Jo Beverley (29 page)

Suppressing curses, Sax put an arm around her and gave her a handkerchief. He eased her back onto the sofa, and stayed by her side. “Now, now, Laura. No need for that. Calm down and explain yourself.”

Had she really said “magic statue”? And what part could that play in his grandmother's schemes?

She clutched the white linen and sniffed, blue eyes liquid, but not particularly red. She'd certainly drive some man mad one day. “You won't believe it. I'm not sure I do. It doesn't work for me, you see.” She blew her nose twice, then faced him. “We have this stone
statue, my lord. It's a wishing stone. A person with the power can make a wish on the stone, and it always comes true.”

Sax tried to detect a joke. Or a lie, though he knew she wasn't lying. No, she'd swallowed her sister's lie, silly little fool. “You're quite correct, Laura. I don't believe it. For one thing, a family possessed of that kind of treasure would hardly be in dire poverty, would it?”

“But Meg wouldn't use it, you see! She has the power, but she doesn't like it at all. She's says it's wicked, and that there's always a sting in the tail. And it's true!” she wailed into the handkerchief. “Look what's happened to her!”

“Laura, stop that!” When she gulped and quieted a bit, he said, “Nothing has happened to Meg yet.” He hoped. “And think. None of this can be your magic's fault if she never uses it.”

Instead of consoling her, that sent her back into the handkerchief, shaking with sobs.

Strongly tempted to slap her, Sax chose instead to wait. He was not without experience with emotional young women. Time was passing, however, and his wife could be in danger. The sobs slowed, then stopped, and she emerged, sniffing cautiously.

“Now,” he said, “do I gather she
has
used it? Recently?”

Laura nodded.

“What did she wish for?”

Silence stretched, but he let it.

Eventually, she whispered, “You.”

When he just stared, she added, “Not
you,
exactly, my lord. A way out of our predicament! But it turned out . . . to be you.”

After a stunned moment, Sax had to laugh. “Jupiter, girl! How foolish can you be? My marrying your sister was part of a strand begun decades ago. How could a wish affect that?”

“It does, though,” she said, steadier now. “Or that's what they say. Time has no meaning for the
sheelagh.
”

“The what?”

“It's an old Irish statue. It's called a
sheelagh-ma-ging.
Or gig. Something like that.”

He rose, hardly able to believe that even Laura could believe this nonsense. “Whatever it's called, it had nothing to do with my decision to marry your sister. But, if it's so precious to her, why did your sister forget it?”

“She didn't.” She cast him a worried glance, then added, “She didn't want you to see it. She went back for it. . . .”

He put his hands on his hips. “You mean to tell me that your harebrained sister left this statue in your old house because she was afraid to let me see it because she
believed
in this faradiddle?”

Laura bounced to her feet, fierce as an angry kitten. “She's
not
harebrained. It's not all folly, my lord, I assure you!”

He ignored that. “Then she crept out of this house before dawn, to try to get it back?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Harebrained.” He ignored her glower. “For the moment, I'll accept that your sister believes this idiocy, and wants to get her magic stone back. So, Sir Arthur had already taken it?”

“I suppose so, my lord.”

“Don't sulk. Why would he do that?”

“I'm not sulking. I'm
angry
with you. I told you you'd never believe me.”

“And you were right, I give you that. But I do believe that you believe it. And that your sister believes it.” And he felt like laughing for joy at such a simple, if ridiculous, explanation. “So, why do you think Sir Arthur would steal this stone statue? How big is it, anyway?”

“Not very big. It's flat and carved, and about a foot.”

“So he could carry it alone.”

“Oh yes. I can, though it is heavy.” She seemed to have overcome her anger. Her frown now was thoughtful. “Sir Arthur must have learned about the
sheelagh
from our father when he was sick. If so, perhaps
he
believed in the magic”—a minor glower fluttered his way—“and wanted to try to make a wish. But it only works for women, my lord. I think.”

“And only, in fact, for your sister.”

He tried to hold back his skepticism, but she glowered
again. “And for our mother. If you don't believe me, my lord, how do you explain the fact that you married a simple woman you first met at the altar?”

He held up a hand and ticked off fingers. “One, I had to marry in a hurry because of a promise made to my grandmother years ago. Two, I chose your sister because one of my servants is sister to one of your old servants, and suggested her. Three, I preferred a woman who would be grateful to me rather than one who would expect me to be grateful to her. You see. Logical and believable. No magic required.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I must admit, my lord, it does sound so.”

“Good girl. So, Meg—I gather she's always called Meg?”

Laura nodded.

“Meg went to Sir Arthur's house today to get it back. She went alone because she was afraid to tell me because”—he shook his head—“she seriously believed that she'd somehow brought about this marriage with her magic statue. Incredible! And typical of the woman to walk into a murder.”

“No, it isn't!” She was back to being a spitting kitten. “Meg is the calmest, most sensible person possible. She never gets into excitement or adventures at all!”

He raised his brows. “Are we talking about the same Meg?”

Laura giggled, hand over mouth. “It's true, though, my lord. She's . . . well, I love her dearly, but she's so very staid. So very practical. She's had to be.”

Sax thought of fancifully embroidered underwear and suppressed a smile. Lord, but at the thought of his staid, practical, harebrained wife he was growing hard. He wanted her here with him. He wanted to continue the seduction he'd so foolishly broken off. To explore her—excited, impractical, and as harebrained as possible—naked in his bed. Damn his stupid demons that had driven him away from her last night! How could he ever think her part of his grandmother's web?

“What are we going to do, my lord?”

He snapped out of his heated thoughts. “Find her.
Don't worry about this business of murder. That's easily handled.”

Assuming she didn't actually do it. He'd go odds his wife wasn't vicious, but sometimes there was good cause for murder. Had Sir Arthur lured her to his house to rape her?

“I am a little worried about her wandering the streets, though. Do you know where she would go?”

Laura shook her head.

He itched to plunge out into the streets himself, but he made himself stay calm. It was pointless without a destination.

“Where would
you
go?” he asked, pacing restlessly. “In her situation, running from the mob, where would you go?”

But Laura just shook her head again, wide-eyed. “I don't know. I don't know what I'd do. Come back here?”

“Not so stupid an idea, even with the constables outside and a mob—damn their eyes—gathering. Where else?”

“Perhaps Reverend Bilston? Or even Dr. Pierce, Jeremy's tutor?”

Sax went into the hall and called for servants, then sent messages to both places. He didn't have much hope, however. If his wife was at either place, someone would have sent word.

Why hadn't she sent word?

Where could she be that she couldn't or wouldn't send a message?

Injured?

Dead?

He was still in the hall, pondering, when someone rapped on the front door. An urgent yet feeble rap. In a flame of relief, he strode by his butler and swung the door wide, ready to sear the Countess of Saxonhurst with his opinion of her erratic adventures.

He came face-to-face with his cousin Daphne.

“Oh, for pity's sake.” He began to shut the door in her face when something in her expression stopped him. Fear? He swung it wide again. “Come in. But if you, too, are accused of murder, I'll let you hang.”

Daphne stalked in. “Saxonhurst, you're a swine. I loathe you. I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

He slammed the door on the gawking mob. “Then we'll doubtless get along a lot better. Anyway, I'm married.”

“Not for long.”

“What?”

She looked around. “You may not mind conducting your affairs in front of the lower orders, but I do. Where can we talk?”

He led her briskly to the study.

“A doxy in your own house?” Daphne sneered as soon as the door was shut.

“Frequently, before I was married. This, however, is my wife's sister. I doubt introductions are important at the moment. So, Daphne, what is going on?”

“Scandal is what is going on, Saxonhurst, and look what's come of your folly! That . . . that crowd out there! They were pressing against the hackney, staring in at me as if they'd like to eat me!”

“Don't worry. It's my wife they want to eat, and they wouldn't know her if they saw her. In fact,” he added, “you're probably lucky they didn't assume you were she. Oh, for Jupiter's sake, if you faint, I'll slap you.”

Daphne sat up straight again. “You really are—”

“We've done that bit. Now—”

A tap on the door interrupted. Pringle entered, bearing a grubby bit of paper on a large silver tray. “A message for you, my lord.”

Sax grabbed it and unscrewed it. After a quick glance, his heart pounded with relief and the drive for action. “Who brought it?”

“A potboy from Quiller's Hotel. I have detained him.”

“Good man. I'll be with you in a moment.” As soon as the door shut, he turned to Daphne. “Speak.”

She, however, had slumped as if all the starch had been rinsed out of her. “She got a message out.”

“Foiled your plans?”

She looked up and he recognized again the fear in
her. “I don't suppose you'll ever believe me, but I came here to help.”

“Why?”

Her lips trembled between disapproval and anxiety. “Because it's too much! I'm no longer sure what the duchess is capable of. She seems to
want
your wife to hang.”

It confirmed his fears, but he stayed calm. “It's a neat way of ending a marriage.”

“But think of the scandal!”

The woman was pathetic, but he couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She'd been in the dragon's claws all her life and lacked his own rebellious streak. And it was more than that. For the first time he realized that he had always known relief would come. Once he was of age, he would have his fortune and his freedom. Daphne had faced a life sentence unless she married.

He was gentle, therefore, when he said, “Thank you for your kind efforts, even if they were in a strange cause. Do you require a carriage to take you back?”

She shrank away. “You can't send me back! Please, Saxonhurst!” She pressed her lips hard together before saying, “I hoped that if I helped you, you would help me. We
were
promised in the cradle. We were. You owe me something!”

A lifetime spurred him to throw her out, but something in Laura's face, an appalled pity, demanded another way.

He went to take his cousin's gloved hand, startled to realize that through the years he had never touched her skin. She'd worn gloves, even in the schoolroom. “Daphne, calm down. I'll help you because we're cousins. I've always been willing to help you on that basis. You don't have to go back to her. All right?”

She nodded, but her face stayed pinched. She'd never transform into a sweet, loving person. Perhaps it wasn't her fault, but it was too late. He let her go, and she tucked her hand protectively beneath the other.

“I'm off now to sort out my wife's affairs, but Laura will settle you into a room.”

“That little nobody!”

“She lives here. You don't.” He smiled at Laura, who
looked very young and uncertain. “If you don't mind, sister.”

She blushed at that, and some of her spirit returned. “Of course not . . . brother.”

He winked at her and turned back to his cousin. “Is there anything special I should know about the situation?”

“I don't think so. Grandmother has a train of servants with her, of course, including a man I don't much care for. He's estate manager at Crickstone, but she sometimes calls him her bodyguard. He's big enough.”