Jo Beverley (12 page)

In her bedchamber and dressing room, Susie and another maid were putting away her meager supply of clothes. She couldn't detect any sneers, but she was sure they must be used to dealing with a different class of garments. And what would they think of her underwear? Never before had strangers had access to all her secrets. She didn't like it, but it was another price she had to pay for her wish.

This was her home now, her status, her future. It was no use thinking of it as just a temporary situation.

She straightened her wilting spine. Very well. These rooms were now hers. He'd said they hadn't been used since her mother's death and they hadn't been up-to-date then. It would be amusing to refurbish them, though she had little idea of current fashion.

She would have to buy new clothes to suit her station. She had no desire to be a laughingstock. Again, however, she had little idea of current tastes.

Meg accepted that most of her resistance to her new life sprang from pure fear, fear of the unknown, of admitting ignorance, of making a fool of herself.

Even—perhaps especially—in the marriage bed. What did she know of such matters? However, despite his comments about her lack of purity, he couldn't expect her to know anything about it.

She had little patience with cowards, and would not
be one. If she had to be a countess, she'd be an excellent one, in bed and out!

As a small step, she took possession of the boudoir. Though they were simple things of no value, she arranged her few small ornaments on a mahogany table that turned out to have game pieces in a drawer. Her books joined a rather fusty collection in the shelves on top of a tambour desk. She placed her mother's sewing box beside a brocade-covered chair, aware of another wave of gratitude that it hadn't been sold. She wondered if the earl would advance some of her pin money so she could buy back some of the items they had been forced to sell.

She knew, without doubt, that if she asked, he'd find them all and buy them for her. It made her smile and shake her head at the same time. She would not encourage his wanton extravagance, but he seemed to be a genuinely kind man.

All the time, however, thoughts of the
sheelagh
fretted at her. She couldn't really settle into her life here until she had it back. But then, when she had it back, where could she keep it? Nowhere here was safe from servants' eyes. The desk had keys, but no space for the stone. She couldn't possibly leave it on public display, but she must have it close and under her control.

Perhaps she could be open about it, claiming it was a family curiosity of only sentimental value. She shivered at the thought. The earl was just the sort to want to have such a thing on display, to show it to all his guests! Meg had no idea how many people had the power, but she certainly didn't want to find out.

She realized she was just standing, staring out at an uninspired garden mostly overhung by large, leafless trees. There was no point to fretting about the future. First things first. She must retrieve the stone and quickly, while the Mallett Street house was still empty.

She eyed an ivy-hung gate at the back of the garden. If only she could go now. She'd never be able to leave here undetected, however, and on Mallett Street, neighbors would follow her every move.

No, the time to go was late in the night. Or perhaps early morning. Yes, early morning, when the first
servants were up and supplies were coming in from the country, so the streets would be fairly safe. But before most people were about their business.

That was when she realized that she absolutely must put off her husband. He had his own bedroom, but her parents had slept together. If they consummated the marriage, he might want to spend the night with her, and she'd never get away.

Oh dear, oh dear.

She had to put him off.

Putting off the Earl of Saxonhurst seemed rather like putting off a gale. He overrode everything she said, did whatever he wanted. And, she had to admit, he swept her along with him like a full-sailed ship.

She realized she was pacing and made herself stop. There was no point to this. She'd tackle the problem when it arose—she stifled a giggle at that—by repeating that she wasn't ready.

The earl wouldn't rape her. She felt strangely certain of that. If she just stayed resolute, if she didn't let his teasing and touching sweep her away, he would give up for the moment. All she needed was one night. After that, he could have his wicked way with her.

She nodded, settled in her mind. Tonight she would courteously turn away her husband. Tomorrow, she would rise early, walk to Mallett Street, and retrieve the
sheelagh.
Then she'd come back here, hide it, and settle in to enjoying being the Countess of Saxonhurst.

She could hardly wait!

With a guilty laugh, she went upstairs to see how the others were doing in the schoolroom quarters. She thought Jeremy at seventeen might object to sharing a room with Richard, but he didn't complain. “I hope to be off to Cambridge soon,” he said.

Clearly he wasn't suffering from any regrets.

Richard and Rachel had been sleeping in the same room at home, but it was past time to separate them. Meg was glad to find that neither minded. They both considered it a sign of growing up to get to share a room with their older brother or sister. Laura pulled a bit of a face about it, for she was used to sharing with Meg, but with her usual sunny nature, she didn't object.

Since they were all happily finding places for their possessions, Meg slipped into the peaceful nursery for a moment to say a brief prayer of thanks. The
sheelagh
seemed pagan, but supposedly such stones could still be found in church walls, so she chose to see it as Godly. Therefore, her blessings came from God.

She gave thanks that her brothers and sisters were happy, and that they were going to be taken care of. She gave thanks that Laura would never be in danger from Sir Arthur or other such men. She gave thanks also for her husband being what he was. He was naughty, but also kind and generous. Most of the time.

Yes, truly, she was blessed, and if it weren't for the
sheelagh,
she could be a very happy woman.

The
sheelagh,
however, sat in her contentment like a slug in a rose. It wasn't just that she'd lost control of it and must get it back, but the fact that there was always a sting to its gifts. Pagan or blessed, it never brought untarnished benefits.

So, what could go wrong . . . ?

“Oh, stop it,” she said out loud. Perhaps the problems in the past came of poorly worded wishes. She had been very careful. Perhaps she'd outwitted it and received exactly what she'd wanted. More, in fact, than she'd ever dreamed of.

She looked around the long-unused nursery, waiting through so many years for a baby's cry. She wandered over to trace the carving on the elaborate wooden cradle hung with cream brocade. Would her child lie here one day?

Hers and his.

That was part of marriage, too, and a part she longed for.

Another reason to welcome him to her bed.

As soon as she had the
sheelagh
back.

 

Astley's was a huge success, especially as the special New Year's show involved magic tricks with lights, water, flames, and even small explosions.

The twins clearly thought they'd gone to heaven, and over supper at Camille's, they argued about who would be the most able to stand on a galloping horse's back in
order to rescue someone being carried off by a giant eagle.

“When we go to Haverhall,” the earl said, “you'll have plenty of horses to try it on. But only under proper supervision.”

“Real horses?” they exclaimed as one, for despite their debate, neither had ever ridden.

“Ponies, perhaps at first. But my stables are quite famous and my horses deserve respect. No heavy hands. No reckless riders. And no attempted tricks without my permission or that of my head groom.”

They made absolutely no complaint about his firm orders. “Yes, sir,” they breathed, looking as if the glories were beginning to be too much for them.

Meg felt tears prick at her eyes, and fear stab at her heart. The tears were from happiness at how well everything was going. The fear was in case the
sheelagh's
price was equal to the good provided.

She didn't really know that was how it worked.

True, she had trapped the earl, and she would never feel quite right about that. Perhaps that alone was the price. It was almost like stealing—stealing a person. The only way to amend for that, however, was to make sure her family was no trouble to him, and to be the best wife she could.

Including in the bed.

She wished now she could let him get on with it tonight, but first, absolutely, she must get back the
sheelagh.
Heaven only knew what might happen if it fell into the wrong hands!

She was silent as the carriage rolled home. For the short journey, they'd all crammed into one, with Mr. Chancellor going about his own business, so there was no danger of her husband's games. She just let the chat wash over her. Truth to tell, she was rather tired. It had been a long, tense day and she'd not slept well the night before.

But she couldn't afford to sleep at all, or she'd surely not wake early enough.

“Minerva?”

She started at the earl's voice, and found that the coach had halted, and the others were gone.

“We're home,” he said. “You look exhausted.”

Stung by her recent thoughts, she straightened and said, “Not at all!”

His brows rose, but he smiled, and said, “How delightful.” As he handed her down, she knew it had been a tactical error.

“That doesn't mean—”

“In a little while, my dear,” he said, leading her past waiting servants and straight upstairs. Not to her rooms. To his?

“The younger ones . . .” she said.

“Are being taken care of and put to bed. I think the twins are asleep on their feet.” He led her into a room. A kind of boudoir. A private area for a gentleman, with comfortable chairs and books.

And a huge, ornate cage containing a gray bird.

The bird might have been snoozing, but it perked up.
“Hello, my lovely!”
it said, shockingly in the earl's voice. Then it added,
“Aaaargh! Woman. Eve. Delilah!”

Meg stared at the bird, but the earl went over and fed it some tidbit, murmuring soothing, loving things. The bird almost seemed to be murmuring back!

The earl turned back to her. “I thought we'd better get the introductions over. I'm afraid Knox was trained by his previous owner to give out warnings on women and marriage.”

“I'm glad he's caged.”

“He's not attacked a woman yet, so there's hope.”

Meg feared her words hadn't pleased him. She had to cope with a jealous, woman-hating bird? “He lives in this room?” she asked hopefully.

“He's free most of the day, particularly when I'm home,”—and indeed, he was opening the cage—“but he mostly stays in my rooms. He's from the tropics and sensitive to cold. I keep the whole house warm, but please be careful.”

“Of course.” Meg couldn't imagine wandering carelessly through her husband's rooms.

The bird hopped to the door, then onto his shoulder, eyeing Meg. Then the earl walked toward her.

“Knox, this is Minerva. Say hello.”

“Eve. Delilah.”
With that, the bird deliberately turned its back.

Meg had to laugh. “I've been cut by a bird!”

“Indeed. There should be some fruit in that box on the table. Let's see if we can bribe him.”

“I'm not sure it's necessary—”

“It's necessary. He's used to my company.”

Feeling somewhat put out by his priorities, Meg went and found the box. It contained hothouse grapes! She took one and walked round behind her husband to face the bird, but it promptly turned.

The earl took the bird in his hands. “Pretty lady,” he said, directing its attention to Meg. “Pretty lady. Show him the fruit.”

Meg held it out and it was immediately snatched.

“I didn't say give it to him. Show him another.”

Beginning to be fascinated, Meg held a grape out of reach.

“Pretty lady,” the earl said again, stroking the bird patiently. “Pretty lady.”

“Pretty lady,”
the bird eventually said, though it didn't sound sincere.

Without being told, Meg offered the grape. The bird took it, but as soon as the earl let it go, it hopped onto his shoulder and turned its back again.

“He'll come around,” he said with a laugh, “especially if you keep feeding him his favorite treats.”

“Wouldn't it be easier if I just avoided his company?”

“Not if you want mine. He'd pine to only see me on occasion.” He strolled over, bird on shoulder, and opened an adjoining door.