Jo Beverley

by Forbidden Magic

  Her shoulders sagged. “I must admit, my lord, it does sound so.”

  “Good girl. So, Meg—I gather she’s always called Meg?”

  Laura nodded.

  “Meg went to Sir Arthur’s house today to get it back. She went alone because she was afraid to tell me because”—he shook his head—“she seriously believed that she’d somehow brought about this marriage with her magic statue. Incredible! And typical of the woman to walk into a murder.”

  “No, it isn’t!” She was back to being a spitting kitten. “Meg is the calmest, most sensible person possible. She never gets into excitement or adventures at all!”

  He raised his brows. “Are we talking about the same Meg?”

  Laura giggled, hand over mouth. “It’s true, though, my lord. She’s . . . well, I love her dearly, but she’s so very staid. So very practical. She’s had to be.”

  Sax thought of fancifully embroidered underwear and suppressed a smile. Lord, but at the thought of his staid, practical, harebrained wife he was growing hard. He wanted her here with him. He wanted to continue the seduction he’d so foolishly broken off. To explore her—excited, impractical, and as harebrained as possible—naked in his bed. Damn his stupid demons that had driven him away from her last night! How could he ever think her part of his grandmother’s web?

  “What are we going to do, my lord?”

  He snapped out of his heated thoughts. “Find her. Don’t worry about this business of murder. That’s easily handled.”

  Assuming she didn’t actually do it. He’d go odds his wife wasn’t vicious, but sometimes there was good cause for murder. Had Sir Arthur lured her to his house to rape her?

  “I am a little worried about her wandering the streets, though. Do you know where she would go?”

  Laura shook her head.

  He itched to plunge out into the streets himself, but he made himself stay calm. It was pointless without a destination.

  “Where would you go?” he asked, pacing restlessly. “In her situation, running from the mob, where would you go?”

  But Laura just shook her head again, wide-eyed. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’d do. Come back here?”

  “Not so stupid an idea, even with the constables outside and a mob—damn their eyes—gathering. Where else?”

  “Perhaps Reverend Bilston? Or even Dr. Pierce, Jeremy’s tutor?”

  Sax went into the hall and called for servants, then sent messages to both places. He didn’t have much hope, however. If his wife was at either place, someone would have sent word.

  Why hadn’t she sent word?

  Where could she be that she couldn’t or wouldn’t send a message?

  Injured?

  Dead?

  He was still in the hall, pondering, when someone rapped on the front door. An urgent yet feeble rap. In a flame of relief, he strode by his butler and swung the door wide, ready to sear the Countess of Saxonhurst with his opinion of her erratic adventures.

  He came face-to-face with his cousin Daphne.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” He began to shut the door in her face when something in her expression stopped him. Fear? He swung it wide again. “Come in. But if you, too, are accused of murder, I’ll let you hang.”

  Daphne stalked in. “Saxonhurst, you’re a swine. I loathe you. I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man on earth.”

  He slammed the door on the gawking mob. “Then we’ll doubtless get along a lot better. Anyway, I’m married.”

  “Not for long.”

  “What?”

  She looked around. “You may not mind conducting your affairs in front of the lower orders, but I do. Where can we talk?”

  He led her briskly to the study.

  “A doxy in your own house?” Daphne sneered as soon as the door was shut.

  “Frequently, before I was married. This, however, is my wife’s sister. I doubt introductions are important at the moment. So, Daphne, what is going on?”

  “Scandal is what is going on, Saxonhurst, and look what’s come of your folly! That . . . that crowd out there! They were pressing against the hackney, staring in at me as if they’d like to eat me!”

  “Don’t worry. It’s my wife they want to eat, and they wouldn’t know her if they saw her. In fact,” he added, “you’re probably lucky they didn’t assume you were she. Oh, for Jupiter’s sake, if you faint, I’ll slap you.”

  Daphne sat up straight again. “You really are—”

  “We’ve done that bit. Now—”

  A tap on the door interrupted. Pringle entered, bearing a grubby bit of paper on a large silver tray. “A message for you, my lord.”

  Sax grabbed it and unscrewed it. After a quick glance, his heart pounded with relief and the drive for action. “Who brought it?”

  “A potboy from Quiller’s Hotel. I have detained him.”

  “Good man. I’ll be with you in a moment.” As soon as the door shut, he turned to Daphne. “Speak.”

  She, however, had slumped as if all the starch had been rinsed out of her. “She got a message out.”

  “Foiled your plans?”

  She looked up and he recognized again the fear in her. “I don’t suppose you’ll ever believe me, but I came here to help.”

  “Why?”

  Her lips trembled between disapproval and anxiety. “Because it’s too much! I’m no longer sure what the duchess is capable of. She seems to want your wife to hang.”

  It confirmed his fears, but he stayed calm. “It’s a neat way of ending a marriage.”

  “But think of the scandal!”

  The woman was pathetic, but he couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She’d been in the dragon’s claws all her life and lacked his own rebellious streak. And it was more than that. For the first time he realized that he had always known relief would come. Once he was of age, he would have his fortune and his freedom. Daphne had faced a life sentence unless she married.

  He was gentle, therefore, when he said, “Thank you for your kind efforts, even if they were in a strange cause. Do you require a carriage to take you back?”

  She shrank away. “You can’t send me back! Please, Saxonhurst!” She pressed her lips hard together before saying, “I hoped that if I helped you, you would help me. We were promised in the cradle. We were. You owe me something!”

  A lifetime spurred him to throw her out, but something in Laura’s face, an appalled pity, demanded another way.

  He went to take his cousin’s gloved hand, startled to realize that through the years he had never touched her skin. She’d worn gloves, even in the schoolroom. “Daphne, calm down. I’ll help you because we’re cousins. I’ve always been willing to help you on that basis. You don’t have to go back to her. All right?”

  She nodded, but her face stayed pinched. She’d never transform into a sweet, loving person. Perhaps it wasn’t her fault, but it was too late. He let her go, and she tucked her hand protectively beneath the other.

  “I’m off now to sort out my wife’s affairs, but Laura will settle you into a room.”

  “That little nobody!”

  “She lives here. You don’t.” He smiled at Laura, who looked very young and uncertain. “If you don’t mind, sister.”

  She blushed at that, and some of her spirit returned. “Of course not . . . brother.”

  He winked at her and turned back to his cousin. “Is there anything special I should know about the situation?”

  “I don’t think so. Grandmother has a train of servants with her, of course, including a man I don’t much care for. He’s estate manager at Crickstone, but she sometimes calls him her bodyguard. He’s big enough.”

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

  Chapter 17

  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.”r />
  “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 wind
ow. “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.”