Jo Beverley (14 page)

She had no choice, however. A missing key would be a mystery, whereas an unlocked door would cause serious questions.

She pulled on her shoes and hurried up the stairs, her breath puffing white in the freezing air. She was glad to tuck her gloved hands into her padded muff.

She heard the faint chink of the two keys in her pocket. If she returned quickly, she might be able to return the Saxonhurst key before it was missed. The first servants would be about by then, but perhaps she could just drop it nearby. Then, when it was found, it would
look as if it had fallen off the knob. With this in mind she moved the key from her pocket to her muff. As she hurried along, she picked and rubbed at the string to wear it through.

It distracted her anyway from the eerie quiet of the frosty morning. She'd never before ventured out at this gray hour. Far more than deep night, it seemed a time for ghostly spirits. Revelers, hawkers, and lurkers had all surrendered to sleep. When a cat slid across the street in front of her, she froze with a nervous gasp.

She went on, telling herself that the lack of people on the street was a good thing. No one was about to hurt her. Even so, her skin crawled. She tried to believe that the night prowlers—the thieves and housebreakers, the villains who snatched girls for brothels—would be home by now, but every misty corner or dingy shadow held a threat.

Slowly, however, the sky brightened and London came to life around her hurrying feet. A cart rumbled by, dragged by a plodding horse, hauling cabbages to market. She had to wait to cross one street, as a laden mail coach charged by, swaying and racketing along the cobbles, chased by excited dogs. Servants banged and clattered out of sight, or appeared to stagger yawning to wells and bakers' shops. The first vendors appeared with the rising sun, crying milk, or eggs, or oranges.

When she arrived at her old home, however, Mallett Street was still quiet, except for a bit of activity in the inn's stables. The people here had few servants, and everyone rose a little later to start the day together. Meg slipped down the familiar back lane and into the small garden of her old house.

Only yesterday morning the house had been her home, so she shouldn't feel like a criminal. Even so, when she turned the key in the back door, the click sounded like a gunshot to her, and she looked around, expecting someone to cry the alarm. Nothing stirred. Blowing out a relieved breath, she turned the knob and slipped into the cold, dark house.

How deserted it seemed. How empty.

She looked around the kitchen. Battered pans and chipped crockery still sat in place, and she supposed the
stone crock in the cupboard still held a little oatmeal. She'd felt so unsure when leaving for the church, that she'd not given away any of their meager supply of food and wood. She could light the familiar stove and make porridge now if she wanted. . . .

With a shake, she pushed aside mental wanderings and went about her business. Still, nonsensically, trying not to make noise, she hurried up to her parents' bedroom, carried a wooden chair over to the bed, climbed up, and stretched for the heavy, brocade bag.

She couldn't find it!

Muttering about the dim light, Meg teetered on the soft, unstable mattress, groping around.

It wasn't there!

Frantically, illogically, she checked all four sides of the bedframe. Nothing. She scrambled down, and looked around the outside of the bed curtains, but her heart raced with sick panic. It wasn't there!

How? Why? Who?

The answer shot back.

The “who” had to be Sir Arthur.

Shaking with shock and bone weariness, Meg slumped on the edge of the too-familiar bed. She gazed all around as if by some miracle the stone might be on the floor, the table, or the washstand. Pushing to her feet, she checked inside drawers and cupboards, and under the bed.

She knew, however, that it wasn't there.

But how could Sir Arthur even
know
about the
sheelagh-ma-gig,
never mind that it was important?

Her mother would never have told him. Her mother, however, had kept no secrets from her beloved husband. Walter Gillingham had considered Sir Arthur Jakes his friend. In those long weary months of illness, had he said more than he should?

Meg leaned against the walnut armoire, trying to make her foggy mind follow the puzzling path.

How much did Sir Arthur know? Clearly enough to believe the stone had some value. Surely, though, he'd not know about the magic, or believe it if he did.

That didn't matter at the moment. The pressing question was, how was she going to get it back?

She hated to leave the room, because a foolish part of her mind said that the
sheelagh
had to be here somewhere. She couldn't resist one last hunt, as if the statue might suddenly have returned to its rightful place, or to some other nearby.

Of course, it hadn't, and time was racing by.

She had to leave.

Anyway, she remembered now that she could sense the
sheelagh
if she was close to it. There was something like a tingling in the air. She'd not been aware of it until she'd left home, and slowly realized the presence was gone. It had been a huge relief.

She certainly should have known from the first that the
sheelagh
wasn't in the room.

In the corridor, she rubbed her head wondering if she should search the whole house. But the sun was up, and the earl's house would surely be stirring by now. She had to get back before her husband rose and asked for his wife.

Then what?

Sir Arthur had taken the
sheelagh,
and she had to get it back. She was too weary now, however, to even think about that problem. She needed to get home and into her bed.

Bone tired and aching with disappointment, she dragged down the familiar stairs, fighting tears. Why did everything seem to be going so dreadfully wrong? Was it because she'd given in to temptation and used the
sheelagh
?

It must be. The sting in the—

A
click
?

She froze.

Someone had just unlocked the front door.

Shocked alert, she knew it could only be Sir Arthur.

She stiffened, impelled to confront him and demand the return of her property. But then she realized that was folly. Heaven only knew what he would do. He might drag her off to the constables in revenge.

She had to get out!

Out!

Whirling around the bottom of the stairs, she raced toward the kitchen, even though her shoes clattered loud
on the floor. She hurtled through the back door, down the path, and out into the lane, expecting at every moment the cry of
“Stop thief!”

Nothing pursued, neither cry nor person, but she raced on anyway, around the corner into Graham Street. There, she made herself stop. People were about their business, and they'd notice a wild woman racing by. Anyway, now that the first burst of wild panic had faded, she was winded and almost faint.

She leaned against a railing, still seeking through the surrounding noises for the hue and cry. They hanged people for housebreaking! It wouldn't come to that, and she knew it, but she had to get farther away. Sucking in deep, panicked breaths, she pulled the hood of her cloak over her face and walked rapidly down the street.

A countess wouldn't hang, she assured herself.

A countess probably wouldn't even be hauled into court for such a petty crime. But she didn't feel like a countess. She felt like Meg Gillingham, who had so recently skulked around to avoid creditors, and who had come within an inch of being a beggar on the streets.

They'd hang Meg Gillingham for theft.

Her steps quickened, carrying her back, back to Marlborough Square and the earl's house. It didn't feel like her house or her home, but it felt like sanctuary. She'd be safe there. The Earl of Saxonhurst would never let the law drag his wife away to jail. . . .

But then she groaned, appalled at the thought of him having to protect a lowborn, criminal wife from the authorities.

And it was her wicked wish that had embroiled him in this.

As she hurried along, Meg earnestly prayed that he never find out what she'd been up to. He had been, was being, so good to all of them. He deserved a decent wife, not one so deeply, deeply unworthy.

She'd even lied to him. A barefaced lie!

At that point, if she'd had anywhere else in the world to go, she might have changed her route. As it was, tears trickled down her chilled cheeks as she forced her unsteady legs to carry her back to Mayfair and Marlborough Square.

How had she come to this? She had always been an honest person, able to face the world without shame. Now here she was, a housebreaker who had lied to her kind husband, and was probably going to have to lie again in order to get that dratted
sheelagh
back.

Had it been Sir Arthur who'd entered the house? Who else? He couldn't have rented it already. What had he thought? With luck, that the intruder had been a common housebreaker surprised at mischief. Let him not even dream that he'd almost caught the unlikely Countess of Saxonhurst looking for her wishing stone.

Deluged by worries, she was back in Marlborough Square almost without realizing it, but then she came to a horrified halt. Life stirred in Mayfair much earlier than she'd thought.

The square was already busy with hawkers and servants. A man led two milk cows down one side of the square, while a woman led four nanny goats down the other. Servants popped in and out of the houses with jugs to be filled with warm, fresh milk.

Meg longed for some of that milk.

Other sellers strolled up and down with baskets and panniers, or pushing handcarts. Clearly in this wealthy part of town, the mountain came to Mohamet!

Meg made herself walk toward the house, hoping that in her plain hooded cloak she looked like a servant herself, and turned to go down the steps to the basement door. Her hand was tight around the heavy key on its frayed string.

Through the door, up the stairs, and into her room. That's all. She was so close—

Oh no! She backed up the steps and hurried away.

The small room was clearly the dining room for the lower servants. Five people had been sitting around that plain table, digging into eggs and sausages.

Stupid, stupid, she berated herself, hurrying on, for to stop now would be conspicuous. Of course, the servants would be up and about. Where had her wits been?

What on earth was she to do?

The back.

Weak-kneed with panic, Meg hurried down a mews lane into the area behind the big houses, seeking that
ivy-covered gate into the earl's garden. It was tricky to find it from the back, but she chose what she thought was the right gate and tried it. Thank heavens, it opened with only a faint creak.

Even so, lurking behind some bushes, Meg wasn't entirely sure she was in the right garden until she saw the limping footman come out the back door and go down a path.

Doubtless on his way to the privy.

Swamped by relief, she slumped against the wide trunk of one of the beech trees. All she had to do now was to slip into the house unobserved. Surely that couldn't be impossible.

The earl's back garden was bigger than the one at Mallett Street, but crowded with large trees. Though leafless, the trees and some evergreen shrubbery offered concealment. Meg waited until the footman—Clarence, wasn't it?—limped back to the house, buttoning his breeches, before creeping, tree to tree, bush to bush, closer to the back door.

A lad came out to chuck a bowlful of water on the ground.

Meg ducked behind the last wide tree trunk, balefully considering the open space between herself and the house. She even muttered some words a lady shouldn't know. This was never going to work.

Moreover, at this time of day the kitchen area would be busy. As if to prove it, a maid came out, went to a small shed, unlocked it, and took out some supplies. Probably root vegetables.

Meg was so weary she was ready to slide down onto the ground, pull her cloak around her, and go to sleep right there. She didn't even care that she'd be missed, that her family would search for her. She just wanted to go to sleep.

It was too cold, though. She'd freeze to death.

They'd find her corpse in the garden.

What would they think?

Probably only that she'd foolishly gone out for a walk in the garden.

Like a beam of light, she saw the way.

No one except the earl had any right to control her
movements. If the eccentric Countess of Saxonhurst wanted to walk about in the winter garden at an unearthly hour of the morning, that was no concern of the servants' at all.

It took almost more courage than she had, and the dregs of her energy, but Meg drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and strolled out of concealment, heading straight for the door. When it opened again, she made herself stay calm, preparing a casual comment for a servant.

She came face-to-face with her husband, the strange dog snarling at his side.