashed to the floor. Dregs of tea splattered on the carpet, and the delicate cup rolled against a chair leg and shattered.
She bent to pick up the pieces with a mortified exclamation. Lydia dropped to her knees beside her. “Oh, pray don’t worry, Lady Edgecombe.” She gathered up the shards swiftly, her cheeks on fire. The conversation had amused Juliana, but Lydia was deeply shocked. But, then, she was probably as innocent as Juliana had been on her wedding night with John Ridge. Juliana could no longer imagine such naïveté, and yet it was only a few short weeks since she’d been a country virgin with no prospect of ever venturing farther afield than Winchester or Portsmouth.
She stood up, apologizing profusely for her clumsiness, though her diversion had relieved everyone but Lady Briscow, who clearly needed no relief.
Lady Melton said hastily, “It was so easy to do, Lady Edgecombe. Such a stupid place to put the dish. I can’t think why the footman would have placed it there.”
Juliana attempted to excuse the footman and blame herself, but Tarquin said coolly, “Come, my dear Lady Edgecombe. No harm’s done, and you’re making a great matter out of a very little one.” He swept her with him out of the parlor.
“I wish I weren’t so damnably clumsy,” Juliana lamented, once more ensconced in the phaeton. “It’s so embarrassing.”
“Well, on this occasion your clumsiness did everyone a good turn,” the duke said wryly. “Cornelia Briscow has the crudest tongue in town.”
“But is my husband’s … uh … predilection … generally known, then?”
“Of course. He’s caused enough scandal in his time to ruin a dozen families. But it’s not generally the subject for polite conversation.”
“Nor a subject to be mentioned before his bride gets to the altar,” she said tardy.
Tarquin glanced sideways at her. “I couldn’t imagine what possible good it would do you to know.”
He sounded so infuriatingly certain of himself. Did he never question his actions, or their consequences? But he had shown remorse for the whole debacle with Lucien, she reminded herself, so there was nothing to be gained by continuing to pluck that crow.
“Lord Quentin seems to find Lady Lydia’s company agreeable,” she observed casually after a minute.
“So do most people,” the duke said, sounding a trifle surprised at this conversational turn.
“Yes, of course,” Juliana agreed. “She’s a most charming lady. Very kind, I believe.”
“She’s certainly that.”
“Very pretty, too. I think men find pale fairness most appealing.”
“Now, what would you know about it?” Tarquin looked at her again with an amused smile.
“Well, I can’t see how they wouldn’t. Lord Quentin certainly seems to find Lady Lydia very attractive.”
“She’s a very old friend,” he said with a slight frown. “Quentin has known Lydia from early childhood.”
“I wonder when he’ll get married,” Juliana mused. “Canons do get married, don’t they?”
“Certainly. Bishops too.” He turned his horses into the mews behind his house. “Quentin will find himself the perfect bishop’s wife, one who will grace the bishop’s palace and set a fine example to the wives of his clergy, and they’ll have a quiverful of children.”
He tossed the reins to a groom and jumped to the cobbles. “Come.”
Juliana took his proffered hand and jumped down beside him, her hoop swinging around her. She stood frowning at a rain barrel, where a water beetle was scudding across the murky surface.
“Hey, penny for your thoughts?” Tarquin tilted her chin.
She shook her head dismissively. She wasn’t about to tell him that she was trying to think of a way to sow a little seed in his stubborn brain. “I was thinking perhaps Lucy might like an airing in the barouche.”
“By all means,” he said. “But you will take Ted as escort.”
Juliana grimaced but made no demur. She dropped him a tiny curtsy and went into the house through the back door.
Tarquin gazed after her. She hadn’t been thinking about Lucy at all. Something much more complicated had been going on behind those great green eyes.
He found himself wishing that he could know her thoughts, wishing that he could slide behind her eyes into the private world of Juliana herself. She gave so much of herself, but there was always a little that was kept back. He would like to know her as well as she knew herself … maybe even better than she knew herself. And with that urge came another: That she should know and understand him as no one else had ever done.
He shook his head as if to dispel these extraordinary fancies. Romantic nonsense that had no place in his scheme of things. He’d never been troubled by such sentimental notions before. Maybe he had a touch of fever. He passed a hand across his brow, but it felt quite cool. With another irritated head shake he followed Juliana into the house.
Chapter 21
Here’s that horrible man again.” Lady Forsett turned from the drawing-room window, her aquiline nose twitching with disdain.
“What horrible man, my dear?” Sir Brian looked up from his newspaper.
“John Ridge’s son. Such an uncouth oaf. What can he possibly want now?”
“I would imagine it has something to do with Juliana,” her husband observed calmly. Amelia had conveniently forgotten all about their erstwhile ward. He couldn’t remember hearing her refer to the girl once since her disappearance.
Lady Amelia’s nose twitched again, as if it had located a particularly unpleasant odor. “The child has never been anything but trouble,” she declared. “It would be just like her to plague us with that vulgar man.”
“I doubt Juliana would be encouraging George Ridge to pester us,” Sir Brian pointed out mildly. “Knowing Juliana, I would imagine she would be wishing her stepson to the devil.”
“Really, Sir Brian, must you use such language in my company?” Lady Forsett opened and closed her fan with reproving clicks.
“I do beg your pardon, my dear…. Ah, Dawkins, show the gentleman in.” The footman, who’d arrived to announce the visitor, looked surprised at having his errand anticipated.
“Not in my drawing room,” Amelia protested. “He’s bound to have manure on his boots. Show him into the morning room.”
The footman bowed and removed himself. “I daresay you don’t wish to meet Badge,” Sir Brian said, rising reluctantly from his chair. “I’ll see him alone.”
“Indeed, sir, but I wish to hear what he’s come about,” his wife declared firmly. “If he has news of Juliana, then I want to hear it.” She sailed to the door in a starched rustle of taffeta. “You don’t suppose he could have found her, do you, sir?” Her pale eyes reflected only dismay at the prospect.
“I trust not, my dear. The man couldn’t find an oak tree if it stood in his path. I daresay he’s come to demand Juliana’s jointure or some such bluster.” Sir Brian followed his lady to the morning room.
George was standing ill at ease in the middle of the small room. He was very conscious of his London finery and tugged at his scarlet-and-green-striped waistcoat as the door opened to admit his hosts. He bowed with what he hoped was a London flourish, determined that these supercilious folk would acknowledge the town bronze he’d acquired in the last week.
“Sir George.” Sir Brian sketched a bow in return. Lady Forsett merely inclined her head, disdaining to offer a curtsy. George visibly bristled. She was looking at him
as if he’d come to call reeking of the farmyard with straw in his hair.
“Sir Brian … madam,” he began portentously, “I am come with news that in happier circumstances would bring you comfort, but, alas, in prevailing circumstances I fear it can only bring you the utmost distress.” He waited for a response, and waited in vain. His hosts merely regarded him with an air of scant interest. He licked his dry lips and involuntarily loosened his stiffly starched cravat. He was parched, and no mention had been made of refreshment … not even a glass of wine.
“Juliana,” he tried again. “It concerns Juliana.”
“I rather assumed so,” Sir Brian said politely. “You seem a little warm, Sir George. I daresay you had a hot ride.”
“Devilish hot … oh, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” He flushed and tumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his brow.
“Maybe you’d like a glass of lemonade,” Amelia said distantly, reaching for the bell rope.
George cast Sir Brian an anguished look, and his host took pity on him. “I daresay the man would prefer a tankard of ale on such a hot afternoon.” He gave order to the footman who had appeared in answer to the summons, then turned back to George. “Am I to assume you’ve found Juliana, Sir George?”
“Oh, yes, yes, indeed, sir.” George stepped forward eagerly. Sir Brian stepped back. “But I found her in the most distressing circumstances.”
“She is in want?” Lady Forsett asked coldly.
“No … no, I don’t believe so, ma’am. But the truth is … well the truth is … not something for the lady’s ears, sir.” He turned with a significant nod to Sir Brian.
“I can assure you my ears aren’t so nice,” Amelia said. “Do, I pray you, get to the point.”
George took a deep breath and rushed headlong into his tale. His audience gave him all their attention, interrupting him only to press upon him a foaming tankard of ale. Lady Forsett took a seat on a delicate gilt chair and remained motionless, her hands clasped on her fan in her lap. Sir Brian tapped his mouth with a forefinger but other than that showed no emotion.
When George had reached the conclusion of his narrative and was thirstily drinking his ale, Sir Brian said, “Let me just clarify this, Sir George. You’re saying that Juliana is now Viscountess Edgecombe, lodged under the roof of the Duke of Redmayne?”
“Yes, sir.” George nodded vigorously, wiping a mustache of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
“Legally married?”
“Apparently so.”
“Then surely she’s to be congratulated.”
George looked confused. “She’s turned whore, sir. I thought I explained that.”
“But she’s respectably wed to a member of the peerage?” Sir Brian offered a puzzled frown. “I fail to see how the two states can coexist.”
George began to feel the ground slipping from beneath his feet. “She denies who she is,” he said. “She ignores me … looks straight through me.”
“I would never have credited her with so much sense,” Amelia murmured.
“Madam, she murdered her husband … my father.” George slammed his empty tankard onto a table.
“Not so hot, sir … not so hot,” Sir Brian advised. “There’s no need for a show of temper.”
“But I will have her brought to justice, I tell you.”
“By all means, you must do what seems best to you,” Sir Brian said calmly. “I wouldn’t stand in your way, my dear sir.”
George looked nonplussed. “But if she refuses to acknowledge her identity, and she has the duke’s protection, then it will be difficult for me to challenge her masquerade, and I must do that if I’m to lay charges against her. I need you to verify my identification,” he explained earnestly, as if his audience might have failed to grasp the obvious point.
Sir Brian’s eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. “My good sir, you cannot be suggesting I journey to London. I detest the place.”
“But how else are you to see her?” George stumbled.
“I have no intention of seeing her. If, indeed, she is so established, I would be doing her a grave disservice.”
“You won’t have her brought to justice?” George’s eyes popped.
“I find it difficult to believe that Juliana was responsible for your father’s death,” Sir Brian said consideringly. “It was, of course, a most unfortunate occurrence, but I can’t believe Juliana should be punished for it.”
“I will see her burned at the stake, sir.” George strode to the door. “With or without your assistance.”
“That is, of course, your prerogative,” Sir Brian said.
George turned at the door, his face crimson with rage and frustration. “And I will have my inheritance back, Sir Brian. Don’t think I don’t know why it suits you to let her go unchallenged.”
Sir Brian raised an eyebrow. “My dear sir, I do protest. You’ll be accusing me of ensuring her disappearance next.”
George went out, the door crashing shut behind him.
“Dear me, what a dreadful fellow,” Sir Brian declared in a bored tone.
Lady Forsett’s fan snapped beneath her fingers. “If he has found Juliana and it is as he says, then we cannot acknowledge her. Apart from the scandal over Sir John’s death, her present situation is disgraceful. She may be married, but it’s certain she took the whore’s way to the viscount’s bed, and you may be sure there’s something most irregular about the connection.”
“I doubt Juliana wishes to be acknowledged by us,” her husband observed with an arid smile. “I suggest we wish her the best of luck and wash our hands of the whole business.”
“But what if that oaf manages to bring her before the magistrates on such a charge?”
“Why, then, my dear, we simply repudiate her. She’s been out of our hands since her wedding day. We have no obligation either to help her or to hinder her, as I see it.”
“But if she is discovered, then either way you will lose control of her jointure.”
Sir Brian shrugged. “So be it. But you may be sure that while I have it, I am making the most of it, my dear. The trust is turning a handsome profit at present. And, besides,” he added with another humorless smile, “she may well be carrying a child. In which case her jointure will remain in my hands if she’s found guilty of her husband’s death. Her first husband’s death,” he amended. “She really has been remarkably busy. I must commend her industry. But, then, she always did have a surplus of energy.”
Amelia dismissed this pleasantry with an irritated wave. “The jointure will remain in your control only if the child can be proved to be Sir John’s.”
“How would they prove otherwise?”
“It would be a matter of dates,” Amelia pointed out. “The child must be born within nine months of Sir John’s death.”
“Quite so,” her husband agreed tranquilly. “Let us see what happens, shall we? If she is found and brought to justice, then we will simply wash our hands of her very publicly. But I trust that won’t happen. I really don’t wish Juliana injury, do you, my dear?”
Amelia considered this with a frown. “No,” she pronounced finally. “I don’t believe I do. She was always a dreadful nuisance, but so long as she doesn’t cause us any further inconvenience, she may marry a duke if she pleases, or go to the devil with my blessing.”
Her husband nodded. “Benign neglect is in everyone’s best interests, ma’am. Except, of course, Sir George’s.”
“Juliana will be a match for that fool,” pronounced Lady Forsett.
“And if she’s not, then we shall rethink our position.” Sir Brian strolled to the door. “I’ll be in my book room until dinner.”
His wife curtsied and rang the bell rope to tell the servants to air the morning room. The man’s pomade had been overpowering, almost worse than the stale sweat it was designed to mask.
Mistress Mitchell crouched closer to the wall, the upturned tumbler pressed to her ear. She could hardly believe what she was he
aring. The ungrateful hussies were complaining of their usage, of the terms of their employment, were exchanging stories of mistreatment, and now were proposing to set up against their protectors. They were talking of buying their own supplies of candles, wine, coal. Of having a joint fund to support them in need so they wouldn’t have to go into debt to their abbesses or whoremasters. It was unheard of. It was rebellion. And it was all coming from that sweet-tongued serpent that Elizabeth Dennison had placed with the Duke of Redmayne. She’d clearly got above herself since her removal to His Grace’s establishment. Didn’t she know she owed Mistress Dennison gratitude on her knees? But if she thought she could lead the others astray, then Miss Juliana, or whatever she called herself, was in for a nasty surprise. Indeed, they all were.
Mistress Mitchell forced herself to continue listening, resisting the urge to run immediately to her fellow bawds with the news of this traitorous meeting. She was glad of her restraint when she heard them plan to meet again. There was some discussion as to time and venue, its being agreed that they shouldn’t use the same place twice, in case they aroused suspicion. Mistress Mitchell snorted derisively at this. Whatever precautions they took, how could they possibly expect to carry off such a heinous scheme of treachery under the very noses of those who managed them?
She pressed closer to the wall as the murmur of voices grew more indistinct. Then she heard Mother Cocksedge mentioned. She smiled grimly. A most unpleasant surprise could be arranged if they met in Cocksedge’s house.
From the scrape of chair on floor, the rustle of skirts, the increased volume of their voices, it sounded as if they were preparing to break up the party, so she took her considerable bulk down the back stairs with creditable speed and was hovering in the taproom as they came tripping down in a chattering group.
“Had a good party, dearies?”
“Yes, thank you, Mistress Mitchell.” Deborah dropped a polite curtsy.
“And whose birthday was it?”
There was an infinitesimal silence; then Lilly said firmly, “Mine, ma’am. And I have to thank you kindly for your hospitality.”
