Jo Beverley (22 page)

When she didn't respond, he added, “Have you met Peter, who is serving your brothers?”

“Yes.”

“He was pilloried for embezzlement. Hardly escaped with his life.”

Meg stared at him. “And the earl has him here in his house? Attending my brothers!”

“He's not going to embezzle here, is he? And he'd never hurt the youngsters. Why should he?”

“But still . . .”

“See, you're as bad as most people. In Sax's opinion, no one can be expected to reform if he doesn't have the
means of survival. But you see that he can overlook a great deal.”

Meg's jaw dropped. “Mr. Chancellor, you can't think . . . ! I assure you, I have nothing illegal to hide!” She decided her one foray into housebreaking didn't count.

“Then moral? I'm sorry, but we are bound to speculate. Even so, I doubt you could have done anything to outrage Sax. Whereas, secrets and lies can destroy him.

“Mr. Chancellor, unlike my husband, I have led a life of unquestionable propriety. And you forget, this rift has nothing to do with my secrets, or my strange behavior. It is simply caused by the earl's refusal to be reasonable about his grandmother!”

He raised his hands. “I give up. I just offer you some straight advice. The duchess made his youth hell. She used Sax to punish Lady Helen for disobeying her, for escaping, and for daring to be happy in her rebellion. And for dying. Don't try to bridge an unbridgeable gap. Don't place impossible conditions on this marriage. And don't keep secrets, or tell lies.”

“Oh, wonderful! And what stern instructions will you give him? Or is it all for me to do?”

He rolled his eyes and headed for the door. When he opened it, Meg saw her husband standing outside.

“I could not help but hear your raised voice, my dear,” he said, cool as an icehouse. “Are you all right?”

He carried a single candle that flared in the draft of the opening door. In contrast to the decorous Mr. Chancellor, the earl had discarded his jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, and his loose shirt gaped riotously at the neck. With disordered hair and the strange leaping shadows of the candle, he looked like a golden angel from hell.

“She's just trying to smash the air with words,” said Mr. Chancellor curtly, “though she assures me she is very unemotional.”

“Ah. I thought you were supposed to give me stern instructions.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Chancellor walked forward and the earl politely stepped back so he could pass. The flame danced wildly again. “Tell her all about your grandmother.”

Then he was gone, and Meg was left facing her husband through the open doorway.

“I don't think so.” Saxonhurst spoke as if his friend was still there. The flame steadied, gilding his handsome face. “You never did understand women, Owain. It will only encourage her in her virtuous meddling.” He gave Meg an ironic, courtly bow. “Good night yet again, sweet wife.”

He closed the door between them.

Meg stumbled back into her chair. She didn't know why that brief exchange had been so terrible. He'd not been violent. He'd not even seemed angry. Yet she felt as if he'd driven something cold right through her heart.

She realized that Susie had left a decanter of brandy in the room. Wise Susie. Meg's mother had used brandy and water to settle an upset stomach, but clearly people used it to settle many other things. Meg mixed half a glass of brandy with half a glass of water, wishing she had a bit of honey to make it palatable. Then she screwed up her nose and made herself drink the whole glass down, despite the burn.

After a minute or two, when she had her breath back, it did seem that her problems were fading. Not going away exactly . . . Or yes. Moving away like a receding shore. Still real, but distant. Misty.

Interesting.

She drank another glass of the magic potion, then struggled out of her clothes, glad to be wearing an old gown designed for a life without maids. She had no intention of ringing for Susie. At this point, the maid probably wanted to slip her some hemlock.

She giggled at the thought, aware that it really wasn't a giggling matter.

In the end, she tumbled into bed in her shift.

How wise her mother had been. Brandy was almost as powerful as the
sheelagh-ma-gig.

When she woke, however, Meg discovered that magical spirits have a sting in the tail, too. It actually felt as if her head was expanding and contracting with each heartbeat. Not surprisingly, this caused intense pain. She put her hands to her skull, astonished to find it still, and carefully opened her eyes. The curtains were drawn, but
the thin slice of white, winter light cut into her eyes like a blade.

She closed her eyes again and moaned.

She'd have lain there forever if not for a burning thirst.

She rolled off the bed, attempting the impossible task of moving her body without moving her head, and fumbled for the carafe of water. After draining the glass twice, she felt a tiny bit better. Perhaps just well enough to stagger back to the bed.

No wonder they said drunkards went to hell. It was astonishing that they did not know it when every step was so tortured.

She drank another glass of water, moaning when she realized the carafe was empty. Stretching, she pulled the bell-cord.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed when Susie arrived bearing a jug of warm water covered with a clean cloth. “Good morning, milady.”

Meg thought of drinking the warm water. Then she realized she needed to use the commode chair. “Cold water, please, Susie.”

The maid stared. “You want to wash in cold water, milady?”

“I want to drink cold water.”

The maid's clever eye took in the evidence. “Lord save us. You a drunkard, too?”

Meg knew she should be outraged, should send the maid off with a blistered ear, but she felt ill, and stupid, and wicked. “I've hardly ever touched brandy before. And I never will again.”

The maid sighed. “Just you lie down, milady. We have a powder for these things. I'll soon have you better.”

She left, taking the brandy with her as if she didn't quite trust Meg's words.

Meg wanted to lie down, but her needs were urgent. She staggered over to use the commode. As she made her way back to the bed, she realized that she was beginning to feel better. Not well. She wasn't sure she'd ever be well again. But better.

Which meant that all her problems rushed back into her poor, mangled brain.

She lay down and moaned again, but not with physical pain—with mental anguish. How could everything have gone so terribly wrong within a couple of days?

Sir Arthur had the
sheelagh
and was up to something. Her husband knew she had a secret, and distrusted her. With reason, she must admit. He, however, was seriously unbalanced, and subject to ungoverned rages.

It was all very well for his servant—the pilloried embezzler, for heaven's sake!—to say he only unleashed his rage in his room. What might happen to her or one of her family if they happened to be in his room when he cracked? And could such a restraint be trusted in such an unrestrained man?

And he hated his poor grandmother.

In many ways this was the silliest problem, but for that very reason it dominated Meg's mind. It was so trivial that the earl should be able to shrug it off. He should realize that the duchess was a frail old lady who could only bluster, never hurt. Clearly the dowager was a bitter woman with a nasty tongue, but so were many, particularly when they thought their children had disappointed or betrayed them. Younger, stronger people should put up with them for the few years they had left.

That the earl could not do that, that he seemed willing to throw away any chance of happiness in his marriage in order to hold on to his bitterness, made Meg fear that he was beyond hope. She had no idea what to do if that was the case.

Susie came back with a tray of stuff. She poured a glass of water, and tipped the contents of a paper into it. She stirred it briskly and handed it to Meg, still swirling. “Get it all down fast, milady.”

Reckoning it couldn't taste any worse than the cause of her pain, Meg pulled a face, and drank it all down. Thank heavens, the bitterness only hit at the end. “Ugh! It's foul!”

Susie put another glass into her hand. “Orange juice. It'll take the taste away.”

Meg hastily drank the juice, and it did clear her mouth of the worst of the bitter edge. However, her stomach rebelled. “I think I'm going to be sick.”

“Sometimes takes people that way,” Susie said with
disgusting cheerfulness. “Lie back for a little while and it'll probably settle. I'll go and get your breakfast tray.”

“I can't eat.”

“You'll change your mind in a while.”

Meg wasn't up to arguing. “What time is it?”

“Ten o'clock, milady. Master Jeremy is off to his tutor, and Miss Laura is giving Master Richard and Miss Rachel a lesson. Mr. Chancellor would like to speak to you at your convenience about hiring a tutor or governess for them.”

Meg opened her eyes a crack to stare at the maid. She'd been imagining the whole house in the same wrecked state as herself. Could everything really be going on as normal?

Was the earl, too, acting as if nothing had happened? She wished she knew how to ask without asking.

“Would you like your breakfast in here, milady?”

Meg still didn't intend to eat, but wasn't going to argue. “I hate eating in bed. Put it in the boudoir.”

“Very well, milady. And what gown will you want to wear?”

Chivvied into the mundane essentials, Meg made that decision, then let Susie ease her out of bed, into her warm robe, and onto the chaise in the boudoir. Meg conceded that she could get used to being a pampered member of the nobility, even if she wasn't entirely sure this state of affairs could last.

Her every need was anticipated and taken care of. Everything around her was of the highest quality.

Here it was, January, and yet she hadn't needed to shiver once, not even when in just her shift. The corridors were cool, but every principal room was heated in readiness for her. No need to build a fire with chapped fingers. No need to make clothes, or launder, or iron, or mend them. Certainly no need to cook.

In fact, she thought with a sharp sense of loss, all the things that had filled her days were now taken from her. She'd never dreamed she would miss them. What was she to do with her days? Lie on a chaise?

She'd known all along, hadn't she, that this was a ridiculous situation for plain Meg Gillingham and she was
proving it. She was failing to live up to her side of the bargain.

A different maid came in bearing a tray, and set out breakfast on a small table. Meg eyed the ordinary-looking, middle-aged woman and wondered what defect or peculiar past she hid so well. “You eat up, milady,” she said with a motherly smile. “It'll all work out in the end, you'll see.”

It was certainly nice that someone thought so. Perhaps that was what made the breakfast slightly appealing. Meg picked up a piece of toast, and nibbled at it tentatively.

When she thought about it, her head was hardly pounding at all, and her stomach didn't seem inclined to reject the toast. In fact, the poached eggs looked almost tempting. Was it chance or genius that the cook had not sent up the usual fried food today?

When Meg realized there was hot, strong tea as well, she decided she might well live. That meant, however, that she had to start dealing with her problems.

Thinking as she ate, she decided that she was going to have to trust Mr. Chancellor about the general safety of herself and her siblings. After all, despite the strangeness of the servants here, they all seemed good-hearted and unafraid. It was hard to imagine them standing by while the earl hurt anyone.

Given that, she could consider other aspects.

She had to heal the breach between the earl and his grandmother, and she'd have to do it while the old lady was in London. She'd never be able drag him to wherever the dowager lived in the country. Perhaps she could arrange something at the Twelfth Night ball, if that was still to go ahead. Saxonhurst wouldn't invite the dowager duchess, but Meg could.

After a little thought, she decided she'd have to meet with the duchess first to prepare the ground. Her unreasonable husband was not going to like that, and she had vowed to obey him. Did such vows hold when he was so clearly wrong?

She admitted, too, that she was frightened of provoking another rage. It was all very well for everyone to assure her that he only broke things, and in his room,
but it didn't comfort her. There was always a first time. And what if she was in his room at the time?

Look at the way he'd seized her last night to drag her back against him. His arm had almost throttled her and she'd been powerless against his strength. She undid her robe and pushed up the short sleeve of her shift. As she'd expected, her arms were bruised.