Jane Feather - Vice

Juliana stood still while he dried her as gently as if she were a china doll, attending to the most intimate parts of her body with a careful thoroughness that again was deliberately matter-of-fact. Finally he dropped her nightgown over her head.

"Now you may get into bed and tell me precisely what flight of fancy led to this latest debacle."

"Flight of fancy! Is that what you call it?" Juliana, fatigue and confusion momentarily forgotten, glared, her damp hair flying about her face. "I try to help those women see a way to gain some power over their lives, and you call it a flight of fancy!" The contempt in her eyes scorched him. "There's a world of slaves out there… slaves whose bodies you enjoy, of course, so it's in your interests to keep them enslaved."

She turned aside with a little gesture of defeat and climbed into bed. "You have no compassion, no soul, my lord duke. Just like the rest of your breed. If you would speak out… you and Lord Quentin, and others like you… then people would listen. If you insisted on fair treatment for the women whose bodies you use, then it would happen." She dragged the covers over her and thumped onto her side, facing away from him.

Tarquin stared at the curve of her body beneath the coverlet. Absently, he raked a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of bewilderment. No one had ever spoken to him, looked at him, with such furious derision before. And instead of reacting with anger, he felt only dismay. A seventeen-year-old chit accused him of utter callousness in his way of life, his view of the world, and he was standing there wondering if she was right.

She was driving him to the edge of madness. When she wasn't terrifying him with her crusading adventures, she was unraveling every neat thread in the tapestry of his life, forcing him to look and see things that had never troubled him before. More than a few of those revelations concerned himself, and they were not comfortable.

He took a step toward the bed, then, with a bewildered shake of his head, left the chamber, softly closing the door behind him.

As the door closed, Juliana rolled onto her back. She gazed up at the flowered tester, her eyes fixed unseeing on a strand of ivy. She closed her lids on the tears that spilled over, telling herself she was crying only because she was fatigued. Because of reaction to what she'd endured.

“Mercy me, but I don't know what the world's coming to when you young things can get yourselves into this state." Henny shook her head as she untied the bandages on Juliana's ruined hands the following morning.

"How is Rosamund?" Juliana was feeling limp, filled with a deep and most unusual languor. She'd slept all day and all night and now couldn't seem to drag herself fully awake. Rain drummed against the windowpane, and her chamber was candlelit, which didn't help matters.

"She'll do. Had a nasty shock, but she's recoverin' nicely. That Mistress Dennison came and took them both home."

"Already?" Juliana winced as a strand of bandage stuck to an open cut. "Why didn't someone tell me?"

"You were sleeping, and His Grace gave order that you weren't to be disturbed until you rang." Henny dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. "When y'are dressed, he'd like to see you in the library. If you feel up to it, that is." She bathed Juliana's palms and patted them dry before applying fresh salve.

Juliana closed her heavy eyes, wondering if she could have unknowingly swallowed a sleeping draft. She could remember nothing after Tarquin had left her in yesterday's morning sunshine. Who had informed Mistress Dennison that Lilly and Rosamund were here? Did she bear them a grudge? It would seem not, if they were received back into the fold so quickly. Tarquin would have the answers.

Depression slopped over her as she remembered how he'd left her in anger, without saying a word to her bitter accusations. She'd most effectively doused whatever warmth he'd been feeling toward her. She didn't regret what she'd said, she'd meant every word of it, but now it seemed mean-spirited to have attacked him on the heels of his ministrations.

"I think ye'd be best off back in bed, dearie," Henny clucked, deftly retying the bandages. "I'll let His Grace know that y'are not ready to go downstairs."

"No… no, of course I am." Juliana forced her eyes open. She couldn't avoid seeing him for long, and, besides, she wanted answers to her questions. "I'll wash my face and drink some coffee, and then I'll be wide-awake. It's because it's raining and so close in here."

Henny tutted but made no further demur, and half an hour later Juliana surveyed herself dispiritedly in the cheval glass. Her hair was particularly unruly this morning, star-tlingly vivid against her face, which was even paler than usual. Her eyes seemed very large, dark shadows beneath them that she decided gave her a rather interesting look. Mysterious and haunted. The whimsical notion made her feel slightly more cheerful. Anyone less mysterious and haunted than her own ungainly, big-footed, clumsy self would be hard to find. But the pale-lavender muslin and her white-bandaged hands did give her a more delicate air than usual.

"Off you go, then. But don't stay down too long. You'll need to rest before dinner."

"You're so kind to me," Juliana said. "No one ever took care of me before or worried about me." Impulsively, she gave Henny a kiss that made the woman smile with pleasure as she shooed her away with a "Get along with you, now, m'lady."

Juliana didn't at first see Tarquin's visitor as she entered the library, her questions tumbling from her lips even before she was through the door. "Was Mistress Dennison angry with Lilly and Rosamund, sir? How did she know they were here? Are you sure she won't be unkind to them?"

"No. I told her. Yes," Tarquin replied, rising from his chair. "Take a deep breath, mignonne, and make your curtsy to Mr. Bonnell Thornton."

Juliana took a deep breath. To her amazement she saw that the duke was smiling, and the same warm light was still in his eyes. There was no sign of the chill she'd been expecting.

"Juliana?" he prompted, gesturing to his companion, when she didn't immediately move forward.

"I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't see you at first." Juliana recollected herself and curtsied to the tall, lean gentleman in an astonishing pink satin suit.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, ma'am.' The gentleman bowed. "His Grace has told me all about your misadventures and their cause."

Juliana looked inquiringly toward Tarquin, unsure how to take this. He handed her a broadsheet. "Read this, and you may begin to understand that you're not the only champion of the cause, Juliana."

She had not come across the Drury Lane Journal before. Its subtitle, Have at Ye became clear as soon as she began to read. It was a scurrilous, gossipy Journal, full of innuendo and supposedly truthful accounts of scandalous exploits among the members of London's fashionable and political world. It was also wickedly amusing. But Juliana was puzzled as to what Tarquin had meant. She skimmed through reviews and critiques of plays and operas and then looked up. "It's very amusing, sir, but I don't see…"

"In the center you'll find an article by one Roxanna Termagant," Mr. Thornton pointed out.

She went back and found the column. Her lips parted on a soundless O. Miss Termagant had given a precise description of the so-called riot at Cocksedge's, directly accusing both Mitchell and Cocksedge of orchestrating the riot and the subsequent raid in order to achieve the arrest of four women-one of whom was no whore but the wife of a viscount. The account was followed by an impassioned castigation of the authorities, who'd allowed themselves to serve the devious purposes of the bawds and had imprisoned innocent women who'd merely been gathering for a peaceful discussion on how to improve their working and living conditions.