Jo Beverley (28 page)

No matter how suspicious the circumstances, surely the law would have to step carefully with a countess.

She wouldn't hang for a murder she did not commit.

How much of the story would have to come out, however, before she was free?

And what then? Would the earl even want to see her again after this? Especially if he found out about the
sheelagh.
He would hate the idea of being manipulated by pagan magic.

She halted, wondering what would become of her family. They must already be worried about her, and she'd abandoned them to the earl's mercy.

She just stopped herself from running out of the room and back to Marlborough Square. If the law was looking for the Countess of Saxonhurst, that
would
put her head in a noose. Better to wait and see what the duchess could do, trusting that her family would be safe.

She paced the room, twisting her hands.

Before Saxonhurst's rage, she wouldn't have felt that her siblings were in danger, but now she simply didn't know. She had to put her faith in Mr. Chancellor, and
in the servants. Even if half of them were gallows fodder themselves.

She circled the room, feeling exactly like a poor bear she'd seen once, trapped forever in a small cage. How soon would she hear something? How long would it take for the duchess to find out what was going on?

A sonorous clock chimed in the distance—probably in the hall. A half, then the three quarters, then the hour, the full twelve strokes of noon.

Half a dozen times Meg went toward the adjoining door to burst in on the duchess and demand the news. Each time, she stopped herself, but slowly doubts began to grow.

She became unsure whether the duchess really would do her utmost to sort things out.

Why?

Instinct.

Instinct was telling her something was wrong here. Instinct was urging her to seek help from her husband. He would help, even if only because she was his bride, and she was sure he was able to. More able than an old, crippled woman. He and Mr. Chancellor could probably keep her safe even if she had blood on her hands!

As soon as these thoughts settled, she felt an almost dizzying sense of relief. Yes, she had to get his help, even if she had to tell him all. Telling him the truth about the
sheelagh
had seemed the worst thing possible, but now that wasn't true. Hanging was the worst thing possible!

He'd be furious with her over the
sheelagh.
And because she'd fallen into this mess by sneaking out to visit Sir Arthur. And because she'd come to his grandmother, whom he hated. And yet, despite his destructive rages, and even if he wanted to cast her off, she'd feel safer in his care than anywhere else.

She went toward the door to the corridor, but stopped with her hand on the knob.

Though she ached to, it simply wasn't wise to go to Marlborough Square, and she was determined not to make the situation worse. She wasn't sure even an earl could stop the authorities arresting a suspected
murderess, and if she had to hide, this was as good a place as any.

What she should do was send a message, but one cleverly phrased so that it wouldn't give away her location if intercepted.

After a moment's hesitation, she intruded upon Lady Daphne's traveling desk. She needn't have worried. The embossed paper and envelopes sat there in neat piles with no hint of the personal, or of secrets.

She took out a sheet of paper and used scissors to cut off the crest. Then she opened the ink well, checked the pen, and wrote:

To the Right Honorable the Earl of Saxonhurst, My lord,

The velvet beret you were seeking is now at The Dragon. Please arrange, at your convenience, my lord, for it to be collected.

I have the honor to be, my lord, your Lordship's most obedient and very humble servant,

Daphne la Brodiere

If he didn't recognize the other references, surely he would see that La Brodiere meant the embroideress, and Daphne would jolt his mind toward the duchess. Shaking the letter dry, she knew she needn't worry about such things. Mad he might be, but the earl wasn't dull-witted.

Now to sneak out of the room and find a potboy or such who would run over with the message. Was
that
too risky? Would the messenger be questioned . . .?

It was a pointless debate, because when Meg tried to open the door, she found it was locked. She marched to the door to the duchess's room but that, too, was locked.

From the other side, she heard a chuckle.

Something about that laugh sent a shiver right through her. Now, too late, she realized that her instincts had been right—something was very odd about the situation here.

She should have taken Daphne's advice, and left when she still could.

“Where the devil is she?” Sax glared around his assembled household. “I ride back into town to hear my name being yelled on every street corner.
Saxonhurst scandal! Man dead in his bed!
”

He turned the news sheet in his hand and read: “At ten of the morning, the housekeeper at a gentleman's residence on Bingham Street discovered a horrible sight. Her master, Sir A———J———, lay among his bloodstained sheets, his throat cut, a young maid of his house beside him, similarly foully done to death. Upon enquiry, it is discovered that the last person to see the baronet alive was a lady of exalted rank, the Countess of S———.” He threw the roughly printed paper on the floor. “Of course, the scandal-criers aren't so discreet, and give the names in full. Where the devil is she?”

His butler stepped forward, ashen though dignified. “Her ladyship left the house this morning quite properly, with Monkey in attendance.”

“To go where?”

“She didn't say, milord. She declined the carriage.”

For the first time in his life, Sax wished the servants to the devil. He wanted to huddle this to himself in private, but it was far too late for that. The whole hell-ridden world knew!

Marlborough Square was half full of gawkers hoping for some juicy development.

Had she done it? Instinct said no, but what did he really know about his wife except that she had secrets?

Deadly secrets?

“Send word to Bow Street. And to Lord Sidmouth at the Home Office. I want immediate word of any developments with respect to my wife. Immediate. Notify the
parish constables, too. All of them. And get the military out to control that mob in the square! Where's Mr. Chancellor?”

“Out, milord,” intoned Pringle, already dispatching servants on these errands.

“And where's Monk?”

“Not yet returned, milord.”

“I pray to heaven—” Sax broke off as a gasping Monk ran in from the servants' stairs. “Where the devil have you been?”

“Sorry, milord!” Monk gasped, leaning forward to catch his breath.

“I'll give you sorry! What's happened to Lady Saxonhurst, and how in perdition could you let her get into such a mess?”

Monk spoke between wheezes. “She just . . . wanted to visit . . . an old friend, milord!”

“On the other side of London? Without a carriage? You knew damned well she was up to something! You should have stopped her. Unless”—and the demons he'd thought conquered snarled back into life—“you're in league with her, you and Susie both.”

“In
league,
milord?” Monkey straightened in astonishment. “About what?”

Susie moved to his side, wide-eyed, hand over mouth. Guilt? Or just surprise?

Sax tried to read their expression. Had it all been a plot? The duchess, Susie, Monk, Minerva . . .

“You took her to Sir Arthur Jakes's house, I assume. Why?”

“Because that's where she wanted to go, milord. It weren't my place to tell her she couldn't!”

“You make it your place to do what you damn well please.” Sax tried to hold on to sanity. There could be no connection between this Jakes and the duchess. “Tell me what happened. Everything.”

Monk blew out a breath. “She wanted to go there and she didn't want the carriage, milord. I don't know why. We took an 'ackney. When we got there, she 'ad it stop some way from the 'ouse and told me to wait while she went on alone. I protested, milord, I swear I did, but what was I to do?”

Sax rubbed the back of his neck. He'd known Monk for eight years—a scrawny lad whose growth had stopped too soon. Why would be turn traitor? “Nothing, I suppose. So, she went into the house.”

“Aye, milord. I just propped up a railing and whistled, waiting for 'er to come out, watching the 'ouse like an 'awk. Gave me a real turn to have her creep up behind me looking like she'd seen a ghost.”

Damnation. “Or a dead man, you think?”

Monk shook his head. “She didn't do it, milord. I'd lay me soul on that!”

“What touching faith.” Sax scooped up the scandal sheet, checking the details. “Did she have blood on her?”

“Not as I remember, milord.”

“That's something. Then what?”

“Then we heard the screaming. Someone from the 'ouse she visited, crying murder. I didn't stop to ask questions, just got 'er out of there at a brisk walk. Next we know there's a regular mob forming, and someone points 'er out as the target. We ran, but to be 'onest, milord, she's not that much of a runner.”

“They got her?” Sax felt as if winter air had swirled down his throat, stealing his breath. Torn apart by a bloodthirsty mob?

“Strike a light, milord! You think I'd be back 'ere? I'd cut me own throat and throw myself in the river! I got us down an alley, snatched 'er cloak, tossed 'er me coat, and took to me heels. I'll swear they all followed me, but I had to lose 'em, see, before I could circle back. When I got back to where I left 'er, she'd gone. I've been 'unting the streets for perishing 'ours now without sight nor sound of 'er.”

“The paper says the alarm was raised at ten. Has it been that long? Three hours?”

“If that's the time, milord.”

“ 'Struth!” Sax rubbed a hand over his face. So, she'd escaped the mob, but then what? He was angry at her, yes. And suspicious. But mostly he was terrified by all the things that could happen to a defenseless young woman adrift in London.

He'd returned early, ashamed of himself for running
away. If he'd never left, none of this would have happened.

“What else could I have done, milord?”

“Kept better watch over her!” But Sax shook his head. Poor Monk was almost in tears, and he'd shown wits in a tight spot. “You did the best you could, Monk, and probably saved her life. A mob like that is dangerous. But why hasn't she come home? Damnation, she could be . . .” He didn't even want to put his fears into words.

“She's got sense, milord,” said Susie, dabbing at tears. “And she's used to London.”

“Know her well, do you?” he snarled, his monsters leaping out.

The maid turned white. “No, milord!”

He leashed his wild mind, reminded himself that there was no logic to it. “She's used to her own small, respectable part of London, not the dangerous whole. Dammit, I wish she were in the Roundhouse, or even in the Fleet! I could get her out of those places in a moment. Why hasn't she come home?”

“If I may, milord,” intoned Pringle, “some hours ago, we had enquiries as to her ladyship's whereabouts. A gentleman from Bow Street. Of course, I told him nothing.”

“So I would hope. But what does that say to anything?”

“I am reasonably certain that some of the people in the square outside are watching for her ladyship's return.”

“They all are, damn them.”

“With intent to arrest her, milord.”

“If anyone dared lay a finger on my wife, I'd shoot him!”

“But Lady Saxonhurst may not be aware of that, milord, being . . . er . . . new to her elevated status. And it is a matter of murder.”

“She might fear to return here?”

“Perhaps, milord.”

“Cousin Sax . . . ?”

Sax turned to see Laura standing at the bottom of the stairs, pale-faced, with the twins hovering on either side
of her. “Has something . . . has something happened to Meg?”

Meg.

She hadn't even given him her correct name. Vaguely he remembered the twins calling her that yesterday, but he'd been deafened by lustful anticipation.

Was anything about her honest?

He put that aside. Whatever she was, she was his wife and no one would harm her. And these youngsters were surely innocent.

“To tell the truth, my dear, I don't know. I've only just arrived home.”

Then he wondered if perhaps Laura could shed some light on the strange goings-on. Clearly she knew some of her sister's business.

“Come into my study, all of you, and we'll have a council about it.” He glanced at the servants. “Not you lot. In fact, get out into the streets and sniff out any trace of my wife.”

As the servants scattered, he shepherded the young ones into his study, suddenly aware of his responsibility for these vulnerable almost-strangers. If something had happened to their sister, he couldn't just toss them out, or even farm them off on someone. They'd suffered too many losses as it was.

He'd have to take care of them himself.

By himself.

He definitely needed their sister back.

And where the devil was Owain?

He settled them on seats, pondering how best to approach things.

Laura sat straight, hands tight in lap. “Someone said . . . murder. . . .”

“A wild accusation,” Sax assured her. “Unfortunately, your sister seems to have been in a house when murder was committed.” He hesitated for a moment, but they had to know. “I'm afraid Sir Arthur Jakes has been killed.”

“Sir Arthur!” the twins squeaked in unison, but looking more astonished than upset.

Laura put a hand to her chest, and if anything, looked paler. She definitely knew something. “You know,” said
Sax, going over to the twins, “this probably isn't very interesting for you. I promise I'll make sure Minerva—Meg—is safe. Why don't you go down to the kitchens and see if Cook has any cakes for you?”

They rose, but with shrewd looks. The clever children knew they were being sent away from “grown-up matters.”

“Was there a lot of blood, sir?” asked Richard.

“I wouldn't know, you ghoulish creature.” He eased them toward the door.

“Why would anyone kill Sir Arthur?” asked Rachel.

“I don't know that either. It will all come out in time.” He opened the door and pushed them both gently out.

“But—”

“But your sister had no reason to kill anyone, so that's all right.” He suddenly wondered if the ten-year-olds were capable of running off into the streets to find their sister, or to go searching for the murder scene. God knew what ten-year-olds were capable of.

“Clarence,” he called to the hovering footman. “Take Master Richard and Miss Rachel to the kitchens for cakes. And,” he mouthed, “keep and eye on them.”

The limping footman winked.

Sax shut the door, aware of too many people to think of at once. He was not used to thinking of anyone but himself. Where the devil was Owain? He turned and found that Laura had risen, looking as if she'd like to leave, too.

“Sit down, Laura. We need to talk.”

With a sigh, she obeyed, eyes down.

“You know why your sister went to Sir Arthur's house, don't you?”

Laura nodded.

“You have to tell me.”

She looked up, pretty enough in her fear and confusion to drive a man distracted—if the man wasn't already driven distracted by her exasperating sister. “But it's a secret, my lord.”

“Not from me. I'm your sister's husband.”

“Especially from you!”

Like a canon blast, all his devils burst free, but he fought them. His wife was in danger. This was no time
to indulge. Even if she was his grandmother's tool, he'd rescue her for his name's sake. Then he'd deal with her.

He sat down opposite his lovely sister-in-law, doing his best to look calm and kind. “Laura, your loyalty is admirable, but you must tell me what is going on. Minerva could be in great danger, and I can't help her if I am in the dark.”

She bit her lip. “She thought . . . she was sure that if you knew you'd not
want
to help her. . . .”

“I promise you,” he said steadily, “it doesn't matter what she's done, I will help her.”

Laura's fingers tangled in her lap and she looked around, teeth deep in lower lip, as if expecting wisdom to suddenly appear on the paneled walls. But then she spoke. “Last night . . . at the theater . . . Sir Arthur told Meg that he had something of ours. Something we'd left in the house. He said she had to visit him to get it back.”

Evidence of the plot? A letter from his grandmother? “What is it?”

It seemed a simple enough question, but it threw her back into confusion. She covered her mouth as if about to cry, feeding his fears like oil on flames.

“Come on, Laura! What can it be that's worth this level of secrecy?”

She stared at him, tears glossing her huge eyes. “It's a magic statue.”

“What?” With her hand over her mouth, it had been a mumble and he must have misheard.

She leaped to her feet. “I
knew
you'd never believe me! And if you do, it will be even
worse
!” She burst into a full torrent of tears.