Jo Beverley (2 page)

“Well, it will be nice if he finds something. I've never liked him, but perhaps I've misjudged him.” She looked in her hand. “Oh, it's a crown!” She gave it to Meg, who wished she could throw it through the window.

“It will buy us enough meat to make stew for a week.”

Meg noticed that her sister was, perhaps unconsciously, rubbing away his kisses from her hand. Oh,
Lord. What was she to do? For the moment, she had to get rid of her sister before Laura noticed something wrong. A crash and cry did it for her.

“Oh, those monsters!” Laura exclaimed and ran out to return to the twins.

Meg sat with a thump, soiled coin clutched in her hand. In all her nightmares of their fate, this one had never occurred to her. If it had been herself, if Sir Arthur had wanted herself as mistress not wife, she would have done it for the sake of the rest.

But not Laura.

Never.

Which left only one resource, the thing she'd avoided throughout these terrible months.

The wishing stone.

She put the crown in her pocket, then slowly, stiffly, went up to her parents' silent bedroom. How she missed them. How furious she was with their fecklessness! Had they never thought, through all the jolly years of living for the moment what would happen to their children if they died?

Apparently not.

She ran her hand over the worn green coverlet, remembering how magical it had been as a child—a field to people with toy animals, or to set a paper house upon. A battlefield for her brothers' toy soldiers.

She shook herself, carried over a chair to stand on, and reached up into one dusty corner of the bed curtains to unhook a matching, green bag. Awkward because of the weight, but also because the thing had started its magic, she clambered down, then collapsed onto the chair to gather herself.

It was humming. That's how she thought of it, though no one else seemed able to hear the noise. Perhaps it was more of a vibration, like being in a coach speeding over cobbles.

Whatever it was, she hated it. She quickly put the bag on the bed so she wouldn't have to touch it.

Or not yet.

It had to be done, however.

Resolutely, she loosened the strings and lowered the bag around the crude stone statue.

It was years since she'd seen it and it still shocked her. Seven years, in fact, for she'd been fourteen when her mother had shown her the
sheelagh-ma-gig,
and explained where it was kept, why it was hidden, and the powers it possessed.

Seven years since Meg had found out that she had the horrible gift of using the wishing stone.

Not all the women of the line did. Her Aunt Maira had lacked the skill, and had resented the fact that Meg's mother had refused to ask it for wealth and rich suitors. Apparently, when Walter Gillingham had fallen in love with Meg's mother and swept her away, Aunt Maira had believed she'd used the stone for herself.

That was the cause of the split. It was not something she could have told Sir Arthur.

How could she tell anyone about the
sheelagh
—pagan magic and improper as well?

The ancient stone figurine was of a woman, a naked, grinning woman. Between her spread legs, she held herself—her intimate self—wide as if she wanted to swallow up the world.

According to Meg's mother, these
sheelagh-ma-gigs
had been placed in the walls of Irish churches, which Meg found rather hard to accept. She'd refuse to believe it, except that her generally light-hearted mother had been deathly serious when talking about the wishing stone. She'd said some
sheelaghs
still sat in church walls near the door, and that people still touched them for luck when going in to pray to the Christian God.

Most had been removed, however, by people trying to get rid of pagan influences, or just out of decency. Usually they were smashed, but some had found their way into private hands. Meg's mother had had no idea whether they all had powers as this one did.

This
sheelagh-ma-gig
was a wishing stone, and to the women of the family gifted with the power, it would grant wishes.

At a cost. Always at a cost.

One cost was the unpleasantness of the process—a sickening pain which usually caused a faint. That discomfort was brief, however, and could be borne. The other
cost came because it was a mischievous stone which always granted the wish with a sting in the tail.

The classic story was of the young woman who wished for beauty. She received what she asked for, and found herself shunned by her jealous friends, pestered by ardent men, and unable to be comfortable ever again.

Another woman asked the stone for a particular man as husband, seeking to steal him from a friend. Her wish was granted when her parents arranged the match, but he never stopped loving the other, and eventually they ran off together to the distress of all three families.

Meg's mother had explained it all to her not long after she'd started her woman's courses. That, apparently, was the time when the magic would appear if it appeared at all. She'd insisted Meg try it, at least once.

Even at that age, Meg had been wary of such a thing, and already disturbed by its palpable power. She'd searched for an innocent wish, a harmless wish, and in the end she'd asked for a special cherry cake that the local baker made.

It came within the hour, but in the hands of the baker's pimply son who brought it as a courting gift. Too kind to just dismiss him, especially when she had in a sense summoned him, Meg had had to endure his doting company for months before she convinced him that she was bookish and boring, and he went off to pursue another.

So now she studied the stone warily, wondering what she should ask for, and if it was possible to avoid the sting.

Money?

That's what they needed, but it could come in many unpleasant ways.

Security?

A charity school or even the workhouse could provide that. Even Sir Arthur might, for a while at least.

To make the stone do her bidding she had to form her wish exactly as it should be.

The future of her siblings. That's what she wanted. Their future as the children of a gentleman. Especially seventeen-year-old Jeremy with his gifted mind, who should already be at Oxford or Cambridge.

She framed a wish and went over and over it. It seemed too much to wish for, an impossible wish, but it was what they needed, and she believed in the power of the
sheelagh.

Then, when she was ready, she found the special red candles her mother had kept for this purpose, and the tinderbox. Once a candle stub was burning steadily on the bedside table, gilding the gloomy room, she took a deep breath and made herself put her hands on the grimacing statue.

The power rushed into her, and the grimace seemed to become a scream of victory.

“I wish,” she said as firmly as she could, “that within the week, we shall all be provided for as befits our station, and with honor and happiness.”

She could not let go. She knew that from the last time, but for a moment, she tried.

Then she made herself surrender, plunge deep into the stone's wild energy. The power engulfed her, bringing the remembered shivers and aches, the dazedness and breathlessness. Dimly, she thought she should have locked the door in case one of the others came in and found her like this.

She wondered, too, if the stone could kill, for she felt she might die. She'd felt the same way last time, though, and survived.

This was worse, though. Stronger.

Perhaps the power of the stone equalled the dimension of the wish. And she had wished for so much! Was it possible to wish for
too
much?

Panicked, she again tried to pull free. What if it never let go? What if it sucked all life from her. She couldn't! She couldn't bear it . . . !

She became one with the
sheelagh's
primal scream.

Sick and dizzy, she came to herself, shaking. She still couldn't take away her hands. The
sheelagh's
power ebbed, but slowly, almost reluctantly, as if it resisted releasing its victim.

Victim?

Why think that, when the stone offered their only chance of escape? When the power sank, instead of snatching her hands away, Meg made herself stroke the
figure, and whisper, “Thank you,” before freeing herself and pulling the bag back around it.

She had to take a few moments to steady herself, but then she blew out the candle, put it away, and hung the heavy bag back in its secret corner.

Now it was just a matter of time.

It would happen, she was sure. Within the week, the wish would be granted.

Time alone would reveal the price.

London, December 30th

Owain Chancellor opened the bedroom door, hoping Sax was alone. He usually got rid of his women before falling asleep, but every now and then one managed to linger. This morning, however, the Earl of Saxonhurst sprawled over the entire width of his enormous rumpled bed, his disordered tawny hair and sleek muscles making him look like a sated lion.

It probably wasn't hard for him to persuade his lovers to leave. They'd only have to once experience his greedy dominance of the whole bed.

Owain pulled back the gold brocade curtains at one of the long windows to let in crisp, wintery sunshine.

Sax stirred, muttered a sleepy complaint, and opened one eye. “What?” It was delivered flatly without a hint of alarm, but contained the trace of a warning. There'd better be a good excuse.

“A letter from your grandmother.”

The other eye opened and the head turned to the mantel clock—the one set in the belly of a fat, white, oriental figure. It made Owain think of an enormous, grinning maggot. “You woke me before ten for that? It can only be a deathbed plea for mercy and understanding.”

“I regret to inform you that the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield is in her usual health. But I think you'll want to read this without delay.”

Sax closed his eyes again. “What an extraordinary assumption.”

Owain rang the bell and waited. Soon a powdered and liveried footman backed in bearing a tray containing a
silver coffeepot and accompaniments. He was almost bowled over from behind by a huge, enthusiastic, ugly hound, who charged in to rest his head on the high bed by Sax's head, teeth showing as if he'd found the most tasty meal.

“We in trouble, then?” the footman asked cheerily, setting his tray down. The short stature, lively face, and big eyes had given him the nickname Monkey, and truth to tell, the dog looked to weigh more than he did.

Sax didn't open his eyes. “You will be, Monk, if you sound so cheerful at this hour.”

“Some of us 'as been up since dawn, milord. Can't stay miserable for 'ours just to suit you. Message from the dowager duchess, they say.”

“Have
they
managed to read it yet?”

“Mr. Chancellor's not let it out of 'is fingers, milord.”

“Plague take you all. I don't know why I had you taught to read. Go away.”

Cheerfully, the footman left.

Owain poured a cup of the blisteringly strong coffee, and stirred in three lumps of sugar.

Sax inhaled.

His eyes opened, and he snarled amiably at the hound's teeth, causing the shaggy tail to thump on the floor like a drum, then he rolled to sit up, stretched just like a big cat, and took the cup.

He wasn't actually an enormous man, and in fine clothes he looked just elegantly well-built, but he was all muscle like a healthy predator, and nakedness made the most of it.

He drank the whole cup in silence and held it out to be refilled, casually greeting the dog, Brak, with his free hand. Only then did he glance at the letter. “Since you're not a fool, Owain, I am visited by a sense of deep foreboding.”

Owain offered him the unfolded sheet of paper. Sax took it but fingered it as if trying to sense the contents. “The old monster can't affect my income or my freedom. So . . . ? She's not trying to visit, is she?”

“To the best of my knowledge, the duchess is celebrating the season at Daingerfield Court.”

“Thank God.” He was coming to wakeful alertness
almost visibly, Owain thought, changing from lion to tiger to his most dangerous form—intelligent man.

Sax drained his second cup of coffee before finally opening the letter and reading it. Owain watched with interest, for he really had no idea how his friend would handle this predicament.

“Plague and damnation,” Sax said at last, but dazedly. Braced for one of the famous Saxonhurst rages, Owain breathed a sigh of relief.

When Sax looked up, for once he looked rather lost. “When's my birthday?”

“Tomorrow, as you well know. New Year's Eve.”

He almost levitated from the tangled sheets to pace the room, magnificently naked. “The old bitch!”

It was said angrily, yes, but with a hint of admiration. Sax and his grandmother had been waging war for fifteen years, ever since she'd taken over the raising of him. It was a war for power between two of the stubbornest, most arrogant people Owain had ever met.

And two of the fiercest tempers.

He should have known the storm would come, especially as Brak was already wriggling backward under the bed.

Sax wrapped a gold curtain around his hand and pulled, bringing the rail half off the wall. Another fierce tug had it down in a shower of plaster dust.

Owain sighed and tugged the bell-rope again. Then he picked up his friend's gold-and-black banjan and threw it to him. Sax put in on without comment, still pacing and almost growling.

“I think she's got you this time.”

Sax casually backhanded a squat, purple vase to shatter on the floor. “Devil take her, she has not. I promised to marry by my twenty-fifth birthday, and I will. A Torrance breaks many things, but never his word.”

“By tomorrow?” Owain said, trying desperately to keep some sanity in the room. “Can't be done. Why the devil did you make such a cork-brained promise?”

“Because at twenty I was cork-brained like most men. And twenty-five seemed a dim and distant future!” The matching vase shattered. “Back then I was sure I'd soon fall in love with the perfect, pretty maiden.” He
impatiently kicked a shard from his path. “I've certainly done my best to find her.”

“I thought you avoided maidens like the plague.”

“Only since I discovered that they're after one thing. A coronet.”

After a moment's thought, he plucked a yellow china cow off the mantel and threw it to shatter on the floor at the feet of the bunch of servants who had burst through the door armed with brushes, cloths, mops, and expectant expressions.

One maid started to sweep up pottery fragments. Menservants hurried to deal with the curtain. Owain noted wryly that all the indoor servants except the cooks had felt called to the tasks. No one liked to miss a Saxonhurst rage. He'd never grown accustomed to the way Sax let his strange bunch of servants intrude on his private affairs like meddling relatives.

“She planned it, you know,” Sax said, ignoring his staff and still pacing. He was also ignoring the fact that his loosely tied robe was scarcely decent, but then all the servants had seen everything before. That didn't stop the maids from casting appreciative glances.

One, Babs, who made no attempt to pretend shame about her previous profession, pulled a sprig of mistletoe from her pocket and tucked it optimistically into the deep fringe hanging around the tester bed.

“She deliberately sent that letter to arrive today to give me a day of anguish before the hour of doom.” Sax picked up the matching orange bull from the other end of the mantelpiece. “Susie. Catch!” He tossed it to the one-eyed maid who wore a patch. She shrieked and grabbed for it. Then, quite deliberately, she let it fall.

With a cheeky grin, she said, “I had a crown on that one.”

“That's cheating, my girl.”

“You must have caught me on my blind side, milord. But watch where you're marching.” She set to brushing the sharp fragments out of the way of his bare feet.

Sax duly stalked through the cleared path, seized a very real saber from the wall, unsheathed it, and impaled a pink satin cushion on the point. He then tossed it up
and sliced it in two as it fell so downy feathers burst out to fill the room.

Laughing, Owain leaned back in his chair, propped his feet on the bed, and surrendered. It was a performance, really, and they all knew their parts.

Sax only ever allowed himself tantrums in this room, so they didn't keep any of the good stuff here. In fact, the servants scoured London for pieces worthy of destruction and placed them here at the ready. As Susie implied, they had a lottery going belowstairs on which piece would be next for destruction.

The whole household regarded Sax's occasional fiery outbursts with a kind of proprietal pride. Owain rather enjoyed them himself. He had a guinea riding on his belief that a simpering shepherdess on a small bamboo table would survive till Easter. Sax was generally very kind to women.

His grandmother being the notable exception.

Cook had bet an equal amount that the table itself would go. It was an unfortunate piece lacquered in lurid green and pink. Owain watched his friend eye it and his sword. Could he destroy it without smashing the shepherdess?

Perhaps that's why Sax dropped the sword on the bed and turned instead to a large portrait of a very ugly, sour-faced monk. Would he . . . ?

He jerked it off the wall so the hook flew through the air, then smashed it over the back of a ponderous chair.

Owain offered a prayer of thanks. He'd been ready to smash the thing himself. How anyone could sleep, never mind make love, with that warty, scowling face looking down, he didn't know.

“A Torrance,” repeated Sax, slightly out of breath, sweeping blond hair off his forehead, “breaks a great many things, but never his word.”

“So it's said.”

Sax turned on him. “So it
is.
” He scanned the audience of servants. “Where's Nims.
Nims!
” he bellowed. “Come and shave me, you damned idler!”

Since most of the show was clearly over, the servants set to clearing up properly. But slowly, in case there might be an encore.

Sax's stocky valet backed in from the next room, agile despite a wooden leg, steaming water jug in hand, cloth over arm. “I'm coming, I'm coming! How could I be expected to be ready for you at this hour, then?” He looked around and rolled his eyes. “That much trouble, eh? Sit down. Sit down. You want shaving, or you want your throat cut?”

A gray-blue parrot flew in behind him and landed on Sax's shoulder.
“Hello, my lovely,”
it said in Sax's exact voice.

Sax relaxed and smiled, letting the adoring bird nuzzle around his ear. “Hello, my lovely.” Then he sobered. “Devil take it. Knox will throw a fit.”

Indeed, Knox the parrot was glaring at the servants.
“Women! Women! Road to hell.”

As Sax sat in a chair so he could be shaved, Babs sashayed over, taking a hazelnut out of her pocket. “Go on, Knox, you love me really.”

The bird eyed her, swaying.
“Eve. Delilah.”

She offered the nut, just out of reach. “Be nice, Knox.”

“Delilah!”

She waited, and when the bird muttered,
“Pretty lady,”
she gave him the nut and blew him a kiss. He turned his back to enjoy it.

“See,” she said to everyone. “You can handle any male if you find out what he really wants.”

“Babs,” said Sax, “you're a walking warning to the males of any species. But how, I wonder, did you find time with Knox to train him?”

Babs didn't answer, but she winked at the valet. To Owain's astonishment, Nims blushed. Jupiter, but this place would drive him crazy if he wasn't already beyond hope.

“Shift yourself, Knox,” said the valet, flapping a snowy cloth. When the parrot was safe on the back of the chair, he wrapped the cloth around his employer's shoulders and started to shave him.

“Start naming names, Owain,” Sax said.

“Names?”

“Potential brides.”

Knox jumped.
“Marry not! Marry not!”

Sax rolled his eyes. “Names. And for heaven's sake try not to use words that'll set him off.”

With a familiar feeling of being stuck in a mad house, Owain took out his notebook. Knox's previous owner had trained him to warn against involvement with women, particularly marital involvement. Sax was right. A bride in the house was likely to give the bird a fit.

“What kind of names?” he asked.

“Potential . . . partners in connubial bliss.”

“What sort?”

Nims was stroking the sharp blade over Sax's cheek so he spoke calmly. “One who'll go through the ceremony with me tomorrow. Which means just about any of 'em.”

Knox must have felt Sax's tensions, for he hopped onto his shoulder and rubbed soothingly against his ear. Sax relaxed and stroked the bird. “Who was the one who sprained her ankle outside the door a couple of weeks ago?”

“Miss Cathcart. You said you wanted to throttle her.”

“I just wanted to twist her ankle properly for her.”

Owain wrote on a clean page. “You want me to send a note to say you will call on Miss Cathcart's father? I'm not even sure they're still in town.”

“Probably few of them are. Oh, 'struth.”

He snapped his left hand and Brak slithered hesitantly out from under the bed, teeth still bared as if ready for the kill, but eyes anxious. The poor hound couldn't help it. He'd been born with a deformity of the mouth that made him look fearsome. Unfortunately, he was an abject coward, and even now was hesitating, sniffing the air for trouble.