by Jane Feather
Releasing her chin, he poured hot water over her hair. Juliana snuffled, impatiently pushing aside the drenched mass of curls so she could see his face again. That same luminous glow was in his eyes despite the conviction of his threat. And for some reason she found the threat as pleasing as the glow. Satisfied, she bent her head beneath his strong fingers.
Juliana grimaced at the smell of the lye as he rubbed it vigorously into her tangled hair. It reminded her of sheep dip. It was even worse when he scrubbed her body with the washcloth, leaving not an inch of skin untouched. He was not rough, but very thorough, and when he soaped her breasts, she had to force herself not to flinch at their new tenderness.
Tarquin noticed the almost imperceptible wince. He wondered how long it would be before she told him of her pregnancy. Presumably it didn’t occur to her that he might have guessed for himself. There was something touchingly naive about the idea that she didn’t realize he was as attuned to her bodily cycles as she was. He smiled to himself but gave no indication of his thoughts; she would tell him in her own good time.
“I think you’re clean,” he announced finally. “No vermin that I could find. It’s to be hoped you weren’t in there long enough to catch an infection either. Step out.” He picked up a large towel.
Juliana stood still while he dried her as gently as if she were a china doll, attending to the most intimate parts of her body with a careful thoroughness that again was deliberately matter-of-fact. Finally he dropped her nightgown over her head.
“Now you may get into bed and tell me precisely what flight of fancy led to this latest debacle.”
“Flight of fancy! Is that what you call it?” Juliana, fatigue and confusion momentarily forgotten, glared, her damp hair flying about her face. “I try to help those women see a way to gain some power over their lives, and you call it a flight of fancy!” The contempt in her eyes scorched him. “There’s a world of slaves out there … slaves whose bodies you enjoy, of course, so it’s in your interests to keep them enslaved.”
She turned aside with a little gesture of defeat and climbed into bed. “You have no compassion, no soul, my lord duke. Just like the rest of your breed. If you would speak out … you and Lord Quentin, and others like you … then people would listen. If you insisted on fair treatment for the women whose bodies you use, then it would happen.” She dragged the covers over her and thumped onto her side, facing away from him.
Tarquin stared at the curve of her body beneath the coveriet. Absently, he raked a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of bewilderment. No one had ever spoken to him, looked at him, with such furious derision before. And instead of reacting with anger, he felt only dismay. A seventeen-year-old chit accused him of utter callousness in his way of life, his view of the world, and he was standing there wondering if she was right.
She was driving him to the edge of madness. When she wasn’t terrifying him with her crusading adventures, she was unraveling every neat thread in the tapestry of his life, forcing him to look and see things that had never troubled him before. More than a few of those revelations concerned himself and they were not comfortable.
He took a step toward the bed, then, with a bewildered shake of his head, left the chamber, softly closing the door behind him.
As the door closed, Juliana rolled onto her back. She gazed up at the flowered tester, her eyes fixed unseeing on a strand of ivy. She closed her lids on the tears that spilled over, telling herself she was crying only because she was fatigued. Because of reaction to what she’d endured.
Chapter 27
Mercy me, but I don’t know what the world’s coming to when you young things can get yourselves into this state.” Henny shook her head as she untied the bandages on Juliana’s ruined hands the following morning.
“How is Rosamund?” Juliana was feeling limp, filled with a deep and most unusual languor. She’d slept all day and all night and now couldn’t seem to drag herself fully awake. Rain drummed against the windowpane, and her chamber was candlelit, which didn’t help matters.
“She’ll do. Had a nasty shock, but she’s recoverin’ nicely. That Mistress Dennison came and took them both home.”
“Already?” Juliana winced as a strand of bandage stuck to an open cut. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
“You were sleeping, and His Grace gave order that you weren’t to be disturbed until you rang.” Henny dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. “When y’are dressed, he’d like to see you in the library. If you feel up to it, that is.” She bathed Juliana’s palms and patted them dry before applying fresh salve.
Juliana closed her heavy eyes, wondering if she could have unknowingly swallowed a sleeping draft. She could remember nothing after Tarquin had left her in yesterday’s morning sunshine. Who had informed Mistress Dennison that Lilly and Rosamund were here? Did she bear them a grudge? It would seem not, if they were received back into the fold so quickly. Tarquin would have the answers.
Depression slopped over her as she remembered how he’d left her in anger, without saying a word to her bitter accusations. She’d most effectively doused whatever warmth he’d been feeling toward her. She didn’t regret what she’d said, she’d meant every word of it, but now it seemed mean-spirited to have attacked him on the heels of his ministrations.
“I think ye’d be best off back in bed, dearie,” Henny clucked, deftly retying the bandages. “I’ll let His Grace know that y’are not ready to go downstairs.”
“No … no, of course I am.” Juliana forced her eyes open. She couldn’t avoid seeing him for long, and, besides, she wanted answers to her questions. “I’ll wash my face and drink some coffee, and then I’ll be wide-awake. It’s because it’s raining and so close in here.”
Henny tutted but made no further demur, and half an hour later Juliana surveyed herself dispiritedly in the cheval glass. Her hair was particularly unruly this morning, startlingly vivid against her face, which was even paler than usual. Her eyes seemed very large, dark shadows beneath them that she decided gave her a rather interesting look. Mysterious and haunted. The whimsical notion made her feel slightly more cheerful. Anyone less mysterious and haunted than her own ungainly, big-footed, clumsy self would be hard to find. But the pale-lavender muslin and her white-bandaged hands did give her a more delicate air than usual.
“Off you go, then. But don’t stay down too long. You’ll need to rest before dinner.”
“You’re so kind to me,” Juliana said. “No one ever took care of me before or worried about me.” Impulsively, she gave Henny a kiss that made the woman smile with pleasure as she shooed her away with a “Get along with you, now, m’lady.”
Juliana didn’t at first see Tarquin’s visitor as she entered the library, her questions tumbling from her lips even before she was through the door. “Was Mistress Dennison angry with Lilly and Rosamund, sir? How did she know they were here? Are you sure she won’t be unkind to them?”
“No. I told her. Yes,” Tarquin replied, rising from his chair. “Take a deep breath, mignonne, and make your curtsy to Mr. Bonnell Thornton.”
Juliana took a deep breath. To her amazement she saw that the duke was smiling, and the same warm light was still in his eyes. There was no sign of the chill she’d been expecting.
“Juliana?” he prompted, gesturing to his companion, when she didn’t immediately move forward.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you at first.” Juliana recollected herself and curtsied to the tall, lean gentleman in an astonishing pink satin suit.
“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ma’am.” The gentleman bowed. “His Grace has told me all about your misadventures and their cause.”
Juliana looked inquiringly toward Tarquin, unsure how to take this. He handed her a broadsheet. “Read this, and you may begin to understand that you’re not the only champion of the cause, Juliana.”
She had not come across the Drury Lane Journal before. Its subtitle, Have at Ye became clear as
soon as she began to read. It was a scurrilous, gossipy journal, full of innuendo and supposedly truthful accounts of scandalous exploits among the members of London’s fashionable and political world. It was also wickedly amusing. But Juliana was puzzled as to what Tarquin had meant. She skimmed through reviews and critiques of plays and operas and then looked up. “It’s very amusing, sir, but I don’t see …”
“In the center you’ll find an article by one Roxanna Termagant,” Mr. Thornton pointed out.
She went back and found the column. Her lips parted on a soundless O. Miss Termagant had given a precise description of the so-called riot at Cocksedge’s, directly accusing both Mitchell and Cocksedge of orchestrating the riot and the subsequent raid in order to achieve the arrest of four women—one of whom was no whore but the wife of a viscount. The account was followed by an impassioned castigation of the authorities, who’d allowed themselves to serve the devious purposes of the bawds and had imprisoned innocent women who’d merely been gathering for a peaceful discussion on how to improve their working and living conditions.
“Who is this lady?”
Mr. Thornton bowed with a flourish. “You see her before you, ma’am.” He grinned mischievously.
Maybe it explained the pink satin. However, she was still confused. “My lord duke told you all of this?”
“It’s not an unusual story, my lady. Any attempt by the women to demand basic rights of their so-called employers is always defeated. However”—he took the paper from her, tapping it against the palm of his hand—“we can make life uncomfortable for them with public ridicule and public outrage. Unfortunately, it’s difficult for me to find out about all the horrors that go on. I didn’t know about the case of Miss Lucy Tibbet, for instance. So I have a proposition for you, Lady Edgecombe.”
Juliana perched on the arm of the sofa. She glanced at Tarquin, who was leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled against his mouth, his eyes resting on her face. “Not all members of our society close our eyes to injustice, mignonne. Mr. Thornton has a powerful voice in Covent Garden. I believe his methods are more effective than inciting harlots to rebellion and landing yourself in Bridewell.”
“So you … you want to help too?” she asked with a doubtful frown. It seemed impossible to believe, but what else could he mean?
“Let’s just say you’ve opened my eyes,” he said wryly.
Juliana was so taken aback, she wasn’t aware for a moment that Mr. Thornton had begun to talk again. He coughed pointedly to attract her attention and continued. “As I was saying, Lady Edgecombe, I understand you have friends in the Garden. Women who are in a position to know what goes on. If you can encourage them to confide in you, then I will have the material to make war.”
“Act as a spy, you mean?”
“An informant,” Tarquin said.
“I will also hold whatever funds you’re able to collect,” Mr. Thornton went on, “and take responsibility for disbursing them to those women in need. Their employers may quarrel with my apparent philanthropy, but they’ll have no excuse to be avenged upon the women, so no one need fear reprisals.” Mr. Thornton nodded his head decisively.
“I prefer to be doing things,” Juliana said. “Just telling tales seems a little pathetic.”
“But when you do things, Juliana, you fall head over heels into trouble,” the duke pointed out. Bonnell Thornton chuckled, and Juliana flushed but didn’t attempt to deny the truth.
“Your fault, mignonne, lies in overestimating your abilities to change the world,” continued Tarquin. “You can’t do it without assistance.”
“That’s what I said yesterday.”
“And as you see, I took it to heart.”
“Yes,” she agreed slowly. It was still hard to believe her words could have had such an effect. She turned back to Bonnell Thornton. “Well, if you think this will work, Mr. Thornton, then of course I’ll help however I can.”
“Good. You will see that we can make a difference little by little…. Well, I’ll take my leave now. Your Grace …” He bowed to the duke, who rose politely and escorted him to the door. Juliana curtsied as the visitor took her bandaged hand gently and lightly kissed her fingertips. “Good day, Lady Edgecombe. I look forward to our association.”
Tarquin closed the door after him, then turned back to Juliana. “I know you think it poor work, my dear, but believe me, it’s the best you can do.”
Juliana was not too sure about that. She could think of many ways in which she could become more actively involved in Mr. Bonnell Thornton’s activities. But it would not be politic to mention them at this point. “I can’t do Mr. Thornton’s work without visiting my friends,” she pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, strolling to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. “But you won’t forget to take Ted with you, will you?”
Juliana shook her head. “Why have you changed your mind?”
He set down the decanter and came across to her. Cupping her face between his hands, he brushed her eyelids with his lips. “You work the strangest magic, mignonne. I believe if you put your mind to it, you could melt a heart of marble.” He ran his thumb over her mouth, his smile rueful. “I can’t say I enjoy being the target of your reforming zeal.” He kissed her as she was still searching for a response. “Go back upstairs now. You look exhausted.”
She was suddenly feeling both queasy and overwhelmingly sleepy. Her brain couldn’t get around his words. Were they really a declaration of some kind? A promise of some kind? She tried to find a response, but there was something in his eyes that told her he didn’t want her to say anything. His hands on her shoulders were turning her toward the door. “Go to Henny, Juliana.” And she went without a word.
She lay back on the chaise longue beneath the bedroom window while Henny took off her shoes and unlaced her bodice. Her hand drifted to her belly. This child would know only a guardian and an uncle. He would never know a father. All the loving tenderness in the world couldn’t soften that fact. And once Tarquin knew she was carrying his child, it would no longer be exclusively hers, even in her womb. How long could she keep it to herself?
• • •
“Henny says Juliana can’t seem to wake up today.” Quentin sounded worried as he stood before the library fire, lit against the damp chill of the rainy day. “Could she have suffered more than we saw?”
“I don’t believe so.” Tarquin sipped his port. “I believe there’s something else behind it.”
“What?” Quentin reached for his own glass on the mantel.
Tarquin yawned. “It’s for Juliana to say. I daresay she’ll tell me in her own good time.” He stretched his legs to the fire. “There are times when an evening at home is most delightful.”
“Particularly listening to that.” Quentin gestured to the window where the rain drummed monotonously. “It’s a foul night to be abroad.”
“Yes, and the thought that my troublesome mignonne is tucked up safely in her bed is very comforting.” Tarquin yawned again.
Quentin looked into his glass. “Will you hide this liaison from Lydia when she’s your wife?” His voice was stiff, his eyes strained.
Tarquin looked up, the sleepy indolence vanishing from his eyes. “What do you mean, Quentin?”
“What do you think I mean?” Quentin jumped to his feet. The agony of his frustration was suddenly no longer bearable. “You will have both Juliana and Lydia under your roof. Will you conceal your true relationship with Juliana from Lydia?”
Tarquin stared at him in astonishment. Quentin’s face was pale, his lips bloodless.
“I cannot endure it, Tarquin! I cannot endure that you would treat Lydia in such fashion. I love her, God help me. And I will not stand by and watch you ruin both our fives.” His hands twisted themselves into impossible knots, his gray eyes burning holes in his white face.
“You … you and Lydia!” Tarquin stuttered. “You and Lydia?”
“Yes.”
“Lydia …
Lydia knows how you feel?” He still couldn’t seem to grasp this. “Yes.”
“And … and does she return your feelings?”
Quentin nodded.
“Dear God!” Tarquin ran a hand through his hair. “You and Lydia love each other? I know you’ve always had a special regard for her, but …”
“Sometimes, Tarquin, you are so damned blind you can’t see the nose on your face!” Quentin declared, feeling suddenly purged, as if a great load had been taken from him. “It took Juliana five minutes to see—”
“Juliana!” Now he remembered her hints. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he muttered.
“I will not stand by and see you insult Lydia by keeping your mistress under the same roof” Quentin reiterated, his voice now strong.
Tarquin said nothing, merely stared into the fire. He was realizing that he couldn’t imagine insulting Juliana in such fashion either. What in the devil’s name was happening to him?
“Do you hear me, Tarquin?”
He looked up and shook his head with a half laugh of disbelieving resignation. “Oh, yes, I hear you, brother. As clearly as I hear myself.”
Quentin waited for more, but his brother turned back to the fire, twisting his port glass between his fingers. It was as if he’d put up a wall around himself. The silence lengthened and finally Quentin left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Nothing had been resolved, but he’d made his statement. The truth was in the open, and instead of feeling bad about it, he felt only an overpowering relief.
Tarquin remained immobile for a long time. Eventually he rose and refilled his port glass. His eye fell on the miniature of Lydia Melton on the mantel. Grave, composed, dignified. The perfect wife for a bishop.
Suddenly he laughed aloud. How very simple it all was if one looked at the world through Juliana’s eyes.
He was still chuckling to himself when there was a knock at the door and Catlett entered with a note on a silver salver. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a messenger has just brought this. He says it’s of the utmost urgency.”
