Juliana was married to a viscount! He dropped his spoon into the pewter bowl with a clatter as for the first time this fact really penetrated his brain. He hadn't been able to credit it at first, when the groom in the stables had told him nonchalantly that he was in the employ of the Duke of Redmayne. George had offered a description of the two men he'd seen with Juliana, and the groom had identified them as the duke and his brother, Lord Quentin. A description of the sickly-looking gentleman who'd gone off with the women that morning brought forth a contemptuous curl of the lip and the information that it must have been Viscount Edgecombe, His Grace's cousin. And then the startling words: "Just married yesterday. Brought 'is wife back 'ere . . . poor creature!"
Wife! It wasn't possible, but the groom had absolutely identified Lady Edgecombe as a lady with unmistakably striking hair and a taller than usual figure. There could be no possible doubt.
George picked up his spoon again. No sense wasting an expensive delicacy. He scraped the bowl with his spoon, then wiped it out with a hunk of bread. Then he sat back and glared at the grimy wall. Behind him there were bursts of laughter and applause. He sneaked a look over his shoulder and then hastily turned his eyes away. Two women were apparently coupling on a table. George found it deeply offensive. Such depravity didn't go on in Winchester, or even in the stews of Portsmouth, where you could find a sailor and his whore making the beast with two backs on every park bench.
He would have left the Shakespeare's Head at this point, except that he'd ordered a goose to follow the soup, thinking that a good dinner might quell the roiling turmoil in his belly. If Juliana was truly married to a viscount, then she couldn't marry George Ridge. Unless it had been a Fleet marriage. The thought gave him some hope, so he was able to face the platter of roast goose swimming in its own grease with more enthusiasm than he might otherwise have shown.
He chewed with solemn gusto, tearing the bird apart with his fingers, spearing potatoes on the point of his knife, heedless of the grease running down his chin, as he drank liberally of the bottle of claret that the landlord had thumped down at his elbow. He was now oblivious of the riotous goings-on behind him. A Fleet marriage seemed more and more likely. How could Juliana in such a few days be truly married to a duke's cousin? George didn't know much about the highest echelons of the aristocracy, but he was pretty certain they didn't marry on a whim. And they didn't marry women with no name, even if they were gently bred, as Juliana certainly was. So it must be some whoredom arrangement. Presumably she'd been tricked by an illegal ceremony. It made perfect sense, since George had had difficulty imagining Juliana's seeking her bread by selling her body.
Feeling immeasurably more cheerful, he wiped his chin with his sleeve and called for a bottle of port and a dish of lampreys. Juliana would have to be grateful for the prospect of rescue once she understood the falsity of her present position. He, of course, would have to be very magnanimous. Not many men would wed a harlot. He would be sure to point this out to Juliana. That and the promise to remove all suspicions of her involvement in his father's death should produce abject submission to his every fancy.
He grinned wolfishly and stuck his fork into the dish of eel-like fish, scooping them into his mouth without pause until the dish was empty; then he launched an attack on a steamed pudding studded with currants
Two hours later, overcome by sleepiness, but having first ensured that he was sitting firmly upon his money pouch, he allowed his head to fall upon the table and was soon snoring loudly amid the debris of his dinner. No one took the slightest notice of him.
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Viscount Edgecombe took a gulp of cognac and gave a crack of amusement as he stared at his wife in her parlor after dinner. "By all means, I'll show you the town, m'dear." He hiccuped once and chortled again. "I can show you some sights. Gad, yes." He drained his glass and laughed again.
Juliana said steadily, "His Grace will not care for it."
"Oh, no, that's for sure." Lucien blearily tried to focus his eyes, producing only a squint. "He'll forbid it, of course." He frowned. "Could make himself a nuisance, you know."
"But you're not under his control, are you, sir?" She opened her eyes wide. "I can't imagine your submitting to the orders of anyone."
"Oh, ordinarily, I wouldn't," he agreed, refilling his glass from the decanter. "But I'll tell you straight: Tarquin holds the purse strings. Very generous, he is, but I'd not care to risk his closing the purse on me. I can't tell you how expensive it is to live these days."
"Why does he finance you?" She waited for a coughing fit to subside as he choked on the cognac.
"Why, m'dear, in exchange for agreeing to this sham marriage," he told her with a final wheeze.
"Then surely you could say that if he doesn't continue, you'll repudiate me as your wife," suggested Juliana, idly smoothing the damask on the sofa where she sat.
Lucien stared at her. "Gad, but you're a devious creature. Why's it so important to have at Tarquin?"
Juliana shrugged. Lucien presumably didn't know the full details of her contract with the duke. "I object to being manipulated in this way."
A sly look crept into Lucien's hollowed eyes. "Ah," he said. "Tarquin said you would do his bidding. Have something on you, does he?"
"Merely that I am friendless and without protection," she said calmly. "And therefore dependent upon him."
"So why would you want to put his back up?" The sly look hadn't left his eyes. "Not in your interests, I would have said."
"I have a legal contract that he can't renege upon," Juliana replied with a cool smile. "It was drawn up by a lawyer and witnessed by Mistress Dennison. He is obliged to provide for me whatever happens."
Lucien produced his skeletal grin at this. "Out of the goodness of my heart, m'dear, I'll tell you you'll have to get up very early in the morning to put one over on Tarquin."
"That may be so," Juliana said with a touch of impatience. "But I wish to go to Covent Garden. I wish to see what it's like there, how the people live, particularly the women. Your cousin wouldn't take me to the places I wish to visit, but you can. Since you spend your time there, anyway, as I understand it, taking me along shouldn't inconvenience you in any way."
"Well, I daresay it won't. But it'll inconvenience Tarquin." He took more cognac and surveyed her costume critically. "Of course, society women do frequent the bagnios. Poor Fred always has some courtier's lady in tow."
"Poor Fred?"
"Prince of Wales. Everyone calls him Poor Fred-poor devil can never get anything right, leads a dog's life. His father loathes him. Humiliates him in public at every opportunity. Wouldn't change places with him for all the crowns in Europe."
"So there wouldn't be anything really objectionable about my coming with you?"
He choked again on his cognac. "Nothing objectionable! Little simpleton!" he exclaimed. "It ain't respectable, m'dear girl. But not everyone in society is as high starched as my estimable cousins." He set his glass down with a snap. "It'll be worth it, just to see Tarquin's face. We'll do it, and if he threatens to cut me off, I'll threaten him back."
"I knew you had spirit," Juliana declared warmly, hiding her revulsion under a surge of triumph. "Shall we go at once?"
"If you like." Lucien surveyed her again with a critical frown. "Don't suppose you've a pair of britches, have you?"
"Britches?" Juliana looked astonished. "I did have, but-"