“You knew I didn’t have wits to lose,” the marquess suggested.
“No, but your temper is notorious.” Lord Theo came up behind his wife and circled her waist. “We feared you’d shoot someone.” He nodded amiably at Harriet. “Miss Christie, we thank you. Whatever we’re paying you, it isn’t enough.”
“She quit,” Ashford reminded them. “If you actually paid her, she’d take the money and run.”
Christie wanted to run right now, before they could demand explanations. She glared at the mad marquess, who grinned devilishly, even though he couldn’t see her glare. The damned man knew exactly what he was doing.
“I am glad I am entertaining you, my lord,” she said irritably—totally out of Harriet character now. If they were not blocking the door, or if there’d been a window, she’d leave this minute.
Blessedly, the front door knocker sounded.
Not so blessedly, she heard her stepfather’s familiar bellow the instant the door opened.
13
Tired of irate guests, Ashford ignored the shouting new visitor. He had servants to guard the door against such interferences.
“I must leave this instant,” Miss Chris whispered, catching him by surprise.
From the urgency in her voice, Ash was pretty certain she’d just turned a whiter shade of pale. Theo had said she had an English coloring, so he could picture the roses fading from her cheeks. He’d touched those cheeks—they’d been petal soft and warm. He didn’t want her to be afraid of him.
“Why?” he demanded, not understanding. “Because I have made you angry? That won’t be the first or the last time. You’re doing quite well in learning to fight back.”
“No,” she said without an ounce of her earlier vigor.
He heard her stand. Her petticoats rustled within his reach. He could grab her . . . but outside the study door, an eager audience awaited.
“I do not wish to involve you and your family in my problems,” she said in a rush. “Let me pass, my lord.”
Something he wasn’t seeing was very wrong, but his brothers weren’t warning him, which meant they were equally puzzled. Ash stiffened and listened closer. Their latest visitor was as loud as the nodcocks who had just left, but Ash didn’t recognize the voice. Could Miss Christie?
He shifted to block her escape until Smith brought the salver with the caller’s card. Theo took it.
“Boswell Townsend, baron,” Theo said in a low voice that would not carry to their guest. “Did you tell him we’d marry his daughter to Bryght in return for two votes?” he asked with humor.
“Send our guest to the anteroom, Smith,” Ash ordered, pulse accelerating. Only he understood that Townsend’s heiress was actually missing, and Miss Christie might hold the clue to her whereabouts. He had to think as quickly as she had a few minutes ago. This was his problem to address, not his brothers’. “May I have your permission to explain your situation to my family, Miss Christie?”
“I just told you I didn’t want to involve anyone else,” she said with irritation. “He cannot see me back here. I’ll take the back stairs and be gone.”
He heard the whisper of a lie again. A half-truth?
“Townsend,” Aster whispered in understanding, obviously connecting lines in her strange museum of a mind. “I’ve just started looking for that name, now why . . . Oh, the missing heiress.”
Theo’s annoyingly prescient wife was always around when she shouldn’t be. Ash listened for whatever inane Malcolm angle she’d take on the baron’s arrival.
“I knew Miss Christie’s chart did not add up to being a companion.” Aster explained, placing her hand on Ash’s chest and shoving him up against the jamb so she could peer around him into the study. “Miss Christie . . . Townsend, perhaps?” she called into the study. “I recall a member of Sommersville’s family of similar name. I’d have to look it up, but that would make far more sense with your zodiac. You may tell us all about it upstairs.”
Ash almost fell over. Miss Townsend? Could Miss Chris be the missing heiress? No wonder he’d heard a half-truth in her story. And then the rest of Aster’s comment sank in.
Sommersville—a bloody damned duke? His shocking secretary was related to one of the most powerful dukes in the kingdom?
No, this time, the dangerously prescient Aster had to be wrong.
Theo chuckled. Ash debated bashing his own head against the jamb in frustration. Bashing Theo’s would release more tension, but even he realized Theo wasn’t the one he wished to throttle.
She’d lied to him. He’d known she was lying . . . but . . . she’d made a total ass of him. Rationality did not play a part in his fury. He could toss Townsend into the Thames without a qualm, but Sommersville? The man was a giant among men—and not just by size. If he wasn’t such a recluse, His Grace would have been leading the Whigs instead of Ash.
Miss Lying Christie rustled in the direction of the connecting door to his chamber, apparently intending to flee.
He panicked.
Despite her lies, he knew this was one woman he didn’t wish to drive away. Lose an heiress and Sommersville’s relation? Anything could happen to the fool woman. She didn’t have an iota of understanding of how to go about in the city.
“Christie!” Ash raised his voice just enough to get his command across. “You will not leave. If you leave this house, I will personally track you to the ends of hell. You would not wish to be responsible for the Tories remaining in office, would you?”
If it was possible to hear confusion, he heard it in her silence.
“Aster, Celeste, do what you must but don’t let her go.” Ash debated alternatives but if he was to get to the bottom of this farce, he came down on the side of privacy first. “Theo, Erran, make yourselves scarce but don’t leave yet. I feel an episode of inkpot-flinging coming on.”
“Don’t you dare,” Miss Christie whispered in horror. Was her name even Christie? “Just tell him I am gone.”
“Not a chance,” he said in his best threatening voice. He had found a new direction for his rage as it fully sank in that the brilliant Miss Chris, possible relation of a duke, might be the woman the baron had meant to trade for votes. How stupid was this rank villain? “You stay, he goes to hell.”
“I only need six more months—” she cried in a low voice.
“It was my fault that you went outside yesterday,” he argued with deceptive calm. “If he heard of it, I’ll take the consequences. It could be about something else entirely. Now, out.” He pointed his finger at the connecting door to his chamber.
“Rude,” Aster admonished, brushing past him.
His sister-in-law had no conception of rude if she thought that was the worst he could do. Respect and manners had little to do with men of his rank. A marquess could throttle a nobody like Townsend and heave him in the Thames and there was little anyone could do about it.
He heard the women rustling and a door opening and closing. Instead of leaving, as requested, his brothers shoved into the study and closed the hall door.
“What is the meaning of this?” Erran demanded.
“That I may need your legal services or I may not.” A furious mind was an agile one, Ash decided, as he worked through all the possible scenarios he could perpetrate here.
“Don’t you dare,” Theo responded, pacing the room. “We don’t need any more drama to prove you’re insane. I’ll move to Northumberland and leave you to rage around the Hall until you drive off all the servants again.”
“I wasn’t the only one to do that.” Ash wasn’t really concentrating on Theo but on how he would deal with Townsend. If Miss Chris was actually Miss Townsend . . . Could Aster’s instincts be that accurate? If so, a man who would treat a brilliant—if amazingly annoying—liar as if she were a good horse to trade deserved to be thrashed. He was in the perfect mood for thrashing.
“Do you intend to tell us what this is about?” Erran demanded in the low bellow that presumably brought courtrooms to their k
nees.
Ash had heard Erran all his life and wasn’t impressed. “Not yet. Go away and let me take care of this.”
He was actually starting to anticipate the challenge. And it wasn’t just because he wanted to ram Townsend’s head up a chimney. No, it was suddenly all about the deliciously devious possibilities of keeping Miss Lying Christie.
“Right,” Theo said with annoyance. “Let’s be good little boys and go listen with the women. We can dismantle his bed and hide the pieces while we’re at it.” Theo shoved Erran from the room.
Brothers, always there when you needed them. He snorted at the notion. Grateful they didn’t feel it necessary to treat him as if he were a pathetic invalid, Ash opened the study again and gestured for Smith to show their guest in.
He settled behind his desk in his favorite position and waited.
“My lord, thank you for seeing me.” The baron’s thunder diminished once he was introduced to the presence of a marquess.
Ash assumed his mundane surroundings weren’t the source of Townsend’s sudden obsequiousness. Ash had inherited the title only two years ago, but he’d been his father’s right-hand man since adolescence. He’d had a lifetime to learn that men cowered before wealth and power. Ash wasn’t averse to making this worm crawl.
He wished he could see him. Judging from the height of Townsend’s voice, Ash decided that his caller wasn’t particularly tall. Christie probably towered over him—mentally as well as physically—which would annoy a small-minded man. “Have a seat, Townsend, and tell me what I can do for you.”
Christie’s tale of telling the village that Miss Townsend was diseased rose in his mind—could she have been speaking of herself? Of course she had. Only someone who had no fear of losing her position would be so irresponsible. He would throttle her later.
A chair groaned under a heavy weight. Out of meanness, Ash pictured Townsend as short and rotund, probably balding. He could hear his caller shift his weight to remove his handkerchief and assumed he was wiping his brow. Definitely nervous.
“I’ve been told my daughter was seen entering your premises yesterday,” his guest said in what passed for a polite tone, although Ash recognized the bluff behind it.
Daughter. Dashitall . . . Ash took a calming breath so as not to breathe fire. “Is that so? I didn’t realize you had a daughter. Is she a friend of my sister-in-law’s then?”
“Stepdaughter,” the baron said dismissively. “Same thing. She doesn’t know anyone in London. I can’t think of any good reason she’d be here when she’s supposed to be with a cousin in Somerset.”
“You’ve lost your stepdaughter?” said the spider to the fly.
“Females are unreliable. I want to see her.”
“Well, that’s more than I can,” Ash said, wondering if the baron even realized he was talking to a blind man.
It took the man a few seconds. “I beg your pardon, my lord. Perhaps if someone in your household could fetch her, I’d be appreciative. She belongs at home.”
“As far as I’m aware, we have no Miss Townsend here.” Which wasn’t a lie since Miss Lying Christie had failed to identify herself correctly. Ash was still playing all the angles of that dilemma through his need to not give her back to this imbecile. “I don’t know who I’d tell them to fetch. I’m still wondering how you lost her. If I remember correctly, you wished to find her a husband, and you offered your vote to the Whigs if we could help.”
Townsend should have had no difficulty marrying off a member of the duke’s family. Was the man a total half-wit . . . or up to no good? With a fortune involved, the latter seemed as likely as the former.
“Yes, yes, of course. She’s very obedient, simply wants a home of her own. She’ll make some man an excellent wife. As I said, I thought she was with a cousin, but my butler and the neighbors swear they saw her yesterday in some altercation with a boy and a dog and that she followed you into this house on familiar terms.” A hint of irritation slipped past his polished tones.
Dammitall . . . That was his lying lady, all right. “Ah, that would be Miss Christie, my decorator’s assistant. Your butler must be mistaken.” Ash thought he heard a snicker or a sniff from the direction of his chamber. Perhaps both, since all the women probably had their ears to the crack. Not the best time to throw inkpots.
“Harriet isn’t anyone’s assistant!” Townsend responded with indignation. “She’s a proper lady. I spent a fortune turning her out in style.”
“I can’t see style, Townsend. I don’t see how I can help you.”
“She’s large!” Townsend raised his voice in frustration, as if talking to a deaf man. “She’s unmistakable. She’s bigger than me, bigger than our footmen, wears the most hideous caps, it’s hard not to recognize her!”
Ash stiffened, imagining how a sensitive female would take these insults—as Miss . . . Townsend must have taken them most of her life. Appalled that his invaluable lieutenant-general had been treated so reprehensibly, he fisted his hands where his guest couldn’t see them. He might want to wring the lady’s neck, but Townsend needed to be flung through a window.
“Where is your decorator?” the baron demanded, unaware of how close he was to being tossed against a wall, since there were no windows.
“I had meetings today. The decorator isn’t here.” Ash thought he ought to be given awards for keeping his temper. Apparently toying with mice didn’t involve ripping their heads off. Interesting. Or maybe knowing Miss Chris might be listening had a calming effect. He could wait and throttle her instead. “I don’t know how large you are, but the lady in question is smaller than I am, has a lovely voice and is kind to children and dogs. Does that sound like your stepdaughter?”
“We don’t have children and dogs, how the devil would I know? Send her in, and we can find out, can’t we?” Townsend’s studied nonchalance was starting to slip dangerously into sarcasm, a tone he probably used to belittle anyone who annoyed him—like Miss Christie.
That realization raised Ash’s temper another degree.
If her name was Miss Townsend, could Christie be a given name? Because he couldn’t think of her as a Harriet.
“Do you think your stepdaughter would simply walk over here to help my decorator?” he asked as if deep in thought. “How odd. Is she prone to straying, do you think? I really can’t recommend her as a wife to any of my colleagues if she’s prone to being mislaid.”
Definitely muffled hoots from the other room. He suspected it wasn’t from sheltered Christie, who wouldn’t understand the ambiguity of that remark. Still, she was clever and caught on quickly. He expected pillows flung at his head at any moment. Yes, she was definitely influencing his temper because he was enjoying himself again.
Townsend sputtered and wiped his forehead. Ash could almost hear his guest sweat while he controlled his annoyance. Ash spent the silence wondering if it was fine for barons to have tantrums, and if it was just blind marquesses who weren’t allowed to bellow.
“Perhaps you would allow me to inquire of your servants, my lord,” Townsend said in a more unctuous tone.
“Valuable, is she?” Ash asked. This man had treated a gem like a lump of coal for most of her life. A little torture was good for his character.
“An heiress, my lord. Her mother’s family were eccentrics who locked their lands and investments into trusts for the females of the line. Her mother left me as executor of the trust, but the chit has almost reached the age to inherit. Can you imagine a flighty female handling valuable property? She must marry before that happens, so her husband can supervise it properly.”
Ash frowned. Aster’s family tended to lock up wealth in trusts for the females, but he was fairly certain there was no relation between sensible Christie and the insane Malcolms. They would have known about her, for one thing.
Except Aster had known about her, once Townsend’s name was personally associated with her instead of the unknown heiress. He fought a pang of foreboding. Whatever Aster knew had
to wait.
“Ah, I see your concern,” Ash said, nodding knowledgeably. “Well, I’ll have the servants keep an eye out for her. What is her full name, anyway?”
“Harriet Christie Russell Townsend,” the baron said with surliness. “I did everything proper for her when I wed her mother. Does your decorator go by those names?”
Relieved that there wasn’t a “Malcolm” anywhere in the lot, Ash returned to tormenting his visitor. “No idea, but I’d look in Somerset or wherever, if I were you. Your heiress probably has a beau there.”
“She doesn’t have a beau!” Townsend shouted. “She told them all she’s dying of consumption! The woman is a goosecap, but she’s an heiress. If you think you can keep her and trade her for more votes than mine, I’ll report you to Wellington! He’ll hear me out.”
“Oh, he knows about the mad marquess,” Ash said, toying with his inkpot as his anger returned. Christie was the very last thing at the far end of the spectrum from a goosecap. This was the brute who had turned her into a timid mouse who lied and hid in corners. Really, throttling, hurling, and stuffing wasn’t good enough.
“You can’t tell Wellington anything he doesn’t already know.” Ash continued playing out the line to bait this obnoxious shark. “I wouldn’t talk to Earl Grey, either, if I were you. He’s tired of hearing the complaints about me. He’s an intelligent leader who accepts that madmen can still deliver votes. I’d like to count on yours, Townsend.”
“Find Harriet and get her betrothed, and I’ll think about it,” Townsend said, shoving back his chair to stand.
“Excellent. I’ll do that. You won’t need to negotiate the settlements, will you?” Ash asked with deceptive disinterest, concealing his roiling temper.
“Of course I need to negotiate the settlements!” Townsend said in outrage. “What kind of fool do you think I am?”
Theory of Magic Page 11