Vice by Jane Feather Page B

here, in the lap of well-ordered luxury. His own house barely ran at all. He could rarely keep servants beyond a month. Something always happened to send them racing for the door without even asking for a character. But here he could indulge himself to his heart’s content, live as wild and reckless as he pleased, all at his cousin’s expense.
    It was a delicious thought. In exchange he simply had to go through the motions of a marriage ceremony to some unknown woman. He’d never have to have anything to do with her. He had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
    “Very well, dear boy, I daresay I could oblige you in this.”
    “You overwhelm me, Edgecombe.” Tarquin rose to his feet. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment.”
    “Go to it, dear fellow, go to it. I’ll just sip a little more of this excellent cognac.” He rubbed his hands. “You have such a magnificent cellar, I can hardly wait to sample it…. Oh, Quentin, my dear …” He turned at the opening of the door and greeted his cousin with a flourishing bow. “Guess what. I’m to take a wife … settle down and become respectable. What d’you think of that, eh?”
    Quentin shot his half brother a look more in sorrow than in anger. “So you are proceeding with this, Tarquin.”
    I am.
    “And my wife and I will be taking up residence under Tarquin’s roof,” Lucien continued. “More suitable for the young lady … more comfortable. So you’ll be seeing a lot of us, my dear Quentin.”
    Quentin sighed heavily. “How delightful.”
    “How un-Christian of you to sound so doubtful,” scolded Lucien, upending the decanter into his glass. “Seems to be empty.” He pulled the bell rope.
    “Good day, Lucien.” Abruptly Tarquin strode to the door. “Quentin, did you wish to see me?”
    “No,” his brother said. “It would only be a waste of breath.”
    “My poor brother!” Tarquin smiled and patted his shoulder. “Don’t despair of me. This is not going to turn out as badly as you think.”
    “I wish I could believe that.” Quentin turned to follow Tarquin from the library. Lucien’s chuckle rang unpleasantly in his ears.
    “Last Friday, you say?” Joshua Bute pulled his left ear, regarding his customer with a benign attention that belied his shrewd, cunning calculations.
    “Friday or possibly Saturday,” George Ridge said, raising his tankard to his lips and taking a deep, thirsty gulp of ale. “Off the Winchester coach.”
    “A young lady … unattended?” Joshua pulled harder at his ear. “Can’t say I did see such a one, guv. A’course, the York stage comes in at the same time. Quite a bustle it is ’ereabouts.”
    George leaned heavily on the stained counter of the taproom. Gold glinted between his thick fingers as he spun a guinea onto the countertop. “Maybe this might refresh your memory.”
    Joshua regarded the guinea thoughtfully. “Well, per’aps ye could describe the young person agin?”
    “Red hair, green eyes,” George repeated impatiently. “You couldn’t mistake her hair. Like a forest fire, all flaming around her face. Pale face … very pale … deep-green eyes … tall for a woman.”
    “Ah.” Joshua nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll jest go an’ ask in the kitchen. Mebbe one of the lads saw such a one in the yard, alightin’ from the coach.”
    He trundled off into the kitchen, and George cursed under his breath. The Rose and Crown in Winchester had been no help. They couldn’t remember who was on the waybill for either Friday or Saturday. The scullery maid thought she remembered a lad boarding on the Friday, but the information had been elicited after the outlay of several sixpences, and George couldn’t be sure whether it was a true recollection. Anyway, a lad didn’t fit the description of the voluptuous Juliana.
    He loosened the top button of his waistcoat and fanned his face with his hand. A bluebottle buzzed over a round of runny Stilton on the counter. His only other