Jane Feather: Vice

"In the taproom, madam." The innkeeper held open the door and the lady swished past, deftly twitching aside the hoop of her green satin skirts.

"In the inglenook," Mr. Bute sa:d i tly, pointing.

Mistress Dennison crossed the room, her step light, a speculative gleam in her eyes. She stood looking down at the sleeping figure wrapped in the cloak. Her assessing gaze took in the tumbled richness of the flame-red hair, the creamy pallor of her skin, the shape of the hall, relaxed mouth, the dusting of freckles across the bridge of a strongly defined nose.

Not pretty, Mistress Dennison decided with an expert's eye. Too strongly featured for true prettiness. But her hair was magnificent. And there were man\ gentlemen who preferred something a little out of the ordinary. What in the world was she doing dressed in those clothes? What did she have to hide? Something, for sure. And if she should prove to be a maid…

Elizabeth's beautiful eyes narrowed abruptly. A virgin with something to hide…

She bent over Juliana and shook her shoulder. "My dear, it's time you woke up."

Juliana swam upward from the depths of a dreamless sleep. She opened her eyes and blinked up at the face hovering over her. A lovely face: smiling red lips, kind blue eyes. It was not a face she knew, and for a moment she was completely disoriented.

The woman touched her shoulder again. "My dear, I am Mistress Dennison."

Memory rushed back. Juliana sat up on the settle, swinging her legs over the edge. Beside this radiant creature in rich satin, with a dainty lace cap perched atop dark-brown curls, she felt all grubby elbows and knees. She tucked her feet beneath the settle in the hope that they would stay out of mischief and hastily tried to push her hair back into its pins.

"Mine host seemed to think you might be looking for a parlor maid, ma'am," she began.

"My dear, forgive me, but you don't speak like one accustomed to service," Mistress Dennison said bluntly, taking a seat pushed forward by the eager Mr. Bute. "I understand you traveled on the York stage."

Juliana nodded, but Elizabeth's gaze sharpened. She was too well versed in the ways of the world to be fooled by an inexperienced liar. Besides, this girl had no hint of Yorkshire in her accent.

"Where is your home?"

Juliana pushed the last pin back into her hair. "Is it necessary for you to know that, ma'am?"

Elizabeth leaned over and placed her gloved hand over Juliana's. "Not if you don't wish to tell me, child. But your name and your age, perhaps?"

"Juliana Ri- Beresford," she corrected hastily. They would be looking for Juliana Ridge. "I am just past seventeen, ma'am."

The lady nodded. She hadn't missed the slip. "Well, why don't you come with me, my dear? You need rest and refreshment, and clothes." She rose in a satin rustle, smiling invitingly.

"But… but what work would you have me do, madam?" Juliana was beginning to feel bewildered. Things were happening too fast.

"We'll discuss that when you've refreshed yourself, child." Mistress Dennison drew her to her feet. "My carriage is outside, and it's but a short ride to my house."

Juliana had a single sovereign left from her little hoard. It might buy her food and lodging of a sort for a day or two. But she was hopelessly inexperienced in this alarming city world, and to turn down the protection and hospitality of this charming, kind-eyed woman would be foolish. So she smiled her acceptance and followed her benefactress out of the inn and inside a light town carriage drawn by two dappled horses.

"Now, my dear," Mistress Dennison said confidingly, "why don't you tell me all about it? I can assure you I've heard every story imaginable, and there's little in the world that could surprise or shock me."

Juliana leaned her head against the pale-blue velvet cushions, her tired gaze swimming as she looked across at the gently smiling face. It occurred to her that the only other person who had ever smiled at her with such kindly interest had been Sir John Ridge. Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them away.

"My poor child, what has happened to you;" Elizabeth said, leaning over to take her hands. "You may trust me."

Why? But the question was a little niggle in the back of Juliana's mind. The temptation to take someone into her confidence, someone who knew the ways of the world, was overwhelming. If she didn't identify herself or where she came from, she could still keep the essentials of her secret. Still protect herself from the long reach of the law.

"It's a strange story, ma'am," she began.

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If Your Grace would do me the inestimable honor of pay in o a visit to Russell Street this evening, I believe I might have something of interest to show you.

Your obedient servant,

Elizabeth Dennison

The Duke of Redmayne examined the missive, his expression quite impassive. Then he glanced up at the footman. "Is the messenger still here?"

"Yes, Your Grace. He was to wait for an answer."

Tarquin nodded and strolled to the secretaire, where he drew a sheet of vellum toward him, dipped a quill into the inkstand, and scrawled two lines. He sanded the sheet and folded it.

"Give this to the messenger, Roberts." He dropped it onto the silver salver held by the footman, who bowed himself out.

"So what was that about?" Quentin inquired, looking up from his book.

"I doubt you really want to know," the duke said with a half smile. "It concerns a matter that doesn't have your approval, my friend."

"Oh." Quentin's usually benign expression darkened. "Not that business with Lucien and a wife?"

"Precisely, dear boy. Precisely. Sherry?" Tarquin held up the decanter, one eyebrow raised inquiringly.

"Thank you." Quentin tossed his book aside and stood up. "You're really set on this diabolical scheme?"

"Most certainly." The duke handed his brother a glass. "And why should you call it diabolical, Quentin?" There was a gently mocking light in his eyes, an amused curve to his mouth.

"Because it is," Quentin said shortly. "How will you protect the girl from Lucien? Supposing he decides to exercise his marital rights?"

"Oh, you may safely leave that to me," Tarquin said.

"I don't like it." Quentin scowled into his glass.

"You've made that very clear." Smiling, Tarquin patted his brother's sober-suited shoulder. "But you don't care for most of my schemes."

"No, and I wish the devil I knew why I care for you," the other man said almost bitterly. "You're an ungodly-man, Tarquin. Positively Mephistophelian."

Tarquin sat down, crossing one elegantly shod foot over the other. He frowned down at the sparkle of diamonds in the shoe buckles, musing, "I wonder if jeweled buckles aren't becoming a trifle outre. I noticed Stanhope wearing some very handsome plain silver ones at the levee the other morning… But, then, I doubt that's I topic that interests you, either, Quentin."

"No, I can't say that it does." Quentin cast a cursory glance down at his own sturdy black leather shoes with their plain metal buckles. "And don"t change the subject, Tarquin."

"I beg your pardon, I thought we'd reached an amiable conclusion." Tarquin sipped his sherry.

"Will you give up this scheme?”

"No, brother dear."

"Then there's nothing more to be said."

"Precisely. As I said, we have drawn the topic to an amiable conclusion." The duke stood up in one graceful movement, placing his glass on the table. "Don't fret, Quentin. It will only give you frown lines."

"And don't play the fop with me," Quentin declared with more passion than he usually showed. "I'm not fooled by your games, Tarquin."

His brother paused at the door, a slight smile on his lips. "No, thank God, you're not. Don't ever be so, if you love me, brother."