Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  “You have no intention of conforming to your new status, have you?”

  “I will try to be a good wife—”

  “That is not the same thing at all. I trained Daphne to fill the role of countess adequately. Daphne!”

  An adjoining door crept open and Lady Daphne Grigg peeped in. “Duchess . . . ?” She trailed off at the sight of Meg.

  “Come in here. You remember Saxonhurst’s bride?”

  Blotches of color flared in Daphne’s sallow cheeks, but she curtsied. “Countess.”

  “You can dispense with that,” the duchess said with a curl of the lip. “She doesn’t hold with manners, do you, gal?”

  Recognizing war, Meg sat straighter. “I wouldn’t say that, Your Grace.”

  “Then what would you say?”

  “That good manners have little to do with rank.”

  “Idiocy. But I don’t suppose it matters. They doubtless aren’t high sticklers in the Fleet, or wherever they send murderesses waiting to be hanged.”

  Daphne gasped, fluttering a pale hand to her flat chest. The hand that wore the emerald ring she had said was her betrothal ring. “Murder . . . ?”

  “She is believed to have committed murder.” The duchess made the indictment sound like the very epitome of bad manners.

  “Not . . . not Saxonhurst!”

  “Don’t be a fool! And sit down before you decide to faint.”

  Daphne sank into a chair like a rag doll. Meg wondered if someone could actually decide to faint, and whether she should look for smelling salts.

  “This is the story, Daphne.” The duchess might be enjoying herself in a sour sort of way. “Saxonhurst’s new bride decided to visit an old friend—an old male friend—without escort or chaperone, and on foot. Shortly after her visit, the man was found dead, and those around leaped to the conclusion that she had struck the blow. Why,” she fired at Meg, “would they come to such an unlikely notion?”

  Meg knew her cheeks were stained a guilty red, but she was also icy cold inside. It sounded such a sordid tale. If she escaped the gallows, she’d have no reputation left at all.

  “Well?” the duchess demanded.

  “I suppose because I was the last person to see Sir Arthur.”

  “If you were the last person, then you killed him.”

  “The last person known to have seen him.”

  “And you left him in fine fettle?”

  “In very fine fettle.” Meg hoped she’d suppressed all trace of a grimace.

  “Then he can hardly have been murdered in the time it took you to be shown out of the house, could he?”

  Meg sighed. “I have not quite told you the whole story, Your Grace.”

  “That is obvious. I can hardly be expected to help a liar.”

  “Help!” squeaked Daphne. “But you said—”

  “I said I didn’t approve of Saxonhurst’s bride. However, I do not want a family connection dangling at Tyburn. Well?” she demanded of Meg. “Are you ready to tell me the truth? Was this man your lover?”

  “No! He was my father’s age.”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Nothing,” Meg admitted with a sigh, remembering Laura and the poor girl in Sir Arthur’s bed. “But he was not my lover. I didn’t even like him.”

  “Yet you visited him.”

  “Do you only visit people you like, Duchess?”

  The old woman jerked as if hit. “Impertinent child! Tell your story. The true one this time.”

  Meg reminded herself to try to sweeten the duchess rather than souring her, and contemplated how much she’d have to reveal to make her story make sense.

  “Sir Arthur stole something from me,” she said at last. “An item of only sentimental value, but one I wanted. I went to ask him to return it. He refused, but said I should go back another day. He was clearly intent on playing games with me, so when he left me to make my own way out, I took the opportunity to search the house.”

  “Indeed.” The duchess’s thin brows rose. “Could you not have found a servant for such a distasteful task?”

  “I wish I had.”

  “Why did you not put this matter in Saxonhurst’s hands? Despite his shortcomings, I’m sure he could have managed it without embroiling us all in such unpleasantness.”

  Meg tried not to squirm. It was impossible to make this make sense without mentioning the sheelagh. “I didn’t want to bother him,” she muttered.

  The duchess’s eyes narrowed. “What is this sentimental item?” she demanded, as Meg had feared she must.

  “A stone statue.”

  “A garden ornament?”

  “It could be, Your Grace.”

  “But is not. We are not playing foolish charades here, girl. What is it?”

  Meg couldn’t help blowing out a resentful breath. “It’s an old Irish figure. Very old. It has no particular value except to an antiquarian, but it has been in my mother’s family for generations. That’s all,” she lied firmly.

  The duchess’s lips pursed. “Why is it so important?”

  “As I said, it’s been in my mother’s family for generations.”

  “Then why would this Sir Arthur steal it?”

  “I don’t know.” As silence built, she added, “Just out of spite?”

  “Spite? Why was he spiteful toward you?”

  Meg cursed herself. “I prefer not to say, Duchess. It has nothing to do with this.”

  “Nonsense! If there was bad blood between the two of you, it gives you a motive for murder.”

  “I would hardly kill someone over a stone statue!”

  The duchess gave a sharp crack of laughter. “Not into pagan sacrifice, I see. But you could kill in the right cause?”

  Meg thought about Laura. She prayed she would have been able to kill Sir Arthur as a last resort. “Perhaps anyone could.”

  For a moment, something potent lingered in the silent air, then the duchess nodded. “True enough. There are times that call for killing, and there are people who deserve to die. And there are killers who do not deserve to be punished for it. If you did kill the man, say so now.”

  Meg did her best to convince. “I did not kill Sir Arthur, Duchess.”

  The duchess nodded. “Would you like tea?”

  Meg was so surprised, she didn’t reply for a moment, then she said, “That would be very pleasant. Thank you.” Absurd tears stung her eyes at this casual gesture of kindness.

  “Go next door. Daphne will arrange it.” Daphne shot to her feet and hurried out. Poor Daphne. “I’ll send someone to discover the exact events and suspicions. You might be in a panic over nothing.”

  Meg rose, finding her legs unsteady. “I pray to find it so, Your Grace.”

  “And then what? Back to Saxonhurst?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  Again, Meg could not speak of her tangled marriage, and, indeed, their misunderstandings all seemed minor problems in comparison to this. She turned the unfamiliar gold band on her finger. “I am married, Your Grace. Where else would I go?”

  “There might be a way to set you free. Is it consummated?”

  Without considering, Meg lied. “Yes.”

  The duchess grimaced. “Given his intemperate nature, I needn’t have asked. Go.” She pointed to the adjoining door, and Meg obeyed, glad enough to escape the Inquisitor General.

  It was only then that she remembered her plan to gain an annulment. Given that, why had she lied about the consummation?

  The truth was, she didn’t want an annulment. She wanted to stay married to the Earl of Saxonhurst, and she very much wanted to complete the sensual journey they had begun yesterday. Her predicament would soon reduce her to tears.

  She found herself in a small bedchamber, well appointed, but gloomy because little light came through the one window. When she moved the heavy, ecru lace that covered it, she saw that the window looked out at the side of one of the storage sheds a
t the back of the hotel. No wonder no light came in. To make matters worse, being on the ground floor, it was barred against intruders. Sensible, no doubt, but not a comforting touch.

  A lamp stood on a small table by the bed, and Meg lit it, welcoming the warmer glow.

  The few items on view in the room—an embossed Bible, a silver-backed hairbrush, and a wooden traveling desk—suggested this was Daphne’s room. There was something rather sad about the bland collection. She felt sorry for the young woman, trapped twenty-four hours a day with the dowager duchess. Any escape would be attractive. Perhaps Daphne would even have been a good wife, once Saxonhurst had worked his magic on her. He could charm a weasel into a tabby cat.

  A few tears escaped her then, tears of weariness, fear, and loss. She wiped them away, then gave into temptation and flopped back, arms spread.

  Lord, oh lord, what a terrible mess. Truly her wish had carried a sting in the tail. Or not just one. It had opened a wasps’ nest of them.

  She was only now remembering how serious the earl had sounded when he told her not to go running to Quiller’s Hotel. Of course, he couldn’t have imagined a situation like this, but she knew he’d be angry. She shivered at the thought of his raging, destructive anger, triggered according to Mr. Chancellor, by his grandmother.

  And here she was, asking for the woman’s help.

  She’d been so determined to be a good wife, how had it come to this?

  But then she sat up, and straightened her spine. He simply wasn’t right about this, rage or not. Both the earl and the duchess were clearly the type to cut off their nose to spite their face, and she’d put an end to it. Like her bickering charges in the schoolroom, she’d have them shaking hands.

  Next she’d find a way to moderate his wild enthusiasms and curb his tendency to take in every stray. Moderation in all things. She’d bring calm and economy into his household, arrange his room in better taste, and then she’d be ready to act the perfect countess, and he’d be happy to seduce her, and all would be roses.

  She shook her head. One of the few pieces of advice her mother had given her about marriage was, “Never, ever, think you can change someone, dear. Marry them only if you like them as they are.”

  Well enough when one had a choice!

  However, she reluctantly admitted that she did rather like the earl as he was. His whirling impulses alarmed her, but they were exciting. She was in no position to carp at his generosity to the needy. In fact, she thought she could grow used to a degree of extravagance, and she knew she had no problem with his physical attentions. The only real fly in the ointment was his hatred of his grandmother, and the rages it caused.

  If that was the only problem, then healing the rift could change everything!

  Certainly the duchess was not a pleasant woman, and her manner could rasp on anyone, but it must be possible to put things on a better footing. If the duchess helped Meg out of her pickle, surely the earl would have to be grateful. . . .

  The door clicked open and Daphne came in with a cup and saucer. She handed them over without a word. Meg took them, thanked her, and sipped gratefully at the hot, sweet tea. Perhaps her first step should be to break the ice between herself and Saxonhurst’s cousin. She didn’t blame Lady Daphne for resenting being made to act the servant.

  “Do you and the duchess plan to stay in London long, Lady Daphne?”

  “We were to stay until the wedding on Twelfth Night.” Daphne stalked to a chest and pulled out a cream silk dress trimmed with lace. “Then Saxonhurst and I were to return to Daingerfield for the honeymoon.”

  Meg looked from the dress to the woman’s unsteady lips, not knowing what to say. “Wouldn’t his country home be more suitable for a honeymoon?”

  “I’d have been safer at Daingerfield.”

  Meg sipped her tea, wondering how Lady Daphne could think she’d be safe with Saxonhurst just because of where they were. Did that mean that his destructive rages were well known, however? Did he really restrict them to one house and one room?

  Perhaps he’d been like that since a child and the duchess’s harsh guardianship had only been an attempt to curb him.

  Daphne still stood at the end of the bed, thin and stiff as one of the bedposts. “I wouldn’t stay here if I were you.”

  Meg looked at her, trying to find her true meaning. “You stay here,” she parried.

  “I’m not you. She won’t help you. She’ll find a way to use you. And she wants you gone. I’m to be the bride.”

  “But I am the bride, Lady Daphne. It’s done. I give you back your own advice. Get out of the duchess’s clutches.”

  “And go where? She’s kept me tied to her side all these years with the promise of being Lady Saxonhurst. Now I’m too old to find another husband.”

  “What of your own family?”

  Lady Daphne sniffed. “My brother and his wife would love to have an unpaid housekeeper and children’s nurse. No thank you. I want my due.

  “Well, you can’t have Saxonhurst.”

  “I can when you dangle on a rope.”

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Do you think only the guilty hang? That’s why I say, get out of here.”

  Meg pushed back a spurt of sheer terror. Surely an innocent countess couldn’t be trapped by the law. “You contradict yourself, Lady Daphne. Do you want me to hang or not?”

  “I just want my due!”

  Meg put her empty cup on a table. “Lady Daphne, truly, Saxonhurst would be no refuge for you. But he will help you if you wish.” She vaguely remembered him making some such offer. “He is a very kindhearted man, and has no reason to feel harshly toward you. . . .”

  “I want my due,” Daphne cried, then burst into tears and staggered out into the corridor.

  Meg stared after her, shaking her head. She hated to think it, but it was possible that the earl had bad blood on both sides of his family. What that indicated for her future, she dreaded to think. She drained her tea and rose to wander the room, trying to make sense of her situation.

  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 abl
e 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 . . .?