"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.