Money, of course. She had left her husband's home without a penny, hadn't even taken her clothes. Somehow she'd fallen under the duke's influence, and he was requiring her to earn her keep by playing this part. He'd come to her rescue last night, so he must be deeply involved. But did he know that the strumpet he was employing was wanted for murder? Perhaps someone should tell him.
George turned into a tavern under the Piazza and called for ale. Perhaps he should confront Juliana before exposing her to her protector. Maybe she would be so intimidated by seeing him and understanding how much power he now held over her, that she would capitulate without a murmur. So long as she wasn't legally married, then nothing stood in the way of his own possession. She hadn't appeared to recognize him last night, but she'd been in great distress then and probably unaware of anything around her. He would ensure that next time she looked him full in the face and acknowledged his power.
George drained his tankard and called for a bottle of burgundy. He was beginning to feel that he would soon steer a path through this muddle and emerge triumphant. All he had to do now was to waylay Juliana when she was alone and with no easy exit. He would easily convince her to see which side her bread was buttered.
The burgundy arrived, but after a few sips he stood up and walked restlessly to the tavern door. The thought of Juliana drew him like a lodestone. His feet carried him almost without volition back to Russell Street, where he took up a stand on the steps of the bookshop, apparently minding his own business.
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Juliana found Mistress Dennison friendly and hospitable. She bade her sit down and pressed a glass of sherry on her, then sat down herself and said with crisp matter-of-factness, "Do you know yet whether you've conceived?"
Juliana nearly choked on her sherry before she reminded herself that in this household there were no taboo intimate subjects when it came to female matters.
"It's too early to tell, ma'am," she responded with creditable aplomb.
Mistress Dennison nodded sagely. "You do, of course, know the signs?"
"I believe so, ma'am. But anything you wish to impart, I should be glad to hear."
Mistress Forster had broken her silence on all such matters only once, to tell Juliana that if she missed her monthly terms, she could assume she had conceived. Juliana suspected that there was more to the business than that bald fact, so she was grateful for Elizabeth's interest.
Elizabeth poured herself another glass of sherry and began to describe the symptoms of conception and the method of calculating the date of an expected birth. Juliana listened, fascinated. Mistress Dennison minced no words, called a spade a spade, and left no possibility for misunderstanding.
"There, child. I trust you understand these things now."
"Oh, yes, completely, ma'am." Juliana rose to take her leave. "I'm very thankful for the enlightenment."
"Well, my dear, you must always remember that even when a girl leaves here for such a splendid establishment as yours, she is still one of my girls. Any questions you may have, you will find the answers here. And when the time comes, I shall gladly assist at the birth. We are a close family, you understand." She smiled warmly at Juliana.
"I trust you'll see your way to opening your family to Lucy Tibbet, ma'am." Juliana dropped a demure curtsy. "His Grace has been kind enough to say that he'll give her a sum of money when she leaves his house so she'll be able to set herself up, but she will need friends. As we all do," she added.
Mistress Dennison looked a trifle vexed at being pressed on this matter, but she said a little stiffly, "His Grace is all condescension as always, Juliana. Lucy is very fortunate. Perhaps more than she deserves. But it's to be hoped she's learned a valuable lesson and will be a little more obedient in future."
Juliana dropped her eyes to hide the tongues of fire. "I'm sure you will do what you think best, ma'am."
"Yes, indeed, child. I always do." Elizabeth inclined her head graciously. "And I daresay, if Lucy is truly penitent, then Mr. Dennison and I will see our way to assisting her."
"Ma'am." Juliana curtsied again and turned to leave the room before her unruly tongue betrayed her. In her haste she tripped over a tiny spindle-legged table and sent the dainty collection of objets d'art it supported flying to the four corners of the room. "Oh. I do beg your pardon." She bent to pick up the nearest object, and her hoop swung wildly and knocked over an alabaster candlestick on a low table.
"Never mind, my dear." Elizabeth rose rather hastily to her feet and reached for the bellpull. "A servant will see to it. Just leave everything as it is."
Juliana backed cautiously from the room, her high color due not to embarrassment but to hidden anger.
She made her way down the stairs. The women had all retired to their chambers to dress for the day's work. A maid bustled across the hall with a vase of fresh flowers for the salon. Juliana glimpsed a footman refilling the decanters on the pier table. In a couple of hours the clients would begin to arrive.
Mr. Garston bowed her ceremoniously out of the door, clicking his fingers imperiously to the idling chairmen. "Look sharp, there. 'Er Ladyship's ready fer ye."
The chairmen snarled at Garston but jumped to attention as Juliana came down the steps. As she turned to step into the chair, she saw George watching her from the steps of the bookshop at Number 8. He offered her a clumsy bow, his lips twisting in a humorless grin. Juliana frowned as if in puzzlement. She spoke in carrying tones.
"Chairman, that man over there is staring at me in the most particular way. I find it offensive."
The first chairman touched his forelock. "Ye want me to wipe the grin off 'is face, m'lady?"
"No," Juliana said hastily. "That won't be necessary. Just carry me back to Albermarle Street."
George cursed her for an arrogant strumpet. How dare she look through him as if he were no more than a slug beneath her feet? What did she think she was playing at? But now that he'd found her, now that he knew that she went out alone, he could plan his campaign. Next time she left Albermarle Street alone, he would take her. He'd bring her to a proper respect for her late husband's heir. He returned to his burgundy with renewed thirst.
Chapter 19
The duke had not returned when Juliana got back to the house. One less confrontation to worry about, she thought cheerfully. The longer she could keep him in ignorance of her excursions to Russell Street, the simpler life would be. George was a damnable nuisance, though. If he was going to dog her footsteps at every turn, she was going to have to tell Tarquin, which would mean admitting her own journeyings. For some reason she had absolute faith in the duke's ability to dispose of George Ridge in some appropriate fashion . . . and she also had a grim foreboding that he'd be able to put a stop to her own activities if he chose. But that was a bridge to be crossed later.
She sat down at the secretaire in her parlor and drew a sheet of paper toward her. Dipping the quill into the standish, she began to set out a list of items the Sisterhood's fund would have to cover if it was to do any good. They could support only their contributing members, she decided, although that would leave out many of the most vulnerable women of the streets. The ones who sold themselves for a pint of gin against the tavern wall, or rolled in the gutter with whoever would have them for a groat. But one had to start great enterprises with small steps.
A footman interrupted her calculations with the message that His Grace was at the front door and wished her to join him. Puzzled, she followed the footman downstairs. The front door stood open, and as she approached, she heard Tarquin talking with Quentin.