"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 or 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 Ridge," 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 fumbled 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 fad 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."