Theory of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  “A very large one,” Ash said, hefting the crystal inkpot. “If you cannot recognize kindness and an intelligence superior to your own, perhaps you should not be her executor. Good day to you, sir.”

  Ash turned his scarred face to the baron, offered his most ferocious scowl, and shouted, “Smith, the baron is ready to leave.”

  “You have her!” Townsend shouted, not understanding the trap. “I’ll bring the law down on you! You cannot kidnap anyone you wish just because you have a title.”

  “And you cannot sell off a woman just because you want her money,” Ash retorted, flinging the inkpot with all the force with which he used to throw punches.

  In satisfaction, he heard Townsend squeal like a pig. His accuracy was improving.

  14

  She’s bigger than me, bigger than our footmen, wears the most hideous caps, it’s hard not to recognize her . . . Townsend’s words struck straight through her soul.

  Harriet wanted to sink into a puddle of . . . ink . . . and ooze through the floor.

  She felt the justifiable confusion of the marquess’s family behind her, and their sympathy as they finally understood. After Townsend raced from the house, Aster and Celeste tried to hug her and remove her from the door. The Ives men tried to politely push past her to reach Ashford.

  Harriet could not, would not tolerate their pity.

  Slipping into her Christie persona, she used her bulk to prevent them from entering the study. Then she summoned her courage, straightened to her full intimidating height, and charged in to confront the conniving marquess on her own. She closed the door with a loud snap. She was shaking with fury and tears and could barely see him in the windowless gloom. No one had turned on the lamps.

  “Had I thought throwing inkpots would make a difference, I would have thrown one myself,” she said angrily, taking the chair and not caring if her old gown was soaking up ink.

  “I threw it for you.” Apparently not noticing her distraught state, Ashford tossed a pen back and forth with amazing accuracy. “Had I any pots left, I’d throw one at you. You lied to me, Miss Christie Townsend.”

  “I lie to everyone, Lord Ashford,” she retaliated. “I told you I lie. You said you know when I lie, so you knew I was lying. I was trying to protect you and your family . . .” Her voice shook with tears and humiliation and she gestured with her handkerchief, even though he couldn’t see. “ . . .from a horrible scene like that. He won’t stop there. I must leave at once. I have come to say farewell and to thank you for defending me.”

  Ashford appeared unmoved. He continued tossing the pen. “Tell me, Miss Townsend, what should a man look for in a wife?”

  Set to leave, unprepared for this tactic, she sank back down in confusion. He was looking for a wife?

  She’d deliberately shut out the pain of Townsend’s destructive emotions earlier. She had to warily open up again to sense Ashford’s mood. He roiled with understandable fury beneath his deceptive placidity, but it was fury laced with . . . anticipation? And confusion? Her anguish receded beneath curiosity—and just a wee bit of worry. What was the madman plotting now? Why was he not roaring for her to pack her bags?

  “I should imagine it depended on the man,” she answered evasively, until she had a better understanding of where this was going.

  “Just so,” he nodded approval. “It would be senseless for me to wander the marriage mart, seeking the latest diamond, don’t you agree? Aside from the fact that I couldn’t see if she simpered or smiled, I don’t need her wealth.”

  Harriet Christie had only sampled a few of society’s rarified events, but it was easy enough to imagine this formidably large man with his scarred scowl stalking among the frail gossamer-clad young misses in a ballroom, scattering them hither and yon in terror like unarmed villagers before a dragon.

  Even though she was shaking in her shoes over her fate, she sympathized with the image. She would miss this complicated man when she was gone. “You could throw a flowerpot and choose the one who caught it.”

  “Yes,” he almost hissed in satisfaction. “Other than pot catching, what else should I look for?”

  She really couldn’t see where this was going, but thinking of the twins, she said, “A love of children? Kindness?”

  “Excellent.” He tapped the pen point on his desk, dulling it. “But in case you had not noticed, a wife must appeal to her husband before there are children. Men are notoriously thick-headed about choosing wives. What would a woman say they needed to look for?”

  She frowned and stood to leave again. “This really isn’t relevant, my lord. I was not lying when I said I have properties in Dorset. I will have control of them after my birthday in April. I apologize for causing you any grief, but if you could provide transportation, I think I can hide until then, and I will cause you no more trouble.”

  “You have already caused me no end of trouble, Miss Townsend. Sit down.” He pointed the quill at her. “Now tell me, what would a woman say a man needed to look for in a wife?”

  Desperate to be helpful after she’d caused so much ugliness, she tried to understand what he asked but couldn’t. Since he was still sitting, she sat down again. “I don’t think I can help you. I should think only a man could know what a man wants in a woman.”

  “Exactly!” He turned to face her. “You are a woman of immense understanding. I know precisely what I want. I just wanted to see if you agreed. Courage would be a good start, don’t you think?”

  “Most women aren’t brought up to be courageous,” she pointed out, heart sinking. If men wanted courage, then she would never marry.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Bearing children requires courage. Watching husbands ride off to war requires a stiffer upper lip than most of Parliament possesses. In my case, it mostly requires the courage to not stand in my way if I choose to make an ass of myself. That means handing me pillows instead of books and not complaining about flung inkpots.” He sat back as if satisfied with his conclusion.

  Harriet started to feel a little fluttery in her bafflement and responded in the same foolish vein. “You will most certainly hear complaints about flung inkpots once it is discovered what you have done to your new wallpaper. Might I suggest repainting in deep blue? Then the black splatters might look artistic.”

  She saw a flash of white teeth through the gloom that she hoped was an appreciative smile. She couldn’t even be properly angry with this charming lunatic. No wonder he had lured so many women to his bed! That thought brought her abruptly back to reality.

  “A wife who occasionally pricks my inflated arrogance would probably be a good thing,” he suggested.

  “You have spent the better part of your life expecting everyone to roll over and sit up at your command as if they were dogs,” she agreed. “I cannot imagine there are too many women willing to tell you to jump in a lake instead.”

  “You would,” he said with certainty. “When it mattered, you would fling inkpots back at me, wouldn’t you?”

  Since that was precisely what she had wanted to do, and hadn’t, she swallowed hard and tried to think that through. “Me? I told lies to the entire village rather than tell my stepfather to jump in the lake.”

  “You had no choice,” Ashford pointed out. “He provided your bread and butter and the roof over your head. Sniping from behind bushes is not the work of a coward but of a brilliant rebel with too few troops to fight an army.”

  His words tingled all the way down as she considered them. Could she trust this madman meant what he said? She’d always been brave? It wasn’t just her freedom as Miss Christie, the companion, that had given her boldness? Lying wasn’t brave as far as she could tell. It had just been easy. Maybe he really was mad. But he had her attention.

  “The question is,” he continued relentlessly, “why did you lie to me?”

  Ah, there was the temper rising again . . . and hurt? The man kept throwing her off balance. She didn’t even know to which lie he objected. “Because that is what I do
, my lord,” she answered callously. “It is the only way I know to survive and to protect others. And I fear you lie as well, my lord, making promises and telling half-truths to get what you want.”

  She could sense his dissatisfaction with that reply, but he was apparently willing to let it ride—for the moment.

  He steepled his fingers and nodded thoughtfully. “Very possible. People like to hear what they want to believe, and a politician gives them that. Sometimes, it’s the only way to achieve what is best for all.”

  “It is arrogance to assume that you know what is best for all!” she protested.

  “Well, I am in a better position than most to know,” he argued. “I’m educated. I’ve wielded a position of power for years. I’m in communication with the men who run the government as well as men who run industry. And the laborers who work for both. Whereas someone like you, Miss Townsend, has knowledge of nothing more than your housekeeper.”

  “Sadly true,” she admitted, losing track of the direction of this inane conversation. “But that does not mean I cannot read, see what is around me, learn, and understand how people will react. My knowledge is of a different sort. I can sense your ambivalence, you realize. You are talking yourself into something as much as you are trying to persuade me. What I cannot understand is what and why.”

  “I think you know what I want, but you’re denying it. You would also understand why, Miss Townsend, if you had my experience in recognizing desire. I want you rather desperately. I see an opportunity, and I wish to seize it, but I find I want you to want the same. It’s another one of those humbling experiences I’ve suffered since my fall.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or throw inkpots. Surely he could not be offering her carte blanche. He knew she was a wealthy lady and didn’t require that kind of protection. She was six months away from freedom.

  “Perhaps I should explain what a woman would like to have in a man,” she said dryly, looking for firm ground to stand on. “Humility works better than arrogance most of the time.”

  He laughed hollowly. “Given my experience, that doesn’t happen overnight. Once upon a time, I had women groveling at my feet, hoping for any piece of me I might throw their way—money, power, position. I have a great deal of all that to spare and everyone, including myself, knows it. Humility doesn’t happen in my position. Besides the twins, I have a daughter in Manchester whose mother lives very nicely on what I provide. There are many others who would happily follow her example. I have had no experience in women requiring anything resembling humility of me.”

  “I understand, my lord. You cannot claim to be a saint, and neither can the women willing to take money instead of offering love.” She almost sympathized with him. Give an adolescent boy wealth and privilege and one could expect little other outcome, and now he paid the price of never knowing faithfulness or a partner to share his burdens.

  Ash shrugged. “I took what they offered and have no reason to regret it. Except now here I am, unable to leave the damned house, looking like a ravaged beast, and incapable of remembering a single woman in my past who would make half the wife you would.”

  Wife. Harriet stared in astonishment. He flattened her with his honesty—not flattered but laid her out flat like a carpet.

  Unable to see her shock, he waited for her to speak. Why were men so insensitive that they could not tell when she was upset? She struggled but no words seemed sufficient—or even correct or honest. She couldn’t even tell if that was a proposal. She rather thought not. His lordship certainly wasn’t emanating love.

  She stood up again. “You could leave the house if you liked, my lord. You choose not to. You have guests and it is probably time to dress for dinner.”

  Ashford rose just as quickly, leaning both hands against the desk. “Stop running away! Use that courage I know you possess and think about what I’ve said. If you have demands, let me know them. I expect no less.”

  “You have not even said plainly what you really want,” she said crossly. “You have spoken in circles like a good politician. I am very good at guessing what people want, but once in a while it is important to me that I hear it.”

  “I want you to marry me, with a license and a vicar, as these things are done!” he shouted. “Is that plain?”

  The words she’d longed to hear from anyone, for years, and they still weren’t what she wanted. She held back tears and straightened her weak spine. “I am tired of being bossed around by bullies,” she retorted, letting all those years of neglect and the feelings of inferiority well up and spill over. “In six months, I will have the independence to do anything I want. I could buy any husband I liked. I have no wish to be shouted at, pushed around, and dominated by a man who knows no other way to act. Grovel, Ashford, it will be good for you.”

  Heart pounding so hard that she might faint, Christie fled. She could not believe she’d said that. She was as mad as he!

  She’d forgotten that his entire family occupied the next room. Well, not the entire family. Apparently there was a daughter in Manchester, and of course, the twins were in the attic. She saw the rest pouring from the bedchamber into the hall, and this time she truly fled—up the stairs and into her room, where she locked the door.

  “Well, that went well, old man,” Theo said. “Smooth with the ladies, I can see that now. I should have taken lessons.”

  Ash groped for the inkpot, then remembered it was gone. He needed to install an entire line of them.

  He could see the flash of the lantern being lit and debated returning to his seat or fleeing as Miss Chris had. Humiliation was a concept he was becoming all too well-acquainted with, and he despised it. “You must have the ears of a dog,” he said as witheringly as he was able. “That’s a solid door, and you should know better than to listen.”

  “That was Celeste. The women claim this house sits on some kind of ley line that enhances their gifts. Celeste thought she heard pain and insisted that someone listen. Erran devised a contraption that he could press against the door, and we took turns. We caught enough.”

  “Ley line,” Ash said in disgust, sinking back to his chair. “The women are all about in their heads. I hope they’ve gone to assure Miss Townsend that she’s safe here. Erran, what’s the penalty for harboring an heiress against her executor’s will?”

  “Assuming she’s over twenty-one, none that I know of,” his less talkative brother asserted with a verbal shrug. “Single women above the age of consent have far more freedom than married ones.”

  “It’s just not done,” Theo countered. “Women belong with their families until they marry.”

  Both Ash and Erran snorted at this simplicity.

  “Miss Townsend is an heiress and a lady,” Theo, the astronomer and idealist, argued. “And since Aster is usually correct, we must assume she’s also a relation to the duke of Sommersville. The scandal will be immense. You’ll have Birchcroft and probably Grey here as soon as it becomes known that you’re keeping her against her family’s will. We cannot just usurp her without ruining her reputation as well as yours, Dunc. Not that you need to do much more to prove you’re as mad as a hatter.”

  “Fine, then. If she won’t marry me, how do we keep her?” Ash didn’t intend to give up, but the argument deflected his brothers from digging any deeper into his wounded pride.

  Miss Townsend expected him to grovel.

  He wasn’t accustomed to not getting what he wanted. Admittedly, he’d not wanted any other woman enough to consult her about her preferences. His Miss Chris wanted independence? He ought to let her have it and good riddance, but he was a fighter. He needed her—just as she needed him, he was convinced.

  Perhaps courting her would suffice, except he couldn’t seek her out if she hid in her room. Groping his way upstairs and hunting her chamber would lead to many things, but groveling or courting weren’t among them.

  “We’ll send someone to locate her properties,” Erran concluded. “Aster can find a companion to go with
her. And we may need to write the duke.”

  “Like hell. We don’t need to involve Sommersville in this too.” Ashford had no intention of letting a duke come between him and Miss Townsend when he was perfectly capable of handling this on his own. Did they think blindness had made an idiot of him?

  He stood and crossed the study to his chamber door. Miss Christie Townsend wasn’t going anywhere unless he went with her. A man as desperate as her stepfather could find many ways to coerce her. “Jones!” he hollered at his valet. “I need dinner clothes.”

  “My lord, yes, of course,” his much-maligned valet agreed, appearing like a magic genie. Since Ash hadn’t bothered dressing for dinner in months, the man sounded over-eager. “Are we expecting special guests?”

  “I am going courting. Just make me presentable.” Now that he’d made up his mind, Ash didn’t intend to waste a minute. All he had to do was persuade the stubborn female out of hiding. “Let the cook know I’m going out,” he added, with malicious intent.

  After all, Miss Townsend knew he was as much of a liar as she was.

  15

  “Miss Townsend, we must talk. Open the door, please.”

  Through her fury, fear, and humiliation, Harriet Christie recognized Celeste Ives’ captivating Jamaican lilt. Even though the last thing in the world she wanted was to face the Malcolm ladies, she opened the door. As she did so, she realized with a wince that she’d fallen victim to the lady’s magical gift for compulsion. It was too late to slam and lock the panel.

  Besides, she desperately needed to talk.

  Preferably, she needed to talk with someone who wasn’t an arrogant, obnoxious tyrant. Until a few weeks ago, she could have sworn she didn’t have a temper, but since coming here . . . Anger was apparently contagious. Clutching her elbows, she paced as the prescient Lady Aster and voice-compelling Mrs. Ives bustled in.