“I’m not a matchmaker,” she told him. Except she could be, possibly, had it ever occurred to her to look beyond her family. She knew which zodiac signs complemented each other.
“Surely, you must know someone suitable,” he insisted, pacing like a caged tiger. “Your family is full of eccentrics who must have some agricultural knowledge.”
She winced. “It’s true, my family contains many intelligent, capable women,” she corrected, thinking aloud. “But none of them are farmers. As I told Emilia, I do not normally chart many people beyond family. I need specific information as to birth date, time, and location. I suppose I could sort through my library, but right off hand, I cannot imagine a suitable candidate. You would do better to hire a steward.”
Lord Theophilus rather resembled a sleek, muscular leopard pacing her parlor in search of prey. She had the feeling she might be his quarry and that he might pounce at any moment.
“And then, should the new steward desert us like the last one, we would be right back where we are now,” his lordship exclaimed with a frustrated wave of his arm that nearly decapitated a fern. “Duncan could run the estate with one arm behind his back. He only employed a steward so he could spend more time with politics and the steamship business. But he insists if he can’t ride and see the fields or even the ledgers, that we will be robbed blind unless I stay on top of business.”
“And your other brothers? I recall there is a pack of them.” That was perhaps not the politest way of stating it, but the agitated gentleman didn’t seem to object. It was rather refreshing to speak as bluntly as he. “Are none of them interested in the estate?”
The marquess’s reluctant heir ran his hand through his hair—recently cropped, Aster noticed. His lordship had at least attempted to appear respectable for this visit, which gave her a visceral thrill. She didn’t think the self-absorbed, absent-minded Lord Theophilus often tried to impress people.
“Not a one,” he groaned. “Every marquess since the first has provided for his progeny, legitimate or not. We all receive equal allowances from the estate to establish ourselves in our interests. We have uncles and cousins running mines, canals, factories . . . You name it and there is an Ives behind it. Duncan has been the only Ives interested in the land. Perhaps in another generation . . . but not now.”
Aster perused her mental list of his family but concluded much as he had. “Land is scarce. Unless one inherits a vast amount, farming is not a profitable industry. I understand.”
“But women often run small farms, don’t they?” he asked with a plea in his eyes.
She gestured helplessly. “We grow roses for perfume, herbs for medicine, but we do not often have the land required to run sheep or grow wheat, nor the wealth to have tenants. Perhaps a widow who has helped manage her late husband’s estates. It will take some research. How long will you be in London?”
If nothing else, she had to respect a man who accepted that women could do more than look pretty.
“I can’t waste a moment,” he said in despair. “Erran’s business is in London. William is only home a tenth of the time. Jacques is currently standing guard, dealing with farmers and merchants, but he has no head for more. The rest of the lot are schoolboys. We have a cousin who promised to help at harvest, but I need to produce my glass orders now. And there are still the shipping and mining ventures needing attention. I feel like a jester juggling too many balls.”
“You are not very good at juggling yet,” she remarked. “You dismiss everyone as inconsequential when, with a little planning, each person could take up one small piece of the load. Perhaps what you need is a managing female.”
His glower didn’t perturb her. His eyes were a glorious experience. Today, the gray had lightened to a sky blue shadowed by lashes as long as her own. Aster wanted to smile at his frustration, but this was not a laughing matter. His situation was serious—with the potential to endanger her own. Her charts had been quite clear on the matter.
Ashford’s blindness was alarming. The marquess had been a potent force for change in the Lords. His loss would be felt in wider circles than the estate—like Gwenna’s bill to help child laborers. Losing his support could be catastrophic to their goals. Aster’s instincts failed her on the proper action now.
“I will stay in London long enough to learn of available stewards,” Lord Theo said frostily. “Then I must be off to interview them.”
“Suitable women do not grow on trees, my lord,” she countered. “It will take time. Your glass orders will have to wait. And might I remind you, my charts are complex and time-consuming. I do not produce them on whims or for free. Just as you must make your own living, so must I make mine. You would do well to have a few women in mind as a starting place.”
That caught his attention. Apparently, if she was to cost him money, she became a little more worthy of his interest.
“You didn’t charge us for the warning,” he said, halting his pacing.
“I’d drawn your brother’s chart for my library. The warning was for the good of the country and possibly my family. Finding a wife is a selfish pursuit and entirely a different matter.”
“It’s not a damned chart I want, but a wife. Is the cost the same?” He appeared to be clenching his teeth as he asked.
“It is not always a matter of money,” she answered, thinking quickly. “In your case, a successful request to the Astronomical Society to accept astrology as a science would earn you half a dozen charts.”
Lord Theo’s jaw tightened. “Astrology is not a science. It is a female affectation I’m willing to endure in hopes of getting what I need. Real scientists would not be so polite. They would tear your charts apart if you attempted to present them.”
“My charts are very scientific!” Female affectation! She should smack him, but she’d encountered this type of opposition too often. She simply needed to convince him otherwise. “To what purpose do you seek the stars if not to enlighten human understanding? We use the same mathematics, share the same interest in the placement of the planets. We should be communicating!”
“But no two astrologers could ever achieve the same results,” he said scornfully. “Have you ever read an almanac that correctly predicts the weather? Science is based on empirical evidence, and you have none. I do not believe star charts predict compatibility, but you know women. Tell me how much it costs in pounds and cents for you to find me a wife who can manage estates.”
She’d stupidly hoped this man was different because their charts seemed so compatible—another example of how badly she read her own chart. Still, she refused to let him deride her abilities.
“Ten pounds per chart, once you have provided exact birth date, time, and place,” she retorted, refusing to admit she had no idea what empirical evidence might be. She would look it up as soon as he was gone.
“I am to walk up to women and ask when and where they were born?” he asked in incredulity.
“If you want anyone other than the Malcolm descendants in my library, you will. I can go over my charts and make lists. I can call in a few friends,” she said, rising. His virile presence was too intense for concentration. She needed him to leave before she said anything else ridiculous for him to scorn.
“I cannot guarantee you will find the perfect mate within my circle,” she continued, taking his arm and leading him to the door. “You have just met Emilia. She is looking for a husband so her grandfather’s executor will release her rather considerable inheritance. She would be perfect for you in all other respects—but like your family, she has other interests, and they don’t include estate management.”
With a puzzled expression, Lord Theophilus glanced at the doorway as if it would summon the memory of the woman who had just passed through it. “Perhaps you could introduce her to Erran. He’s a peacock who always comes up short on his tailor’s bills.”
“Perhaps,” she said noncommittally. “But the task now is to find your match.”
He studied her with
despair. “I don’t suppose you know of estates? You seem the managing sort.”
Her insides clutched with the desire to shout Yes, yes, my charts say we are all that should be compatible, but she shook her head. Because her own chart was always strangely skewed and that doom in her family sector was much too accurate. “I am a city girl and know nothing of rural estates. Besides, my charts say I must never marry. It is much too dangerous, and your family doesn’t need any more tragedy.”
“If I don’t find a wife soon, I see nothing but tragedy in the months to come. Either I will kill Duncan, or he will kill me.” Lord Theophilus slammed his hat on his head and strode out—leaving the peaceful serenity of her parlor shattered.
How did one find a safe wife for the man for whose stars crossed with her own in dangerous incompatibility?
Six
Still gnashing his teeth in frustration, Theo sought his uncle’s home near Hyde Park. Uncle Pascoe used the name of Ives, although Theo’s widowed grandfather had sired him late in life and never bothered to marry Pascoe’s mother. Theo thought he ought to look at his marriage-shirking ancestors as warning, but unlike Lady Azenor, he didn’t believe in portents.
Pascoe was the youngest of the uncles, in his thirties. He’d been married once, produced twins still in the nursery, and had poured his energy into developing various forms of transportation so that fabrics woven in Manchester could reach London, Paris, or Boston in the shortest possible time. The process involved considerable government and political interaction, thus his residence in London.
Pascoe greeted Theo’s arrival with a slap on the back and an offer of brandy. “You look as if you’ve just buried both parents and your favorite mistress. Come in, sit down, and tell me what I can do to help.”
Taking a sturdy leather chair in the gloom of his uncle’s study, Theo gratefully accepted the brandy. He tried not to contrast this dark room of heavy furniture, scattered books and papers, and dead animals on the wall with Lady Azenor’s sunny, colorful, and well-ordered parlor, but the vivid image was emblazoned on his mind.
Women were an entirely different breed from men, that much was obvious. He’d never suffered from the lack of female influence but he did wonder about the changes ahead.
“You’ve been married,” Theo said, leading with the most pressing subject. “Do all women keep a house orderly and tightly feathered like a birds’ nest?”
Pascoe laughed. “Lily was never home. She ran half a dozen charities. Our housekeeper does her best to clean the clutter, but as you see—” His gesture swept the stack of paper and dusty objects on his desk. “—housekeepers are limited in scope. I shouldn’t think I’d like a feathered nest much. Are you planning marriage?”
“If it’s possible to plan marriage, I might be amenable. But I have a suspicion it will take a little more than specifying my needs as if I were choosing a horse.” Theo sipped his brandy and contemplated living in a home feathered like Azenor’s. He didn’t think it possible, and his imagination gave it up to contemplate the more interesting picture of the lady’s delicious figure in his bed.
He ought to have something pleasant to contemplate in the midst of total, irrevocable disaster. But the lady had been unequivocal in insisting that they would not suit. And although he did not believe in her fated doom, he knew a city girl with ridiculous notions did not meet his requirements for a wife. He needed a good, practical country woman—but not Margaret. He shuddered.
“The closest one can come to planning a wife is to attend the season’s events and compare the various available misses. That wasn’t for the likes of me,” Pascoe said with distaste. “I literally ran into Lily in a very bad section of town. She wouldn’t have been caught dead in a fashionable salon. But I don’t recommend searching back streets for rare gems as a practical policy.”
“One might as well rely on searching the stars,” Theo acknowledged gloomily.
After a few more brandies, Pascoe dragged the story out of him. Rather than bother with the formality of the dining room, they ordered supper set up before the fire.
“Much as I hate to say this, Duncan is better off without a woman who flees at the first sign of trouble.” Pascoe leaned back in his chair and contemplated the fire after hearing the sorry tale. “Perhaps your lady friend could search for the right wife for him while she’s looking for one for you.”
“Duncan is wallowing in self-pity,” Theo retorted. “It will take time before he’ll accept that he’s still a valuable commodity.”
Pascoe snorted at this description. “Put it in terms of profit, and perhaps he’ll listen. But you’re right, not just yet. He’ll be hoping his sight will return, and who knows, maybe he’s right. Most physicians are quacks. Is there any chance someone really tried to kill him?”
Theo shrugged. “Duncan would know better than I, and he claims not. He’s not very clear on what happened. The blow to his head scrambled his memory. He just thinks the horse stumbled while his bosky mind was elsewhere, and that it was his own fault.”
“It’s possible.” Pascoe peeled an apple as a servant cleared the dishes. “If you’ve seen no evidence of wrong-doing, you have no reason to believe otherwise.”
Other than the lady’s warning, and that hadn’t been specific, but Theo’s questioning mind kept picking around the idiocy as one does a scab. “I don’t want to marry and bring a lady into danger.”
“You want an excuse for not marrying,” Pascoe pointed out cheerfully.
No, he wanted an excuse to marry managing, manipulative, colorful Lady Azenor so he didn’t have to make an ass of himself bumbling about parlors.
Theo squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I hate this. I trust finding a steward will be simpler.”
***
Finding a steward wasn’t simpler. Theo stopped at one of Duncan’s clubs to make inquiries and ran into the Earl of Lansdowne. The earl appeared to know him even if Theo didn’t recognize the distinguished older man until they were introduced.
“Ashford took a fall, did he?” Lansdowne asked, fastening his coat buttons in preparation for leaving the club. “Will he be back for the September session?”
“One assumes,” Theo answered edgily, having no idea what the answer ought to be. “I’m just here to inquire about the names of likely men for the position of steward.”
The earl shrugged and donned his tall hat. “Everyone’s out of town. Surely one of your bastard brothers can look in on the tenants.”
At the deliberate insult, Theo rolled his fingers into fists, but even he knew better than to punch an earl. “The bastard who is training the royal hounds, perhaps?” he asked coldly. “Or the one engineering the Manchester railway? We’re all such layabouts, I’m sure you’re right.”
He strode off, leaving the earl and his companions to glare after him. So much for asking the help of his so-called betters.
He managed to collect a few references from more helpful men and left word in several places without biting anyone else’s head off. But too many people asked after Duncan, and he had nothing to give them. He had a vague notion he was supposed to pound men on the back, make jokes about Ashford spending time in bed, and assure everyone that the head of an industrial fortune was right on top where he belonged.
But Duncan was flinging shoes and tea trays and Theo couldn’t speak such a massive lie.
After following up every lead he’d been given and finding himself near Lincoln's Inn Field, Theo rewarded his perseverance by stopping in to see if the library of the Astronomical Society had any new treatises. John Herschel was writing at a table and glanced up at Theo’s appearance.
“Still think your lens can find more than the six moons on Saturn mine can find, Ives?” Herschel asked, setting aside his pen and rubbing his brow.
“Certainly,” Theo said with a shrug. “I just need better weather.” He rummaged through the pamphlets on display.
“If we’re to win the royal charter, we need to produce a discovery of sufficien
t magnitude to gain His Majesty’s recognition. I’ve been promising his highness he’d hear from us by September. If you can’t produce your new glass, we’ll have to call on someone else.”
A chance to display the achievements of his new glass had been Theo’s goal ever since he’d developed the new lens. But he needed more time to test it and write up the report and produce more . . . Theo wanted to raise his fists and howl.
“It can’t rain forever,” he said in surly acceptance while he scanned Herschel’s latest tract.
“Your name will be mud with the society if you can’t produce,” Herschel warned.
“I have the glass,” Theo insisted, fighting his panic that he’d never test the glass at this rate. He waved the pamphlet he’d been reading. “Inductive reasoning?” he asked in incredulity. “You would infer a scientific principle based on what . . . intuition? Have we all gone mad?”
“Don’t question the premise until you’ve been married for a year as I have,” Herschel said dryly. “We can often see probable evidence that women think differently than men, but it is impossible to provide deductive or empirical evidence of the theory—as just one example.”
Thinking of Aster and her insane theories of the universe, Theo considered punching his own eyes out. “You would prove astrology true?” he asked irritably.
“Unlikely,” Herschel agreed. “But we do not always have the instruments to measure what is obvious from observation. Take the tract and study it. There is more to science than mathematics.”
“I really don’t want to hear that,” Theo grumbled, shoving the pamphlet into his coat pocket. “Next, you’ll be asking women to join the Society.”
Herschel snorted and bent over his pen and paper again. “Why do you think I’m here and not at home? Not a chance, my boy, not a chance.”
Weary in mind and soul, Theo stumbled back to Pascoe’s to find an invitation waiting for him from Lady Azenor to join her and a few guests for tea. Theo stopped to examine his reflection in the hall mirror and tried to determine if his rumpled cravat and the gravy stain on his waistcoat might pass muster.
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