George leaned forward, dropping his voice confidentially. Lucien listened to the tale, his expression unmoving, drinking his way steadily through the bottle, for the most part forgetting to refill the other man's glass. He had no difficulty reading the lust behind Ridge's desire for vengeance, and he knew it could be put to good use. The man was a country-bred oaf, with no subtlety. But when the twin devils of lust and vengeance drove a man, he could be an invincible enemy under proper direction. A most valuable tool.
If Lucien could expose Juliana, could see her quivering in the dock to receive the death sentence, Tarquin's disgrace would be almost as devastating as the girl's. His damnable pride would crumble in the dust. He'd be the jesting stock of London.
George finished the story and drained his glass. "I thought I would tell the duke first," he said, looking mournfully at the empty bottle. "Expose Juliana to him and see what he says."
Lucien shook his head. "Depend upon it, he knows it all."
George pointedly picked up the empty bottle and upended it into his glass. "How can you be sure?"
"Because he as good as told me." Lucien finally beckoned the potboy for another bottle. "Told me the harlot would do his bidding. Thought then he must have something on her. Something to hold over her." His voice was becoming increasingly slurred, but the spite in his eyes grew more pronounced.
"If I laid a charge against her," George said eagerly, "if I did that, she'd have to answer it, even if she denied that she was who she was. But if I could get her guardians to identify her as well as myself, well, surely that should convince the magistrates."
Lucien looked doubtful. "Problem is, Tarquin's up to every trick. A man has to be sharp as a needle and slippery as an eel to put one over on him."
"But even the duke couldn't withstand the testimony of Juliana's guardians. She lived with them from the time she was four years old. If they swear and I swear to her identity, surely that would be enough."
"It might. So long as Tarquin didn't get wind of it first." Lucien stared into his glass, swirling the rich red contents. "It might be easier to work on the whore herself."
"Kidnap her, you mean." George's eyes glittered. "I've been thinkin' along those lines myself. I'd soon get a confession out of her."
George stared into the middle distance. Only when he had Juliana in his hands would he be able to satisfy this all-consuming hunger. Then he would be at peace, able to reclaim his rightful inheritance. He was no longer interested in having her to wife. But he knew he would get no rest until he'd indulged this craving that gnawed at his vitals like Prometheus's vultures.
Lucien's mouth moved in a derisive, flickering smile. He could read the man's thoughts as if they were spelled out. Slobbering, incontinent bumpkin . . . couldn't wait to possess that repellently voluptuous body. "I think we should attempt the legitimate route first," he said solemnly, enjoying the clear disappointment in his companion's fallen face. "Lay a charge against her with the support of her guardians. If that doesn't work, then . . ." He shrugged. "We'll see."
George traced a dark, rusty stain in the table's planking with a splayed fingertip. Red wine or blood, it could be either in this place. The realization entered his befuddled brain that if Juliana was in prison, guards could be bribed. He could have her to himself for as long as it would take. Either plan would give him the opportunity he craved.
He looked up and nodded. "I'll go back to Hampshire in the morning. Lay the matter before the Forsetts. Where will I find you, my lord?"
Lucien scowled, remembering anew that he was now condemned to lodge under his own besieged and uncomfortable roof. "My house is on Mount Street, but here's as good a place as any other. Leave a message with Gideon." He gestured with his head toward the man filling pitchers of ale at the bar counter before taking up his glass again, partially turning his shoulder to George in a gesture that the other man correctly interpreted as dismissal.
George pushed back his chair and stood up. He hesitated over words of farewell. It seemed too inconclusive simply to walk away, but there was no encouragement from the viscount. "I bid you good night, sir," he said finally, receiving not so much as a grunt of acknowledgment. He walked away, intending to return to his previous bench, but he was filled with a restless energy, a surge of elation at the thought that he was no longer alone in his quest. He went outside instead. A slatternly young woman approached him with a near toothless smile.
"Half a guinea, honorable sir?" She thrust her bosom at him, her black eyes snapping.
"Five shillings," he returned.
She shrugged, took his hand, and led him off to the bulks beneath the market holders' stalls. For five shillings, it wasn't worth taking him to her room on King Street, where she'd have to pay for candles and probably change the linen.
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"The Bedford Head on Wednesday forenoon. "
The word flew around the houses of Covent Garden, dropping in the ears of languid women gathered in parlors in the morning's dishabille, idly comparing notes of their previous night's labors, sipping coffee, discussing fashions in the latest periodicals. The word was brought by women from Mistress Dennison's establishment. It was whispered to heads bent in an attentive circle and received with hushed curiosity. The words sisterhood and solidarity were spoken on tongues stumbling over the unfamiliar concepts. And the Russell Street women went on to the next house, leaving the seed to germinate, with Lucy's former plight as fertilizer.
Mistress Mitchell of the Bedford Head had listened to Lilly's explanation that a group of Covent Garden cyprians wished to have a small party to celebrate a birthday. She was asked to provide refreshments, and Lilly didn't bat an eyelid at Mistress Mitchell's exorbitant price for such simple fare as coffee, chocolate, and sweet biscuits. She tripped out of the Bedford Head with a cheerful smile, leaving Mistress Mitchell in frowning thought.
Why would the women wish to rent private space for a party when any one of them could have entertained the others under her own bawd's roof? There wasn't a High Impure in the Garden whose abbess would refuse permission for such an event.
Mistress Mitchell went on her own rounds, consulting her fellow abbesses. None could come up with an explanation. It was decided that Mistress Mitchell would position herself at the peephole to the back room on Wednesday forenoon. With the aid of a glass against the wall, she would be able to hear the women's conversation.
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While she was sitting with Lucy, Juliana received a message from Lilly that the meeting was arranged for Wednesday forenoon. Lucy was sufficiently strong now to leave her bed and was ensconced on the chaise longue beneath the window. Juliana read the note, which contained a variety of messages for Lucy from Russell Street, and then handed it to her companion.
Lucy looked up from the letter. "What is this meeting, Juliana?"
Juliana explained. "It's time we did something," she finished with her usual vehemence. "These people make their living out of us, why should they get away with treating us as badly as they please?"
Lucy looked puzzled. "But not you, Juliana. You're not involved at all. Who's making their living out of you?"
"The duke paid Mistress Dennison three thousand guineas for me," Juliana responded succinctly. "I was bought and sold like a slave, simply because I had no protection, no money of my own, no friends, and nowhere to turn. If the Sisterhood had existed then, I would have had somewhere to go. A few guineas would have made all the difference. And think what it would have done for you."