Jo Beverley (30 page)

“I hope so. I'm ready to beat up someone.”

Sax went into the hall, and almost collided with Owain.

“What the devil is going on?” his friend asked.

“Trust you to be out when you're needed.”

“I had appointments in the City.”

“Never mind that.” Sax headed for the butler's pantry, giving a quick account of the significant facts.

“Magic?”
Owain asked.

Sax stopped to look at him. “What a brain you have for nonessentials! The important detail is that my wife is in distress and danger. I'm off to talk to a potboy, then on to rescue my maiden—alas, that she's still a maiden—from the dragon. Come on.”

The nervous lad could only tell them that he'd been passed the note and tuppence through the grille on a lower window at Quiller's, with instructions to bring it here.

Sax asked a few questions, then turned to Owain. “Don't we have a man here to fix things?”

“Seth Pocock, yes.”

“Give this lad a florin and have someone find Mr. Pocock.”

In moments a wide-eyed, strapping young man was being interrogated about grilles and windows.

Eventually Sax turned back to the boy. “You can guide me to this window. Pocock, find me one of those driver things. Pringle, my greatcoat!”

Pocock ran to obey, Pringle turned to pass on the order, but Owain said, “You'll be mobbed. And if you aren't, you'll be followed.”

“Damnation.” Sax was tempted to arm his servants and make a battle of it, but then he grinned. “Disguise! Pringle, find me some grubby clothes!”

As the butler stalked off, Sax followed him into the servants' hall to give general instructions to the few left there.

“Owain, you stay here and guard the castle. I've sent word to Sidmouth and Bow Street. The army should be here soon, too, to disperse that mob.”

He began to strip off his outer clothes, but Owain pulled him aside. “Sax, what if she really did kill this man?”

“I'll get her off.”

“But what then? You can't live with a murderess.”

He peeled off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. Nims had appeared, and stumped over to take loving charge of it.

“We'll face that later. I don't believe she's capable of violence.”

“Anyone is, given the right circumstances.”

Sax knew that. He'd deal with that problem only when he had to. He tossed his embroidered waistcoat straight to his valet, and stripped out of his pantaloons just as a well-built groom ran in with a bundle.

“Me Sunday best, milord!”

Sax flashed him a smile. “I'll replace it with new.”

Soon he was dressed in old-fashioned and well-worn knee breeches and jacket, with a colorful cotton neckerchief instead of a cravat. He smeared soot on his own snowy white stockings and to Nims's horror, attacked his perfect leather boots with cinders until the finish was ruined.

“Just be glad I didn't order you to do it,” he said to his cringing valet. Then he spread his scratched and blackened hands. “Gets rid of the gentleman's hands, too.”

Pringle entered at the moment, bearing his silver tray, and almost recoiled at the sight, causing Sax to grin. The situation was serious, but he was rather enjoying this part of it. He plucked another message off the tray, this time expensive paper, properly sealed with a crest. Sidmouth at the Home Office.

He read it, pulled a face, then tossed it to Owain. “Best he can offer if they find her is excellent accommodations in the Tower. Couldn't be seen to be favoring
wealth and privilege these days, etc. Someone get me something to carry out of here. A carpet. A bundle. Anything to lessen suspicion.” He spoke to Owain again. “When I find her, we'll have to lie low while you sort this out.”

“Me?”

“What else do I pay you for?”

“I demand a bonus.”

“Of course.” Sax squinted into a small mirror and pulled on the groom's slouch-brimmed hat, then rubbed his dirty hands over his face. “I'll find a way to get word of where we are, but I'll only know you've done your bit when the scandal sheets announce the capture of the real murderer.”

“How on earth am I supposed to—”

“I have infinite trust in your abilities, my friend.”

“Where are you going to hide? In the country?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sax, this isn't going to work.”

But Sax could only think of his wife alone and frightened in the dragon's lair.

“Make it work.” He hoisted a rough bundle of cloth on his shoulder, and with the wide-eyed potboy trotting alongside, headed out the back door to be a knight in musty fustian.

A few enterprising gawkers were hovering in the back lane. He swore at them in a thick accent and trudged by. They hardly gave him a glance.

He didn't think he'd be followed, but he wandered around a bit just in case. Then he tossed the bundle to an old woman who looked in need of help, hoping it contained something she could use, and let the lad lead him to Quiller's.

He hadn't thought he lived a particularly protected life, but he soon realized that he'd never been out in the streets as an ordinary man. No one paid any attention to him, which was disconcerting, but quite pleasant. He was almost invisible.

However, he was used to people moving out of his way. After a few unpleasant collisions, he had to learn how to weave along a crowded street.

Women gave him the eye—all ages and types—but
they weren't whores looking for guineas, just ordinary women having a bit of fun. Most of them would have had a fit if he took them up on it. His sense of mischief tempted him, but he remembered his purpose here.

He was familiar with Quiller's, but not with the back area. He followed the potboy down a lane and into the hotel's yard. There, the lad pointed to the window. It was off to one side, in a narrow space between a shed and the hotel wall, which would help him hide, but hotel servants were in and out of store sheds and outhouses all the time.

He looked at the lad, who was probably a scrawny fourteen or so. “You've done me a service today.”

“Just carried a message, milord.”

“Would you rather work for me than here?”

The keen eyes sharpened, but warily. “Doing what?”

“What do you want to do?”

The boy hesitated, then said rather wistfully, “I wants to be a cook.”

“Very well. Go back to Marlborough Square and sign on to learn the cooking trade.” Sax had no idea what was involved in this, but it had to be possible. After all, people did learn to cook, and chefs were becoming quite fashionable.

The lad was staring at him. “Really? Me?”

Perhaps it wasn't that easy. “Go. It might take awhile, but we'll do it.”

A flush and a glitter in his eyes made Sax think of someone in love, then the lad turned and ran off as if fearing the chance would disappear. Sax watched him, hoping he hadn't promised more than could be done. Of course not. With money and power anything was possible—except, maybe, saving a true murderess from the gallows.

Devil take it, at the worst, he'd get her out of the country.

He slipped into the space between shed and window, and keeping a wary eye out, rapped. “Meg?”

After a moment the window rose an inch. “Who is it?”

“Who else but your noble hero, galloping to the rescue?”

The curtain went up, and her face stared out at him through grille and glass.
“Saxonhurst?”

“You have other noble heroes?”

She turned a delightful pink. “Of course not. I mean—”

“Good. This space could get a bit crowded.” He'd never known a woman who blushed as bewitchingly as his wife. He cursed the dusty glass that lay between them, preventing a kiss.

She also frowned bewitchingly. “Be serious, Saxonhurst! I'm locked in, and I don't know—”

“Hold on a moment.” He ducked around the corner as a couple of women servants strolled toward the closest shed. They unlocked the door and took out two baskets, then tarried a moment, chatting about a rather unpleasant-sounding female itch.

When they'd gone, he returned to the window. “Still there?”

The curtain rose again, surrounding her disgruntled face. “Where else would I be?”

He grinned, astonished by the pleasure he found in her in all her moods. “I don't suppose you'd care to describe your underwear.”

“What?”

“You could whet my appetite for later. What is it? Flowers? Fruit? Lightning bolts?”

“You describe your underwear, my lord, and I'll describe mine.”

“Now Meg, you should know better than to throw out a challenge like that. I'm wearing—”

“Oh do stop!” But he saw the laughter fighting to get out. He'd seen her laugh too rarely, but he'd always known it was in her. Lovely Meg. Delicious Meg. Then she sobered, and he saw real fear. “I'm in a terrible predicament. Perhaps you don't know—”

“Of course I do, and I'll scold you later over it. You can't imagine I'd let anyone hang my countess, can you? And if they do arrest you,” he teased, “I've arranged for the best accommodation the Tower can provide.”

“The
Tower
!”

Her terror stabbed him with guilt.

“They don't behead people on the mound there
anymore. You'd be quite safe, and they'd doubtless let me have long visits. Actually,” he added, “given the trouble we've had so far in finding peace and quiet, it sounds quite tempting. . . .”

Silence can be very eloquent, and this one, reinforced by a glare, carried heavy recrimination.

He grinned at her. “You look fetching in that lace mantilla, my dear. Slightly nunlike. You can hardly be displeased to know you tempt me.” He put a finger on the glass that screened her nose.

“You tempt me, too,” she said, but more as a complaint than a compliment.

“This will be a lot more fun without iron bars between us. Listen, this grille is to keep people out, not in, so it's on the inside. Is it held in place with nails, or screws?”

She inspected the edges out of his sight. “I don't know. There's a slot in the top.”

“Screws. Good.” He pulled out the tool he'd brought after Pocock's advice. “This thing is a screwdriver. I'm told that if you put the tip in the slot and turn, you should be able to work the screw out.”

“There's about ten of them!”

“Then you have a lot of work to do. Go to it.”

“I'm going to close the window. It's freezing, and if anyone comes, it'll be less obvious.” She dropped the curtain, too, so he couldn't see what was going on.

Though it went against his nature, he resigned himself to waiting.

He wasn't familiar with tools, and hadn't even known about screws until Pocock had explained them. He hadn't really known about Seth Pocock, his handyman, in any clear way.

He was beginning to be disturbed about the number of things he didn't know.

He'd tried out the screwdriver—screwundriver?—and knew it took a fair amount of strength to make it work. He wasn't entirely sure his countess would be able to use it, especially ten times. He was afraid it would hurt her delicate hands. He couldn't get in to do it for her, though, so she'd have to.

“Well?” he asked after an anxious minute or so.

Muffled by the window, she said, “It's working, but slowly.”

“More servants!” he hissed and ducked away again.

As he waited for a man and woman to complete their errands and a bit of flirtation, he gritted his teeth in frustration. St. George didn't have to hover around while his maiden unscrewed herself from the dragon's clutches.

Perhaps she'd been thinking the same thing. When he went back to the window, she opened it a crack, and asked, “Why haven't you just confronted the duchess and demanded my release?”

At least part of the answer was because he'd wanted an adventure. Another part was because he didn't want to be in the same room as the dragon. But he did have better reasons to offer.

“Because I'm not sure what she's up to, and I don't want the slightest risk of you ending up in jail, even in select quarters. Owain's looking into it, working with Bow Street, the Home Secretary and such. As soon as we know the whole situation, we'll deal with it, but from a position of power. How are you doing?”

“Two screws left at the top. My hands hurt.”

He winced, but kept his voice light. “I'll kiss them better. In fact, rest a moment and let me work my magic.”

“Magic?” Her nervous tone made him grin. Her and her harebrained belief in magic statues.

“Push a hand out here.”