He kissed her palm. “The only person who has ever made me really angry is the Dowager Duchess of Daingerfield. The mere thought of her, however, enrages me.”
She heard it in his voice, and wanted to argue again that such feelings were wrong. She knew better than to raise that problem at the moment, however.
“I don’t like my anger,” he said. “But it feels worse if I bottle it up. So I let it out.” He laughed. “Now, it’s mostly an act for the servants. They put ugly items in my room, and I obligingly smash them. But I also get rid of the rage, and I think that’s wise.”
It was a strange concept to her. “But it means you live surrounded by ugly things. That’s enough to turn anyone sour.”
“Customs die hard. We all have to play our parts on the stage of life. To fulfill the expectations of others.” He turned his head sensuously against her palm. “I was hoping to spend a great deal of time in my wife’s apartments. Especially as she has one of my favorite paintings on her wall.”
“Which one?” she asked, but she knew.
“The Vermeer.”
“It is lovely. So calm and tranquil.” She had to add, “I didn’t think you’d like it.”
“Don’t forget, I like Turner, too. And Fuseli.”
She laughed. Mr. Chancellor had been right. Sax was Sax.
And he was nuzzling her palm with wicked intent.
Meg flexed her hand against his mouth, but said, “Don’t seduce me again, Sax. We do need to talk.” As if in warning, St. Margaret’s church clock began to chime. She counted ten strokes. It felt more like the middle of the night.
He licked her palm. “I can talk while seducing.”
“I’m not sure I can hear, though.”
He laughed, and separated them. “Very well. Let’s lie apart and make sense of it all. But Meg”—and he caught her hand for one last kiss—“I promise I won’t be angry. No matter what you’ve done. I promise.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my wife. So tell me the truth.”
Meg drank in the feel of his warm lips against her knuckles, and could imagine them against her lips. A touch of sadness made her sigh, however. For the briefest moment there she’d thought he might say his tolerance was because he loved her.
She was beginning to fear that she might be falling into love with him. It was a very weakening condition, especially if one-sided. “Where shall I start?” she asked.
“Tell me all about the visit to Sir Arthur’s.”
Tea was just being cleared when Pringle ushered in the limping footman. Laura remembered that his name was Clarence.
“I regret,” the man said, “that the news of the dowager duchess does appear to be true. Two doctors are in attendance, and straw has been laid in the streets to lessen the noise.”
Laura shared a dismayed look with her brother, sure he was feeling the same discomfort. The duchess was an old woman, and apparently a mean one, but still, she wished she hadn’t made light of the message, or said harsh things.
Daphne rose. “Then I must certainly go to her.”
“I will order the carriage,” said Pringle and left.
“Did you learn anything else?” Jeremy asked the footman.
“Well, sir,” the man said, relaxing now the butler had left, “I asked about a bit. The duchess travels with her own servants, so the hotel people don’t get to see much of what goes on there, but there was questions asked about when and how Lady Daphne left. And also some about another young woman who was with the duchess. Turns out,” he said with a smile and a wink, “a disreputable couple was seen leaving the back of the hotel.”
“Disreputable!” Laura declared. “Cousin Sax would hate that.” But she laughed in relief. Wherever she was, Meg was with the earl. He’d take good care of her.
“You clearly don’t know Saxonhurst,” said Daphne with a sniff. “He doubtless thought it great fun. He has always lacked a sense of the dignity of his position.”
Laura and Jeremy shared another look.
“My outdoor clothes,” Daphne demanded of the footman, doubtless with the dignity of her position. Laura didn’t think she’d ever be comfortable making such curt demands, and she doubted Meg would, either. Would that be a terrible problem?
Daphne was staring into nothing, biting her lip, and pressing her damp handkerchief occasionally to her eyes. Laura tried to imagine how it felt to be losing someone who had almost been a mother, but not a loved one.
“Would you like me to come with you?” Laura impulsively asked.
Daphne started. “Would you? It’s silly, but I will feel so strange. After all, I did run away. You needn’t . . . needn’t come in to see the duchess, but . . .” A smile fought through. “You’re a very kindhearted girl.”
Laura shrugged it off. “It’s not a sacrifice. It will give me something to do. I can’t go to bed without knowing what’s happened. In fact, perhaps I’ll be able to do a little snooping and find out more.”
“Laura,” said Jeremy in a warning tone.
“Nothing out of line,” she assured him. “I’ll just talk to people. You know that people talk to me. Tell me things.”
She saw Daphne flash her a sharp look, obviously wondering what she’d said. For her part, Laura couldn’t understand why some people were so intent on keeping secrets.
Still ill at ease with summoning servants, she went to the door and politely asked a hovering servant for her outdoor clothes. Turning back, she asked, “Why don’t you come, too, Jeremy?”
“Because someone should stay here in case.” He patted Brak, who was still circling the room restlessly, even whining now and then.
Laura pulled a face at her brother’s tone. “I’m sure Mr. Chancellor will return soon to take care of things. What can he be doing at this time of night?”
“He had meetings at the Home Office, and with Bow Street. I think he said someone connected to Carlton House had asked to be kept informed. He’s trying to solve the murder, after all. He asked to be informed of developments here, so I’ll send a message. If you do find out anything interesting, send a message here immediately. But don’t do anything foolish! It’s not enough to find Meg. We have to clear her of this murder.”
“Murder. It’s so ridiculous!”
“But serious. Even if Cousin Sax can stop the legal process, the scandal will hang over her forever.”
Chapter 21
Meg told Sax the whole story of her visit to Sir Arthur’s house. She tried to think of a way around telling him about the whip, but in the end, blurted it out.
His hand touched her shoulder. “Pity he’s dead.”
“I felt so soiled by it,” she whispered.
“I can imagine.”
“I didn’t know. . . .”
“No.”
Though his touch was light and almost impersonal, his understanding and sympathy was like an extra blanket, one for the soul.
“Have you ever . . . ? No, of course not.”
After a moment, he said, “I have, actually. Once. Truth is, my dear, I’m done nearly everything once. Seems a shame not to. Flagellation, giving or receiving, didn’t do a thing for me. Except hurt.”
She lay there, trying to absorb that. She realized he had rolled onto his side to face her, even though in the deep dark neither of them could see.
“Upset?” he asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. It just seems strange. I can imagine wanting to try different things. But . . . but some things are so unlikely. You wouldn’t try cutting off your hand, would you?”
“Hardly. I avoid things likely to lead to permanent damage. As for unlikely, it’s a common enough erotic game, and needn’t even hurt much. And it’s a necessity for some people. Like your Sir Arthur.”
“Necessity?”
“You didn’t really understand, did you? Some people can’t find sexual release without pain. Some men can’t perform at all without it, giving or receiving.”
“But then, why b
other at all?”
Silence stretched, then he said, “I mustn’t have pleased you as much as I thought.”
Dear lord, she’d offended him! “Of course, you did. I—”
His hand covered her mouth. “No lies. Perhaps it was just because you were a virgin. But sex is, at its best, worth sacrifice.”
She twisted her head free. “Worth hurting others?”
“No. But I can understand the temptation if there’s no other way.” He stroked down the side of her cheek. “Perhaps we need to clarify the appeal of lovemaking before going on with our explanations. . . .”
Part of Meg swooned toward him, and the pleasure he offered. Why had she implied it wasn’t special? Physically, however, she edged away. “No. I don’t think so. Later perhaps.”
He laughed, and stopped touching her. “Later, then. You do like anticipation, don’t you? Didn’t the clock strike eleven a while ago? When it strikes midnight, I’m going to educate you on the overwhelming beauty of sexual love.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Go on with your story,” he insisted, a smile in his voice. “You may not have much time. After Sir Arthur staggered off to rut with his child-servant, what did you do?”
Meg realized she was gaping, and quietly closed her mouth. The impossible man was doing it again. He’d excited her body with a touch and a few words, started a process that would end, she knew, at midnight.
“I decided to search for the sheelagh,” she said in as firm and cool a voice as she could muster. “I can usually sense it if I’m close. It’s a kind of hum that gets under my skin, if that makes sense.”
“Oh yes. Like you, now. A hum under my skin. You didn’t find it?”
Meg swallowed. “No. And I went through every room except the bedroom. And even there, I think I’d have sensed it if it had been present.
“And then you left. By the back way?”
“Yes.”
“Who saw you?”
“Some servants in the kitchen. Sitting around in idleness. It was not a well-run household.” After a moment, she added, “And the man with the housekeeper.”
“What?”
She was glad for darkness to hide her blushes. “I said I checked every room. That included the housekeeper’s room. At first I thought she was just sitting astride a man’s lap, which would be strange enough. But then I realized . . .”
“Yes?” he said as if puzzled, though she was not deceived.
“Wretch. You know just what I mean.”
“Mmmm. And you’ll like it. So the housekeeper was riding one of the servants, and he saw you? But she didn’t.”
“Her back was toward the door.”
“Did he do anything?”
“He looked startled. But then he grinned,” she added. “It . . . it wasn’t a nice grin.”
“He doubtless wasn’t a nice man. Next?”
“By then, I just wanted to get out of the house. I suppose I didn’t check every room. There were probably some pantries I missed. But I couldn’t sense the sheelagh at all, and I couldn’t bear any more.”
“So you staggered past the servants, looking dazed. Unfortunate, that.”
“I know.”
He tucked her into his arm, in a way that was just comforting. “At least you weren’t covered with blood.”
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sure someone who’d just cut two throats would have to be. I wonder if Monk kept your cloak. Unfortunate if he didn’t. Did anyone see you outside?”
“Not that I noticed. Then I found Monk, and we were leaving. And someone started the hue and cry.”
After a moment, he asked, “Exactly how did that happen?”
“How?”
“Yes. When someone found the bodies, you’d expect confusion, wouldn’t you? But from what Monk said, they were after you almost immediately.”
Meg thought back. “It must have been one of the servants from the kitchen who pointed me out to the crowd.” Suddenly, irresistibly, she shuddered. “They were like hounds. Baying.”
He held her close. “Thank heavens for Monk’s quick wits.”
“But they’ll be after me again, as soon as I appear on the street!”
“Nonsense. But,” he said, nuzzling her ear, “we can always stay snuggled up here forever.”
“That’s physically impossible.”
“Shame.” He kissed her again, then suddenly he moved away from her. She felt the covers shift as he reached out, felt cold air seep in.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding my pocket watch.”
“It’s pitch dark!”
He said nothing, but then settled back, straightening the covers. “It’s still hellishly cold out there.”
“And not likely to change.”
“You mean no servant’s going to creep in to make the fire? Plague take ’em all. Let’s stay in bed until Owain comes to find us.” A chime startled her.
“What’s that?”
“My watch. It tells the time, even in the dark. Listen.”
Eleven high-pitched chimes, then a tinkle. Then another.
“Half past eleven,” he said, but the watch kept going in a lower ding. He counted. When the clock went silent, he said, “You have exactly eighteen minutes to finish your story, my dear. On you go.”
Meg was gaping again, and had a strong urge to punch him. She wasn’t sure why. Probably because he was turning glossy. She hadn’t even known watches like that existed, and she was sure they were fabulously expensive. “I suppose that’s enamelled by a master hand and set with jewels,” she muttered.
“Not at all. It’s plain chased silver.” His hand found her again, and played lazily with her hair.
“You’re a mystery to me, Sax.”
“As you are to me. We have a lifetime. So, how did you end up in the dragon’s lair?”
“The dragon?” She gathered her wits. “You mean the dowager duchess? I thought she’d be bound to help me. To avoid scandal. And at first, it seemed she would.” She turned her head toward him. “Why wouldn’t she?”
He stroked her hair for a moment. “That comes to my tale. I think I had better take Owain’s advice and tell you all about the duchess. What did he tell you?”
Meg hoped she wasn’t going to get Mr. Chancellor into trouble. “About your parents’ marriage and death. He said it was public knowledge.”
“True enough. I was ten.” Abruptly, he moved away, leaving a few bleak inches between them.
“I was feeling upset in general. My father had recently become earl and our lives had changed. We’d had to leave Bankside, which was the only home I’d known, and move into Haverhall, which is a lovely house, but enormous. Being second son, my father had never expected it, or wanted it. He was fond of my uncle, too, so he was unhappy with everything, even months later. I remember that. That everyone was in poor spirits. For some reason I feel it might have been better if they’d been snatched from me when things were going perfectly. But perhaps not.”
“I don’t think it makes any difference.” She longed to hold him, but gave him privacy from her touch.
“I was sick as well. Just a cold, but my parents insisted that I stay home. It was our first visit to the London town house—my first visit to London at all—so I was sulking about being left behind. That’s what lingers with me most sharply. That I was angry with them when we said good-bye. Then this stranger arrived—it was the Bishop of London recruited for the task—come to tell me that my family were all dead, and that I was now Earl of Saxonhurst. And that since there seemed to be no suitable person on the Torrance side, and my father had not named a guardian, my mother’s family had been informed.”
Meg rolled toward him, having to offer at least that much closeness. “How did they die?”
He moved slightly toward her. “They were visiting an aunt—Daphne’s mother, actually—who was staying at a house in Kensington. It is assumed that they were accosted by a highwayman.�
�
“So close to town?”
“It’s still a little wild on the far edges of Hyde Park, but the military keeps order now. Fifteen year ago”—she felt him shrug—“I gather it was much less orderly. But no one was ever sure quite what happened, except that my father was shot. He was driving them in a phaeton, and the horses must have bolted. Damn careless . . .”
She was trying to understand that strange remark when, faintly, the distant church clock sounded the three quarters. He slid a hand over her left breast.
“To lose them all like that,” she said, swaying closer. “So young. And to be so alone. My parents made no provision, either. And they had less excuse, since my father was so ill. But I don’t suppose my mother thought to die. And anyway, they knew I would take care of them all. . . .”
She was tempted then to tell him her fears about the sheelagh and her parents’ death. But he still didn’t believe, and anyway, this was his story.
He moved closer, and found her lips with his. “Remind me, as soon as we are out of this, to have our affairs very competently taken care of.”
“Very well.” She could sense his resistance, his resistance to telling her all, but she thought he needed to. She stroked his thick, silky hair. “So, you were taken to live with the Duke and Duchess of Daingerfield.”
She thought he wouldn’t respond, but then he said, “At the time it hardly mattered. I was numb. I remember, however, the wrongness of everything. Even my name—” His voice broke and he pressed his head briefly into her neck.
Then he continued. “I had been Lord Ireford for so little time. And anyway my parents had told everyone to keep calling me Master Frederick. But now everyone addressed me as Lord Saxonhurst. That was my grandfather. Or my uncle. Or my father. Not me. But the duchess insisted on it. It was as if Master Frederick Torrance had ceased to exist.”
Meg closed her eyes, overwhelmed by this picture of the devastated little boy, no older than Richard, surrounded by strangers in a strange house. Having met the duchess, she could imagine how cold and unsympathetic she must have seemed, even though she was doubtless grieving for her beloved daughter.
Jo Beverley Page 32
