Vice (49 page)

“At dead of night. We go into her room. We overpower her while she’s sleeping and we carry her out of there.” George spoke with the flat, assertive confidence of a committed man. “You’ll know where her room is. And you’ll know how to get undetected into the house.”

“What makes you think I can perform such miracles?” Lucien inquired with a lifted eyebrow.

“I know you can,” George responded stubbornly. “You lived in the house. You probably have a key.”

Lucien resumed the gentle tugging of his earlobe. He
did
have a key to the side door, as it happened. He’d had one copied several years earlier when he’d still been a lad. Tarquin had been an exasperatingly strict and watchful guardian, and Lucien had had frequent resort to subterfuge to evade both the duke’s rules and his guard.

“Perhaps I do,” he conceded after a minute. “Getting in might not be too difficult, but getting out again, with that red-haired virago screeching and fighting, is a different matter.”

“She won’t make any noise,” George asserted in the same tone.

“Oh?” Lucien inclined his head inquiringly.

“I’ll make sure of it.”

Lucien examined his expression for a minute, then slowly nodded. “I believe you will. I almost feel sorry for my lady wife. I wonder what could have happened to arouse such vicious urgency in your breast, dear fellow.”
He waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. Ridge’s reticence increased his curiosity a hundredfold, but he was prepared to bide his time. “There’s one other small difficulty,” he continued in a musing tone. “My estimable cousin has the chamber next door to our quarry. I daresay he finds the proximity convenient.”

“You know for a fact that Juliana is his mistress?” George’s voice was thick. He knew it, but he wanted it confirmed.

“Why else would my cousin take such an interest in the wench?” Lucien shrugged. “I’ve never known him to take a woman under his roof before, either. I suspect he’ll be most disconcerted to lose her.” He grinned. “I think I can contrive to lure my cousin from the house tomorrow. It would be best if he was elsewhere while we’re abducting his doxy…. Ah, at last … Dick with the cup that cheers. We will drink a toast to this enterprise. Set it down there, man. No need to pour it. I’ve strength enough for that.”

George took the smudged glass handed to him by his host. He drank, his eyes for the moment turned inward on his vengeance. He was a man in the grip of madness. The Duke of Redmayne had unleashed demons when he’d set out to subdue Sir George Ridge.

The duke reined in his horses outside the house on Albermarle Street. Ted appeared as if by a wizard’s conjuring, running down the steps lightly for such a big man. He’d heard the coachman’s story, as had the rest of the household, and now glared at Juliana, as if personally insulted by her grim adventure.

“Take the horses, Ted.” Tarquin sprang down, reaching up a hand to assist Juliana, then Lilly. He took Rosamund from Quentin so that his brother could alight unencumbered, then handed the still-limp figure back to Quentin and strode ahead of the party into the house.

“Catlett, summon the housekeeper and have these two
young women escorted to a bedchamber. Send a maid to attend them. And ask Henny to come to Lady Edgecombe’s apartment immediately.”

“Oh, no!” Juliana exclaimed. “No … I have no need of Henny. She must look to Rosamund. Truly I can look after myself, but Rosamund has need of expert care.”

He took her hands, turning them palm up. “You can do nothing for yourself with your hands in this condition. If you won’t have Henny, then
I
will attend to you.”

“There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, sir.” Her voice was stiff. “I have no need of a nurse.”

Impatience flared in his eyes. He drew a sharp breath and said, “You will have either Henny or myself to attend to you. Take your pick.”

“You, then,” she replied dully, seeing no option. Rosamund needed all Henny’s skills.

“Very well.” He nodded briefly, then turned back to Catlett. “I want a bath, hot water, salve, bandages, and lye soap taken up to Lady Edgecombe’s apartment immediately…. Quentin, you’ll see the other two installed?”

“Of course.”

“Come, Juliana.” The duke took her wrist in a firm encircling grip and set foot on the stairs. Juliana followed him up willy-nilly.

Her bedchamber was filled with sunlight; the bowls of roses were replenished daily, and the air was heavy with their scent. The sight of the bed with its crisp, lavender-fragrant sheets, the downy invitation of the feather bed and plump pillows, drew her toward it as the nightmare images of Bridewell became smudged by the familiar comforts of home.

Home.
This was home? It felt like home. Her own place. The duke’s voice broke into her train of thought.

“Bed will have to wait, Juliana. There’s no knowing what you might have picked up in that filthy hole. Vermin, infection …”

“Vermin?” Her hands flew to her tangled hair, her eyes widening in disgust. That was why he’d ordered lye.

“Stand still. I don’t want to touch your clothes any more than I must, so I’m going to cut them off you.” He went to the dresser for the pair of scissors Henny kept to make minor repairs or adjustments to Juliana’s wardrobe.

Juliana stood rigid, shuddering with disgust. She remembered the woman Maggie touching her dress, tearing Rosamund’s fichu, her gnarled, filthy, bleeding hands sullying as they clawed and fondled. A wave of nausea rose violent and abrupt in her throat. With an inarticulate mutter she pushed Tarquin aside as he approached with the scissors, and dived for the commode.

Tarquin put down the scissors and went over to her. His hand was warm on her neck, soothing as he rubbed her back. Distantly he realized that if anyone had told him a few weeks ago that he wouldn’t think twice about ministering to a vomiting woman, he’d have laughed. But that was before Juliana had swept into his life.

“I beg your pardon,” she gasped as the spasms ceased. “I don’t know what came over me.” She envied Rosamund Henny’s calm, attentive presence. Vomiting in front of a man, even one’s lover—especially one’s lover—was a wretched mortification, and she cringed at the thought of what he must be thinking. But his hand on her back just then had been ineffably comforting.

“There’s no need for pardon,” Tarquin said gently, dampening a washcloth with water from the ewer. He wiped her mouth and brow, attentively matter-of-fact, and when she searched his face, she could see no inkling of his earlier rage. There was a rather puzzled frown in his eyes, but his mouth was relaxed. He tossed aside the cloth, picked up the scissors, and swiftly cut the laces of her bodice.

She was naked in a very few minutes, his hands moving with deft efficiency, cutting away her petticoats, her chemise, slicing through her garters. She rolled down her stockings herself, tossing them onto the heap of discarded clothing. Then she stood, awkward and uncertain, wishing for Henny, not knowing where to put her hands, wanting
absurdly to cover herself with her hands, as if she’d never shared glorious intimacies with this man; as if he hadn’t touched and probed every inch of her skin, every orifice of her body; as if his tongue hadn’t tasted her essence; as if his hard, pursuing flesh hadn’t taken and possessed her fragility; as if she hadn’t, in yielding the ultimate secrets of her body, possessed his.

His gaze was not in the least desirous; in fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to be matter-of-fact about the whole business. But that made things all the more confusing. How she wanted Henny. A woman; a nursemaid. Someone whose attentions would be straightforward and uncomplicated, and she could receive them in the same way.

A bang at the door yanked her out of her reverie. She looked in panic at Tarquin, who merely handed her a wrapper and gestured toward the shadows of the bed curtains at the head of the bed. Juliana retreated, drawing the folds of the muslin wrapper tightly around her, listening as two footmen labored with a porcelain hip bath, copper jugs of steaming water; a maid followed with bandages, salve, the pungent lye soap, a heap of thick towels.

No one spoke. No one glanced toward Juliana’s retreat. The duke remained perched on the windowsill, arms folded, watching the preparations. Then the entourage withdrew, the door was closed. Juliana stepped forward.

“I’ll bandage your hands first.” He poured hot water into the basin on the dresser.

“How can I wash myself with bandaged hands?” Juliana objected.

“You aren’t going to,
mignonne.
I am doing the washing.” A flickering smile played over his mouth, reminding her vividly of the last time they’d made love, when he’d looked down at her, looked into her very soul, with so much wonder and warmth. Where had his anger gone? Juliana was plunged anew into the chaos of bewilderment. What
was
he feeling?

He gestured to the dresser stool. “Sit down and give me
your hands.” As deft and gentle as an expert nurse, he bathed the raw strips of flesh, smoothed on salve, then wrapped around bandages, tearing the material at the ends to make a knot. He was as surprised as Juliana at this newfound skill, and his smile deepened with an unlooked for pleasure and satisfaction.

Juliana nibbled her bottom hp. “Were you concerned for me when you heard where I was?” The question was tentative, and it was only as she asked it that she realized she hadn’t intended to.

“Sit in the tub,” he responded. “Keep your hands well clear of the water.”

“But were you?” she persisted, one foot raised to step into the hip bath. Suddenly the question was more important than any she’d ever asked.

“I wouldn’t leave my worst enemy in such a place,” he said flippantly. “Are you going to sit down of your own accord?”

Juliana hastily slipped into the water. It was not a satisfactory answer. She stared down at the water.

Tarquin caught her chin, bringing her face up. “I have never been more concerned in my life,” he stated flatly, both expression and tone now devoid of flippancy. “You frightened the living daylights out of me, Juliana. And if you ever scare me like that again, I can safely promise that you will rue the day you were born.”

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.