Vice

'No,' he agreed, strolling to the sideboard to pour himself a glass of sherry. 'But you won't forget to take Ted with you, will you?'

Juliana shook her head. 'Why have you changed your mind?'

He set down the decanter and came across to her. Cupping her face between his hands, he brushed her eyelids with his lips. 'You work the strangest magic, mignonne. I believe if you put your mind to it, you could melt a heart of marble.' He ran his thumb over her mouth, his smile rueful. 'I can't say I enjoy being the target of your reforming zeal.' He kissed her as she was still searching for a response. 'Go back upstairs now. You look exhausted.'

She was suddenly feeling both queasy and overwhelmingly sleepy. Her brain couldn't get around his words. Were they really a declaration of some kind? A promise of some kind? She tried to find a response, but there was something in his eyes that told her he didn't want her to say anything. His hands on her shoulders were turning her toward the door. 'Go to Henny, Juliana.' And she went without a word.

She lay back on the chaise longue beneath the bedroom window while Henny took off her shoes and unlaced her bodice. Her hand drifted to her belly. This child would know only a guardian and an uncle. He would never know a father. All the loving tenderness in the world couldn't soften that fact. And once Tarquin knew she was carrying his child, it would no longer be exclusively hers, even in her womb. How long could she keep it to herself?

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'Henny says Juliana can't seem to wake up today.' Quentin sounded worried as he stood before the library fire, lit against the damp chill of the rainy day. 'Could she have suffered more than we saw?'

'I don't believe so.' Tarquin sipped his port. 'I believe there's something else behind it.'

'What?' Quentin reached for his own glass on the mantel.

Tarquin yawned. 'It's for Juliana to say. I daresay she'll tell me in her own good time.' He stretched his legs to the tire. 'There are times when an evening at home is most delightful.'

'Particularly listening to that.' Quentin gestured to the window where the rain drummed monotonously. 'It's a foul night to be abroad.'

'Yes, and the thought that my troublesome mignonne is tucked up safely in her bed is very comforting.' Tarquin yawned again.

Quentin looked into his glass. 'Will you hide this liaison from Lydia when she's your wife?' His voice was stiff, his eyes strained.

Tarquin looked up, the sleepy indolence vanishing from his eyes. 'What do you mean, Quentin?'

'What do you think I mean?' Quentin jumped to his feet. The agony of his frustration was suddenly no longer bearable. 'You will have both Juliana and Lydia under your roof. Will you conceal your true relationship with Juliana from Lydia?'

Tarquin stared at him in astonishment. Quentin's face was pale, his lips bloodless.

'I cannot endure it, Tarquin! I cannot endure that you would treat Lydia in such fashion. I love her, God help me. And I will not stand by and watch you ruin both our lives.' His hands twisted themselves into impossible knots, his gray eyes burning holes in his white face.

'You… you and Lydia!' Tarquin stuttered. 'You and Lvdia?'

'Yes.'

'Lydia… Lydia knows how you feel?' He still couldn't seem to grasp this.

'Yes.'

'And… and does she return your feelings?'

Quentin nodded.

'Dear God!' Tarquin ran a hand through his hair. 'You and Lydia love each other? I know you've always had a special regard for her, but…'

'Sometimes, Tarquin, you are so damned blind you can't see the nose on your face!' Quentin declared, feeling suddenly purged, as if a great load had been taken from him. 'It took Juliana five minutes to see-'

'Juliana!' Now he remembered her hints. 'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,' he muttered.

'I will not stand by and see you insult Lydia by keeping your mistress under the same roof,' Quentin reiterated, his voice now strong.

Tarquin said nothing, merely stared into the fire. He was realizing that he couldn't imagine insulting Juliana in such fashion either. What in the devil's name was happening to him?

'Do you hear me, Tarquin?'

He looked up and shook his head with a half laugh of disbelieving resignation. 'Oh, yes, I hear you, brother. As clearly as I hear myself.'

Quentin waited for more, but his brother turned back to the fire, twisting his port glass between his fingers. It was as if he'd put up a wall around himself. The silence lengthened and finally Quentin left the room, closing the door softly behind him. Nothing had been resolved, but he'd made his statement. The truth was in the open, and instead of feeling bad about it, he felt only an overpowering relief.

Tarquin remained immobile for a long time. Eventually he rose and refilled his port glass. His eye fell on the miniature of Lydia Melton on the mantel. Grave, composed, dignified. The perfect wife for a bishop.

Suddenly he laughed aloud. How very simple it all was if one looked at the world through Juliana's eyes.

He was still chuckling to himself when there was a knock at the door and Catlett entered with a note on a silver salver. 'I beg your pardon, Your Grace, but a messenger has just brought this. He says it's of the utmost urgency.'

Tarquin frowned, taking the wafer-sealed paper. He read the ill-penned, ill-spelled contents, his expression darkening. 'Damn that degenerate, profligate fool!' He scrunched the note and hurled it into the fire. 'Have my carriage brought around.'

'You're going out, Your Grace?' Cadett's eyes darted to the rain-blackened window.

'You may assume so from my order,' the duke said acidly. 'Tell my man to bring my cloak and cane.'

Damn Lucien! Lying sick unto death in a sponging house. The note had come from the owner of the house, presumably at Lucien's urging. A debt of five hundred pounds to be cleared to obtain his release. Until then he was lying in the cold and the damp, coughing his heart out, without medicines, food, or blankets.

Tarquin didn't question the situation. It was not the first time it had happened in the last five years. It didn't occur to him either to abandon Lucien to his fate, despite casting him from his door with such finality. He knew just as Lucien had known that in extremis Tarquin would always come to his aid. However vile and despicable Lucien had become, Tarquin couldn't free himself from the chains of responsibility.

He opened the strongbox in his book room and took out five hundred pounds. It was a minute part of Lucien's overall debt, so presumably he'd been caught by one of his minor creditors. A tailor or a hatter, probably.

His valet brought him a heavy caped cloak and his swordstick. Tarquin turned up the deep collar, thrust his hands into his gloves, and went out into the driving rain. The coachman shivered on his box.

'Ludgate Hill.' Tarquin didn't glance at him as he gave the order and climbed into the coach.

The coachman cracked his whip. He was new to the duke's service and far too anxious to make a good impression to complain about turning out in the middle of such a foul night.

After the coach disappeared into the sheeting rain, George and Lucien emerged from the basement steps opposite. 'Hell and the devil,' grumbled Lucien, water pouring from the brim of his hat. 'Why this night of all nights? It hasn't rained in a month.'

George dived across the street, head down against the wall of water. He was unaware of the rain, the hot blood of vengeance warming him to his core. He was so close now. He darted around the side of the house into the alley that led to the mews and stopped, leaning against the wall, panting.

Lucien appeared beside him, a drenched wraith in comparison with his companion's bulk. 'You'll owe me another five hundred for this,' he said, coughing into his sleeve.

George merely gestured impatiently to the door set into the wall of the house. 'Will the servants be up?'

'Not at this hour… unless Catlett's still roaming.' Lucien hawked into the street. 'The night watchman will be in his cubbyhole under the stairs, but we'll not be going anywhere near the front of the house.'

'What of this Catlett?'

'He'll be in his pantry if he's not abed. I know the routine.' Lucien fitted the key into the lock, and the door swung open without so much as a creak. 'Well-maintained household we have here,' he observed sardonically, stepping into a narrow foyer. 'Now, keep your mouth shut and be light on your feet.'

He opened another door, revealing a set of stairs set into the wall. It was pitch-dark, no candles in the sconces, but Lucien went up with the sure-footed tread of one who could find his way in the dark. George fumbled behind him, trying not to breathe, conscious of his rasping excitement, of a heaviness in his loins that hitherto he had associated only with carnal congress.

Lucien opened another door at the head of the stairs and peered around. The corridor was dimly lit with sconces at wide intervals along the wall. There was not a sound. He slipped into the corridor, George looming behind him, the man's shadow huge on the wall ahead.

The house was as quiet as the grave when they reached Juliana's door. Lucien stepped back, pressing himself against the wall. 'She's in there. You find your own way out. I'll fetch a hackney and bring it to the street corner.'

George nodded, his eyes glittering in the waxy, sweating face, his lips wet. He put a hand on the latch as Lucien flitted away to safety. The viscount had no desire to get any closer to this abduction.

George pushed the door, and it opened soundlessly. The room was in darkness, except for the faint glow of embers in the fireplace. The bed curtains were not drawn around the bed, and he had a clear view of the sleeping figure. For a minute he watched her. Watched the way the sheet lifted over her bosom with each even breath. The way her hair spread out in a rich pool against the white lawn of the pillow. He frowned at her bandaged hands, then shrugged. She wouldn't be needing them for what he had in mind.

He bent over her, his hands large, heavy, the fingers strong as any laborer's. Those fingers went around Juliana's throat and squeezed.

Her eyes shot open, filled with sleep and terror; her bandaged hands scrabbled at the fingers pressing her throat. She opened her mouth to scream, but not a sound came out. She was drowning, suffocating, and her befuddled brain didn't know whether this was real or nightmare. The face hanging over her, so intent, so closed in on its purpose, was familiar, and yet it wasn't. It was a mask… a mask of hideous menace… a mask from a nightmare. Surely only a nightmare. Please, dear God, only a nightmare. But she couldn't breathe. She struggled to wake up. Her eyes were popping in their sockets. Her chest was collapsing. A black wave rolled over her.

George released his hold as she sank limply into the pillows, her eyelids drooping over her terrorized eyes. The marks of his fingers were shadows in the darkness on the white of her throat. He placed his hand over her mouth. She was still breathing, but light and shallow. He took a thick scarf from his pocket and tied it around her mouth, knotting it at the back of her head. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and looked at her unconscious form, every curve and hollow outlined beneath the thin lawn shift.

He dragged his eyes from her, conscious of the passing of every minute, and opened the armoire. He pulled out a thick cloak and rummaged through the dresser drawers, finding a pair of silk stockings.

Bending over her, he bound her ankles together with one stocking, pulled her arms in front of her, and tied her wrists with the other; then he swaddled her still form in the cloak, bringing the hood over her head. Her breathing was still shallow, but it was regular. He maneuvered her over his shoulder, took one last look around, then made for the door. His excitement was such that it was difficult to move slowly and cautiously along the deserted corridor. At any moment he expected a door to open, to be accosted with a shout of outrage. But he reached the door to the internal staircase without mishap.