Jo Beverley (4 page)

“Just makes the gamble more interesting.”

“What are you going to do if she refuses?”

Sax put his hands on his hips and surveyed his household. “Let's establish the rules of the game. If Miss Gillingham refuses today, I'll pick one of those fashionable hopefuls out of the hat and do my best to persuade her. If she agrees, then backs out at the last minute, I'll grovel to the duchess and accept my fate. If Miss Gillingham comes up to scratch, I'll bind myself to her in holy wedlock however she turns out to be.”

Knox flapped to the bed to pace a warning.
“ Wedlock's a padlock! Wedlock's a padlock.”

“It's supposed to be, Knox. Bound for life, for better or worse. You're going to have to get used to it, just as I am.” He took the parrot in his hand and stroked it, looking around with his charming smile, the one that could and did break hearts.

“You are all witnesses. Let fate decide!”

Meg ignored the repeated rapping on the front door and went on patching the sole of Rachel's shoe with a scrap of leather. It could be Sir Arthur come back a day early, and if it wasn't, it would be a neighbor to whom they owed money. One of the most painful things about her situation was that most of her creditors were from local businesses, people she'd known all her life.

They had a right to speak with her. They had a right to fair payment for their services, too, but she'd sold everything they could do without. The house had been rented furnished, so she couldn't sell her parents' bed, or the scarce-used parlor chairs.

In Christian charity, most of their creditors seemed to be leaving them alone for the season, but once Twelfth Night passed, she knew they'd be back. It hardly mattered because before then—tomorrow in fact—she'd have to face Sir Arthur.

For the first days after wishing on the stone, she'd answered the door eagerly, expecting someone or something in answer her prayer. A distant relative come to offer them all a home. A local benefactor wanting to give them an annuity so they could struggle on. Instead, she'd been battered and bruised by the pleas and anger of people who were suffering because she could not pay her family's debts.

The knocker fell silent, and she relaxed a little, stabbing the big needle through the leather. She feared the shoe would be terribly uncomfortable, but at least it wouldn't let in rain. Then her hands fell hopelessly still. What did it matter? She'd have to beg assistance of the parish, and no matter what help they provided, it would doubtless include footwear of some kind.

She really had pinned her hopes on the stone, especially after the draining effect it had had on her. How could it have been for nothing? Now, however, panic ate at her.

Tomorrow Sir Arthur would return for his answer and—

A sharp knock on the kitchen door made her jerk in her seat. Swiveling, she saw that the impudent caller had come around to the back and was peering in the kitchen window.

Well, really!

Then the nose squashed against the grimy glass, and she saw a black patch over one eye! Gracious.

The person rapped at the glass. “Miss Gillingham?”

The grotesque face made Meg even more tempted to hide away, but she'd been caught. Praying it wasn't some bully sent to try to force money out of her, Meg cautiously opened the door.

It was no bully, but it was also no one she knew.

The plump young woman wore a respectable cloak and gown, with a black straw bonnet on her brown curls. The effect was marred by that startling black patch. Poor creature. If she was seeking charity, however, she'd certainly come to the wrong place.

The woman smiled brightly. “There you are!”

Meg stepped back, unaccustomed these days to bright smiles or enthusiasm. “Can I help you?”

“Are you Miss Gillingham?”

“Yes.”

The young woman dropped a curtsy. “Then could I have a word with you, miss? I'm Susie Kegworth. My sister Mary used to work for you.”

Ah. Meg saw a resemblance to the family's former maid, and remembered hearing some story of an eye injury some years ago that had ruined her sister's looks, and her chances of good employment.

Oh dear. Even though she couldn't help, she could be polite. “Come in, please. How is Mary?”

“Doing fine, miss. Very happy in her situation.”

As Meg led the way to the table and indicated a chair there, she began to take mild pleasure in the unexpected visit. It had been a long time since she'd sat down to
chat with a guest. What a shame the only tea leaves were days old and overused.

“How can I help you, Susie?” She quickly added, “If you've come about a place—”

“Oh no, miss. I have a good position as upstairs maid to the Earl of Saxonhurst.”

“Oh yes. I remember Mary mentioning it. I gather the earl is kind—”

“That he is, miss.”

“But somewhat eccentric.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that!” The maid seemed strangely alarmed by the idle comment.

Meg smiled to soothe her. “It's just that Mary mentioned that he allowes his servants great latitude.” And, of course, it was extraordinary that a nobleman hire a maid with such an obvious deformity. Meg was having difficulty not staring at the patch.

“We all do our work properly, miss. But he likes to . . . or at least, he doesn't seem to mind if we take an interest, like.”

“Take an interest?” Meg didn't normally gossip, but this conversation was a brief escape from grim reality.

“We always know what's going on—well, servants always do, don't they? But he don't seem to mind if we say our piece on it. Which is why I'm here,” she added in a rush.

“Oh. Why are you here?”

The maid licked her lips nervously. “Well, you see, Miss Gillingham, the earl's in a bit of a pickle.”

Meg stared. Had the maid come to offer
her
a position? Did the earl need a governess? With a spark of excitement, she wondered if this, at last, was the
sheelagh's
solution.

But then the spark died. How could she possibly support a family of five on a governess's salary?

“I can't imagine how I can help an earl in a pickle.”

“Oh, but you can, Miss Gillingham! I swear it's true.” The maid took a deep breath. “You see—and I know this'll sound peculiar—the earl promised his grandmother—a right wicked old barrel of brimstone, and that's the truth—that he'd marry by twenty-five. But he forgot about it, him being only twenty when he said it.
And on New Year's Eve—tomorrow—he turns twenty-five.”

“I see.” It seemed the only thing to say, but Meg didn't see. She was surprised, however, to discover that the eccentric earl was so young. She'd always supposed him to be doddering.

“Well, miss,”—the maid leaned forward over the table—“this morning the earl gets a letter from his grandmother reminding him of his promise. And that he'd said if he weren't married by his birthday, he'd let her pick his bride.”

“And he intends to stand by this?”

“Oh, yes! He says a Torrance stands true to his word.”

“Then we must hope his grandmother's choice of bride will suit him. I really don't see—”

The maid shook her head. “They hate one another, miss. Don't know why exactly, but that's not too strong a word. The dowager'll choose the worst possible woman in the kingdom.”

“Oh, surely not,” said Meg, reluctantly intrigued by the situation. It was good enough for a play.

“I suppose she'll choose one young enough to breed. Strong feelings about the succession, she has, even though it's not her title that's hanging. She's the earl's mother's mother, you see.”

Head whirling, Meg tried to stick to the main point. “If the earl made such a promise, then he should have kept track of it. I don't see how I can help.”

The young woman wriggled as if her stays had suddenly begun to pinch. Then she blurted out, “He wants to marry
you,
miss.”

Meg was literally struck speechless, left turning the words in her head, seeking another meaning for them.

But the maid was already carrying on. “That doesn't say it right. The thing is, Miss Gillingham, he's determined to marry someone tomorrow to thwart his grandmother. He's got a list of society ladies, but there's none of them he really fancies. That's clear as crystal. So I thought . . . You're probably going to be angry about this,” she admitted, face cherry red, “but I was only trying to do a kindness! I thought, if he was going to
marry just anyone, why shouldn't he marry someone who really needed it? So I suggested you.”

Meg slumped back in her seat. The maid was certainly flustered and embarrassed, but she didn't seem to be insane. Her employer, however . . .

Eccentric didn't begin to describe it.

“Susie, is this some sort of prank?”

“No, miss! Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die!” And the maid made a cross just above her ample left breast.

“You are seriously trying to persuade me that an earl wants to marry me—an unknown, unseen, penniless woman—tomorrow. It isn't even possible. There would have to be banns. Even a license must take time.”

“A special license. Mr. Chancellor's already started on it. He's the earl secretary. Sort of. His friend, too. And adviser.”

“And he advised
this
?”

Susie pulled a face. “He wasn't happy about it, and that's the truth. But he didn't have any better suggestion.”

Agitation pushed Meg up from her chair to roam the kitchen. “Does the earl know me, then?”

Vague fantasies stirred of being admired from afar, but she knew the answer without waiting for it. She was not the sort of lady gentlemen developed a secret passion for. Years ago she'd come to realize that while there was nothing about her to repulse men, there was nothing to drive them distracted, either.

As expected, the maid shook her head.

“So why has he chosen me for this extraordinary role?”

“Because I suggested you, miss.”

“What did you tell him of me?” The idea that this maid might have painted a fancy picture to tempt the earl appalled her.

“Just what I heard from my sister, miss. That you're a kind, steady lady who's doing her best to keep her family together despite tragedy.”

“Good grief. I sound like a suffering heroine.”

“Well, it can't have been easy.”

“No,” said Meg with a sigh. “It's not been easy.”

“So you'll do it?”

“No, of course I won't! It's out of the question.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Meg shrugged hopelessly. “Even if this were a real offer—”

“It
is
!”

“Even so, I couldn't possibly marry a man I've never met.”

The maid fixed her with a look. “Beggin' your pardon, miss, but beggars can't be choosers.” Meg started at that echo of the beadle's words, and at the memory of the alternatives.

“Marry the earl,” the maid continued, “and you'll be provided for as befits your station, you and your brothers and sisters.”

Meg sat down, dazed. The maid had just repeated the words of her wish. But surely the stone couldn't influence the aristocracy, or create promises made years ago?

As far as she knew, however, the stone could do anything. Her mother had said that for the stone's magic, time didn't matter. It made no sense, but then nothing about the stone did.

“Why are you so set on this?” she asked.

The young woman colored. “I'll tell the truth, miss. He's offered a reward of sorts. If you marry him tomorrow, he'll set me and Monkey up so we can marry. We've the chance to buy the inn at High Hillford, you see—”

“You want to marry a monkey?” Meg was almost relieved to realize that the maid was mad.

“No!” Susie laughed, blushing. “It's just his nickname. Monkey. The earl calls him Monk, which is kind of him because he don't much like Monkey, though it's a hard habit to get out of. His real name's Edgar. Do you think I should try to call him Edgar?”

“Yes, I suspect you should.” Meg, however, was thrown back into having this be real. Into having to think it through. “There's clearly something wrong with the earl if he has to bribe you to find a bride for him. Is he mad? Deformed? Depraved?”

The maid's eyes almost bulged. “Heavens, no. Give you me word, Miss Gillingham. If he were to stand in
Hyde Park tomorrow and offer himself up as husband, there'd be ladies killed in the rush.”

“Then,
why
?”

The maid heaved a hugh sigh and held up a plump hand. “One,” she said, counting on her fingers, “he's met the likely ones and not fallen in love with any of them. Two, it would be an awkward business trying to explain to them and their families why he has to marry in such a hurry. They'd do it, but he doesn't like starting out that way.”

“But he wouldn't mind starting out that way with me?”

“The obligations would be mutual, miss, if you see what I mean.”

“Ah,” Meg said. “Pride.”

She understood pride. She had plenty of it herself, which was why she was trying desperately to keep her family together against all odds.

Susie nodded. “He has his pride, that's for sure. Haughty as the devil, some say. But I don't see him that way,” she added quickly.

“If he discusses these matters with the servants and takes their suggestions, I don't suppose you do.” Meg was trying to think coherently about all this, trying to take it seriously, but she couldn't. “It really doesn't make sense, you know.”

“It does if you know him. You see”—Susie leaned forward again—“he likes to take chances, Sax does.” Doubtless because of Meg's surprise at the name, she added, “Everyone calls him Sax, though us servants don't to his face, of course.”