Jane Feather - Vice

"It wasn't my fault this time," Juliana croaked through her bruised throat. "I didn't get myself into this trouble, it came and found me. I was perfectly innocently asleep in my bed-"

"I am aware," the duke interrupted, taking her hands. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my throat, and I twisted my ankle," she rasped, wishing that he would take her in his arms, wishing that he wouldn't look at her with those strangely dispassionate eyes.

Tarquin saw the bruises on her throat, and livid fire chased the dispassion from his gaze. He touched her throat. "He did this to you?"

Juliana nodded, her skin alive beneath the gentle brushing of his fingers. Surely he would take her in his arms now. But he didn't. He turned back to George, his expression once more unreadable.

"Step outside. I don't want your blood on Lady Forsett's carpet." The same cold, invincible tone. The gray eyes were as pitiless and implacable as the Last Judgment. He paid no further attention to Juliana, every fiber of his being concentrated on the annihilation of George Ridge. A wicked blade suddenly flickered at the end of the cane he held in his hand. "Step outside, sir." The blade pushed between George's fat thighs.

George could feel the sensation in his groin. His knees went to water. The pitiless eyes held him, mocking his terror. He stumbled toward the door. Quentin stood aside. Tarquin followed him out, the tip of the sword still menacing George's quivering manhood.

"Lucien?" Juliana shook her head in an effort to dispel the trancelike sensation. "Is he all right, Quentin?"

Quentin didn't answer. He crossed to her in two long strides, taking her hands in his strong grip. "My poor child," he said. "What you must have suffered."

"Not that much." She smiled a wan smile. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Did you imagine Tarquin wouldn't come for you?" Quentin sounded almost reproachful.

"Your husband is dying in my hall," Amelia announced before Juliana could respond. "I really do think it most inconsiderate of you, Juliana, to bring these people down upon us."

"I hardly think Juliana is to blame, ma'am," Quentin said. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go back to my cousin and await the physician."

Juliana followed him out to where Lucien lay on the settle, his body strangely limp, his complexion waxen. Clotted blood formed over the gash on his forehead, and blood flecked his blue lips. He didn't seem to be breathing. Juliana placed her hand lightly over his mouth and felt the faint stirring of air. "He's still alive." She kept her hand there, filled now with a perverse pity for the man who had tormented her. She glanced up and read the same emotion in Quentin's eyes.

Outside George was pinned against the stable wall with a piece of wood across his throat. He didn't know how it had happened, but one minute he'd been on his feet and the next felled with a blow to the back of his neck. He'd been hauled upright and slammed against the stable wall. The duke pressed the wood tighter. "Not a pleasant feeling, I believe," he said coolly. He dropped the wood and once again pushed his unsheathed swordstick between George's pudgy thighs. George's eyes rolled.

"Listen to me very carefully now, my friend. You are going to tell the nearest magistrate that Juliana could not have been responsible for your father's death. You will say that your father was old, had a weak heart, had been drinking heavily. You will say that you have no doubt at all that he died from excitement and overexertion, leaving his child bride blameless but alone and terrified."

George's eyes rolled again. He tried to shake his head, tried to speak, but managed only a grunt that changed to a squeak as the sword pressed upward and he could feel the blade, razor sharp against his shriveled softness.

"Let me tell you why you will do this, you dolt." Tarquin paused, glancing over his shoulder at a groom who'd sauntered into the yard and now stood staring at the tableau. The duke dismissed him from his mind and turned back to Sir George.

"If you say anything else, I will lay against you charges of assault with intent to murder Lady Edgecombe. I will lay charges of stalking, of abduction, of breaking into my house, of thievery. I will have witnesses to your every action. I will say that you are obsessed wdth Lady Edgecombe, that you believe she is your father's widow. I will prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Lady Edgecombe is not Sir John Ridge's widow. I will say that you bear me a grudge because I had you thrashed for trying to break into my house. Believe me, I can do these things. Whom do you think a magistrate is going to believe? The Duke of Redmayne, or an ignorant dolt of a country squire?"

George stared into the cold gray eyes. He knew he had lost. He had no defense against the charges. He knew the duke would produce witnesses who would swear blind to his guilt. He knew he would be bumbling and inarticulate and the duke and his lawyers would run rings around him. They would discount anything a convicted felon said against Viscountess Edgecombe, the Duke of Redinayne's cousin by marriage. They would hang him… transport him if he was lucky.

"Of course, if my words aren't sufficiently persuasive, there are other ways," the duke mused. The sword moved upward. George's gut loosened; he opened his mouth on a bellow of fear, but no sound came out. "It is really very tempting," Tarquin murmured. "Emasculation seems such an apt punishment, don't you think?" George felt the sword nick his inner thigh. He couldn't believe it might happen, and yet he could believe anything of this avenging devil with his ice-cold eyes. The sword nicked his other thigh, and George groaned with terror, bitter bile filling his mouth. He retched helplessly.

Tarquin stepped away from him with a disgusted curl of his lip. "You are a fool," he said contemptuously. "Oh, you might have succeeded in intimidating Juliana if she hadn't been under my wing. She's still an innocent… a child in many ways. But when you crossed swords with me, my friend, you made the biggest mistake of your bumbling oafish life. If you ever come within ten miles of Juliana again, I will unman you. I suggest you believe it." He turned on his heel and left George sagging against the wall, vomiting up his breakfast.

In the hall Juliana and Quentin still stood beside Lucien. Of Sir Brian and his wife there was no sign. Tarquin came over to the settle. Juliana still had her hand over Lucien's mouth, but she didn't know why anymore. She looked up at Tarquin. "He's dying."

"He's been dying for a long time," Tarquin replied. "What happened to him?"

Juliana started to explain, then stopped as Lucien's eyes fluttered open. He stared up at them, and she shrank back from the naked malice in the rapidly glazing eyes. "God rot the lot of you!" Lucien declared. His head dropped to one side, his eyes staring sightlessly at the wall.

Juliana stepped backward, suddenly conscious of an invisible thread connecting Tarquin and Quentin. As she slipped into the library, Tarquin bent over and closed Lucien's eyes. Quentin laid his hands on his breast. They stood in silence, looking down at the dead man,

"He's dead," Juliana said flatly as she entered the library.

"Who? Your husband or that oaf Ridge?" Sir Brian asked, sounding only mildly curious.

"Edgecombe."

"Well. I never knew the man, but if he was anything like that crude ox. the world's well rid of him," declared Lady Horsett. "But I consider it in the very worst of taste to die in a stranger's hall."

"No one could ever accuse Edgecombe of having taste, ma'am." Tarquin said ironically from the door. "But I do apologize once again for the inconvenience. It was most thoughtless of him to sully your house in such fashion."

"Well. I daresay it was not exactly your fault," Sir Brian allowed. "It was that clod Ridge who brought him here, as I understand. Or was it Juliana?"