John Coachman began to feel a little uneasy. Where in all this chaos was Lady Edgecombe? Presumably he should have accompanied her on her errand, but she hadn't really given him the opportunity to offer. A little shiver of apprehension ran down his spine at the thought of the duke's possible reaction to this dereliction of duty.

He stood on his box and gazed intently over the throng. The party of women and beadles was reaching the corner of Russell Street. He caught a glimpse of a flaming red head in the midst, and his heart jumped. Then he sat down again with a thump. Lady Edgecombe couldn't possibly be in the company of a group of arrested whores. Presumably she was waiting for the tumult to die down before she came back to the carriage. He couldn't leave the horses to go and look for her, even if he knew where in this inferno she had gone. If she came back to find him not there, they would be worse off than they already were. He yawned, sleepy from the ale he'd been imbibing freely, and settled down on the box, arms folded, to await Lady Edgecombe's return.

Juliana was continuing to struggle and protest as she was borne out of Covent Garden toward Bow Street. She could see only Lilly and Rosamund of the Russell Street girls and hoped that the others had escaped. The beadles couldn't possibly arrest the entire roomful of women, and it seemed to her that they were somewhat selective in the ones they harried along the street. She noticed that several women at the outskirts of the group were permitted to duck away from their captors and disappear into the dark mouths of alleys as they passed. But there was no possibility of such a move for herself. She had a beadle all to herself, gripping her elbow as he half pulled her along.

Rosamund was weeping; Lilly, on the other hand, cursed at her captors with all the vigor of a Billingsgate fishwife. Her face was tight and set, but Juliana didn't think she was going to break down. "Where are they taking us?" she asked.

"Fielding's," Lilly said shortly through compressed lips. "And then Bridewell, I expect."

Juliana gulped. "Bridewell? But what for?"

"It's a house of correction for debauched females," Lilly told her with the same curtness. "Surely you're not so naive you don't know that."

"Yes, of course I know it. But we weren't doing anything." Juliana tried to keep her temper, knowing that Lilly's impatience was fueled by apprehension.

"We were in the middle of a riot. That's all it takes."

Juliana chewed her lip. "Mistress Mitchell was there, together with some grimy-looking creature I assume was Mother Cocksedge."

"I saw her."

"D'you think she put the beadles on to us?"

"Of course." Lilly turned to look at Juliana and her fear was now clear in her eyes. "We tried to tell you that it's impossible to escape the rule of the bawds," she said bleakly. "I was a fool to be carried away by your eloquence, Juliana. There was a moment this evening when I thought it might happen. We would buy our own necessities, look after each other in illness or ill luck, thumb our noses at the bastards." She shook her head in angry impatience. "Fools… we were all fools."

Juliana said no more. Nothing she could say at this moment would improve the situation, and she needed to concentrate on her own plight. She couldn't admit her identity to the magistrates-neither of her identities. She had to keep the Courtney name out of her own disgrace. The duke, for all his deviousness, didn't deserve to have his cousin's wife publicly hauled off to Bridewell.

Hauled off? Or carted? Her blood ran cold, and a clammy sweat broke out on her hands and forehead. Would they drive them to Bridewell at the cart's tail? Was she about to be whipped through the streets of London?

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She knew it was part of the customary punishment for bawds. But they weren't bawds. They were the slaves of bawds. Surely that would be a lesser offense in the stern eyes of Sir John Fielding.

They reached a tall house on Bow Street, and one of the constables banged on the door with his staff. A sleepy footman answered it. "We've harlots to be brought before Sir John," the constable announced with solemnity. "Creating a fracas… debauching… soliciting… inciting to riot."

The footman looked over his head to the surrounded women. He grinned lasciviously as he noted their disordered dress. Even the well-dressed women had suffered in the arrest and now tried to hold together torn bodices and ripped sleeves. "I'll waken Sir John," he said, stepping back to open the door fully. "If ye takes 'em into the front parlor where Sir John does 'is business, I'll fetch 'im fer ye."

The constables herded their little flock into the house and into a large paneled room on the left of the hall. It was sparsely furnished, with a massive table and a large chair behind it, rather giving the impression of a throne. The women were pushed into a semicircle around the table while another yawning footman lit the candles and oil lamps, throwing a gloomy light over the bare room.

Then silence fell, as deep as a crypt-not so much as the rustle of a skirt, the scrape of a foot on the bare floor. It was as if the women were afraid to speak or to move, afraid that it might worsen their condition. The beadles kept quiet, as if awed by their surroundings. Only Juliana looked around, taking in details of the molding on the ceiling, the embossed paneling, the waxed oak floorboards. She was as scared as the rest of them, but it didn't show on her countenance as she tried to think of a way out of this dismal situation.

After an eternal fifteen minutes the double doors opened and a voice intoned, "Pray stand for 'Is Honor, Sir John Fielding."

As if they had any choice, Juliana thought with a brave attempt at humor, unable to ignore the shiver that ran through her companions.

Sir John Fielding, in a loose brocade chamber robe over his britches and shirt, his hastily donned wig slightly askew, took his seat behind the table. He surveyed the women with a steady, reproving stare.

"Charges?"

"Disorderly be'avior, Sir John," the head beadle spoke ponderously. "Inciting to riot… debauchery… damage to property."

"Who brings the charges?"

"Mother Cocksedge and Mistress Mitchell, Yer 'Onor."

"Are they here?"

"Awaitin' yer summons, sir." The beadle tapped his staff on the floor and twitched his nose with an air of great self-importance.

"Then summon them."

Juliana turned her head toward the door. The two women bustled in. Mistress Mitchell looked like a respectable housewife in her print dress and mob cap; Mother Cocksedge had thrown her apron over her head and appeared much affected by something, her shoulders heaving, great sobs emerging from beneath the apron.

"Cease yer blubbin', woman, an' tell 'Is Lordship yer complaint," instructed one of the constables.

"Oh, I'm ruint, Yer 'Onor, quite ruint," came from beneath the apron. "It's all thanks to those evil girls… them what encouraged the young gennelmen to break up my 'ouse. Flaunted theirselves at 'em, got 'em all excited like, then wouldn't deliver. An' them three…" With a dramatic gesture Mother Cocksedge flung aside her apron and pointed at Juliana, Lilly, and Rosamund. "Them three, what ought to know better, they was encouragin' the others, poor souls what don't 'ave 'alf the advantages, to use my establishment fer himmoral purposes."

Juliana gasped. "Why, you old-"

"Silence!" The justice glared at Juliana. "Open your mouth once more, woman, and you'll be carted from St. Paul's Church to Drury Lane and back again."

Juliana shut her mouth, seething as she was forced to listen to the two women spin their tales. Mistress Mitchell was all hurt feelings and good nature taken advantage of as she explained that she'd allowed some girls to use her best parlor for a birthday party, but instead they'd been preparing to create a riot at Mother Cocksedge's oh-so-respectable chocolate house. They had a grievance against Mother Cocksedge and intended to be avenged upon her by causing her house to be wrecked by a group of angry young bloods.