Juliana had staggered out of the circular room, into the warm night. She wanted to crawl behind a bush and vomit her heart out. But she would not give her loathsome husband the pleasure.
"Well, my dear, I trust you're enjoying your introduction to London entertainments." Lucien took snuff, regarding her with a sardonic smile.
"It's certainly an education, my lord," she responded, both surprised and thankful that her voice was clear and steady.
Lucien frowned, glowering at her in the flickering light of the flambeaux illuminating the path from the cockpit to the gate. The woman was proving a disappointment. He'd expected her to break before now.
"Gad, man, but I've a thirst on me to equal a parched camel's," Frank Carson declared, loosening his already crumpled cravat. "Let's to the Shakespeare's Head. I've a mind for some dicing."
"Aye, good thought," Freddie approved, wiping his perspiring forehead with a lace-edged handkerchief. "You comin', Edgecombe?"
"Indeed," the viscount said. "The night's but barely begun. Come, madam wife." He grabbed Juliana's elbow and dragged her beside him down the path and onto the street. "Hackney! Hey, fellow. You there, idle bastard!" He waved belligerently at the driver of a cab, smoking peacefully in the stand of hackneys touting for customers emerging from the Royal Cockpit.
The jarvey cracked his whip and directed his weary horse across the street. "Where to, guv?"
"Shakespeare's Head." Lucien clambered up, leaving Juliana to follow. Her petticoat was grimy from the fdthy matting in the cockpit, her dainty slippers soiled with something unidentifiable but disgusting. She drew her cloak tighter around her, despite the warmth of the night, and huddled into the shadowy corner as the others rowdily entered the vehicle.
She was extremely weary, and growing increasingly frightened. There was a frenzy to her husband's behavior, an alarming glitter in his burning eyes. His color was, if anything, worse than usual, and his breath rasped in his chest. She knew instinctively that he intended to make game of her in some way. Foolishly, she had attempted to ally herself with him in opposition to the duke. Foolishly she had thought she'd found the perfect motive for Edgecombe's cooperation. Foolishly she'd thought she could use him for her own ends. But Lucien was not cooperating with her. He was using her for his own amusement. And he wasn't finished yet.
There was nothing she could do, outnumbered as she was, but watch and wait and try to escape. Maybe they would become so involved in the gambling, so besotted with drink, that she could slip away without their noticing. Maybe a visit to the outhouse at the tavern would give her an opportunity.
Covent Garden was still thronged, but the crowd's inebriation had reached a new peak. Voices were loud and slurred; raised in anger and curses as often as in laughter. Men and women swayed over the cobbles, clutching stone jugs of gin, and Juliana watched a woman tumble in a drunken heap into the kennel, spilling the drink all over her. The man she was with fell on her with a roar, throwing her skirts up over her head to chanting encouragement from passersby.
Juliana averted her eyes. She had no idea whether the woman was a willing participant in what was going on, or merely insensible. She didn't seem to be struggling. Someone screamed from one of the shacks under the Piazza, a loud squeal like a stuck pig. Juliana shuddered, her scalp crawling. A woman came flying out of the building, wearing only a thin shift. A man raced after her, wielding a stick. His face was suffused with fury, the woman's pale with terror. Juliana waited for someone to intervene, but no one took any notice as the woman weaved and ducked through the crowd, trying to escape the ever-swinging stick.
"Filthy whore-up to her tricks again," Bertrand said, grinning. "The trollops think they can get away with murder."
"So what's she done?" Juliana demanded, her eyes snapping in the flickering orange light from flambeaux and oil lamps.
Bertrand shrugged. "How should I know?"
"Cheated, most like," Frank said. "It's what they all do. Cheat their customers, cheat their whoremasters, cheat their bawds. They all need a spell in Bridewell now and again. Shakes 'em up."
Juliana swallowed her rage. It would only amuse them. There had to be a way to improve the conditions under which these women sold themselves. She understood that it was the only living available to them . . . understood it now from bitter experience. But surely they need not be so vulnerable to the merciless greed of those who exploited them.
She found herself being ushered with a determined arm toward a tavern, where the door stood open to the square and raucous, drunken voices poured forth with the lamplight on a thick haze of pipe smoke.
A bare-breasted woman swayed over to them with a tray laden with brimming tankards of ale. "What can I do fer ye, m'lords?" She winked and touched her tongue to her lips in a darting, suggestive fashion.
"Ale, wench!" Bertrand announced, slapping her backside with unnecessary vigor so that the tray shook in her hand and the ale spilled over. "Clumsy slut," he said with an offhand shrug, pulling out a bench from under one of the long tables.
Juliana sat down with the rest. She was parched, and ale was a welcome prospect. On the other side of the room, through the harsh babble of clamoring voices, she could hear the bets being called amid oaths and exclamations as the dice were rolled. There was a sharp edge of acrimony to the hubbub, a warring note that made the hairs on her nape prickle in anticipation of the violence that bubbled just beneath the surface of the apparent excitable jocularity.
A tankard of ale was thumped in front of her. The resulting spill dripped into her lap, but she'd long given up worrying about her clothes on this horrendous evening. If a soiled petticoat and a beer stain on her gown were the worst that would happen, she'd count herself fortunate. She drank deeply and gratefully.
After a few minutes, when it seemed that her companions were absorbed in wagering on the possible dimensions of a spreading ale spill, she rose to her feet, trying to slide unobtrusively away.
Lucien's hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She looked down at the thin white fingers and was distantly surprised at how strong they were. The blood fled from her skin beneath the grip. "Where are you off to, madam wife?" he demanded, his tone acerbic, his words slurred.
"The outhouse," she responded calmly. "You're hurting me."
He laughed and released her wrist. "It's out the back, past the kitchen. Don't be long now."
Juliana made her way through the room. She was accosted at almost every step by drunken revelers and dice players, but she avoided eye contact and shook the grasping hands from her arm with a disdainful air.
The privy was in an enclosed backyard, and Juliana could see no escape route. She wrestled with her skirts in the foul darkness, her head aching with the noise and the smoke, and her bone-deep weariness. How was she to get away? Lucien would delight in thwarting any attempt, and his friends would cheerfully lend their physical support. It wasn't worth risking the humiliation of defeat and Lucien's malevolent amusement.
She paused for a moment in the inn doorway before reentering the taproom. Lucien was watching the door, waiting for her reappearance. He beckoned imperatively and rose unsteadily to his feet as she approached. "We're going to play," he announced, taking her elbow. "You shall stand at my shoulder, madam wife, and smile on the dice."
Juliana could see no option, so she forced a smile of cheerful compliance and accompanied them to the dice table. They were greeted with rather morose stares, and room was somewhat unwillingly made for them at the table. Juliana yawned, swaying with exhaustion as the excitement grew with each throw of the dice. Lucien's voice grew increasingly slurred. A hectic flush stood out against his greenish pallor, and his eyes burned with a febrile glitter as the level in the brandy bottle he now held went steadily down.