He won initially and, thus encouraged, began to bet ever more immoderately. And as he grew more excited, so his losses mounted. He'd lost all his own money at the cockpit and now ran through Bertrand's loan, threw down his watch, a ring, and his snuffbox before resorting to IOUs, tossing them onto the table with reckless abandon. It was clear to Juliana through her sleepiness that his fellow players were not happy with these scrawled scraps of paper, and finally one of them declared disgustedly, "If you can't play with goods or money, man, I'll not throw again. I've no use for promises."
"Aye, what good's a piece of paper when a man wants to buy ale?" The chorus swelled and the faces pressed closer to the table, glaring at Lucien.
"Devil take you all," he swore. "My IOUs are as good as gold, I'll have you know. Underwritten by His Grace, the Duke of Redmayne. Present them at his house on Albermarle Street in the morning, and he'll pay you with interest."
"Who wants to wait till mornin'?" There was a rumble around the table, and one man half rose from his seat. He had massive fists, like sledgehammers, and a wandering eye that lent added menace to his drunken squint. "Pay up, my lord," he said with sneering emphasis, "or I'll 'ave the coat off yer back."
Lucien fumbled for his sword but not before Captain Frank Carson had hurled back his chair and leaped to his feet, his sword in his hand. "You dare to insult the honor of a gentleman!" he bellowed, his eyes rolling back in his head as he struggled to focus them. "Have at you, sir!" He lunged across the table. The burly man sidestepped with surprising agility, and the candlelight flickered on the blade of a cutlass. A woman screamed and the crowd in the taproom drew closer, some standing on their chairs to get a better view.
Juliana was now wide-awake. Her eyes flew to the door, tantalizingly open. But eager spectators pressed close behind them, and she was pinned to the table's edge. The mood in the room was ugly. Lucien and his friends, with drawn swords, faced a veritable army of knife-wielding rogues. The dice lay abandoned in the middle of the table, and the rowdy clamor died as a moment of expectant silence fell.
It was Freddie Binkton who broke the menacing tension. They were hopelessly outnumbered, their retreat cut off by the spectators. "Let's not be hasty, now," he said with a nervous titter. "Lucien, dear fellow, you must have something about you to raise a bit of blunt. We can all contribute something." He patted his pockets as if he could conjure coins from their depths.
"I'd put in my watch," Bertrand said, adding dolefully, "but I wagered it on that damn red cock . . . had no more spirit than a mewling lamb. Gave up without a fight. . . lost my watch . . . worth all of fifty guinea . . . lost it for a paltry ten-pound wager." His voice trailed off with his wandering attention, the sword in his hand drooping.
As if acceding to the truce, the ruffianly group lowered their knives, relaxed their aggressive stance, and glared at Lucien, waiting for his response.
Lucien looked around, his mouth tight, a pulse throbbing in his temples, the same febrile flush on his face, as garish as a clown's paint. Juliana, standing so close to him, could feel the savage fury emanating from his skin, mingling with the sour smell of fear and sweat. His gaze fell on her, and she shrank back, instinctively trying to merge with the people around her. Something flared suddenly in the pale-brown eyes, and he smiled slowly with a ghastly menace.
"Oh, I believe I've something to sell," he said, barely moving his lips.
"No!" Juliana whispered, her hand at her throat as she understood what he intended. "No, you cannot!"
"Oh, but I believe I can, madam wife," he said airily. "Wives are their husbands' chattel. You are mine, and I may dispose of you how I please. You should be glad to be of service, my dear." His hand shot out and gripped her wrist again in that painful vise. "Someone bring me a length of rope. We should do this properly."
"Come now, Lucien, it isn't right." Frank mumbled, half-apologetically. He looked uneasily at Juliana, who simply stared back at him, unseeing in her horror.
"Don't be such a ninny," Lucien said with a petulant scowl. "It's not for you to say what's right or not when it comes to my wife. Ah, rope." He took the rope handed him by a grinning ostler and looped it into a halter. "Here, madam. Bend your head."
"No!" Juliana pulled back from him, terrified as much by the evil embodied in the grinning death's-head countenance as by his intention. Someone grabbed her arms and pulled them behind her so she was forced to stand still. Lucien, still with that venomous grin, roughly pulled the halter over her head. Hands tugged and pulled at her, shoving her up onto the table. She fought them, her rage now superseding her terror. She kicked and scratched, barking her shins on the edge of the table as she was pushed and pulled and dragged upward. But despite her struggles, they got her onto the table, and Lucien seized the end of the halter.
Juliana, blinded by her wild rage, kicked at him. catching him beneath the chin with the sole of her shoe. He went reeling backward, dropping the rope. She made to jump from the table, but two men grabbed her ankles, holding her still as Lucien came up again, his eyes narrowed, one hand to his chin.
"Bitch," he said softly. "You'll pay for that."
She would have kicked him again if they hadn't been holding her ankles so tightly. She swayed dizzily on her perch, nausea rising in her throat, a cold sweat breaking out on her back. How had she walked into this nightmare? She'd known Lucien was vile, but not even in her darkest imaginings could she have suspected him capable of such viciousness. But the duke had known. He had always known what his cousin was capable of. He'd known but it hadn't stopped him from using her . . . from exposing her to this evil.
Lucien was calling in a drunken singsong, "So what am I bid for this fine piece, gentlemen? Shall we start at twenty guineas?"
A chorus of responses filled the air. Juliana looked down and saw little red eyes peering greedily up at her. stripping her naked, violating her with their lascivious grins. She couldn't move, her ankles were circled so tightly, and Lucien was pulling on the rope so that it cut into the back of her neck.
George Ridge awoke from his postprandial sleep as the shouts around him grew even more raucous. He raised his head, blinking, for a moment disoriented. He remembered where he was when he saw that he'd been sleeping in the midst of the detritus of his dinner. He belched loudly and lifted the bottle of port to his lips. There was a swallow left, and he smacked his lips, set the bottle down, and turned to call for another.
His eyes fell on the scene at the far side of the room. At first he couldn't make out what was going on, the noise was so loud, the crowd so thick. They were wagering on something, and there was a frenzied edge to the bidding that struck him forcefully. He blinked, shaking his head to rid his brain of muzziness. Then he blinked again and sat up.
Juliana was standing on the table. It couldn't be anyone else. Not with that tumbling forest fire of hair, those jade-green eyes flashing with such desperate fury, that tall, voluptuous figure.
But what in the devil's name was going on here? He pushed back his chair and stood up slowly, trying to isolate the words from the general hubbub. He heard someone call, "A hundred guineas. Come, gentlemen. My wife is worth at least that."
Wife! He approached the outskirts of the crowd. The bidding was getting livelier. A hundred and fifty, two hundred. Juliana stood like a stone. The man holding the rope, the man calling himself her husband, worked the crowd to renewed frenzy as he began to point out Juliana's attractions.