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.
Chapter 16
“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.
Suppressing curses, Sax put an arm around her and gave her a handkerchief. He eased her back onto the sofa, and stayed by her side. “Now, now, Laura. No need for that. Calm down and explain yourself.”
Had she really said “magic statue”? And what part could that play in his grandmother’s schemes?
She clutched the white linen and sniffed, blue eyes liquid, but not particularly red. She’d certainly drive some man mad one day. “You won’t believe it. I’m not sure I do. It doesn’t work for me, you see.” She blew her nose twice, then faced him. “We have this stone statue, my lord. It’s a wishing stone. A person with the power can make a wish on the stone, and it always comes true.”
Sax tried to detect a joke. Or a lie, though he knew she wasn’t lying. No, she’d swallowed her sister’s lie, silly little fool. “You’re quite correct, Laura. I don’t believe it. For one thing, a family possessed of that kind of treasure would hardly be in dire poverty, would it?”
“But Meg wouldn’t use it, you see! She has the power, but she doesn’t like it at all. She’s says it’s wicked, and that there’s always a sting in the tail. And it’s true!” she wailed into the handkerchief. “Look what’s happened to her!”
“Laura, stop that!” When she gulped and quieted a bit, he said, “Nothing has happened to Meg yet.” He hoped. “And think. None of this can be your magic’s fault if she never uses it.”
Instead of consoling her, that sent her back into the handkerchief, shaking with sobs.
Strongly tempted to slap her, Sax chose instead to wait. He was not without experience with emotional young women. Time was passing, however, and his wife could be in danger. The sobs slowed, then stopped, and she emerged, sniffing cautiously.
“Now,” he said, “do I gather she has used it? Recently?”
Laura nodded.
“What did she wish for?”
Silence stretched, but he let it.
Eventually, she whispered, “You.”
When he just stared, she added, “Not you, exactly, my lord. A way out of our predicament! But it turned out . . . to be you.”
After a stunned moment, Sax had to laugh. “Jupiter, girl! How foolish can you be? My marrying your sister was part of a strand begun decades ago. How could a wish affect that?”
“It does, though,” she said, steadier now. “Or that’s what they say. Time has no meaning for the sheelagh.”
“The what?”
“It’s an old Irish statue. It’s called a sheelagh-ma-ging. Or gig. Something like that.”
He rose, hardly able to believe that even Laura could believe this nonsense. “Whatever it’s calle
d, it had nothing to do with my decision to marry your sister. But, if it’s so precious to her, why did your sister forget it?”
“She didn’t.” She cast him a worried glance, then added, “She didn’t want you to see it. She went back for it. . . .”
He put his hands on his hips. “You mean to tell me that your harebrained sister left this statue in your old house because she was afraid to let me see it because she believed in this faradiddle?”
Laura bounced to her feet, fierce as an angry kitten. “She’s not harebrained. It’s not all folly, my lord, I assure you!”
He ignored that. “Then she crept out of this house before dawn, to try to get it back?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Harebrained.” He ignored her glower. “For the moment, I’ll accept that your sister believes this idiocy, and wants to get her magic stone back. So, Sir Arthur had already taken it?”
“I suppose so, my lord.”
“Don’t sulk. Why would he do that?”
“I’m not sulking. I’m angry with you. I told you you’d never believe me.”
“And you were right, I give you that. But I do believe that you believe it. And that your sister believes it.” And he felt like laughing for joy at such a simple, if ridiculous, explanation. “So, why do you think Sir Arthur would steal this stone statue? How big is it, anyway?”
“Not very big. It’s flat and carved, and about a foot.”
“So he could carry it alone.”
“Oh yes. I can, though it is heavy.” She seemed to have overcome her anger. Her frown now was thoughtful. “Sir Arthur must have learned about the sheelagh from our father when he was sick. If so, perhaps he believed in the magic”—a minor glower fluttered his way—“and wanted to try to make a wish. But it only works for women, my lord. I think.”
“And only, in fact, for your sister.”
He tried to hold back his skepticism, but she glowered again. “And for our mother. If you don’t believe me, my lord, how do you explain the fact that you married a simple woman you first met at the altar?”
He held up a hand and ticked off fingers. “One, I had to marry in a hurry because of a promise made to my grandmother years ago. Two, I chose your sister because one of my servants is sister to one of your old servants, and suggested her. Three, I preferred a woman who would be grateful to me rather than one who would expect me to be grateful to her. You see. Logical and believable. No magic required.”
Jo Beverley Page 26
