Chapter 17

It was three o'clock in the morning when Tarquin returned home. He nodded at the night porter, who let him in, and headed for the stairs. The man shot the bolts again and returned to his cubbyhole beneath the stairs.

The duke strode into his own apartments, shrugging off his gold brocade coat. His sleepy valet jumped up from his chair by the empty fireplace and tried to stifle a yawn.

"Good evening, Your Grace." He hastened to take the coat from his employer, shaking it out before hanging it in the armoire. "I trust you had a pleasant evening."

"Pleasant enough, thank you." Tarquin glanced toward the armoire with its concealed door, wondering if Juliana was awake. Presumably she'd retired hours ago. His valet tenderly helped him out of his clothes and handed him a chamber robe. The duke sat at his dresser, filing his nails, while the man moved around the room, putting away the clothes, drawing back the bed curtains, turning down the bed.

"Will that be all, Your Grace?"

The duke nodded and dismissed him to his bed. Then he stepped through the door in the wardrobe and softly entered the next-door chamber. The bed was unslept in.

Henny snored softly on the chaise longue. Of Juliana there was no sign.

"Where the devil-"

"Oh, lordy me, sir!" Henny jumped to her feet at the sound of his voice. Her faded blue eyes were filmed with sleep. "You did give me a start." She patted her chest with a rapid fluttering hand.

"Where's Juliana?" His voice was sharp, abrupt.

"Why, I don't know, Your Grace. I understand she went out with Lord Edgecombe. They haven't returned as yet. But His Lordship is never one to seek his bed before dawn," she added, smoothing down her apron and tucking an escaping strand of gray hair back under her cap.

Tarquin's initial reaction was fury, mingled immediately with apprehension. Juliana could have no idea where and how Lucien took his pleasures. She was far too innocent of the urban world even to imagine such things. It was that very innocence that he'd believed would make her a compliant tool in his scheme. And now it was the same innocence combined with that defiant spirit that was leading her into the horrors of Lucien's world. Perhaps he'd erred in his choice. Perhaps he should have involved a woman who knew her way around the world, who would have entered a business contract with her eyes open. But such a woman would not have been virgin. And a whore could not be the mother of the heir to Edgecombe.

But he'd made his choice and was stuck with the consequences. He'd assumed he'd be able to put a stop to her mischief with Lucien, but he hadn't expected her to move so fast. He would learn the lesson well.

"Is everything all right, Your Grace?" Henny sounded troubled, a deep frown drawing her sparse eyebrows together, as she examined the duke's livid countenance. "If I did wrong-"

"My good woman, of course you didn't," he interrupted brusquely. "Lady Edgecombe is not in your charge. Take yourself to bed now. She won't need you tonight."

Henny looked a little doubtful, but she curtsied and left the chamber. Tarquin stood for a minute, tapping his fingernails on a tabletop, his mouth grim.

He turned on his heel and went back to his own chamber, where he threw off the chamber robe and dressed swiftly in plain buckskin britches, boots, and a dark coat. The sword at his waist was no toy, and his cane was a swordstick. He strode downstairs again, and the puzzled night porter hurried to open the front door.

"Do you know what time Lord and Lady Edgecombe left?"

"No, Your Grace. I understood from Catlett that they left quite early, before Your Grace."

The duke cursed his own stupidity. Why hadn't he thought to check on her before he went out? He'd completely underestimated her, assuming her defiance to be no more than that of a thwarted schoolroom miss.

He left the house and called to a link boy, standing in a doorway opposite, his oil lamp extinguished at his feet. The lad shook himself awake and came running across the street. "Where ye goin', m'lord?"

"Covent Garden." It would be Lucien's first and probably last stop of the evening.

The lad busily trimmed the wick of his lantern before striking flint on tinder. The yellow glow threw a welcoming patch of illumination as the lad hurried along beside the duke, trotting to keep up with Tarquin's swift, impatient stride.

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Juliana gulped the fresh air of St. James's Park, trying to get the stench of blood out of her nostrils. She couldn't rid her mind of the images, however. Even though she'd kept her eyes shut much of the time, the torn and mangled birds lying inert in the sawdust ring, surrounded by blood-soaked feathers like so many bloody rags, tormented her inner vision. She could still hear the deafening uproar as the wild betting had grown increasingly frenzied with each new pair of cocks, armed with silver spurs, being set down in the pit. Open mouths screaming encouragement and curses, drink-suffused eyes filled with greedy cruelty, the astonishing determination of the birds, fighting to the death even when clearly mortally wounded, were indelibly printed on her mind, and for the first time in her life she'd been afraid she would swoon.

Somehow she'd held on, aware of Lucien's quick glances at her deathly pallor, her closed eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of breaking down at this hideous sight. His eyes, sunk in their dark sockets, grew more spiteful as the ghastly business progressed. Vaguely, she was aware that he was losing money hand over fist. Bertrand had cheerfully handed over a fistful of coins when Lucien turned out his empty pockets with a vile oath. But it wasn't until the fourth pair of birds had been tearing each other apart for forty-five minutes, blood and feathers spattering the audience on the lower ring of seats, that Lucien stood up from the matted bench and announced that he'd had enough of this insipidity.

Juliana had staggered out of the circular room, into the warm night. She wanted to crawl behind a bush and vomit her heart out. But she would not give her loathsome husband the pleasure.

"Well, my dear, I trust you're enjoying your introduction to London entertainments." Lucien took snuff, regarding her with a sardonic smile.

"It's certainly an education, my lord," she responded, both surprised and thankful that her voice was clear and steady.

Lucien frowned, glowering at her in the flickering light of the flambeaux illuminating the path from the cockpit to the gate. The woman was proving a disappointment. He'd expected her to break before now.

"Gad, man, but I've a thirst on me to equal a parched camel's," Frank Carson declared, loosening his already crumpled cravat. "Let's to the Shakespeare's Head. I've a mind for some dicing."

"Aye, good thought," Freddie approved, wiping his perspiring forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. "You comin', Edgecombe?"

"Indeed," the viscount said. "The night's but barely begun. Come, madam wife." He grabbed Juliana's elbow and dragged her beside him down the path and onto the street. "Hackney! Hey, fellow. You there, idle bastard!" He waved belligerently at the driver of a cab, smoking peacefully in the stand of hackneys touting for customers emerging from the Royal Cockpit.

The jarvey cracked his whip and directed his weary horse across the street. "Where to, guv?"

"Shakespeare's Head." Lucien clambered up, leaving Juliana to follow. Her petticoat was grimy from the fdthy matting in the cockpit, her dainty slippers soiled with something unidentifiable but disgusting. She drew her cloak tighter around her, despite the warmth of the night, and huddled into the shadowy corner as the others rowdily entered the vehicle.