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 horses. "I'm not certain. Let's break our fast and make some inquiries."

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. "All, 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 set-de, 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?"

"Aye, sir. Ten miles south as the crow flies." The man gave precise directions. "Big stone gateposts… crumblin" like, m'lord. Ye can't miss it."

"Ready, Quentin?"

"On your heels, brother." Quentin put down his tankard and followed Tarquin downstairs and out into the yard. The incessant drizzle had stopped, and there was the faintest lightning in the sky. Tarquin paid their shot as fresh horses were harnessed to the phaeton.