Jane Feather - Vice

He was out of the carriage almost before it had halted. "Stay here. I may need you again."

The coachman nodded miserably and pulled his hat brim farther down.

The night porter opened the door at the duke's vigorous banging. "Who's been here in my absence?" the duke snapped.

The man looked alarmed, defensive, as if he were being accused of something. "No one, Your Grace. I've been sittin' 'ere all alone. Not a soul 'as come in or out, I'll swear to it."

Tarquin didn't respond but raced up the stairs two at a time. He flung open Juliana's door, knowing what he would find and yet praying that he was mistaken.

He stared at the empty bed. There were no signs of a struggle. The armoire door was ajar, the dresser drawers opened, their contents tumbled. He pulled the bell rope again and again until feet came running along the corridor. Catlett pulling on his livery, Henny bleary-eyed, Quentin in his nightshirt, eyes filled with alarm.

“Lady Edgecombe is not in the house," the duke rasped. "Henny, find out what's missing from her clothes. Catlett, ask the servants if they heard anything… saw anything unusual in the last two hours."

Quentin stared stupidly at the empty bed. "Where would she go on a night like this?"

"Nowhere of her own volition," Tarquin said bleakly. "Lucien has a hand in this, but how in God's name did he manage to spirit her out of here? She's stronger than he is. And even if he managed to overpower her, he couldn't possibly carry her down the stairs."

"Why would he?"

"Why does Lucien ever plot mischief?… Well?" he demanded of Henny, who'd finished her examination of the armoire and dresser.

"Just a heavy cloak, Your Grace, and a pair of stockings," she said. "Can't see nothin' else missing."

"No shoes?"

Henny shook her head. "Seems like she's gone in nothin' but her shift, sir."

"George," said Tarquin softly, almost to himself. "George Ridge." He'd miscalculated, grossly misread the man's character. Instead of intimidating him, he'd succeeded in rousing the devil. Lucien would have provided the means to get to her, George the brute force to remove her.

"What are you saying?" asked Quentin, still too shocked to absorb the situation.

"George and Lucien, the devil's partnership," Tarquin said bitterly. "God, I've been a fool." He turned as Catlett hurried in, his livery now neat, his wig straight. "Well? Anything?"

"No, Your Grace. The household's been abed since before you left. I was up myself for a short while, in my pantry, but I retired soon after your departure."

Tarquin nodded, tapping his lips with his fingertips as he thought. They all watched him, hanging on every nuance of his expression. "We have to guess," he said finally. "And God help us all if I guess wrong. Henny, pack up a cloak bag for Lady Edgecombe. Basic necessities… her riding habit, boots. You'll know what she needs. Catlett, tell the coachman to bring around my phaeton with the grays harnessed tandem. Quentin, do you accompany me?"

"Of course. I'll dress." Quentin didn't ask where they were going; he would know soon enough. A night drive in an open phaeton in the pouring rain was not a particularly appealing prospect, but speed was obviously of the essence, and the light vehicle would make much better time than a coach.

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.