Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  She took her own and sipped. Let him make the next move.

  “So,” he said at last, “what is this important item that slipped your mind?”

  “A stone statue. More of a bas-relief.”

  “I don’t remember seeing any such item around your house.”

  “It was in my parents’ bedroom.”

  “But I visited there often in those last months when poor Walter was so ill.”

  Meg took another sip, hoping to conceal that she’d overlooked that. “It was kept out of sight.” On the slim chance that he had no idea what it really was, she put on a coy smile and leaned forward. “You see, Sir Arthur, it was somewhat improper, and so it was always kept hidden. However, it has been in my mother’s family for generations, and thus has sentimental value.”

  “Improper?” His brows rose. “In what way, my dear?” Someone else might have thought him merely curious, but Meg knew he wanted to embarrass her.

  She thanked heaven for her recent sparring exercises with the naughty Earl of Saxonhurst. “It is of a naked woman,” she said bluntly, “legs spread wide.”

  She could have laughed at the startled flush that hit his cheeks. “My dear Meg! I would think you’d feel well rid of such a thing.”

  “As I said, it has been in our family for a long time. I feel I should keep it, even if concealed, as my mother did. Do I understand that you have it?”

  She had gained control. He put down his cup with a sharp chink. “What remained in the house could be assumed to be mine. And, of course,” he added, “anyone entering the house illegally would be a criminal. Subject to court and transportation.”

  Meg took another sip of tea. “I hardly think they’d transport a countess, Sir Arthur.”

  “But perhaps the Earl of Saxonhurst would divorce a wife convicted of the Black Arts.”

  Meg managed to swallow without choking. “Black Arts? What on earth are you speaking of?”

  Now he settled back in his chair, once more at ease. “Your father was a very sick man, my dear, weakened by the disease and the opium he took for the pain. Weakened into speaking of things he might not otherwise have mentioned. He was very concerned that your mother might do something wrong. Something to do with an old Irish statue that, he said, had pagan magic, but that should never be used.”

  Meg prayed that her face wasn’t giving her away. “If my father was so sick, perhaps his mind was wandering.”

  “I doubt it. He even told me where the item was. Said he was glad it was over his head where he could keep an eye on it.” He smiled, and she braced for trouble. “When your brother found them dead, he sent for me as well as for the doctor.” He made her wait, then added, “I found the statue out, on the bed, between their bodies.”

  Meg spilled her tea. She put down the cup and saucer her shaking hands could no longer manage. She kept silent, but inside she was screaming. The suspicion had lurked in her like bad meat, turning her stomach. Now it was confirmed. Her mother had tried to use the sheelagh to save her husband, and had ended up dead.

  But if the sheelagh could kill, what might come from her own use of it? Her father had been right. It should never be used.

  “Of course, I put it carefully away,” Sir Arthur continued. “Back in its hiding place. If you’d taken it, perhaps I might have let it go. But you didn’t, so now it is mine.”

  “No!”

  “You want it back?”

  “It is my property. My charge. My duty.”

  He almost glowed with satisfaction. “So, you do have the power. And you have used it, haven’t you? How else did you trap an earl?”

  Meg stayed still. It was the best she could do. “My marriage was entirely the earl’s idea. What do you want, Sir Arthur?”

  He smiled, completely relaxed by now. “An interesting question, especially with such power at my command. What do I want? Fabulous wealth? To be Prime Minister? To be king, even?”

  “Sir Arthur! You cannot—”

  “Can I not? Is there a limit to its powers?”

  Meg had never imagined this situation. “I don’t know. But I do know that it creates havoc rather than benefits. Believe me, Sir Arthur, you do not want anything to do with that stone.”

  “Don’t I, indeed?”

  “Look at my parents!”

  “An interesting speculation. Perhaps they wished for death. Your father was in considerable pain, your mother distraught at the thought of losing him. Perhaps your stone granted exactly what they asked for.”

  Meg was trying to handle that when he added, “And look at you. Are you not in exceedingly improved circumstances?”

  “There is always a sting in the tail, Sir Arthur. Always.”

  He cocked his head. “Really? Is the earl not to your taste? Poor Meg. I hear they have insanity and debauchery running in that family instead of blood.”

  “Nonsense. And I repeat, my marriage was entirely the earl’s idea. He approached me.”

  “But what put the idea into his head? No, Meg, you will not persuade me of your innocence. If there are stings, I’m sure you deserve every one. Do you need advice on your marriage bed? You could talk to me, an old family friend. . . .”

  Nausea swelled in Meg.

  “No? What a pity. I doubt you deserve much sympathy, even if he is a monster in his rutting. Countess of Saxonhurst? A poor little dab like you.”

  Meg rose and grabbed her muff and gloves.

  “Don’t forget the stone, my dear.”

  She froze. A moment later, she knew she would have been wiser to sweep out, to not let him know just how much she cared.

  He rose, smiling. “I will consider further on what wish I want to make. That is all for today.”

  She tried to face him down. “I insist that you return my property.”

  “It is not yours any longer.”

  “It is mine by right, and I will have it back! I am not impoverished Meg Gillingham anymore.” Now she swept toward the door, but he seized her arm and roughly swung her back.

  “High and mighty, are we? You foiled me, Meg. You stole Laura from me.”

  “Indeed I did!” She tried to wrench her arm free. “And you will never touch her. Never. I promise you that!”

  “Even to get the sheelagh back?”

  She froze, but looked straight into his eyes. “Even for that.”

  He studied her. “I could put it to her. Such a sweet girl. Wouldn’t she make the noble sacrifice?”

  “I’ve warned her never to be alone with you. And I’ll tell the earl everything before I let you near her. He’d crush you like the louse you are.”

  Rage flared in his eyes, and bit through his fingers, but he smiled, too. “So. You’re anxious to keep this from your husband, are you?”

  Meg cursed herself for hasty words.

  Sir Arthur’s smile widened. “I’m sure he wouldn’t be pleased to think that he’d been the dupe of a magic trick. A mere puppet on a magic string.”

  The best Meg could do was to stay silent.

  He let her go. “You’ll pay for my discretion, won’t you, Meg?”

  She rubbed her bruised arm. “I have very little money.”

  “I don’t want money. Laura would be better, but you’ll do.”

  She stepped back, beginning to shake. “No!”

  “No?”

  “You won’t tell the earl anyway. If you do, you’ll never get your wish.”

  “But you see, my dear, I’m not sure I want the wish. I have money. I don’t want political power. I certainly don’t want to be king. A tiresome business, that. I want Laura, but you wouldn’t ask the magic stone for that. So,” he said, moving toward her, “what else could you magic up for me? Revenge on you for thwarting me? I can get that through telling the earl”—he put out a hand and half-circled her neck—“or in other ways.”

  Meg swallowed and made herself not show fear. She was sure he fed on fear like a vulture on carrion. “Saxonhurst wouldn’t believe you.”

&nbs
p; “Then why are you so worried?” He let her go and moved back a step. “Go, my dear. Go. And I’ll send a letter straight around telling the earl all about your little family secret, and that you used the stone to trap him into marriage.”

  Meg longed to call his bluff, but she didn’t think he was bluffing. “I cannot lie with you. I cannot. Do your worst.”

  “Lie with me?” He laughed. “Why would I want that?”

  “Then what?”

  “I have someone for my needs. A pretty young thing. But she’s over her first shock and tediously amenable. Laura would have been exciting in her fear and anger. And so deliciously innocent . . . Are you blushing? But you’re four days married, my dear.”

  “That doesn’t make me beyond shame. What could you possibly want from me? I’m not young, and I’m not innocent.”

  “Oh, let me tell you.” And his eyes now glittered in a febrile way that made her feel quite sick. “When my young partner is too easy, I find it helps to be punished for my sins. But it’s so hard to find someone who will punish me properly. Hattie obliges with the whip sometimes, but her heart isn’t in it. You’d be stern with me, wouldn’t you, Meg? Angry.”

  Meg took another step back, coming up against a wall. “You want me to whip you? You’re mad.”

  “Not mad. No. Think of me as a penitent. A flagellant.”

  “You certainly have much to feel guilty about.”

  He grinned. “Exactly.”

  He was mad, and in this light she knew that Saxonhurst wasn’t. “If I whip you, you will return the stone?”

  “Oh no. The whipping will just buy my silence for twenty-four hours. Until you return tomorrow to hear my wish.”

  “Or another demand for a whipping.”

  “Perhaps.” His grin said certainly. He fumbled in a drawer, already breathing heavily, and took out a long cane. He swished it through the air so it sang, and his grin widened.

  She should refuse. Return to Marlborough Square and tell the earl everything. He’d deal with Sir Arthur.

  Yesterday, she could have done it, but now after their terrible scene, she didn’t know how he’d react. If he didn’t believe her, he’d think her mad. If he did believe her, he’d know she’d tricked him into marriage. It was all very well for Mr. Chancellor to say he only minded about his grandmother, but he minded because his guardian had forced him to bend to her will.

  She’d have to do this at least once.

  Sir Arthur laughed and rang the bell. For a moment, Meg wondered if it had been some strange kind of joke, a vicious tease. But when the housekeeper came in, he said, “Have Sophie wait in my bedroom, Hattie.”

  The woman looked at Meg with raised eyebrows, but merely said, “Very well, Sir Arthur,” and left.

  “Who is Sophie?”

  “A maid. More importantly, my convenient of the moment. She’s young, just thirteen. So deliciously frightened at first. But she’s turned into a willing little bawd. I require some pepper with my pudding.”

  He eyed Meg for a moment, and she knew exactly what he was thinking and couldn’t help but shake her head in rejection.

  “No indeed, Meg. You’d be pepper all right, but you’re too long in the tooth. And too tough. You wouldn’t fear me enough. . . . Ah, Laura. Laura.”

  He seemed in a trance. She thanked heaven she couldn’t see inside his foul mind. Faintly, she heard a door open and shut. Presumably the obliging Sophie had arrived, poor child. Meg wished she could do something for the girl.

  She stared at the cane in his limp hand, wondering if she could actually bring herself to use it on him.

  Then, as if waking, he looked at her. “Come back tomorrow.”

  “What?”

  He put his hand between his legs and she could see how bloated he was there. “Just the thought . . . enough for now. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll talk about . . .” He staggered toward the next room.

  As he opened the door, Meg caught a glimpse of a plump blond child who lounged on a big bed, eyes wide. That was willingness . . . ?

  The door slammed shut.

  Tomorrow?

  Never. Rather than that, she’d confess every sin to the world in Hyde Park!

  Chapter 15

  Meg snatched up her gloves and muff and ran for the door.

  Hand on knob, she made herself stop. She was never coming back to this house again. Never. So, this was her one chance to search. Teeth gritted, she fought against panicked flight.

  Right. If she was close to the sheelagh she could always sense it. She quickly circled the room.

  Nothing.

  He might keep it in his bedroom.

  Then it could stay there! But she made herself press close to the door trying to block the little squeaks and hoarse groans. She didn’t think the sheelagh was in there.

  She ran into the corridor and into the next room. A spare bedroom. Nothing. And the next. And the next.

  Having checked every room on the floor, she paused, listening for sounds of servants. The whole house was eerily silent.

  With a shrug, she raced up narrow stairs to the attic area, and found servants’ rooms and storerooms. But no indication of the sheelagh. Anyway, the storage rooms were thick with dust. His servants were sluts and no one had been there in ages.

  She slipped down the back stairs to the main floor and went cautiously through into the hall. Still no one. The emptiness of the house was making her skin crawl. Even so, she made herself go through two reception rooms, a dining room, and a well-filled library.

  She’d forgotten that he was a scholar, and that he and her father had been good friends. How could a genuine book lover be such a toad?

  The sheelagh wasn’t there, though. It wasn’t anywhere! Where would he keep it? Where? She couldn’t search the whole of London. She could search the basement, though, and would, even if his servants were there.

  Abandoning all caution, she ran toward the back of the house and down more narrow stairs. She opened every door in the cold, gloomy basement, but only found more evidence of poor management. It was hardly surprising, when his housekeeper was little more than a procuress! Sir Arthur Jakes was the epitome of a whited sepulcher.

  She flung open another door.

  The housekeeper’s hot, luxurious parlor! And she was there, still in black bombazine and cap. Meg, however, could only see her back, because she was straddling a man!

  The handsome man with dark hair and eyes showed no shock or embarrassment. He just grinned and waggled his brows at her. The housekeeper bounced on, oblivious.

  Meg backed out, shaking, and shut the door.

  For a moment she just slumped there, felled by the whole experience. It was truly like a horrible, unbelievable dream.

  With a cry, she headed for the nearest way out. She staggered through the kitchen, ignoring the handful of servants, who were predictably lolling around drinking ale, and out to gulp fresh air and freedom. The scrap buckets and outhouse by the back door gave off a stink, but the air seemed fresh compared to the foulness within.

  Nothing could make her ever return.

  She hurried through the garden, and didn’t pause until she was out of the back lane, into a street with normal people, and sanity. There, she leaned against a wall, legs too weak to go on.

  After a moment, she made herself move, made herself go to find Monk.

  “Milady!” He stared at her, perhaps just because she was coming from the wrong direction. “You all right?”

  “I’m all right now,” she said as steadily as she could. “But I wish to leave.”

  “Right. Best to walk to Stokes Street. There’s a hackney stand there.”

  They’d only taken a couple of steps, however, when a shriek made her jump. Meg looked around, but only in curiosity.

  Then: “Murder! Murder!”

  The screams were faint, but Meg knew they were coming from Sir Arthur’s house. She didn’t know how or why. She just knew.

  She grabbed Monk’s sleeve. “Let�
��s get out of here!”

  He nodded, wide-eyed. “Don’t run. Act normal.”

  Meg made herself just walk briskly along the street and away from the growing hubbub.

  Then a man’s voice bellowed, “There she is! The murderess! In the brown cloak. Get her!”

  Meg froze in disbelief, half turning back to protest, but Monk grabbed her and broke into a run. “Come on, milady!” Seeing the gathering crowd all looking in her direction, Meg picked up her skirts and obeyed. Immediately, a tally-ho sounded. She did her best, but soon Monk was towing her and she was fighting for breath.

  Despite the hunting cries behind them, she slowed. “I can’t . . .”

  Abruptly, he dragged her into an alley, already struggling out of his coat. “Your cloak, milady! Quick now!”

  Wheezing for breath, she pulled off her long cloak, and he tossed her his braided jacket, then flung the cloak on, pulling up the hood. “Hide!” he commanded and fled at twice the speed they’d been making before.

  Hearing the howling pursuit, Meg tumbled over a low wall and huddled there, shivering with terror and cold. Soon footsteps pounded by in a general chorus of “Stop the murderess!” “Stop her!” “Seize her!” They sounded horribly like hounds in full cry, and she felt like a terrified fox or rabbit.

  No, my lord earl, she thought, being hunted is no fun.

  The pack went on forever because some, like her, hadn’t the stamina for long, hard running, and staggered after, already wheezing. They talked more, though.

  “Lying in all his blood . . .”

  “A doxy with him . . .”

  “Jealous lover . . .”

  “Housekeeper says . . .”

  “A high-born lady . . .”

  Sir Arthur! He was dead? How?

  And people thought she’d done it?

  She covered her mouth to stifle a moan. And the housekeeper knew her name. The servants had seen her rush out of the house. The constables would soon be on the earl’s doorstep, demanding the countess!

  If there’d been a pit at her feet, Meg would have thrown herself down it, even if it led to hell. She certainly never wanted to face her poor husband again. Eccentric? Feckless? Given to destructive rages? No matter what his faults, she was sure he’d never been hunted down for murder.