Jo Beverley (31 page)

After a moment, her right hand eased through the grille and between the small gap at the bottom of the window.

He hunkered down and kissed her chilly knuckles. He rubbed her fingers between his own cold hands and breathed on them to warm them up. “Don't you have a fire in there?”

“Yes, but it's small. And I'm here by the open window.”

He turned her hand and saw the reddened grooves made by the tool. “Damnation. I wish I could get in there to do the work.”

As he kissed the marks, he heard her chuckle, and she pushed her way up under the lace curtain like a
puppy coming out from under a blanket. “I suspect my hands are more accustomed to work than yours, my lord earl.”

Tussled and grinning, she looked absolutely delicious.

He nipped her thumb. “Impudent wench. Mine at least are bigger and stronger.” He spread his hand over hers, palm to palm, showing how much bigger it was. Then he folded his fingers in with hers. “We match well, though.”

“Do we?” Even through dingy glass, he could tell by her widened eyes that she felt it, too, that sudden joining as if skin had meshed and life blood flowed between them. He thought for a moment quite seriously of smashing the glass that stood in their way—

“You do know I didn't kill him, don't you?”

He looked into her worried eyes. “I know.” And he did. She doubtless
was
capable of killing someone, but not of being so unshadowed by it.

Her nose wobbled, and that hint of tears made him want to tear the wall down with his bare hands. He'd never felt so powerless in his life. He pulled their hands apart and stood. “Come on, Meg. Let's get you out of there.”

The curtain dropped between them again and he heard vague sounds as she worked on the last screws.

Her hands were probably tougher than his, but he was going to make sure that they never had to work again. He was going to pamper her, and fill her days with undiluted carefree joy, and reap the reward of her company. Hers and that of her whole, wonderful family—

He saw the grille shift, and put out a hand uselessly to steady it. “Be careful it doesn't fall on you!”

She didn't respond. It had been a silly thing to say.

He was rather surprised by her silence. He'd think she'd have all sorts of questions about the murder, and about what he knew of her adventures. Then he shook his head. Still trying to keep her secrets. She didn't know he'd had a long talk with her sister.

“So,” he said, mostly just to tease, “why did you go to visit Sir Arthur in the first place?”

“He asked me to.” The grille shifted a bit more.

“If you open the window wide, I could help hold it.”

“I can't now. I have my hands full.”

After a moment, he said, “You could have taken a carriage.”

“I took Monk.”

“And a hackney.”

“Is he all right?”

“Who?”

“Monk.”

“Perfectly. Why, Meg? Why go that way?”

He thought she wasn't going to answer, but she said, rather breathlessly, “I didn't want you to know. That's the last. I'm holding the grille on.”

“Well, don't. Or rather, move it carefully away. I assume it's not too heavy for you.” Damned if he knew what he could do if it was.

Useless sort of noble hero he was turning out to be.

“I can manage.” He heard a faint
clunk
and then the window was pushed all the way up. A moment later one white-stockinged leg appeared, interestingly exposed nearly to the garters, followed by the other, then the whole of his idiotic, delightful, capable wife. He helped her through, but she pulled away to brush herself down and fuss with her skirts.

Then she faced him as if expecting an inquisition.

Here? He didn't think so. Anyway, her eyes had widened at his full appearance.

“See what I'm willing to sink to for you? Let it not be for nothing.” He pulled down the window, took her hand, and they walked briskly out into the yard and away. “It's as well I'm dressed like this. Anyone will take us for servants.”

“I was a servant,” she pointed out.

“A legion of governesses would probably disagree with you, but in any case, I don't mind.”

“Good. I don't mind your being an earl, either.”

He flashed her an appreciative grin. He liked her saucy.

In fact, he liked his wife in all her extraordinary aspects. Even if she'd committed murder, she would have had excellent reasons.

In moments, they were blending with the people on the street. People dressed mostly in heavy coats and
cloaks, hurrying because of the biting wind. That was when he realized her teeth were chattering, that she was only wearing a light woolen dress.

He wrapped an arm around her. “Why didn't you bring your cloak?”

Instead of answering, she tried to pull free. “My lord!”

“Hush. We're just Meg and Sax, out for a stroll. And being common folk, we can stroll down the street entwined if we want. Your cloak?”

She gave in and snuggled closer. “Monk took it to lead the hunt away from me.”

“Ah, yes.”

“He gave me his coat, but I discarded it when I slipped into the hotel. In my dress I'd look like an upper servant, but in a castoff footman's coat, I'd never get past the door.”

“Castoff? I assure you I clothe my servants extremely well.”

“I'm sure. But I thought I'd blend in better if it was messed up a bit.”

“Oh dear. Monk will not be pleased.”

“Then you'll have to save me, my noble hero, by buying him new.”

“No point. He's off to be an innkeeper.”

“Oh. True.”

They hurried along, though he realized now that he had no idea where to take her. And his demons were still lurking, damn them. Deep down and dormant, but still there. He had to get something out of the way before he could think about everything else. “Why did you go to the duchess for help?”

She looked up wide-eyed, and perhaps all her trembling wasn't from the chilly wind. “I couldn't think what else to do. I know the duchess doesn't like me, or our marriage, but I felt sure she wouldn't want a scandal. I did think she was going to help me, but then they locked me in!”

The demons whimpered and died. He held her closer and rubbed her arms. “We have to get you a cloak or something. I know a mantua-maker near here. . . .”

He tried to steer her down a side street, but she pulled back.

“What?”

“You can't go into a fashionable shop looking like that.”

“The Earl of Saxonhurst can look any way he wishes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Even if they know you well enough to recognize you, I thought we were evading the law.”

“Damnation.”

“Quite. There's probably a second-hand place somewhere around here. How much money do you have?”

With a sinking feeling, Sax patted the groom's pockets, grimacing when he came up empty. “I never carry money.”

“You never . . .”

Her astonishment was almost funny, except that he was feeling like a damned fool. “You?”

She shook her head. “I've spent my last few pennies.”

Suddenly, she looked terrified. Penniless. It didn't signal disaster to him, but it did to her, poor thing. He took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Now you'll freeze to death,” she said, but she huddled into it anyway. He could see her shivers, and he suspected they were as much from terror as cold.

“We can switch around from time to time. But what we really need is some safe quarters while we work out what to do. We could go to Iverton's.”

They had paused on a corner where a wall offered a bit of shelter. The wind still cut through his shirt like blades of ice. Had he ever truly been cold before? He didn't think so. It was singularly unpleasant, and seemed likely to steal his ability to think clearly.

All around people hurried home to warm fires and waiting dinners. A chestnut seller wheeled by, pausing to sell a warm paperful to a cheerful couple. The aroma made Sax long for a few pennies to buy some, and frustration made him want to rage. Never before in his adult life had he not been able to satisfy his hunger. Never.

For anything.

Now he had three hungers—for warmth, for chestnuts and for the woman in his arms—and due to his folly, none was likely to be satisfied soon. Doubtless some would say it was good for his soul, that deprivation and
discomfort would elevate his mind. It wasn't working. He was cold, miserable, frustrated, and angry.

Then, on a corner, a news-seller started a new cry, “Latest on the Saxonhurst murder! Latest! Countess's lover lies in his blood!”

“Oh, sweet lord!” Meg whispered. “He
wasn't
!”

“Your lover?” He crushed her into his arms. “I know.”

She stared up. “How?”

Despite the cold, there was a sparkle of perfection to the moment. “How do we know spring will come?”

“You trust me?” Before he could say yes, she shook her head. “You shouldn't. You don't know—”

The demons tried to revive, but they were husks by now. He slid his hands under the coat, to rub her back, to feel the warmth. “I know about your magic stone.”

She actually turned paler, foolish woman. “How?”

“I made Laura tell me why you'd gone to Sir Arthur's.”

“Made? How?”

“Thumbscrews.” He laughed. “Now it's time for you to trust me.”

Tears swelled in her eyes. “I'm sorry. I trust you, too. I'm sorry. I'm just so scared. Cold and scared.”

She stared to shiver again, and he held her closer, cursing his absurd powerlessness, wondering how cold a person had to be before they died of it. It happened sometimes to the outside passengers on a coach, and his groom's shirt, though of thick, warm cloth, seemed unable to block the cold at all.

He kissed her unruly hair. “Look, love, we have to find shelter of some kind, somewhere the authorities won't find us. I'd rather not put my friends under the obligation of hiding us, except as a last resort. Can you think of anywhere?”

“The workhouse?”

“I'm on the Board of Governors of one. Would that give us special entree?”

He was rewarded with a chuckle. “They'd separate us anyway, so we'd have no chance to make plans. We can't go to your home?”

“To
our
home? The law's hovering, and the mob has
gathered, hoping to see you and your bloodstained hands.” He felt her trembling. “In my grandfather's day, the law would never have dared touch you, but I'm not sure I can stop them now. Damned democrats.”

Cold, he was discovering, was invincible. It was devilishly tempting to ask for some time in the jacket. He wouldn't, but there wasn't much point in freezing to death, either. “Let's move. It'll keep us a bit warmer.”

“Marlborough Square is probably too far anyway,” she said as they marched on, huddled as close as two people could be. “You're very cold. If we keep switching the coat, it will slow things a bit, but we'll both soon be frozen. My feet already feel like blocks of ice.”

He glanced down at her cloth half-boots. Foolish things. “My boots are doing a tolerable job, but I'm afraid there's no way for us to swap footwear. Strange predicament, isn't it?”

“Do they keep the prisons warm?”

He laughed. “I doubt it, or I'd be tempted, too! Do churches stand open for homeless waifs?”

“No.”

“What happened to Christian charity? Here we are, looking for a bed for the night, and no one is even offering us a stable.”

“Perhaps they would if I were pregnant.”

“No. They'd be worried your baby would be a charge on the parish.”

“True. Perhaps Christ would not consider us Christians at all these days. Oh!”

“What?”

She fumbled in her skirt pocket and pulled out a key. “Mallett Street!”

“That's a key to your old home?”

“Yes, and we're only streets away. Come on! And faster.” She took his hand and tugged at him, showing that he must have begun to slow with the cold. “You'll be warmer if we hurry, and I left some wood there. We can make a fire.”

That thought was enough to spur him on. Fire. Warmth. Shelter.

They stumbled along the darkening street, breath puffing white before them, then down a back lane, the
rutted ground made rock hard by frost. She stopped and gingerly opened a gate. It squeaked. “I hope no one hears. They should all be preparing dinner, or eating it.”

The idea of food, any kind of food, was almost painful.