"Juliana," he tried again. "It concerns Juliana."
"I rather assumed so," Sir Brian said politely. "You seem a little warm, Sir George. I daresay you had a hot ride."
"Devilish hot . . . oh, beggin' your pardon, ma'am." He flushed and fumbled for his handkerchief to wipe his brow.
"Maybe you'd like a glass of lemonade," Amelia said distantly, reaching for the bell rope.
George cast Sir Brian an anguished look, and his host took pity on him. "I daresay the man would prefer a tankard of ale on such a hot afternoon." He gave order to the footman who had appeared in answer to the summons, then turned back to George. "Am I to assume you've found Juliana, Sir George?"
"Oh, yes, yes, indeed, sir." George stepped forward eagerly. Sir Brian stepped back. "But I found her in the most distressing circumstances."
"She is in want?" Lady Forsett asked coldly.
"No . . . no, I don't believe so, ma'am. But the truth is . . . well the truth is . . . not something for the lady's ears, sir." He turned with a significant nod to Sir Brian.
"I can assure you my ears aren't so nice," Amelia said. "Do, I pray you, get to the point."
George took a deep breath and rushed headlong into his tale. His audience gave him all their attention, interrupting him only to press upon him a foaming tankard of ale. Lady Forsett took a seat on a delicate gilt chair and remained motionless, her hands clasped on her fan in her lap. Sir Brian tapped his mouth with a forefinger but other than that showed no emotion.
When George had reached the conclusion of his narrative and was thirstily drinking his ale, Sir Brian said, "Let me just clarify this, Sir George. You're saying that Juliana is now Viscountess Edgecombe, lodged under the roof of the Duke of Redmayne?"
"Yes. sir." George nodded vigorously, wiping a mustache of foam from his upper lip with the back of his hand.
"Legally married?"
"Apparently so."
"Then surely she's to be congratulated."
George looked confused. "She's turned whore, sir. I thought I explained that."
"But she's respectably wed to a member of the peerage?" Sir Brian offered a puzzled frown. "I fad to see how the two states can coexist."
George began to feel the ground slipping from beneath his feet. "She denies who she is," he said. "She ignores me. . . looks straight through me."
"I would never have credited her with so much sense," Amelia murmured.
"Madam, she murdered her husband . . . my father." George slammed his empty tankard onto a table.
"Not so hot, sir . . . not so hot," Sir Brian advised. "There's no need for a show of temper."
"But I will have her brought to justice, I tell you."
"By all means, you must do what seems best to you," Sir Brian said calmly. "I wouldn't stand in your way, my dear sir."
George looked nonplussed. "But if she refuses to acknowledge her identity, and she has the duke's protection, then it will be difficult for me to challenge her masquerade, and I must do that if I'm to lay charges against her. I need you to verify my identification," he explained earnestly, as if his audience might have failed to grasp the obvious point.
Sir Brian's eyebrows disappeared into his scalp. "My good sir, you cannot be suggesting I journey to London. I detest the place."
"But how else are you to see her?" George stumbled.
"I have no intention of seeing her. If, indeed, she is so established, I would be doing her a grave disservice."
"You won't have her brought to justice?" George's eyes popped.
"I find it difficult to believe that Juliana was responsible for your father's death," Sir Brian said consideringly. "It was, of course, a most unfortunate occurrence, but I can't believe Juliana should be punished for it."
"I will see her burned at the stake, sir." George strode to the door. "With or without your assistance."
"That is, of course, your prerogative," Sir Brian said.
George turned at the door, his face crimson with rage and frustration. "And I will have my inheritance back, Sir Brian. Don't think I don't know why it suits you to let her go unchallenged."
Sir Brian raised an eyebrow. "My dear sir, I do protest. You'll be accusing me of ensuring her disappearance next."
George went out, the door crashing shut behind him.
"Dear me, what a dreadful fellow," Sir Brian declared in a bored tone.
Lady Forsett's fan snapped beneath her fingers. "If he has found Juliana and it is as he says, then we cannot acknowledge her. Apart from the scandal over Sir John's death, her present situation is disgraceful. She may be married, but it's certain she took the whore's way to the viscount's bed, and you may be sure there's something most irregular about the connection."
"I doubt Juliana wishes to be acknowledged by us," her husband observed with an arid smile. "I suggest we wish her the best of luck and wash our hands of the whole business."
"But what if that oaf manages to bring her before the magistrates on such a charge?"
"Why, then, my dear, we simply repudiate her. She's been out of our hands since her wedding day. We have no obligation either to help her or to hinder her, as I see it."
"But if she is discovered, then either way you will lose control of her jointure."
Sir Brian shrugged. "So be it. But you may be sure that while I have it, I am making the most of it, my dear. The trust is turning a handsome profit at present. And, besides," he added with another humorless smile, "she may well be carrying a child. In which case her jointure will remain in my hands if she's found guilty of her husband's death. Her first husband's death," he amended. "She really has been remarkably busy. I must commend her industry. But, then, she always did have a surplus of energy."
Amelia dismissed this pleasantry with an irritated wave. "The jointure will remain in your control only if the child can be proved to be Sir John's."
"How would they prove otherwise?"
"It would be a matter of dates," Amelia pointed out. "The child must be born within nine months of Sir John's death."
"Quite so," her husband agreed tranquilly. "Let us see what happens, shall we? If she is found and brought to justice, then we will simply wash our hands of her very publicly. But I trust that won't happen. I really don't wish Juliana injury, do you, my dear?"
Amelia considered this with a frown. "No," she pronounced finally. "I don't believe I do. She was always a dreadful nuisance, but so long as she doesn't cause us any further inconvenience, she may marry a duke it she pleases, or go to the devil with my blessing."
Her husband nodded. "Benign neglect is in everyone's best interests, ma'am. Except, of course. Sir George's."
"Juliana will be a match for that fool," pronounced Lady Forsett.
"And if she's not, then we shall rethink our position." Sir Brian strolled to the door. "I'll be in my book room until dinner."
His wife curtsied and rang the bell rope to tell the servants to air the morning room. The man's pomade had been overpowering, almost worse than the stale sweat it was designed to mask.
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Mistress Mitchell crouched closer to the wall, the upturned tumbler pressed to her ear. She could hardly believe what she was hearing. The ungrateful hussies were complaining of their usage, of the terms of their employment, were exchanging stories of mistreatment, and now were proposing to set up against their protectors. They were talking of buying their own supplies of candles, wine, coal. Of having a joint fund to support them in need so they wouldn't have to go into debt to their abbesses or whoremasters. It was unheard of. It was rebellion. And it was all coming from that sweet-tongued serpent that Elizabeth Dennison had placed with the Duke of Redmayne. She'd clearly got above herself since her removal to His Grace's establishment. Didn't she know she owed Mistress Dennison gratitude on her knees? But if she thought she could lead the others astray, then Miss Juliana, or whatever she called herself, was in for a nasty surprise. Indeed, they all were.