Jo Beverley (36 page)

A picture was opening for Meg, but it felt like a butterfly struggling out of the chrysalis. Fragile, as if the wrong word, the wrong movement could destroy it.

“I can see that it was a terrible time for you, and that the duchess was rigid in her ways, but surely that isn't why you hate her. Was she cruel?”

“Cruel?” He seemed to roll the word around his mouth like brandy. “Physically, no. I was punished when I offended, but not cruelly. Some of the offenses were unfair in my mind, but I wouldn't hate her for that.” He was silent for a while, then said, “She tried to wipe out my life.”

“She tried to
kill
you?”

“No. My former life. She hated my father, you see.
Loathed and detested him because he'd stolen her favorite daughter. She couldn't accept that my mother avoided her only because the duchess hated my father. Instead, she chose to think that my father kept my mother away. She tried to break the marriage. When that failed, she tried to ruin him in society. Had some success, too, since he was a Torrance and had been a wild young man. But she didn't break him or the marriage, and that she could not bear. So she tried to do it after their deaths. She had all pictures of him destroyed. I don't have one. She forbade me to speak of him. I could speak of my mother and my sister, but not my father.”

Meg was almost shaking with horror at this tale. “How could she stop you? With punishment?”

“I would have taken daily beatings. But if I transgressed in this way, I wasn't beaten. Owain was. She's a devilishly clever woman. I paid her back by never speaking of my mother and sister, either. I acted as if my former life had never existed. Except once a year. On the anniversary of their deaths, I made a formal statement of remembrance, and Owain was beaten for it.”

Meg lay there, trying to imagine being a grieving ten-year-old forbidden to speak of his dead loved ones, all visual memory of his father destroyed. The horror of those years. No wonder he was not rational about all this. It was astonishing how mild Mr. Chancellor seemed about the duchess.

“But still,” she said, having to clear her throat, “that's all in the past. Can you not put it behind you now?”

“Perhaps I have done that too well.”

That was a strange thing to say, too.

“The duchess was obliged to surrender control when I turned twenty-one,” he continued, “but she has never given up her mission.”

“What did you mean, you have put it behind you too well?”

“I have left her in peace.”

“Sax,” she said, turning to him, “revenge will do you no good.”

“But what of justice?”

“Justice? Perhaps that is served. She is not a happy woman.”

“True enough. It sweetens my bitter moments.”

But he still had those moments. Meg sighed. She understood better now, though she still thought he hurt himself more than his grandmother by his hatred. She no longer thought she could change him, or heal the breach. She stroked him gently. “At least she can't hurt you any more.”

He stirred. “Meg, she's attacking me through you.”

“It's just that she planned to marry you to Daphne. Did you know poor Daphne has a wedding dress all ready?”

“Poor Daphne, indeed. She came to me, you know. To save you.”

“That was kind, then. And needed courage. I think she's terrified of the duchess.”

“With reason. The woman would throw her out into the street if it suited her mood. Throw her into the Thames if it came to that. Or have her thrown, more likely. A duchess does not soil her hands.”

His still hand on her breast was managing to be torment, but Meg tried to ignore it. “You should take care of her.”

“Daphne? Perhaps. She's right, in a way, about being promised in the cradle. Her mother was my mother's older sister, and they kept in touch in defiance of the duchess. Since we're almost of an age, they did talk of us marrying, and apparently we did share a nurse and cradle sometimes, amusing the adults by playing with one another's toes and such. On my parents' side, at least, any talk of marriage was entirely in fun.

“The duchess, however, took up the idea. When I was moved to Daingerfield Court, she had Daphne make frequent, long visits, treating her as my promised bride. We'd have been at the altar at sixteen if I would have agreed. When I resisted, she found the most tempting lure. If I accepted my fate, she would acknowledge my parents. She argued that my marriage to Daphne had been my parents' dearest wish, and that I was honor bound to go through with it. And if I'd marry Daphne,
I could speak of my father whenever I wished. She even produced a family portrait I'd thought long gone.”

“Yet you still held out?”

“She made me watch it burn.”

Meg bit her lip, tears stinging at her eyes.

“And she brought Daphne to live permanently at the Court, and made her wear the ring.”

“The ring,” Meg prompted.

“The Torrance betrothal ring. My mother's ring. She always wore it.”

Meg absorbed the fact that it had been taken from his mother's hand after death. That was usual in the case of such family treasures that must be passed on, but she could imagine the pain it caused for him to see it every day on Daphne's hand.

“Daphne didn't resist?”

“It takes a touch of madness to fight someone like the duchess, I think. And Daphne liked the idea of being countess. Mostly, however, compliance was the price of escaping her life with a gouty father who was usually sunk in a bottle and vicious with it.”

“Then are you not rather cruel to her? She is as much a victim as you.”

“Cruel?” He laughed shortly. “It was war, Meg. She even tried to seduce me once or twice, but thanks to her stern virtue, she was very bad at it. Which wasn't true of some of the others.”

“The others?” Meg didn't want to hear of his youthful conquests, but she would listen to anything he felt driven to say.

“It was a struggle, but I left the duchess's care a virgin.”

“She . . . ?”

“She found some very tempting specimens, yes. Especially for a young, healthy male whose body was hungry for experience.” One finger gently circled her nipple. “I made up for it later.”

“So I gather,” Meg breathed, then managed to speak more clearly. “But why? I would have thought the duchess honest in her stern morality at least. Why try to debauch you?”

“To weaken me.” He snuggled down and put his mouth to her breast. “It is very weakening, isn't it?”

“Very. Which is why we were going to wait until midnight.”

He moved away and his watch began its chiming message. “Four minutes, Meg.”

She resisted the temptation to roll toward him, to consign four tedious minutes to the devil. “Very well. How would your marriage to Daphne have served the duchess's purpose?”

“She's obsessed. Daphne was her choice, shaped by her, and under her control. My marriage to Daphne would correct my mother's rebellious and unsuitable marriage to my father. She could also expect that Daphne would stay under her thumb, so my children would be hers to mold in what she considers a suitable manner, not in the unruly way—her opinion—favored by my parents. It is all just a matter of a tyrant's maniacal insistence on control.”

“But in the end, she lost everyone. Couldn't she see what she was doing?”

“Apparently not. She is always right, her actions are always just, and if things go awry, it is always the fault of someone else.”

“But—”

The distant clock began to chime, and his watch blended in with a merry count of twelve. “Abandon hope, fair lady. Your time of liberty is over.”

Meg was tempted to protest, just on principle, but instead, she rolled toward him. “So is yours, my lord.”

When the carriage was announced, Laura and Daphne almost ran through the bitingly cold midnight air and into its warmth. Laura envied her companion her furlined cloak, and prayed that Meg had found a warm haven. Well, of course, she had. The earl had her safe, doubtless tucked away in luxury somewhere.

After all, he lived in luxury. Even his carriage floor was set with warm tiles beneath the carpet. It was almost as warm as his drawing room. Lady Daphne had to unclasp her fur-lined cloak in the heat.

It wasn't a long trip to the hotel, and soon she and Lady Daphne were being led reverently down a hushed corridor. No, this was no trick. The duchess must indeed be deathly ill.

They were ushered into a bedchamber before Laura had time to think about staying outside. The dowager duchess lay in the big bed, old face sagging with sleep and sickness. She looked like a frail old woman, but the coverlet was richly embroidered with a crest, surely the ducal one. Laura thought it strange for anyone to haul such trappings around.

A middle-aged woman in black sat beside her. That was probably the dresser. A white-haired, slender man sat farther away, looking rather bored. He was doubtless the doctor, obliged to stay because of his patient's high rank, but having nothing to do to save her.

Another servant stood in a corner. A man. Just there in case he was needed.

The room was so hot that Laura wanted to immediately shed her cloak, but it seemed somehow out of place.

Daphne crept forward, and the dresser rose to remove
her cloak and muff. It was all done without an order, without Daphne's seeming aware of the service. Laura watched with interest. If she was going to move in high circles, she'd have to learn the way of it.

Daphne touched a pale, be-ringed hand. “Grandmother?”

The eyelids fluttered. The old lady's mouth worked a little, but then she just turned her hand to squeeze Daphne's. Laura felt tears. How sad that these two hadn't been more loving in life. She was sure Daphne had wanted to love. In fact, she couldn't imagine that the earl hadn't wanted to love his grandmother. He was not a cold person.

The dowager duchess was clearly one of those people who turned every relationship to vinegar and never realized it was their own fault.

“Who's with you?” the duchess whispered. The words were faint and slurred a little, but quite understandable.

“Miss Gillingham,” Daphne said in a hushed voice. “The countess's sister.”

Though the lids hardly parted, Laura felt the eyes on her, quite sharply. Clearly, people didn't change that much on their deathbed. “What's she doing here? Where's Saxonhurst?”

“He went to find the countess. Don't agitate yourself, Grandmother!”

The old woman's teeth were bared like Brak's. “I'll leave,” said Laura, dropping a curtsy. “This is a family time. I'll wait elsewhere.”

“No.” Though raspy, it was a bark of command. “Come closer, gel. You are a distant connection now.”

Laura didn't want to go closer, but she couldn't refuse. She wished the dresser would unobtrusively remove her cloak, but she didn't. In the end, she pushed it off herself and draped it over a chair, along with her muff.

“Where is your sister, then? Where's my grandson?”

“I don't know, Your Grace.”

“I had the silly gel safe here, so she couldn't cause more trouble. Trouble for my grandson. Trouble for the family. Scandal . . .” One hand clutched the ornate bedcover and the doctor came over.

“Your Grace, you must not upset yourself.”

“I'm not upsetting myself, Wallace,” she said with surprising asperity. “Everyone else is upsetting me.”

He clasped her wrist to test her pulse. “Then perhaps we should send everyone away—”

“What point? You go away. Go!”

The doctor stepped back. “Do I understand that you wish me to leave the room, Your Grace?”

“Leave the room. Leave the hotel.” Her voice grew louder and less coherent. “Go. Someone'll come for you when . . . something for you to do.”

The man bowed stiffly, picked up his bag, and stalked out. Laura wanted to roll her eyes. What an impossible, rude old woman.

The duchess looked between Daphne and Laura. “Sit. Can't stand people hovering. Like vultures. Stop looking tragic, Daphne. If I die, I die.”

The dresser rose to give Daphne her chair. Laura turned to fend for herself, but the manservant had come forward. He removed her cloak and muff from the nearby chair, replacing them on the one vacated by the doctor. She flashed him a smile of thanks and sat, wishing she'd not come, and yet fascinated.

The duchess, however, was staring beyond Laura. “Stafford, what are you doing here?”

“Don't distress yourself, duchess.” He moved to stand by the bed, facing them. “Where will your sister have hidden herself, Miss Gillingham?”

“Don't answer him! Waterman, get him out of here. . . .” The agitated old woman began to choke, and the dresser hurried to offer some sort of cordial.

“Don't, Your Grace. You must be calm.”

Most of the liquid dribbled out of the poor woman's lips and she lay back, still muttering. “Stafford. . . . Out . . .”

Laura looked up at the man, who seemed unmoved, though he turned to the duchess and said, “Don't agitate yourself, Your Grace. Trust me to carry out your wishes with respect to your family.”

The duchess looked dreadful, but she did seem to calm.

The man—Stafford—turned back to Laura. “As you
see, we must try to find her family for her. Can you help, Miss Gillingham?”

“I'm sorry, no. If I knew, I would go there myself and find her. We are all very worried.”

“But the earl is with her?”

“Yes.”

“Pshaw!” the duchess spat, now even opening her eyes. “Running to set a murderess free like a hero in a bad play. Probably in disguise. I wash my hands of him. Do you hear that, Stafford? I wash my hands of him.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” said the man with a bow toward the bed, as if the old woman wasn't spitting nonsense.

He turned back to Laura. “People have checked the inns and hotels. Checked the earl's friends, those who are in town. On such a cold night, they must be somewhere. Where would you hide, Miss Gillingham?”

Laura was out of her depth and knew it, but it probably was right to find Saxonhurst and inform him of his grandmother's state. She was very ill, that was clear.

“The earl asked me the same question. I don't know. We have friends, yes, mostly around Mallett Street, but I'm not sure they would take in fugitives. And Meg has been a governess for the past four years, living in the country.”

“Perhaps she has gone there.”

“I don't think she could throw herself on their mercy, and it would be too far.”

“True.” The man certainly seemed to be taking his task seriously. “What about empty places then? Are any of the properties near your old home empty?”

“Only our old home,” she replied.

His eyes widened slightly, and the silence was very loud.

“You think . . . ?” Laura rose. “It might be. I must go and—”

“Sit!” The duchess's command was surprisingly strong, and Laura automatically obeyed.

“It must be checked,” the old woman whispered. “Stafford . . .”

“There's no need for you to go, Miss Gillingham,” the man said. “What number?”

Laura wished she didn't feel that everything in this
room was discordant, like music out of tune. “Number thirty-two. But perhaps I should . . .”

“It's bitter out, miss,” Stafford said easily. “You'd need a carriage and that would take time. I can get there quickly by hackney and bring them back. I'm sure the earl would want to know about his grandmother.”

“Yes, I suppose. I don't mind a hackney, though. . . .”

“It's not necessary.”

“Go, Stafford,” said the duchess as if every word was precious. “Go and do my will. Or by heaven, I'll haunt you!”

The man bent to kiss the clawlike, frantic hand. “You know me, Your Grace. I'm sure we'll meet again.”

Laura watched the man stride out, knowing there were things going on here that she did not understand. She looked at Daphne, but Daphne gave her a slight, reassuring smile.

The duchess rolled her head on her pillow. “Go . . .” She twitched a hand toward an adjoining door. “Can't talk. Come when Helen comes back. Helen . . .”

Laura was happy enough to escape into a cooler, fresher room. “Who's Helen?”

Daphne hugged herself. “Saxonhurst's mother.”

“But she's dead, isn't she?”

“I gather people do that when they're dying. Slip into the past. I hope Stafford brings Saxonhurst back.”

Laura wasn't sure it would be a pretty scene. “I can't like that man.”

“No. He's coarse. I don't know why Grandmother keeps him about. He's even steward of one of her smaller properties.”

Laura wished she hadn't come. She didn't like any of these people and something in the air frightened her. “What if the earl won't come?”

Daphne sat and held out pale, net-gloved hands to the fire. “Then she'll probably be served right. She's never thought of others, only of herself. She's a duke's daughter, you know, and married a duke. And her husband was a mere cipher. Their son is the same, and she made sure he married a mouse. And his son. Cobham was married at sixteen to the girl of her choice. Saxonhurst is the only person who's ever crossed her.”

“Good for him.” Laura thought about going out to question servants, but it was late and there wouldn't be anything to learn here about the murder.

She sat down, too, hoping Stafford did find Sax and Meg so they could all go home.

The clock struck the half hour, and though she still trembled slightly with memories of passion, Meg's stomach rumbled.

Sax rubbed it. “Hungry?”

“A bit. It's all right.” She moved closer and rubbed against his sweaty body just for the heaven of it.

“No it's not. I want to dress you in silk and surround you with every luxury. I want you to never have a care again.”

She laughed. It was totally dark, and yet he was clear to her through every other sense. Clear and beloved. “That sounds very dull.”

“Very well.” His face rubbed softly in her hair. “We'll take to the road as vagabonds, and have endless adventures.”

“You, my lord earl, are a creature of extremes. I prefer the middle path.”

“I'm not fond of discomfort, either, especially after this brief brush with it. And I think you'll come to like the occasional wild adventure, as long as it's all in fun.”

“Yes, I think I might. What are we going to do, though, if we can't clear my name?”

“Live in scandal.”

“I don't think I'd like that.”

“I know. That's why we'll have to clear it up.”

“How?”

“By trusting in Owain.”

Meg laughed. “You are impossible, you know.”

“What irritates people is that I am entirely possible—I exist—and I am happy with my foibles. I'm unnatural.”

She cuddled even closer. “You're magical.” But that sparked a memory. “I do have to get the
sheelagh
back.”

He shrugged. “If your Sir Arthur didn't hide it in his house, it's a needle in a haystack. We can't search the whole of London.”

“Remember I can sense it. It's almost like music, but
too low to hear.” She shook her head against his chest. “That must sound like madness to you.”

“No more so than the statue itself. I confess, if you had it here, I'd ask you to wish for some food.”

Meg
tsked,
but then became very still. “Sax . . .”

“Yes?” After a moment, he said, “Meg?”

“This is strange. I thought it was you.”

“What?”

“Since we arrived here, I've felt something. I thought it was you. The
sheelagh
—don't laugh—it feels like, like you make me feel.”

“Should I be jealous?”

She poked him in the ribs. “To be blunt, it feels like sexual arousal. Faintly.”

“I don't usually think of faintly and arousal in the same sentence.”

“Stop it. The fact is, I can feel it now.”

“Oh, good.” His hand moved.

She wriggled away. “Sax! I think the
sheelagh
is in this house! Think. It's a logical place for him to hide it, if he didn't want to use his own home. He probably never took it away, just moved it to a different room.”