"Ten pound," the newcomer declared. "An' ye leave 'er alone from now on."
"Done," the husband announced. Both men spat on their palms and clapped them together to seal the bargain. The second man counted ten coins into the other's hand while the crowd roared its approval again; then he took the end of the halter and led the now weeping woman away from the crowd, toward the rear of the church.
Dick Begg pocketed his coins. "Good riddance to bad rubbish," he stated, grinning. "Niver did get on wi' the bitch anyways."
"How disgusting!" Juliana muttered. She'd heard of such auctions but had never seen one before. The crowd was dispersing now that the entertainment was over, until a fight started up between two burly costermongers. They were going at each other with bare fists, and swiftly a cheering, catcalling circle formed around them.
It was Lucien's turn to look disgusted. "Animals," he said with a curling lip. He strode away toward the Green Man tavern, not troubling to wait for Juliana.
She followed him into the low-ceilinged taproom, her eyes immediately beginning to water with the tobacco smoke that hung in a thick blue haze in the air.
"Blue ruin!" Lucien bellowed at a passing potboy as he pulled out a bench at a long table and sat down. The bench was as filthy as the stained encrusted planking of the table. Juliana brushed ineffectually at the grime and then sat down with an internal shrug. Her cloak was dark and would keep most of it off her gown.
"Not too nice in your tastes, I trust," Lucien said with a sneer.
"Not overly," Juliana responded evenly. "But this place is a pig sty."
"Don't let mine host hear you saying that." Lucien chuckled. "Very proud of his establishment is Tom King." He slapped a sixpence on the table when the potboy appeared with a stone jar and two tankards. "Fill 'em up."
The lad did so, wiping the drips from the table with his finger, which he then licked. His hands were as filthy as his apron, and his hair hung in lank, greasy locks to his shoulders. He took the sixpence and vanished into the crowd as someone else yelled for him. He didn't arrive quickly enough, apparently, because he was greeted with a mighty clout that sent him reeling against the wall.
Juliana gazed at the scene in horrified fascination, blinking her watering eyes. When Lucien pushed a tankard toward her with the brisk injunction "Drink," she carried it to her lips and absently took a large gulp.
Her throat was on fire, her belly burning as if with hot coals. She doubled over the table, choking, her eyes streaming.
"Gad, what a milksop you are!" Lucien thumped her back with his flat palm, using considerable force. "Can't stomach a drop of gin!" But she could bear his malicious amusement as he continued to pound her back. Presumably, she was reacting exactly as he'd intended.
"Leave me alone!" she said furiously, straightening and shaking off his hand. "Why didn't you warn me?"
"And spoil my fun?" He clicked his tongue reprovingly.
Juliana set her lips and pushed the tankard as far from her as she could. She wanted a glass of milk to take away the taste, but the thought of asking for such a thing in this place was clearly absurd.
"Gad, it's Edgecombe!" A voice called from the mists of smoke. "Hey, dear fellow, what brings you here? Heard you'd become leg-shackled."
Three men weaved their way through the room toward them, each carrying a tankard. Their wigs were askew, their faces flushed with drink, their gait distinctly unsteady. They Were young, in their early twenties, but the dissipation behind the raddled complexions and bloodshot, hollowed eyes had vanquished all the bloom of youth.
Lucien raised a hand in greeting. "Come and meet my lady wife, gentlemen." He rose from the bench and bowed with mock formality as he indicated Juliana. "Lady Edgecombe, m'dear fellows. Madam wife, pray make your curtsy to Captain Frank Carson, the Honorable Bertrand Peters, and the dearest fellow of them all, Freddie Binkton." He flung his arm around the last named and hugged him before kissing him soundly.
Juliana stood up and curtsied, feeling ridiculous in these surroundings, but not knowing how else to behave. The three men laughed heartily and bowed, but she sensed a hostile curiosity in all their expressions as they scrutinized her in the dim light.
"So why the devil did ye take a wife, Lucien?" Captain Frank demanded, having completed his examination of Juliana. "Thought you was sworn to bachelorhood."
"Oh, family pressure, m'dear." Lucien winked and took another swig of his tankard. "My cousin thought it would avoid scandal."
They all went into renewed laughter at this, and Juliana sat down again. There was something indefinably horrible about the group. They made her skin crawl, and she could feel their covert glances even though they appeared now to ignore her, all of them absorbed in some scandalous tale of the captain's. She glanced toward the door, where an elegant lady stood, a footman at her back, deep in conversation with a rotund gentleman in an old-fashioned curly wig.
As Juliana watched, the elderly gentleman counted out five coins into the lady's hands. She passed them to the footman, who pocketed them; then she tucked her arm into the gentleman's, and they entered the tavern and went up a rickety pair of stairs at the rear of the taproom. The footman leaned against the doorjamb, idly picking his teeth, watching the passersby.
The woman had looked too prosperous to be soliciting on the streets, Juliana reflected. And certainly too well dressed to be taking her clients to a back room in this noisome place. She must remember to ask Lilly to explain it.
"Lud, madam, you're not drinking?" the Honorable Bertrand declared in mock horror. "Lucien, Lucien, you neglect the dear lady shamefully."
Lucien grinned. "Tried her on blue ruin, but it didn't seem to suit her. What else can I offer you, my dear? Ale, perhaps? Port?"
"Milk punch, if you please, sir," Juliana said, her nerves prickling as she realized they wanted to make sport of her in some way. She glanced around, but there would be no help available in this riotous assembly. A couple were rolling around on the floor, the woman's legs in the air, her skirts tumbled about her head, exposing her body to the waist. Juliana felt sick. She pushed back the bench and stood up.
"If you'll excuse me, my lord, I find I have the headache. I'll take a hackney outside."
"Oh, but I don't excuse you," Lucien slurred, grabbing her hand and pulling her back beside him. "You owe obedience to your husband, madam, and your husband bids you keep him company and drink your milk punch."
Juliana thought she could probably break Lucien's hold without too much difficulty, but the eyes of the others were fixed upon her with a sinister intensity, waiting to see what she would do. She couldn't break free from them all if they tried to hold her. No one in this place would come to her aid. And she would be utterly humiliated. And Lucien would relish every minute of it. It was what he'd enjoyed about the wife-selling. The woman's total degradation had made him lick his lips like a hyena salivating over a rotting carcass.
She sat down again with a calm smile. "As you please, my lord."
Lucien looked a trifle disappointed; then he clapped his hands and bellowed for the potboy to bring milk punch. Juliana sat still, trying to maintain her calm smile and an air of nonchalant interest in her surroundings. The woman on the floor was on her hands and knees now, the man behind her, striking her flanks with his open palms as he mimicked the act of copulation to the roaring acclamation of his audience, who raised their tankards in a series of cheering toasts. The woman was laughing as much as anyone, throwing her head back and thrusting backward as if to meet him with orgasmic enjoyment.