Jo Beverley (25 page)

“Indeed I did!” She tried to wrench her arm free. “And you will never touch her. Never. I promise you that!”

“Even to get the
sheelagh
back?”

She froze, but looked straight into his eyes. “Even for that.”

He studied her. “I could put it to her. Such a sweet girl. Wouldn't she make the noble sacrifice?”

“I've warned her never to be alone with you. And I'll tell the earl everything before I let you near her. He'd crush you like the louse you are.”

Rage flared in his eyes, and bit through his fingers, but he smiled, too. “So. You're anxious to keep this from your husband, are you?”

Meg cursed herself for hasty words.

Sir Arthur's smile widened. “I'm sure he wouldn't be pleased to think that he'd been the dupe of a magic trick. A mere puppet on a magic string.”

The best Meg could do was to stay silent.

He let her go. “You'll pay for my discretion, won't you, Meg?”

She rubbed her bruised arm. “I have very little money.”

“I don't want money. Laura would be better, but you'll do.”

She stepped back, beginning to shake. “No!”

“No?”

“You won't tell the earl anyway. If you do, you'll never get your wish.”

“But you see, my dear, I'm not sure I want the wish. I have money. I don't want political power. I certainly don't want to be king. A tiresome business, that. I want Laura, but you wouldn't ask the magic stone for that.
So,” he said, moving toward her, “what else could you magic up for me? Revenge on you for thwarting me? I can get that through telling the earl”—he put out a hand and half-circled her neck—“or in other ways.”

Meg swallowed and made herself not show fear. She was sure he fed on fear like a vulture on carrion. “Saxonhurst wouldn't believe you.”

“Then why are you so worried?” He let her go and moved back a step. “Go, my dear. Go. And I'll send a letter straight around telling the earl all about your little family secret, and that you used the stone to trap him into marriage.”

Meg longed to call his bluff, but she didn't think he was bluffing. “I cannot lie with you. I cannot. Do your worst.”

“Lie with me?” He laughed. “Why would I want that?”

“Then what?”

“I have someone for my needs. A pretty young thing. But she's over her first shock and tediously amenable. Laura would have been exciting in her fear and anger. And so deliciously innocent . . . Are you blushing? But you're four days married, my dear.”

“That doesn't make me beyond shame. What could you possibly want from me? I'm not young, and I'm not innocent.”

“Oh, let me tell you.” And his eyes now glittered in a febrile way that made her feel quite sick. “When my young partner is too easy, I find it helps to be punished for my sins. But it's so hard to find someone who will punish me properly. Hattie obliges with the whip sometimes, but her heart isn't in it. You'd be stern with me, wouldn't you, Meg? Angry.”

Meg took another step back, coming up against a wall. “You want me to whip you? You're mad.”

“Not mad. No. Think of me as a penitent. A flagellant.”

“You certainly have much to feel guilty about.”

He grinned. “Exactly.”

He
was
mad, and in this light she knew that Saxonhurst wasn't. “If I whip you, you will return the stone?”

“Oh no. The whipping will just buy my silence for
twenty-four hours. Until you return tomorrow to hear my wish.”

“Or another demand for a whipping.”

“Perhaps.” His grin said certainly. He fumbled in a drawer, already breathing heavily, and took out a long cane. He swished it through the air so it sang, and his grin widened.

She should refuse. Return to Marlborough Square and tell the earl everything. He'd deal with Sir Arthur.

Yesterday, she could have done it, but now after their terrible scene, she didn't know how he'd react. If he didn't believe her, he'd think her mad. If he did believe her, he'd know she'd tricked him into marriage. It was all very well for Mr. Chancellor to say he only minded about his grandmother, but he minded because his guardian had forced him to bend to her will.

She'd have to do this at least once.

Sir Arthur laughed and rang the bell. For a moment, Meg wondered if it had been some strange kind of joke, a vicious tease. But when the housekeeper came in, he said, “Have Sophie wait in my bedroom, Hattie.”

The woman looked at Meg with raised eyebrows, but merely said, “Very well, Sir Arthur,” and left.

“Who is Sophie?”

“A maid. More importantly, my convenient of the moment. She's young, just thirteen. So deliciously frightened at first. But she's turned into a willing little bawd. I require some pepper with my pudding.”

He eyed Meg for a moment, and she knew exactly what he was thinking and couldn't help but shake her head in rejection.

“No indeed, Meg. You'd be pepper all right, but you're too long in the tooth. And too tough. You wouldn't fear me enough. . . . Ah, Laura. Laura.”

He seemed in a trance. She thanked heaven she couldn't see inside his foul mind. Faintly, she heard a door open and shut. Presumably the obliging Sophie had arrived, poor child. Meg wished she could do something for the girl.

She stared at the cane in his limp hand, wondering if she could actually bring herself to use it on him.

Then, as if waking, he looked at her. “Come back tomorrow.”

“What?”

He put his hand between his legs and she could see how bloated he was there. “Just the thought . . . enough for now. Come back tomorrow, and we'll talk about . . .” He staggered toward the next room.

As he opened the door, Meg caught a glimpse of a plump blond child who lounged on a big bed, eyes wide. That was willingness . . . ?

The door slammed shut.

Tomorrow?

Never. Rather than that, she'd confess every sin to the world in Hyde Park!

Meg snatched up her gloves and muff and ran for the door.

Hand on knob, she made herself stop. She was never coming back to this house again. Never. So, this was her one chance to search. Teeth gritted, she fought against panicked flight.

Right. If she was close to the
sheelagh
she could always sense it. She quickly circled the room.

Nothing.

He might keep it in his bedroom.

Then it could stay there! But she made herself press close to the door trying to block the little squeaks and hoarse groans. She didn't think the
sheelagh
was in there.

She ran into the corridor and into the next room. A spare bedroom. Nothing. And the next. And the next.

Having checked every room on the floor, she paused, listening for sounds of servants. The whole house was eerily silent.

With a shrug, she raced up narrow stairs to the attic area, and found servants' rooms and storerooms. But no indication of the
sheelagh.
Anyway, the storage rooms were thick with dust. His servants were sluts and no one had been there in ages.

She slipped down the back stairs to the main floor and went cautiously through into the hall. Still no one. The emptiness of the house was making her skin crawl. Even so, she made herself go through two reception rooms, a dining room, and a well-filled library.

She'd forgotten that he was a scholar, and that he and her father had been good friends. How could a genuine book lover be such a toad?

The
sheelagh
wasn't there, though. It wasn't anywhere! Where would he keep it? Where? She couldn't
search the whole of London. She could search the basement, though, and would, even if his servants were there.

Abandoning all caution, she ran toward the back of the house and down more narrow stairs. She opened every door in the cold, gloomy basement, but only found more evidence of poor management. It was hardly surprising, when his housekeeper was little more than a procuress! Sir Arthur Jakes was the epitome of a whited sepulcher.

She flung open another door.

The housekeeper's hot, luxurious parlor! And she was there, still in black bombazine and cap. Meg, however, could only see her back, because she was straddling a man!

The handsome man with dark hair and eyes showed no shock or embarrassment. He just grinned and waggled his brows at her. The housekeeper bounced on, oblivious.

Meg backed out, shaking, and shut the door.

For a moment she just slumped there, felled by the whole experience. It was truly like a horrible, unbelievable dream.

With a cry, she headed for the nearest way out. She staggered through the kitchen, ignoring the handful of servants, who were predictably lolling around drinking ale, and out to gulp fresh air and freedom. The scrap buckets and outhouse by the back door gave off a stink, but the air seemed fresh compared to the foulness within.

Nothing could make her ever return.

She hurried through the garden, and didn't pause until she was out of the back lane, into a street with normal people, and sanity. There, she leaned against a wall, legs too weak to go on.

After a moment, she made herself move, made herself go to find Monk.

“Milady!” He stared at her, perhaps just because she was coming from the wrong direction. “You all right?”

“I'm all right now,” she said as steadily as she could. “But I wish to leave.”

“Right. Best to walk to Stokes Street. There's a hackney stand there.”

They'd only taken a couple of steps, however, when a
shriek made her jump. Meg looked around, but only in curiosity.

Then: “Murder! Murder!”

The screams were faint, but Meg knew they were coming from Sir Arthur's house. She didn't know how or why. She just knew.

She grabbed Monk's sleeve. “Let's get out of here!”

He nodded, wide-eyed. “Don't run. Act normal.”

Meg made herself just walk briskly along the street and away from the growing hubbub.

Then a man's voice bellowed, “There she is! The murderess! In the brown cloak. Get her!”

Meg froze in disbelief, half turning back to protest, but Monk grabbed her and broke into a run. “Come
on,
milady!” Seeing the gathering crowd all looking in her direction, Meg picked up her skirts and obeyed. Immediately, a tally-ho sounded. She did her best, but soon Monk was towing her and she was fighting for breath.

Despite the hunting cries behind them, she slowed. “I can't . . .”

Abruptly, he dragged her into an alley, already struggling out of his coat. “Your cloak, milady! Quick now!”

Wheezing for breath, she pulled off her long cloak, and he tossed her his braided jacket, then flung the cloak on, pulling up the hood. “Hide!” he commanded and fled at twice the speed they'd been making before.

Hearing the howling pursuit, Meg tumbled over a low wall and huddled there, shivering with terror and cold. Soon footsteps pounded by in a general chorus of “Stop the murderess!” “Stop her!” “Seize her!” They sounded horribly like hounds in full cry, and she felt like a terrified fox or rabbit.

No, my lord earl,
she thought,
being hunted is no fun.

The pack went on forever because some, like her, hadn't the stamina for long, hard running, and staggered after, already wheezing. They talked more, though.

“Lying in all his blood . . .”

“A doxy with him . . .”

“Jealous lover . . .”

“Housekeeper says . . .”

“A high-born lady . . .”

Sir Arthur! He
was dead? How?

And people thought
she'd
done it?

She covered her mouth to stifle a moan. And the housekeeper knew her name. The servants had seen her rush out of the house. The constables would soon be on the earl's doorstep, demanding the countess!

If there'd been a pit at her feet, Meg would have thrown herself down it, even if it led to hell. She certainly never wanted to face her poor husband again. Eccentric? Feckless? Given to destructive rages? No matter what his faults, she was sure he'd never been hunted down for murder.

The mob had passed, however, and she couldn't skulk here forever. For one thing, she'd freeze to death.

She pulled on Monk's coat, but then worried that she'd attract attention in a footman's blue and braided jacket. Poor people wore castoffs, though. She took the jacket off again and rubbed and rolled it on the ground until it looked like a soiled rag. Then she put it on again, discarded her lovely velvet cap and cloth muff, and crept away down the narrow lane, shaking with awareness of danger.

Like a rat sneaking behind the wainscotting, she felt safe in the lane that ran a narrow cart's width between the backyards of the houses. She had to find a place to hide, however. A place where she could think. Away from here, in case the hunt turned back.

That thought gave her courage to sidle into the open street and hurry away. She didn't even think where. Just away.

She tried to look like any poor woman going about her business, but when she paused by a greengrocery to get her bearings, the scrawny man came out and shouted, “Bugger off, you! I'll have the constables on you!”

Meg ran, stopping a few houses away to look back at him, aghast. Even in the days when she had been tempted to steal an apple, no one had ever treated her like this!

He was still watching her, and he shook his fist, shouting “Garn!” exactly as if she were a mangy cat.

Meg turned and staggered on, terrified. She was no longer a respectable member of society. She was vermin.

She began to notice other vermin. Mostly, she could tell them—men, women, and children—by their scruffy,
dirty clothes, but she could recognize the looks in their eyes, too.

Did she look like that?

“In trouble, dearie?” asked a kindly voice.

Meg started, and slid a look at the plump, middle-aged woman. She wasn't vermin. Her clothes were clean and respectable, her face kind.

Even so, Meg said, “No,” and began to edge away.

“Don't run off, dear,” the woman said. “I'll not harm you. Life throws these funny turns at us, doesn't it? My name's Mrs. Goodly and I've suffered through a few of them. If you want it, I've a quiet room nearby, and I can make you a cup of tea. Then I'm sure I can find some way to help you in your predicament.”

The soothing run of words held Meg. She didn't think the woman could help with her problem, but refuge of some kind would be pleasant. . . .

Then something in the woman's eyes—a glint of calculation, perhaps—sent a warning down her spine. Mrs. Goodly might be a Good Samaritan, but there were such women who made a business of trapping young women into brothels.

“Come on, dearie.” The woman reached for her.

Meg turned and ran. As she stumbled around a corner, she heard laughter and a coarse voice calling, “Lost that one, Connie, eh?”

Dear heaven, she'd been right!

The narrow escape drained the last traces of courage from her. The world now seemed a jungle, hung with poisonous vines, concealing only fanged predators.

She wanted to go home! She wanted none of this to have happened.

After a startled moment, she realized that home now meant Marlborough Square. Home meant the earl. He'd probably toss her back onto the streets after the mess she'd landed in. She leaned against a wall and burst into tears.

Thank God. Monk carried a handkerchief in his pocket, and she was able to dry her tears and blow her nose. The brief burst of weeping seemed to have cleansed her a bit, too. She could think a little.

Seeing curious but indifferent looks all around, she raised her chin and walked on.

Walking to nowhere.

This was ridiculous. She couldn't just wander until she froze to death. Her feet and hands were already icy. She had to go somewhere.

Perhaps she should go home. Part of her reluctance was shame and an illogical hope that she could somehow sort the mess out so that Saxonhurst need never know.

Then, a lad ran to a nearby street corner, a pile of news sheets over his arm. “Latest! Latest!” he cried. “Read all about it! Foul murder of man and mistress. Countess involved!”

Meg just stared at him. The ink must still be wet!

She didn't think everyone around would suddenly turn to her and know her for the countess involved—nothing was less likely—but she was appalled to think the news was already out on every street.

Passersby stopped to give him a penny for one of the sheets, and she heard him saying to each one, “Lady Saxonhurst, they say. Newlywed an' all.”

All around her people paused to read, sometimes two or three to a sheet, exclaiming and speculating about the scandalous affair.

She was ruined. Absolutely ruined.

Saxonhurst would never want to see her again.

She hadn't
done
it, but that didn't seem to matter at the moment. What she needed was some kind of rat hole to hide in.

Could she find help among her old neighbors on Mallet Street? She didn't think anyone there would stand against the law for her, and surely that would be the second place the constables would check.

Where, then?

Wearily dragging herself along random streets, hounded by news-criers, some actually shouting her name, Meg felt scoured raw and naked.

Then a refuge occurred to her. A desperate one, but the only possibility. Surely the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield would not want the scandal of a public arrest in the family. Even though there was no love lost
between them, the duchess would have to hide her. Perhaps she could help clear her name.

At the least, it would be sanctuary for a little while.

In fact, once she was there, the duchess could send word to Saxonhurst. This might even be the emergency needed to bring the unhappy family back together! Meg took her bearings and started the long walk to Mayfair and Quiller's Hotel.

Shivering with cold, and weary, she eventually arrived on the busy street. The hotel looked exactly like a gentleman's residence, with only a discreet plaque to identify it. Meg was about to climb the steps, when she noticed the way people were staring and shifting to avoid her. They thought her a beggar.

Looking like this, she was never going to get in to see the duchess. Weakened by shock and exhaustion, Meg would have given up then if there'd been any way to do so. But the only way to give up was to hand herself over to the law and be thrown in prison. She'd heard enough about the inside of London's prisons to want to avoid that.

Knowing she was attracting attention just standing there, she walked on, circling the block, wondering how cautious, staid Meg Gillingham had come to these straits.

And what had happened to poor Monk? He was swift and clever. Surely, he'd got away. Of course, then he'd got straight to his master and tell him the sorry tale.