Jane Feather - Vice

Thin, dull-eyed women looked back at them without pausing in the rhythmic pounding of their mallets. Rats rustled through the filthy straw at their feet; their jailers sat taking their ease on stools against the walls, occasionally swinging their rods when they judged someone was slacking.

Quentin couldn't keep the horror from his face. He had always known these places existed and, indeed, had assumed that houses of correction were necessary for the smooth running of society. But in the face of this unutterable reeking misery, he began to question his assumptions. He glanced at his brother. Tarquin's countenance was utterly impassive-a sure sign of turmoil within.

At the sixth ward they stopped outside an iron-bound door. Mr. Bloggs inserted the key. "If she ain't in 'ere, sirs, I can't think where she'd be. Less'n she be lunatic already; or they've put 'er on the treadmill. Which it's to be 'oped they 'aven't. Seein' as 'ow it's all a mistake, like." He grunted with what could almost have been a chuckle at the thought of an innocent suffering from such an error. "Can't think what Sir John could be a-doin', makin' such a mistake." He swung the door open and stood aside.

Juliana was lost in the rhythm of the mallet. She allowed her eyes to see only the hemp in front of her. As the fibers began to separate, a grim satisfaction tilled her. She thought of nothing more than the disintegration of the hemp. The pounding was in her ears, in her blood, the condition of her hands a distant agony that she knew instinctively she mustn't focus upon. Beside her Lilly pounded away. Without exchanging a glance they flipped Rosamund's pathetic work from one stump to another. But despite their efforts Rosamund's hands were bleeding and mangled within the first hour, as Maggie had gleefully foreseen, and her tears mingled with the blood dripping onto the hemp.

There had to be a way out of this nightmare. But Juliana's brain was deadened by the numbing, repetitive noise and the creeping dullness of fatigue. She'd had no sleep for twenty-four hours, and this work would presumably continue until nightfall. It wasn't possible to think, to do anything, but force her body through the motions and watch the hemp.

At the moment the door opened, Rosamund cried out. The mallet dropped, bouncing on the tree stump. She stared with fixed intensity at her hands, her eyes widening in horror. She raised her eyes to gaze wildly around the room, as if coming to a realization of her surroundings for the first time; then, with another cry of despair, she crumpled to the filthy straw.

Juliana dropped to her knees, Lilly beside her. They ignored the commotion at the door. Lilly lifted Rosamund's head, laying it in her lap. Juliana wanted to chafe her hands but didn't dare to touch them. Her own stung unmercifully now that her concentration had been broken, but she stroked Rosamund's deathly white cheek.

"Fetch some hartshorn and water, man!" She threw the instruction over her shoulder in the direction of where she'd last seen the jailer.

Maggie cackled. " 'Arts'orn and water. And would m'lady like 'er smellin' salts, then? Or a burned feather, per'aps?"

Juliana was on her feet in one bound. She turned on the grinning woman, her eyes spitting rage, her bloody hands raised. Maggie took a step backward as the flaming-haired Fury advanced on her.

'"Juliana! Don't make matters worse than they are."

She whirled toward the door as the quiet voice crashed through her crimson rage. His voice was quiet but his eyes were hot as lava, and there was a white shade around his taut mouth, a muscle twitching in his cheek. Juliana saw only anger-no indication of his agonies of the last hour, not a hint of the glorious rush of relief as he saw her unbroken and not seriously harmed.

"What are you doing here?" She couldn't believe the petulant words even as they emerged from her lips. She wanted to rush to his arms, to be folded in the power of his body, secure in the knowledge of his protection. She wanted to be soothed and cuddled, to hear the soft words of love on his lips. She'd chosen to believe that if he came for her, it would be because it suited his purposes, not because he wished to. But as he stood there, such fearsome rage in every taut muscle, she felt a deeper disappointment than she'd ever known.

Her eyes flew to Quentin standing behind the duke, his expression a rictus of horror. Quentin would understand what had brought her to this. He would see, where his brother didn't, her weakness and her unimaginable relief that the ordeal was over.

"I might ask the same of you," the duke replied, coining toward her.

He took her hands, his own warm and strong, and turned them over. His rage knew no bounds at what he saw, and it was all he could do to keep himself from cradling the torn, bruised flesh, soothing the hurts with the balm of his kisses. But this was not the time. She was safe, and he had to get her out of this filthy place of terror before he did anything else.

"Come," he said, his voice curt with anxiety. He turned to the door.

Juliana snatched her hands from his grasp, their pain as nothing compared to the surge of angry disbelief. Did he really expect her to walk out with him, abandoning her friends?

"I'll not leave here without Lilly and Rosamund." She picked up her mallet again. "They're here because of me. They have no more business being here than I do. Those spawn of a gutter bitch betrayed us, and I'll not leave my friends in this hell. I neither need nor want your intervention." She raised the mallet with both bloody hands and brought it down again, fighting with every muscle the screaming agony of her torn flesh.

Tarquin swung back to her with an incredulous "What?" Quentin suppressed a smile at the sight of his unflappable brother so completely confounded.

Juliana ignored the question, and Tarquin, frowning fiercely, looked at the pathetic, crumpled body of the girl on the floor, the white-faced desperation of the other girl, and he suddenly felt ashamed.

It was not an emotion to which he was accustomed. Impatiently, he snatched the mallet from Juliana, throwing it to the floor. "Quentin, take her out of here while I arrange about the others." He seized her in his arms and spun her across to his brother, who caught her against him.

"I'm not leaving without them!" Juliana's protest was muffled against Quentin's black waistcoat.

"Juliana, for once in your short life do as you're bid," Tarquin declared dangerously.

"Come," Quentin murmured. "Tarquin will negotiate their release."

Juliana looked from one brother to the other and saw only truth and confidence in their eyes. "Rosamund will need to be carried," she said matter-of-factly. "We must find a litter for her."

"You may leave that with me. Now, get out of this foul air. There's no knowing what infection lurks in it… Bloggs, a word with you." He jerked his head at the keeper, whose eyes now glittered. Unless he'd misunderstood, he was about to receive a substantial bribe. He oiled his way over to the duke, who'd withdrawn to the far corner of the ward.

Juliana allowed Quentin to draw her away. When they reached the sunshine of the courtyard, she took the air in great gulps. "Did you know such places existed, Quentin?"

"Yes." he said shortly. "But I'd never been inside one before." The horror of what he'd seen still lingered in his eyes. He drew her toward the postern gate, anxious to leave the last vestiges of this hell behind.

"I won't be defeated," she said with low-voiced determination, stepping out into the street beside him. "I won't let those evil women get the better of me."

"In God's name, Juliana! You can't possibly take on the world of vice all on your own." He took the horses from the relieved guard, handing him another coin.

"I won't do it alone." she said fiercely. "People like you will help me. People like you with the power to challenge the exploitation and the misery. Then things would change."