Vice

Chapter 28

They changed horses three times before dawn. Juliana didn't move, even when a strand of hair tickled her nose and she was sure she was going to sneeze. Lucien coughed and shivered and was generally silent, taking frequent pulls from a cognac flask. George stared fixedly at the bundled figure on the opposite bench.

A gray dawn broke, the sky weeping a thin drizzle. They rattled into the yard of the Red Lion at Winchester, the horses drooping. The coachman had driven them hard, a substantial bonus resting on achieving the seventy miles to Winchester in seven hours. Twice the speed of a stagecoach. George stuck his head through the window.

"Change the horses. We'll not stop for more than that."

"Flask is empty," Lucien muttered through clenched teeth. "Get it filled." He leaned to open the door and was seized with another paroxysm, doubling over, the reddening handkerchief pressed to his mouth.

"Here, give it to me." Impatiently, George snatched the flask from his limp grasp. He left the carriage and hurried across the yard to the taproom. "Fill this, and give me three extra bottles." At the rate Lucien was drinking, he reckoned that three bottles should last for the rest of the day.

He returned to the chaise, returned to his watch on Juliana. He couldn't understand why she hadn't regained consciousness. She was breathing. Her face was deathly white, it was true, but her complexion was always milky pale against the vivid flame of her hair. He leaned over her, touched her cheek. Her skin was reassuringly warm.

Juliana knew that she couldn't keep up the pretense for much longer. Her muscles screamed for relief, and worst of all, she had a pressing need for the privy. How she would express the need with the gag in her mouth she didn't know, but if they didn't stop soon, she was going to have to make some effort to communicate. She'd been given no clues to their destination during the changes, but she guessed from the length of the journey, and from what she knew of George, that he was taking her back to his house. To the scene of the crime. Was he going to haul her before the magistrates immediately? Or did he have a more devious plan? The chaise jolted violently in a pothole, and her discomfort magnified. She closed her mind to it, forcing herself to remember, room by room, the physical plan of the house. To envisage the windows, the doors, the outbuildings, the lane that ran behind the stables.

The chaise turned up the drive to the Ridges' squat redbrick house and came to a halt before the front door. George jumped down, reached in for Juliana, and dragged her out feet first. Her head bumped on the floor, and she opened her eyes.

"Ah, my sleeping beauty, that woke you," he said with satisfaction, toppling her forward over his shoulder again. "We're going to amuse each other, I believe." He carried her up to the door. It opened as he reached it. An elderly housekeeper curtsied, her eyes startled.

"Eh, Sir George, we wasn't expectin' ye."

He merely grunted and pushed past her. Lucien followed, hunched over the deep, deep chill in his body, teeth chattering, limbs trembling.

"See to my guest, Dolly," George ordered as he strode to the stairs. "The man needs fire, hot water, bed."

"Cognac," Lucien declared feebly, raising the flask to his lips.

The woman stared at him in horror. She knew when she looked upon the dying. "This a-way sir." She took his arm, but he shook off her hand with a curse.

"Just bring me cognac and hot water, woman." He stumbled into a room to the side of the hall, handkerchief pressed to his mouth as the bloody phlegm was dredged from his lungs.

Juliana, listening to this, felt a smidgeon of hope. Lucien was clearly too ill to be capable of serious violence. That left only George. But trussed up as she was, George was quite enough to deal with.

George kicked open a door at the head of the stairs and threw Juliana down onto the bed. "Remember this room, my dear? Your wedding chamber." He pulled the cloak loose, flinging her onto her belly as he dragged it away from her.

Juliana was conscious of her shift riding up on her thighs, the air cool on the backs of her legs. With a jerk she twisted onto her back, trying to push down her shift with her bound and bandaged hands.

George chuckled and twitched it up again. "I like it just the wav it was."

She moved her hands to her mouth, trying to pluck at the gag, her eyes signaling frantically. At this point she had only one thing on her mind.

"Want to say something?" He smiled. "You'll be doing a lot of talking soon, my dear stepmother. You'll be giving me a full confession of murder. You'll write it out for me, and then we'll visit the magistrates, and you'll be able to tell them all about it, too."

Juliana heaved her legs over the side of the bed and kicked her feet backward under the bed, trying to locate the chamber pot. George looked puzzled for a minute; then he smiled again.

"Ah, I understand. Allow me to help you." Bending, he pulled the pot out and pushed it with his foot into the middle of the chamber. "There," he said solicitously. "I trust you can manage. I'll be back when I've breakfasted."

Juliana's eyes spat green fire. But at least he'd left her to struggle alone. And her hands were tied in front rather than behind. There was always something to be thankful for, she thought wryly, standing up and hopping across to the chamber pot.

She managed somehow, and with little shuffles also managed to push the pot back beneath the bed; then she hopped over to the windowsill and took stock. The gag was so tight in her mouth, she couldn't work it loose with her fingers and, with her wrists tied, couldn't get at the knot behind her head. The strips of silk stocking were tight, and she couldn't slip her bandaged hands free.

Her eyes roamed around the room, saw Sir John's razor strop hanging on the wall by the washstand. Where there was a strop, there was usually a razor. She hopped to the washstand. The straight blade lay beside the ewer and basin, waiting for Sir John, as it had every morning of his adult life. No one had touched the room since his death.

Gingerly, she picked up the blade with her fingertips and tried to balance it on its edge, the cutting blade uppermost. She slid her hands forward until the silk at her wrists was directly over the blade, then sawed the material against the edge. It was blunt, in need of the strop, but she was too impatient now to attempt to sharpen it. It fell over. Carefully, she rebalanced it, holding it steady with the tension of the silk. Began again. Little by little the thin, strong silk began to fray. Twice the blade fell over when the tension of the silk lessened. Patiently, she replaced it, her heart thudding, ears strained to catch the sound of a footstep outside, the creak of a floorboard. Her throat hurt so badly, she wasn't sure she would be able to talk even if she weren't gagged. Then the material parted, the razor clattered to the washstand.

Juliana shook out her wrists, cramps running up her arms, clawing her fingers. Then she struggled with the gag and freed her mouth. Wool stuck to her tongue and her lips, reminding her vividly of Ted's ruthless lesson in the dangers of the London streets. Sleeping in one's bed seemed to be as hazardous as anything else, she thought, slashing the razor through the bonds at her ankles.

She was free. Her hurts were forgotten under a rush of exhilaration. She had heard George turn the key in the lock of the door as he'd left. She ran to the window. It was a long drop to the soft earth of a flower bed beneath. But the ivy was strong. Or looked it, at least. Whether it would bear her weight remained to be seen. There was no other option.

She pushed up the casement. The wind blew cold and wet. pressing her thin shift against her body, but she ignored it. Twisting sideways, she dropped from the windowsill, gripping the edge with her fingers, ignoring the pain in her torn palms. Her feet scrabbled for purchase in the ivy. Found a toehold of brick. Heart in her mouth, she let go of the sill with one hand, moved it down to clutch at the creeper. It held. She brought the other hand down, and now her entire weight was supported by the ivy and the toehold. Hand over hand she inched downward, feeling the creeper pull away from the wall. But each time she managed to move her hands and feet to another site before the vine gave way.

She was concentrating so hard on her hazardous climb, she didn't hear the pounding feet in the room above. But she heard George's wild bellow. Looked up, saw his face suffused with rage, staring down at her. She let go and dropped the last ten feet to the soil. She landed awkwardly, twisting her ankle. For a fateful minute or two she sat in the soil, gasping with pain. Then she heard George's bellow again, knew he was running downstairs, would appear out of the kitchen door. She was up and running through the drizzle, ignoring the pain of her ankle, making for the driveway around the house. Instinctively seeking somewhere out in the open, where there might be other eyes to witness.

She could hear George behind her now, hear his heavy, panting breath, imagined she could almost feel it on the back of her neck. In ordinary circumstances she could have outstripped him easily. But she was barefoot and the gravel was sharp. Her ankle turned with each step, bringing tears to her eyes. She rounded the side of the house. The gravel drive stretched ahead to the lane. If she could make it to the lane, maybe there'd be a carter passing, a farm laborer… someone… anyone.

George ate up the distance between them. His breath raged in his heaving chest, his great belly jounced, his massive hands were in fists, but he was gaining on her. She was slowing, her feet troubling her. He reached out, seized the hem of her shift, hauled her backward as she fought, kicked, scratched, hair swinging wildly.

Somehow she wrenched herself free, hearing the thin material of her shift rip as she hurled herself forward, toward the gate to the lane… so close… three more steps…

George's breath was on the back of her neck, his hands reaching for her. The sound of iron wheels on the lane, jouncing over the rough pebbled surface… With the last gasp of breath Juliana leaped into the lane, in front of a hay wagon.

The driver pulled back on the reins, staring in disbelief at the frantic figure in the path of his shire horses.

"Please…" Juliana struggled for sufficient breath to speak. "Please… help me… I-"

She got no further. George had seized her from behind, clamping his hand over her mouth, twisting her hair around his other hand, holding her head still. His voice was calm, sensible. Not his voice at all as he explained to the astounded farm laborer that she was deranged, was kept confined for her own safety. That she'd escaped from her chamber by attacking the servant who'd brought her food. That she was violent and dangerous.

The laborer looked at the half-naked, wild-haired, frantic figure struggling in the hands of a man who was clearly in full possession of his senses, who spoke so rationally, with such assurance. The girl gazed at him with desperate, almost feral, eyes, and he shuddered, muttering a prayer, averting his eyes from the danger of a lunatic's stare. He shook the reins urgently as George pulled the madwoman aside, and drove off, urging the horses to greater speed.

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.

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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.

They turned through the crumbling stone gateposts just as a feeble ray of sun poked through the clouds. The horses splashed through puddles along the driveway where Juliana had run with such desperation an hour earlier.

The housekeeper answered the furious tolling of the bell, her expression startled, her gray hair escaping from beneath her cap. She curtsied, her eyes like those of a scared rabbit. The morning had brought too many alarums and excursions into her normally peaceful routine.

"Sir George… is he at home?"

Dolly gazed up at the splendid figure in the caped driving cloak. His voice was cold and haughty, but his eyes were colder and carried a fearful menace.

"No, sir… no… 'E left… a short while ago. 'E and 'is visitors."

"Visitors?" Tarquin raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Yes… yes, indeed, sir. A gentleman… mortal sick 'e was. Coughin' fit to raise the dead… an' a girl… a young woman… sick, too. Sir George carried 'er upstairs. Then they all left." Her scared eyes flitted sideways, found Quentin's reassuring gaze. She seemed to take courage, and her fingers loosed her apron where they'd been anxiously pleating and tucking.

"Do you know where they went?" Quentin asked gently.

She shook her head. "No, sir. But they went on orseback. The three of 'em on two. So they can't 'ave gone far."

"What road do we take to Forsett Towers?" Tarquin's voice still betrayed none of his agitation. He knew now that he was within a hand's grasp of Juliana, and his rage was cold and deadly. George and Lucien would have had to hurt her to compel her thus far. And they would pay. He drowned the images of what they might have done to her in the icy certainty of their punishment.

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Lucien fell just as they turned onto the gravel driveway leading to the gray stone mansion of Forsett Towers. He had been barely conscious throughout the ride, slumped over the horse's neck, the reins loose in his fingers. Every few minutes his body would be convulsed with violent spasms as he shivered and coughed into the now scarlet handkerchief. When his horse stumbled into a pothole on the drive, Lucien slipped sideways. The horse, startled, broke into a sudden trot, and his rider tumbled off the saddle.

Juliana watched in horror as the confused horse quickened his pace and Lucien, still with one foot in the stirrup, was bumped along the gravel. He was making no attempt to free his foot, just dangled inert until George managed to seize the animal's bridle and pull him to a halt.

George dismounted, hauling Juliana down with him. Still maintaining a tight grip on her wrist, he released Lucien's foot and then stared down at the still figure on the ground. Lucien had struck his head on something sharp, and blood pulsed from a gash on his forehead. His eyes were closed and he was barely breathing.

"Damn him to hell!" George declared, the calm, controlled facade cracking for the first time since he'd caught Juliana on the lane. He dragged Juliana back to his horse and pushed her up into the saddle, mounting behind her again.

"You can't just leave him." Juliana at last found her voice again. She wished Lucien to the devd, but the thought of abandoning him unconscious and bleeding was appalling.

"He's no good to me in that condition." George picked up the reins of Lucien's horse, roughly kicked his own mount's flanks, and started off again to the house, leading the riderless animal.

Juliana twisted round to look at the figure still lying on the drive. "We should carry him into the house."

"Someone else can do it. Now, hold your tongue!" He pulled on her hair in vicious emphasis, and she fell silent again. She'd always known George was a brute and an oaf, but she hadn't understood quite how brutal he was.

At the house George sprang down, dragging Juliana with him. He held her by the hair and the nape of the neck, shoving her up the steps to the front door, where he banged the knocker as if to sound the last trump. A footman opened it, looking both outraged and alarmed at such an uncivilized summons. He stared at Juliana as if he couldn't believe his eyes. "Why, Miss Juliana…"

George pushed past him, thrusting Juliana ahead of him. "Where's your master?"

"In the library… but…"

George ignored him, pushing Juliana toward the library door. Before he reached it. however, it opened. Sir Brian looked at them with an expression of acute distaste.

"I see you found her." His voice expressed only annoyance.

"Yes… and I'll see her burn outside Winchester jail." George stated, shoving Juliana into the library. He held her by the neck and glared in triumph at Sir Brian. "And you, sir, and your lady wife will identify her before a magistrate this very day."

"Goodness me, whatever's going on?" Amelia's irritated tones came from the door. "Juliana, whatever are you doing here?"

"Nothing of my own volition, ma'am," Juliana said, recovering some of her spirit in these drearily familiar surroundings. "There's a badly injured man on the driveway. Would vou send some men to carry him in?"

Amelia looked between the sweaty, glowering, triumphant George and his pale prisoner. "You were never anything but trouble," she declared. "First you bring this clod into my house… and now you want me to take in some accident victim. Who is he?"

"My husband, ma'am. Viscount Edgecombe." Juliana began to feel a bubble of hysterical laughter welling in her chest. It was extraordinary that they should continue to behave toward her with the same exasperation of her childhood. She was about to be arraigned on murder charges. She was half-naked, battered and bruised, in the clutches of a vicious brute, her husband was lying near death in a puddle on their driveway, and they were both blaming her for disturbing their peace, as if she'd brought mud into the house, or broken a precious dish.

Amelia sighed and turned back to the hovering footman. "Dawkins, take some men and see about it, will you?"

"Yes, my lady."

"And send someone to the nearest magistrate," George demanded belligerently. "Tell him it's a matter of murder and he should come here immediately."

Dawkins looked askance at his master. Sir Brian said shortly, "You may ignore that instruction, Dawkins. If Sir George wishes to find a magistrate, he may go in search of one himself… and take his prisoner with him," he added coldly.

"You would obstruct justice, sir?" George's sweaty face flushed crimson. "I tell you straight, sir, I'll lay charges against you of impeding the process-"

"Oh, hold your tongue, man," Amelia interrupted acidly. "Do you think we wish to listen to your puffing and blowing? If you have a grudge against Juliana, then you may do what you wish, but don't expect us to assist you."

Juliana was somewhat surprised. True, they weren't taking her part, but neither were they taking George's.

"A grudge!" George exclaimed. "Is that how you would describe the willful murder of my father… her husband. Petty treason is what it is, and I tell you-"

"You will tell us nothing," Sir Brian snapped. He turned to his erstwhile ward and asked calmly, "Juliana, did you by any chance murder your husband?"

"No."

"That's rather what we assumed. It was just another unfortunate piece of clumsiness, I daresay."

"It was certainly very clumsy of you to run away," Amelia scolded. "I can't think what could have possessed-"

"Put him down on that settle… careful now. Send someone for the physician."

The crisp tones of the Duke of Redmayne came from the open doorway to the hall. Amelia stopped in mid-sentence. George inhaled sharply. Juliana wrenched her head around, ignoring the savage tug on her captured hair. Her heart thudded so loudly, it was impossible that only she could hear it. She stared at the door.