Jane Feather - Vice

He knew well, however, that the conclusions he drew would avail him nothing when facing the duke's wrath. It was with sinking heart that he drove into the mews, handed the horses over to a groom, and entered the house by the back door.

The house was in its customary quiet but efficient early-morning bustle, waxing, polishing, brushing, dusting. The kitchen was filled with the rich aromas of bacon and black pudding, the boot boy and scullery maid carrying steaming salvers into the servants' hall. The coachman knew he would have to confide in Catlett if he was to speak with the duke. And he knew that he must speak with His Grace before many minutes had passed.

He approached the august figure of Catlett, seated at the head of the long table sampling his ale and examining with a critical eye the offerings laid before him by the boot boy. The lad's mouth watered as he watched the dishes move down the table. He and the scullery maid would have to wait until everyone had eaten before they'd be allowed to rummage for scraps to break their own lasts.

"Eh, John Coachman, and 'ow be you this fine mornin'?" Catlett asked genially, spearing a chunk of black pudding with the end of his knife.

"I'd like a word in private, if ye please, Mr. Catlett." The coachman turned his hat between his hands, his eyes filled with anxiety.

"What? In the middle of me breakfast?"

"It's very urgent, Mr. Catlett. Concerns 'Er Ladyship and 'Is Grace."

Catlett irritably pushed back his chair. "Best come into me pantry, then. You, lad. Put me plate on the 'ob to keep 'of. I'll dust yer jacket fer ye if 'tis a mite less 'of than 'tis now."

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, he led the way to his pantry. "So what is it?"

He listened, his eyes widening, as the coachman told him of the night's happening and the total absence of Lady Edgecombe.

"Taken up fer a whore?" Catlett shook his head in incredulity. " 'Ow could that be?"

"Dunno. Accident, I daresay. She went to fetch a fan, got caught up in the riot." John snapped his fingers.

"Sir John wouldn't send Lady Edgecombe to Tothill Bridewell," Catlett declared. "So she must not 'ave told 'im 'oo she is."

"Aye. But why?"

"Not fer us to ask," Cadett pronounced. "But 'Is Grace must be told at once. Ye'd best come wi' me to 'is chamber. 'E's only been back fer a couple of hours."

The coachman followed Catlett into the front of the house and up the stairs. A parlor maid, waxing the banister, gave him a curious look, then dropped her eyes immediately as Catlett clipped her around the ear. "You got nuthin' better to do, my girl, than gawp at yer betters?"

"Yes, sir… Mr. Catlett… no, sir," she mumbled.

Outside the duke's bedchamber Catlett said, "Wait 'ere." He pushed open the door and entered the darkened chamber. The bed curtains were drawn around the bed. He twitched them aside and coughed portentously.

The duke seemed to be deeply asleep, an arm flung above his head, his face in repose curiously youthful, his mouth relaxed, almost smiling.

Catlett coughed again and, when that produced no response, went to draw back the window curtains, flooding the room with light.

"What the devil…,?" Tarquin opened his eyes.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but it's a matter of some urgency." Catlett moved smoothly back to the bed, his practiced working accents crisp and well modulated.

Tarquin struggled up onto an elbow and blinked at the man. "Why are you waking me, Catlett, and not my valet?"

Catlett coughed. "I thought. Your Grace, that you'd prefer as few people as possible to be a party to the situation."

Tarquin sat up, instantly awake. His eyes flew to the armoire and its concealed door. Juliana. She hadn't returned when he'd come in earlier, but he hadn't thought twice about it. She was with his own coachman, escorted by the formidable and ultrarespectable Lady Bowen.

"Tell me."

"John Coachman's waiting outside, Your Grace. It's probably best if he tells it in his own words." Catlett bowed

"Fetch him."

Visibly trembling, the coachman approached the duke's bed. He was still twisting his hat between his hands, his cheeks flushed as he stammered through his recital. The duke listened without a crack in his impassivity, his eyes flat, his mouth thin.

When the coachman had finished his tale and stood miserably pulling at his hat brim, eyes lowered, the duke flung aside the bedclothes and stood up. "I'll deal with you later," he said grimly. "Get out of my sight."

The coachman scuttled off. Catlett moved to pull the bell rope. "You'll be wanting your valet. Your Grace."

"No." Tarquin waved him away. "I'm perfectly capable of dressing myself. Have my phaeton brought round immediately." He threw off his nightshirt and pulled a pair of buckskin britches from the armoire.

Catlett left with a bow, and Tarquin flung on his clothes, his mind racing. He could think of no rational explanation for Juliana's predicament. But, then, Juliana didn't need logical reasons for getting herself into trouble, he thought grimly. He knew that George Ridge couldn't have been involved, since he'd been occupied elsewhere. It was the kind of vengeance that would appeal to Lucien, certainly, but he hadn't the patience to orchestrate such a sophisticated plan. He was a man who acted on vicious impulse. But what in the name of all that was good had taken Juliana, against his express orders and her own past experiences, to Covent Garden at the height of the night's debauchery?

Simple mischief? Pure deviltry? Another demonstration of her refusal to yield to his authority? Somehow he didn't think it was that simple. Juliana wasn't childish… hotheaded, certainly; but she was also surprisingly mature for her years-a product presumably of her loveless childhood. She was probably involved in another misguided mission like the one that had taken her to the Marshalsea. For some reason the women of Russell Street held a dangerous fascination for her.

He ought to leave her in Bridwell for a few days, he thought wrathfully, thrusting a thick billfold into the pocket of his britches. She'd soon learn just how dangerous a fascination it was.

But he knew it was fear more than anger that spoke. The purity of his anger was muddled with a piercing dread. He couldn't endure the idea of Juliana's being hurt or frightened. It was as if some part of himself was suffering and he couldn't detach himself from the pain.

It was inexplicable, and a damnable nuisance. He strode out of his chamber, slamming the door behind him, and headed at a run for the stairs.

"Good morning, Tarquin. Where are you off to at the peep of day?" Quentin's voice hailed him from the library as he crossed the hall. Quentin, always an early riser, looked fresh and serene.

"Juliana has contrived to get herself sent to Bridewell," he told Quentin tersely. "Against my better judgment I'm about to spring her loose before she endures too much punishment in that hellhole."

Quentin stared in disbelief. "But how for mercy's sake did- "

"I've no idea," Tarquin interrupted. "The temperamental chit is a loose cannon. And, by God, I'm going to keep her on a leash in future!"

"I'll accompany you." Quentin dropped the prayer book he'd been carrying onto a side table.

"There's no need. I can handle Juliana without assistance."

"I'm sure you can." Quentin followed him out into the bright morning. "Nevertheless, you might need a supporting cast. You don't know what you're going to find."

Tarquin shot him a bleak look, and their eyes held for a minute. They both knew that Quentin's remark was not lightly made. Then the duke climbed with an agile spring into the waiting phaeton, followed by his brother.

Quentin felt Tarquin deliberately relax as he took up the reins. He glanced up at his profile and saw that all emotion was wiped clear from his countenance. He was not fooled by this apparently calm exterior. He'd been convinced for some time now that the careless affection Tarquin showed for his mignonne masked a much deeper feeling.