by Jane Feather
A gray dawn broke, the sky weeping a thin drizzle. They rattled into the yard of the Red Lion at Winchester, the horses drooping. The coachman had driven them hard, a substantial bonus resting on achieving the seventy miles to Winchester in seven hours. Twice the speed of a stagecoach. George stuck his head through the window.
“Change the horses. We’ll not stop for more than that.”
“Flask is empty,” Lucien muttered through clenched teeth. “Get it filled.” He leaned to open the door and was seized with another paroxysm, doubling over, the reddening handkerchief pressed to his mouth.
“Here, give it to me.” Impatiently, George snatched the flask from his Ump grasp. He left the carriage and hurried across the yard to the taproom. “Fill this, and give me three extra bottles.” At the rate Lucien was drinking, he reckoned that three bottles should last for the rest of the day.
He returned to the chaise, returned to his watch on Juliana. He couldn’t understand why she hadn’t regained consciousness. She was breathing. Her face was deathly white, it was true, but her complexion was always milky pale against the vivid name of her hair. He leaned over her, touched her cheek. Her skin was reassuringly warm.
Juliana knew that she couldn’t keep up the pretense for much longer. Her muscles screamed for relief, and worst of all, she had a pressing need for the privy. How she would express the need with the gag in her mouth she didn’t know, but if they didn’t stop soon, she was going to have to make some effort to communicate. She’d been given no clues to their destination during the changes, but she guessed from the length of the journey, and from what she knew of George, that he was taking her back to his house. To the scene of the crime. Was he going to haul her before the magistrates immediately? Or did he have a more devious plan? The chaise jolted violently in a pothole, and her discomfort magnified. She closed her mind to it, forcing herself to remember, room by room, the physical plan of the house. To envisage the windows, the doors, the outbuildings, the lane that ran behind the stables.
The chaise turned up the drive to the Ridges’ squat redbrick house and came to a halt before the front door. George jumped down, reached in for Juliana, and dragged her out feet first. Her head bumped on the floor, and she opened her eyes.
“Ah, my sleeping beauty, that woke you,” he said with satisfaction, toppling her forward over his shoulder again. “We’re going to amuse each other, I believe.” He carried her up to the door. It opened as he reached it. An elderly housekeeper curtsied, her eyes startled.
“Eh, Sir George, we wasn’t expectin’ ye.”
He merely grunted and pushed past her. Lucien followed, hunched over the deep, deep chill in his body, teeth chattering, limbs trembling.
“See to my guest, Dolly,” George ordered as he strode to the stairs. “The man needs fire, hot water, bed.”
“Cognac,” Lucien declared feebly, raising the flask to his lips.
The woman stared at him in horror. She knew when she looked upon the dying. “This a-way sir.” She took his arm, but he shook off her hand with a curse.
“Just bring me cognac and hot water, woman.” He stumbled into a room to the side of the hall, handkerchief pressed to his mouth as the bloody phlegm was dredged from his lungs.
Juliana, listening to this, felt a smidgeon of hope. Lucien was clearly too ill to be capable of serious violence. That left only George. But trussed up as she was, George was quite enough to deal with.
George kicked open a door at the head of the stairs and threw Juliana down onto the bed. “Remember this room, my dear? Your wedding chamber.” He pulled the cloak loose, flinging her onto her belly as he dragged it away from her.
Juliana was conscious of her shift riding up on her thighs, the air cool on the backs of her legs. With a jerk she twisted onto her back, trying to push down her shift with her bound and bandaged hands.
George chuckled and twitched it up again. “I like it just the way it was.”
She moved her hands to her mouth, trying to pluck at the gag, her eyes signaling frantically. At this point she had only one thing on her mind.
“Want to say something?” He smiled. “You’ll be doing a lot of talking soon, my dear stepmother. You’ll be giving me a full confession of murder. You’ll write it out for me, and then we’ll visit the magistrates, and you’ll be able to tell them all about it, too.”
Juliana heaved her legs over the side of the bed and kicked her feet backward under the bed, trying to locate the chamber pot. George looked puzzled for a minute; then he smiled again.
“Ah, I understand. Allow me to help you.” Bending, he pulled the pot out and pushed it with his foot into the middle of the chamber. “There,” he said solicitously. “I trust you can manage. I’ll be back when I’ve breakfasted.”
Juliana’s eyes spat green fire. But at least he’d left her to struggle alone. And her hands were tied in front rather than behind. There was always something to be thankful for, she thought wryly, standing up and hopping across to the chamber pot.
She managed somehow, and with little shuffles also managed to push the pot back beneath the bed; then she hopped over to the windowsill and took stock. The gag was so tight in her mouth, she couldn’t work it loose with her fingers and, with her wrists tied, couldn’t get at the knot behind her head. The strips of silk stocking were tight, and she couldn’t slip her bandaged hands free.
Her eyes roamed around the room, saw Sir John’s razor strop hanging on the wall by the washstand. Where there was a strop, there was usually a razor. She hopped to the washstand. The straight blade lay beside the ewer and basin, waiting for Sir John, as it had every morning of his adult life. No one had touched the room since his death.
Gingerly, she picked up the blade with her fingertips and tried to balance it on its edge, the cutting blade uppermost. She slid her hands forward until the silk at her wrists was directly over the blade, then sawed the material against the edge. It was blunt, in need of the strop, but she was too impatient now to attempt to sharpen it. It fell over. Carefully, she rebalanced it, holding it steady with the tension of the silk. Began again. Little by little the thin, strong silk began to fray. Twice the blade fell over when the tension of the silk lessened. Patiently, she replaced it, her heart thudding, ears strained to catch the sound of a footstep outside, the creak of a floorboard. Her throat hurt so badly, she wasn’t sure she would be able to talk even if she weren’t gagged. Then the material parted, the razor clattered to the washstand.
Juliana shook out her wrists, cramps running up her arms, clawing her fingers. Then she struggled with the gag and freed her mouth. Wool stuck to her tongue and her lips, reminding her vividly of Ted’s ruthless lesson in the dangers of the London streets. Sleeping in one’s bed seemed to be as hazardous as anything else, she thought, slashing the razor through the bonds at her ankles.
She was free. Her hurts were forgotten under a rush of exhilaration. She had heard George turn the key in the lock of the door as he’d left. She ran to the window. It was a long drop to the soft earth of a flower bed beneath. But the ivy was strong. Or looked it, at least. Whether it would bear her weight remained to be seen. There was no other option.
She pushed up the casement. The wind blew cold and wet, pressing her thin shift against her body, but she ignored it. Twisting sideways, she dropped from the window-sill, gripping the edge with her fingers, ignoring the pain in her torn palms. Her feet scrabbled for purchase in the ivy. Found a toehold of brick. Heart in her mouth, she let go of the sill with one hand, moved it down to clutch at the creeper. It held. She brought the other hand down, and now her entire weight was supported by the ivy and the toehold. Hand over hand she inched downward, feeling the creeper pull away from the wall. But each time she managed to move her hands and feet to another site before the vine gave way.
She was concentrating so hard on her hazardous climb, she didn’t hear the pounding feet in the room above. But she heard George’s wild bellow. Looked up, saw his face suffused with ra
ge, staring down at her. She let go and dropped the last ten feet to the soil. She landed awkwardly, twisting her ankle. For a fateful minute or two she sat in the soil, gasping with pain. Then she heard George’s bellow again, knew he was running downstairs, would appear out of the kitchen door. She was up and running through the drizzle, ignoring the pain of her ankle, making for the driveway around the house. Instinctively seeking somewhere out in the open, where there might be other eyes to witness.
She could hear George behind her now, hear his heavy, panting breath, imagined she could almost feel it on the back of her neck. In ordinary circumstances she could have outstripped him easily. But she was barefoot and the gravel was sharp. Her ankle turned with each step, bringing tears to her eyes. She rounded the side of the house. The gravel drive stretched ahead to the lane. If she could make it to the lane, maybe there’d be a carter passing, a farm laborer … someone … anyone.
George ate up the distance between them. His breath raged in his heaving chest, his great belly jounced, his massive hands were in fists, but he was gaining on her. She was slowing, her feet troubling her. He reached out, seized the hem of her shift, hauled her backward as she fought, kicked, scratched, hair swinging wildly.
Somehow she wrenched herself free, hearing the thin material of her shift rip as she hurled herself forward, toward the gate to the lane … so close … three more steps …
George’s breath was on the back of her neck, his hands reaching for her. The sound of iron wheels on the lane, jouncing over the rough pebbled surface … With the last gasp of breath Juliana leaped into the lane, in front of a hay wagon.
The driver pulled back on the reins, staring in disbelief at the frantic figure in the path of his shire horses.
“Please …” Juliana struggled for sufficient breath to speak. “Please … help me … I—”
She got no further. George had seized her from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth, twisting her hair around his other hand, holding her head still. His voice was calm, sensible. Not his voice at all as he explained to the astounded farm laborer that she was deranged, was kept confined for her own safety. That she’d escaped from her chamber by attacking the servant who’d brought her food. That she was violent and dangerous.
The laborer looked at the half-naked, wild-haired, frantic figure struggling in the hands of a man who was clearly in full possession of his senses, who spoke so rationally, with such assurance. The girl gazed at him with desperate, almost feral, eyes, and he shuddered, muttering a prayer, averting his eyes from the danger of a lunatic’s stare. He shook the reins urgently as George pulled the madwoman aside, and drove off, urging the horses to greater speed.
Juliana bit deep into George’s palm. He bellowed and slammed his flat palm against the side of her head, dazing her. Then he hoisted her over his shoulder before the ringing in her ears had subsided and carried her back to the house.
Lucien stumbled out of the drawing room, glass in hand, as the front door shivered behind George’s kick. “Good God,” he slurred. “Now what?”
“Thought she could escape … tricky bitch,” George declared. He pushed past Lucien into the drawing room and threw Juliana into a chair.
She lay still, slumped into the cushioned depths, her head numb with shock and the stinging pain of the blow. For the moment she was defeated.
George poured himself a measure of cognac, downed it, and poured another. “The sooner she’s locked up in Winchester jail, the better.” He drained the second glass. “Let’s go”
“Go where?” Lucien lounged against the door frame. His eyes burned with fever, tremors racked his body, and he clutched the cognac glass as if it were his only connection with life.
“To the Forsetts,” George said, throwing his glass down. “They’ll identify this whore before a magistrate, and you’ll identify her as your wife and say how and when she became so. They’ll arraign her and lock her up. And then …” He wiped his mouth slowly, lasciviously, with the back of his hand. “And then … my dear stepmother … I shall pay you some visits in your cell.”
Juliana still said nothing. She was drained of physical strength and knew she couldn’t get away from George again. Not here … not now. Maybe the Forsetts would offer her protection. But she knew that was a fond hope. They wouldn’t want to be touched by any scandal created by the ward they’d thoroughly disliked and resented. They’d repudiate her as soon as look at her.
“Come, Edgecombe,” George said brusquely. “We’ll ride. I’ll take the whore up with me.”
Lucien shook his head, opened his mouth to speak, and was promptly engulfed in a coughing spasm worse than any Juliana had witnessed. When he could speak, he gasped, “Can’t possibly, dear boy. Couldn’t sit a horse like this. Stay here … rest a bit … you go about your business.” He gulped at the cognac.
“Oh, no,” George said with soft fervor. “You’re coming, Edgecombe. I need you. You won’t see a penny of that money until you’ve done what I need you to do.”
Lucien stared at him, the realization in his eyes that he couldn’t withstand this man … this oaf whom he’d despised and thought he was using for his own revenge. Lucien wasn’t using Ridge, Lucien was being used, and George now carried himself with all the cold, calculating assertion of a man possessed.
George took a menacing step toward him, his great hands bunched into fists. Lucien shrank back, all the strength of his own malice dissolved in the face of this threat, leaving him as weak and timid as any coward facing a bully.
“All right,” he croaked, pressing the bloodstained kerchief to his mouth. “All right, I’ll come.”
George nodded brusquely and turned back to Juliana’s slumped figure. She’d closed her eyes as the easiest way to absent herself from what was happening. He hauled her to her feet and grasped her chin, his other hand again twisting in her hair. “You don’t want to be hurt, do you, my dear?”
She shook her head, still keeping her eyes closed.
“Then you’ll do as I bid you, won’t you?”
She nodded, then felt his mouth on hers, hard, bruising, vile, pressing her lips against her teeth. He forced his tongue into her mouth so she could taste the stale sourness of his brandy breath. She gagged and went suddenly limp.
George drew back and looked down into the white, closed face. He was holding her up by her hair as she sagged against him. He smiled. “Not quite so full of yourself now, Lady Edgecombe?” he taunted. “And when you’ve spent a week or so in a jail cell …” He chuckled and spun her to face the door. “Let’s go.”
In the hall he paused to pull a heavy riding cloak from a hook on the wall and swathed Juliana in its thick and musty folds. She walked as if in a trance as he pushed her ahead of him out of the house and to the stables, Lucien stumbling behind. The wind still blew cold and damp from the sea, and Juliana was pathetically grateful for the cloak, even though she knew it had been provided not to lessen her miseries but to avoid drawing attention to her. Lucien shivered and shook, and it seemed he had no strength left even to cough.
A groom brought two horses from the stables, saddled them, looking curiously at the trio but knowing better than to say anything in front of his master. He assisted Lucien to mount. Lucien slumped in the saddle like a sack of potatoes, feebly grasping the reins, his head drooping.
George lifted Juliana onto his horse and mounted behind her, holding her securely against him as he gathered up the reins. Juliana tried to hold herself away from the hot, sweaty, triumphant maleness of his body, but he jerked her closer and she yielded before he did anything worse.
They trotted out of the yard and took the road to Forsett Towers.
Tarquin drew up in the yard of the Rose and Crown in Winchester. Quentin stepped out of the phaeton, stretching his cramped, chilled limbs in the damp morning air. “Where to now?”
Tarquin turned from giving the ostler instructions to change the hones. “I’m not certain. Let’s break our fast and make some inquiries.�
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Quentin followed him into the inn. In a few minutes they were ensconced in a private parlor, a maid setting light to the kindling in the hearth.
“A drop of porter for the cold, my lord?” the innkeeper suggested, casting a critical eye around the wainscoted room, checking for tarnished copper, smudged window-panes, a smear of dust.
“If you please.” Tarquin peeled off his gloves. “And coffee, sirloin, and eggs.” He strode to the window, peering down into the street. “Where is the nearest magistrate?”
“On Castle Street, my lord.”
“Send a lad to me. I need someone to run an errand.”
The landlord bowed himself out.
“So?” Quentin leaned over the new flame, rubbing his hands. Rain dripped off his sodden cloak.
“So we discover if Ridge took her straightway to the magistrate,” Tarquin said succinctly, discarding his own dripping cloak. “Ah, thank you.” He nodded at the girl who placed two pewter tankards of porter on the table.
“Ye be wantin’ an errand run, sir?” A cheerful voice spoke from the doorway, where stood a rosy-cheeked lad in a leather apron, spiky hair resisting the discipline of water and brush.
Tarquin gave him brisk instructions. He was to go to the magistrate and discover if a woman had been brought before him in the last few hours.
“And if not?” Quentin took a grateful draft of porter.
“Then we assume he took her to his own house.”
“And if not?” Quentin tossed his own cloak onto a settle, where it steamed gently in the fire’s heat.
“Forsett Towers.” Tarquin drank from his own tankard. His voice was flat. “If I’m wrong, then … I don’t know.” He shrugged, but the careless gesture did nothing to conceal his bone-deep anxiety.
Breakfast arrived and they ate in silence, each distracted with his own thoughts. The lad returned. The magistrate had not yet left his bed and had spent an undisturbed night.
Tarquin nodded, gave him a coin, and summoned the landlord. “D’ye know the Ridge estate?”
