Jo Beverley Page 13

  He undid another button. “I will enjoy sleeping with you, Minerva. And when you’re more rested, we’ll be comfortably situated for further investigation of marital liberties.”

  Meg felt like a ship in a gale and fired a desperate command. “Go away!”

  He let his hands drop and studied her. “Why?”

  She dragged her eyes away from the dusting of honey-brown hair on his chest. “I’m sorry, but I . . . er . . . prefer to sleep alone. I . . . I snore, my lord. And I’m very restless. Poor Laura has been black and blue sometimes.”

  “That’s all right. I’m restless, too. We can fight the nights away.” Another button opened.

  Meg pulled the sheets higher. “My lord, why are you doing this? Is it not reasonable that we wait a day or two?”

  “I’m willing to wait. I simply intend to wait in your bed.”

  “You simply intend to fluster me into doing exactly what you want!”

  He laughed. “If I can, yes. I did warn you of my seductive plans. In truth, my dear, I don’t know why you’re so resistant. I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

  “It’s perfectly natural for a lady to be disturbed at the notion of having a strange man in her bed!”

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, studying her as if she were a puzzle. “What exactly is going on in your clever head, my dear? I know women. I can’t deny it. You’re too sensible to think to put me off for long, and you’re not at all repulsed or frightened by me. Nervous, yes. That’s only normal. But rather more intrigued than afraid. You don’t find my attentions unpleasant. So, why are you so desperate to get rid of me?”

  Meg sought some answer that he would believe, but then he gave a sharp, surprised laugh. “Good Lord, it’s your monthly courses, isn’t it? Embarrassed to tell me?”

  Before she could remember how wicked it was to lie, Meg nodded, her face burning hot.

  He touched that heat, stroked it. “No need to blush, my dear. These matters have to be known between man and wife. Beginning, middle, or end?”

  Meg wanted to slide completely under the bedclothes for mortification. Not only was she lying, she did not want to talk about these things with a man at all. Especially so calmly!

  “Beginning,” she blurted. In for a penny, in for a pound. At least that would free her of him for a week or so.

  Something in his eyes made her wonder if he believed her, but he said, “Perhaps that explains your rather wild swings of mood, as well.”

  Meg bit back a retort. If she seemed wild, it was because she’d been forced into a hasty marriage to avoid tragedy, then found herself in the power of a man determined to torment her to death.

  Smiling as if he knew just what she was thinking, he leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “Sleep well, my bride, and if these things put you under the weather, don’t hesitate to stay in bed and let the servants serve.” Then he pinched out her two candles and left her alone in the dark.

  Meg relaxed her death grip on the sheets and blew out a long breath. She was appalled that she’d lied so easily, but she cherished a warm glow of victory, too. It had taken underhanded means, but she had won. She had fought off the tempest and was into plain sailing for the night.

  And, she thought with a smile, at the right time, the earl’s relentless hunt could turn out to be a truly remarkable experience.

  She was dropping off to sleep when she jerked upright again. What was she doing? She couldn’t afford to sleep, even though she ached for it. She’d never wake naturally before dawn.

  She forced herself out of her bed and splashed cold water on her face from the carafe by the bed. Clocks around the house chimed midnight. She groaned at the thought of the many hours before she could be about her task.

  Meg managed to stay awake, but only just, and only by getting dressed and walking around for most of the night. By the time the first gray hint of dawn split the sky, she was almost faint with weariness, but she had to venture out into the frosty, misty streets.

  Plague take the sheelagh anyway, she thought rebelliously as she pulled on her warm, hooded cloak and thick, woolen gloves. It was nothing but a menace and a burden.

  But then, as she slipped into the corridor, shoes in hand, she reminded herself of what might have been had the wishing stone not made the earl marry her. They would all be destitute now. Most likely they’d have been taken to the workhouse, separated male from female, and provided with only the coarsest food and shelter.

  Or even worse, Sir Arthur would have approached Laura directly, and Laura, of course, would have sacrificed herself. At this moment she could be weeping in a sordid bed, violated and brutalized. Meg was quite certain that Sir Arthur intended no delicate loving of his chosen victim.

  And, one day soon, the Earl of Saxonhurst was going to seduce his wife, and his wife was going to enjoy it very much indeed.

  So as she crept along, Meg accepted that in this case the sheelagh had been a blessing. And it was definitely her responsibility. Her mother had impressed that upon her. The care and guarding of it was a sacred charge, passed down through the generations.

  During the day, she had tried to memorize the large house, and now, praying that she not encounter the snarling dog, she found the door that led to the servants’ stairs. Everything lay peacefully around her, as if the walls, floors, and furniture themselves slept. But soon it would wake. The first servants would rise, clattering up and down stairs, building fires, boiling water, running out to buy fresh bread at the baker’s and fresh milk from the dairy.

  Meg crept quietly down the plain narrow stairs to the very bottom. This was completely unknown territory. She’d seen a basement door at the front of the house, however, set below ground level and with steps from the street. There must also be a back door, probably out of the kitchen. Surely one of these had to be possible.

  Heading to the front, she gingerly opened a door, wondering what she would find. She let out a held breath and stepped into a small room containing only a plain table with chairs around it, and a dresser lined with plates. Perhaps the servants’ dining room. It was cold here, for the fireplace held only ashes.

  Beyond the table, pale light glowed through the glass-paned door she’d sought. Through the glass, she could see the stone steps beyond, the ones that climbed up to the street.

  The door was locked, but the key hung on a string from the knob. She inserted it, and the lock turned smoothly. What should she do, however, when she was outside? She couldn’t leave it open. It might be dangerous, and it would show that someone had left the house in the night.

  After some thought, she took the key, string and all, and locked the door from the outside, putting the key in her pocket, where it jangled a chime of guilt against the one to Mallett Street. What an expert thief she was becoming.

  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 wit
h 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.