Jo Beverley (24 page)

An icy wind whipped down the street, lifting her skirts and chilling her legs. She asked Monk if he was warm enough with only his livery.

“I don't need much to keep warm, milady. Just me gloves. Where to, then?”

They were approaching an exit to the square. Meg glanced at him. “I didn't tell the butler the truth, Monk, but I didn't want to use one of the earl's carriages. Take me to the nearest hackney stand.”

“Very well, milady.” His manner was as chilly as the January air. Meg wished she could explain. She wished she could tell everyone about everything, but she couldn't. Once she had the
sheelagh
back, she could start to act like a proper countess and they'd soon realize she wasn't a wicked adventuress.

Because of the nippy wind, Meg was glad to settle into the hackney carriage, even if it smelled of many past users and had hard seats. Just a few trips in the earl's carriage and she was spoiled. Monk would have ridden outside, but she commanded him to join her.

“Now,” she said, as the coach jerked off, showing that the springs were not the best, either. “I am about to visit my old landlord, Sir Arthur Jakes.”

“Very well, milady.”

She ignored his distant manner. “You are to stay outside and out of sight while I go in.”

“Yes, milady?” His skinny, monkeyish face expressed profound disapproval.

“I've known the man all my life. I'll be perfectly safe. But I don't want to arrive with an escort.” She couldn't explain it, so she didn't try.

“Very well, milady.”

They sat there in silence, bouncing and rattling across London.

When the carriage stopped, Monk leaped out to pay and collect the ticket. Then he turned back to hand her out.

“Which house, milady?” he asked, looking at the row of tall stuccoed residences. Only a few streets separated them from Mallet Street, but these were clearly gentlemen's residences.

“It's number three, down the other end. You stay here.”

He almost stood to attention. “As you say, milady.”

Meg walked a few steps, then sighed and turned back. “Very well, Monk. I'm not absolutely sure of my safety. If I don't come out again in a half hour, you may send for assistance.”

“Oh, right,” he said, relaxing into something close to a glower. “And Sax'll skin me alive! Now, milady, let's rethink this one.”

“Not at all! You can tell the earl it was all my doing.”

She walked briskly away, but heard him say, “Fat lot of use that'll be.”

She paused for a moment before Sir Arthur's house. Even though he'd visited her house many times, she'd never been here, and she felt like a fly about to rush into a spider's web.

That was silly. She couldn't imagine what he was up to, but he wouldn't try to do her harm.

She rapped the lion's head knocker briskly, then again, and again, wondering why no one was answering. Could he have been suddenly called away?

Then the door was opened by a dark-haired woman in black bombazine and a severe cap. “Yes, ma'am?”

Despite the woman's dress, Meg found something faintly improper about her. Perhaps it was her full lips, or her heavy-lidded eyes. Meg reminded herself of Brak. Not every housekeeper could look like starched propriety.

“I wish to see Sir Arthur.” When the woman's dark brows rose, Meg realized she'd have to give her name. No, her title. How strange. “Tell him Lady Saxonhurst is here.”

“Lady?” The woman's bold eyes passed over Meg's serviceable gown and brown cloak. Then they flicked beyond, clearly checking for carriage and servants. “Pull the other one, dolly.”

Meg stood straighter. “I am Lady Saxonhurst, and well known to Sir Arthur. I assure you, he will be very distressed if you turn me away.” With exasperation, she added, “I used to be Meg Gillingham. My family rented the house in Mallett Street.”

“Oh, that one.” The woman stepped back and invited Meg in, but without any sign of increased respect. Meg wished desperately that she had a quizzing glass and the earl's ability with it. Injury was added to insult when she was put to wait in a frigid reception room lacking any kind of fire.

Meg paced to keep warm, but also to work off anger and nerves. She had to get the
sheelagh
back. She tentatively checked for the feel of the thing, but the air here seemed dead of it. Never having studied this aspect of
the magic before, however, she had no idea how close she had to be to sense it.

What if Sir Arthur
didn't
have it? What then?

But he'd said he had. . . .

Hadn't he?

How much did he know? Did he know about the magic, or just that the
sheelagh
had some value? He couldn't possibly know that she'd used it to trap the earl, could he? No one knew that but herself and Laura.

It was becoming such a burden of guilt, however, that she felt as if it were branded on her forehead!

“My dear! Having to exercise to keep warm!”

Meg whirled to face him. He was still elegant in clothes and smile. He still made her flesh crawl.

“You must be turning to ice. Come upstairs.” As they passed through the hall, he called out, “Hattie! Hot tea for her ladyship.”

His use of the servile title was clearly ironic. If only she knew what he wanted!

On the upper floor, he opened a door. Meg hesitated. She'd expected to be taken to a drawing room, but this was a more private kind of sitting room. It could be attached to his bedchamber. She walked in anyway. It was warm, and he'd made it clear before that he had no wicked designs on her aged body.

Determined not to show any fear, she put aside her muff, and stripped off her gloves. “You wished to speak to me, Sir Arthur?”

“No, no, my dear.
You
wished to speak to
me,
or you would not be here. All alone, as well.” Cruel humor glinted in his eyes. “Did you have to steal out of the house? Would your exalted husband not approve?”

“I left the house openly.” Doing her best to appear unconcerned, Meg sat in a chair by the fire. “Sir Arthur, there was an item missing from our house. I am here because you implied that you have it.”

He sat opposite, flipping his coat tails out of the way, then crossing his legs. “Missing? But you took all you believed was yours, did you not?”

Meg prayed not to blush. “I forgot something.”

“Then it could hardly have been important. . . . Ah, the tea. Thank you, Hattie.” As the housekeeper set
down the tray, he said, “Lady Saxonhurst, would you pour?”

Meg did so, glad of a moment to collect her thoughts. “Milk, Sir Arthur? Sugar?” When she'd added them, she passed him his cup.

She took her own and sipped. Let him make the next move.

“So,” he said at last, “what is this important item that slipped your mind?”

“A stone statue. More of a bas-relief.”

“I don't remember seeing any such item around your house.”

“It was in my parents' bedroom.”

“But I visited there often in those last months when poor Walter was so ill.”

Meg took another sip, hoping to conceal that she'd overlooked that. “It was kept out of sight.” On the slim chance that he had no idea what it really was, she put on a coy smile and leaned forward. “You see, Sir Arthur, it was somewhat improper, and so it was always kept hidden. However, it has been in my mother's family for generations, and thus has sentimental value.”

“Improper?” His brows rose. “In what way, my dear?” Someone else might have thought him merely curious, but Meg knew he wanted to embarrass her.

She thanked heaven for her recent sparring exercises with the naughty Earl of Saxonhurst. “It is of a naked woman,” she said bluntly, “legs spread wide.”

She could have laughed at the startled flush that hit his cheeks. “My dear Meg! I would think you'd feel well rid of such a thing.”

“As I said, it has been in our family for a long time. I feel I should keep it, even if concealed, as my mother did. Do I understand that you have it?”

She had gained control. He put down his cup with a sharp
chink.
“What remained in the house could be assumed to be mine. And, of course,” he added, “anyone entering the house illegally would be a criminal. Subject to court and transportation.”

Meg took another sip of tea. “I hardly think they'd transport a countess, Sir Arthur.”

“But perhaps the Earl of Saxonhurst would divorce a wife convicted of the Black Arts.”

Meg managed to swallow without choking. “Black Arts? What on earth are you speaking of?”

Now he settled back in his chair, once more at ease. “Your father was a very sick man, my dear, weakened by the disease and the opium he took for the pain. Weakened into speaking of things he might not otherwise have mentioned. He was very concerned that your mother might do something wrong. Something to do with an old Irish statue that, he said, had pagan magic, but that should never be used.”

Meg prayed that her face wasn't giving her away. “If my father was so sick, perhaps his mind was wandering.”

“I doubt it. He even told me where the item was. Said he was glad it was over his head where he could keep an eye on it.” He smiled, and she braced for trouble. “When your brother found them dead, he sent for me as well as for the doctor.” He made her wait, then added, “I found the statue out, on the bed, between their bodies.”

Meg spilled her tea. She put down the cup and saucer her shaking hands could no longer manage. She kept silent, but inside she was screaming. The suspicion had lurked in her like bad meat, turning her stomach. Now it was confirmed. Her mother had tried to use the
sheelagh
to save her husband, and had ended up dead.

But if the
sheelagh
could
kill,
what might come from her own use of it? Her father had been right. It should never be used.

“Of course, I put it carefully away,” Sir Arthur continued. “Back in its hiding place. If you'd taken it, perhaps I might have let it go. But you didn't, so now it is mine.”

“No!”

“You want it back?”

“It is my property. My charge. My duty.”

He almost glowed with satisfaction. “So, you
do
have the power. And you have used it, haven't you? How else did you trap an earl?”

Meg stayed still. It was the best she could do. “My marriage was entirely the earl's idea. What do you want, Sir Arthur?”

He smiled, completely relaxed by now. “An interesting question, especially with such power at my command. What do I
want
? Fabulous wealth? To be Prime Minister? To be king, even?”

“Sir Arthur! You cannot—”

“Can I not? Is there a limit to its powers?”

Meg had never imagined this situation. “I don't know. But I do know that it creates havoc rather than benefits. Believe me, Sir Arthur, you do
not
want anything to do with that stone.”

“Don't I, indeed?”

“Look at my parents!”

“An interesting speculation. Perhaps they wished for death. Your father was in considerable pain, your mother distraught at the thought of losing him. Perhaps your stone granted exactly what they asked for.”

Meg was trying to handle that when he added, “And look at you. Are you not in exceedingly improved circumstances?”

“There is always a sting in the tail, Sir Arthur. Always.”

He cocked his head. “Really? Is the earl not to your taste? Poor Meg. I hear they have insanity and debauchery running in that family instead of blood.”

“Nonsense. And I repeat, my marriage was entirely the earl's idea. He approached me.”

“But what put the idea into his head? No, Meg, you will not persuade me of your innocence. If there are stings, I'm sure you deserve every one. Do you need advice on your marriage bed? You could talk to me, an old family friend. . . .”

Nausea swelled in Meg.

“No? What a pity. I doubt you deserve much sympathy, even if he is a monster in his rutting. Countess of Saxonhurst? A poor little dab like you.”

Meg rose and grabbed her muff and gloves.

“Don't forget the stone, my dear.”

She froze. A moment later, she knew she would have been wiser to sweep out, to not let him know just how much she cared.

He rose, smiling. “I will consider further on what wish I want to make. That is all for today.”

She tried to face him down. “I insist that you return my property.”

“It is not yours any longer.”

“It is mine by right, and I will have it back! I am not impoverished Meg Gillingham anymore.” Now she swept toward the door, but he seized her arm and roughly swung her back.

“High and mighty, are we? You foiled me, Meg. You stole Laura from me.”