George's puzzlement deepened. "Isn't that enough?"
Lucien chortled merrily. "Good God, no, man. I'll have a thousand guineas off you. I think that would be a reasonable remuneration. Depending, of course, on what you have in mind." He leaned back, crossing his legs with a casual grin.
George struggled with himself for barely a moment. He could lay hands on a thousand guineas, although it went against the grain to throw it down before this loathsome, grinning reptile. But he needed the viscount's help.
"I need you to help me get her out of the house," he said. "We have to go in there and winkle her out."
"Good God!" Lucien stared at him, for the first time startled out of his indolent and cynical amusement. "And just how do you propose doing that?"
"At dead of night. We go into her room. We overpower her while she's sleeping and we carry her out of there." George spoke with the flat, assertive confidence of a committed man. "You'll know where her room is. And you'll know how to get undetected into the house."
"What makes you think I can perform such miracles?" Lucien inquired with a lifted eyebrow.
"I know you can," George responded stubbornly. "You lived in the house. You probably have a key."
Lucien resumed the gentle tugging of his earlobe. He did have a key to the side door, as it happened. He'd had one copied several years earlier when he'd still been a lad. Tarquin had been an exasperatingly strict and watchful guardian, and Lucien had had frequent resort to subterfuge to evade both the duke's rules and his guard.
"Perhaps I do," he conceded after a minute. "Getting in might not be too difficult, but getting out again, with that red-haired virago screeching and fighting, is a different matter."
"She won't make any noise," George asserted in the same tone.
"Oh?" Lucien inclined his head inquiringly.
"I'll make sure of it."
Lucien examined his expression for a minute, then slowly nodded. "I believe you will. I almost feel sorry for my lady wife. I wonder what could have happened to arouse such vicious urgency in your breast, dear fellow." He waited, but no explanation was forthcoming. Ridge's reticence increased his curiosity a hundredfold, but he was prepared to bide his time. "There's one other small difficulty," he continued in a musing tone. "My estimable cousin has the chamber next door to our quarry. I daresay he finds the proximity convenient."
"You know for a fact that Juliana is his mistress?" George's voice was thick. He knew it, but he wanted it confirmed.
"Why else would my cousin take such an interest in the wench?" Lucien shrugged. "I've never known him to take a woman under his roof before, either. I suspect he'll be most disconcerted to lose her." He grinned. "I think I can contrive to lure my cousin from the house tomorrow. It would be best if he was elsewhere while we're abducting his doxy… Ah, at last… Dick with the cup that cheers. We will drink a toast to this enterprise. Set it down there, man. No need to pour it. I've strength enough for that."
George took the smudged glass handed to him by his host. He drank, his eyes for the moment turned inward on his vengeance. He was a man in the grip of madness. The Duke of Redmayne had unleashed demons when he'd set out to subdue Sir George Ridge.
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The duke reined in his horses outside the house on Albermarle Street. Ted appeared as if by a wizard's conjuring, running down the steps lightly for such a big man. He'd heard the coachman's story, as had the rest of the household, and now glared at Juliana, as if personally insulted by her grim adventure.
"Take the horses, Ted." Tarquin sprang down, reaching up a hand to assist Juliana, then Lilly. He took Rosamund from Quentin so that his brother could alight unencumbered, then handed the still-limp figure back to Quentin and strode ahead of the party into the house.
"Catlett, summon the housekeeper and have these two young women escorted to a bedchamber. Send a maid to attend them. And ask Henny to come to Lady Edgecombe's apartment immediately."
"Oh, no!" Juliana exclaimed. "No… I have no need of Henny. She must look to Rosamund. Truly I can look after myself but Rosamund has need of expert care."
He took her hands, turning them palm up. "You can do nothing for yourself with your hands in this condition. If you won't have Henny, then / will attend to you."
"There's no need for you to trouble yourself, sir." Her voice was stiff. "I have no need of a nurse."
Impatience flared in his eyes. He drew a sharp breath and said. "You will have either Henny or myself to attend to you. Take your pick."
"You, then," she replied dully, seeing no option. Rosamund needed all Henny's skills.
"Very well." He nodded briefly, then turned back to Catlett. "I want a bath, hot water, salve, bandages, and lye soap taken up to Lady Edgecombe's apartment immediately… Quentin, you'll see the other two installed?"
"Of course."
"Come, Juliana." The duke took her wrist in a firm encircling grip and set foot on the stairs. Juliana followed him up willy-nilly.
Her bedchamber was filled with sunlight; the bowls of roses were replenished daily, and the air was heavy with their scent. The sight of the bed with its crisp, lavender-fragrant sheets, the downy invitation of the feather bed and plump pillows, drew her toward it as the nightmare images of Bridewell became smudged by the familiar comforts of home.
Home. This was home? It felt like home. Her own place. The duke's voice broke into her train of thought.
"Bed will have to wait, Juliana. There's no knowing what you might have picked up in that filthy hole. Vermin, infection…"
"Vermin?" Her hands flew to her tangled hair, her eyes widening in disgust. That was why he'd ordered lye.
"Stand still. I don't want to touch your clothes any more than I must, so I'm going to cut them off you." He went to the dresser for the pair of scissors Henny kept to make minor repairs or adjustments to Juliana's wardrobe.
Juliana stood rigid, shuddering with disgust. She remembered the woman Maggie touching her dress, tearing Rosamund's fichu, her gnarled, filthy, bleeding hands sullying as they clawed and fondled. A wave of nausea rose violent and abrupt in her throat. With an inarticulate mutter she pushed Tarquin aside as he approached with the scissors, and dived for the commode.
Tarquin put down the scissors and went over to her. His hand was warm on her neck, soothing as he rubbed her back. Distantly he realized that if anyone had told him a few weeks ago that he wouldn't think twice about ministering to a vomiting woman, he'd have laughed. But that was before Juliana had swept into his life.
"I beg your pardon," she gasped as the spasms ceased. "I don't know what came over me." She envied Rosamund Henny's calm, attentive presence. Vomiting in front of a man, even one's lover-especially one's lover-was a wretched mortification, and she cringed at the thought of what he must be thinking. But his hand on her back just then had been ineffably comforting.
"There's no need for pardon," Tarquin said gently, dampening a washcloth with water from the ewer. He wiped her mouth and brow, attentively matter-of-fact, and when she searched his face, she could see no inkling of his earlier rage. There was a rather puzzled frown in his eyes, but his mouth was relaxed. He tossed aside the cloth, picked up the scissors, and swiftly cut the laces of her bodice.
She was naked in a very few minutes, his hands moving with deft efficiency, cutting away her petticoats, her chemise, slicing through her garters. She rolled down her stockings herself, tossing them onto the heap of discarded clothing. Then she stood, awkward and uncertain, wishing for Henny, not knowing where to put her hands, wanting absurdly to cover herself with her hands, as if she'd never shared glorious intimacies with this man; as if he hadn't touched and probed every inch of her skin, every orifice of her body; as if his tongue hadn't tasted her essence; as if his hard, pursuing flesh hadn't taken and possessed her fragility; as if she hadn't, in yielding the ultimate secrets of her body, possessed his.