They filled the narrow chamber with petticoats. Short, rounded Lady Aster wore a gown that shimmered with blues and greens and made her fiery copper curls gleam like a flame burning from her excess energy. The more sedate Mrs. Ives settled gracefully on a chair. She was tall, slender, and wore a delicate apricot gown that enhanced her bronze coloring and sleek dark hair. Christie was painfully aware of her towering plainness beside the gorgeous Ives wives. For a change, she was too angry and confused to care.
“It’s quite amazing,” Lady Aster said, lighting a lamp without permission and opening her satchel of charts. “I had started on your chart using the time and birth place you gave me, and it seemed oddly familiar. And none of the signs were lining up as they should. A stubborn Taurus, maybe, but combined with a strong Leo moon—that does not compute into a meek companion. You would bite the head off any silly chit who crossed you.”
“I’ve never bitten the head off anyone,” Christie said irritably, sitting on the bed so her guests could have the chairs. “Not until I came here, at least.”
“You certainly bit off Ash’s,” Lady Aster said, laughing.
“That’s this house,” Mrs. Ives said soothingly. “It enhances our gifts, I’ve discovered. I used to use my voice simply to charm people into giving me pretty dresses or dolls. Now I can hear emotion in voices and persuade people to do what they need to do. I’d never so much as raised my voice until we came here, and now I’ve even caused a riot!”
“You still don’t raise your voice. It’s your persuasion that works. The demonstration at the factory was a peaceful one and turned out particularly well,” Lady Aster said, pinning a chart to the wall. “The workers were all women and children, and they were being horribly mistreated. Celeste persuaded them to walk out and refuse to return until management agreed to shorten their hours so they could see daylight occasionally. It was a rural village, with very few workers available. The company had no choice. They quickly capitulated and had to raise wages and allow time off for childbearing.”
“Once people act together for the common good, they can accomplish great things,” Mrs. Ives explained. “I didn’t do anything. The women did it all.”
“Leadership is necessary.” Lady Aster pounded the final tack in her chart with an air of satisfaction. “And Miss Harriet Christie Russell Townsend has buckets of that quality in her chart.”
If her head hadn’t already been spinning, Christie thought it might be on backwards now, after this inexplicable and excited chatter. They weren’t angry that she’d lied? That she’d brought a furious Townsend into the house? “I have never led anyone, anywhere, ever,” she protested.
You haven’t had the opportunity, the elderly voice in her head said reassuringly. And you’re certainly leading my grandson a merry chase!
Harriet didn’t trust the voices. She’d have to declare herself lunatic if she did. She rubbed her brow and tried to straighten her thoughts.
“Because the conditions weren’t right,” Lady Aster said, echoing the voice. She held up the lamp and pointed at the chart. “But the sun and Jupiter are now in your ascendant, which gives you the accomplishment, fame, and wisdom to manage whatever happens next. The moon was there last week, giving you the boldness necessary to walk away from your past. And of course, here is Venus coming up on the part of marriage. With Scorpio rising . . . you are perfect for Ashford! He really needed a Malcolm. I can’t imagine how I was so blind.”
“A Malcolm?” both Christie and Celeste asked, although Christie thought her question might be different from the other lady’s. “What is a Malcolm?” she clarified. Moira had tried to explain, but her tale was worse than anything Christie could make up.
“A family of witches,” Celeste said with a laugh, verifying Moira’s explanation. “Or Druids, depending on which aunt one asks.”
“A family of women with different abilities,” Lady Aster corrected. “Ones who can trace their ancestry through oral history. Our early journals are written accountings of stories repeated for generations.”
“Different abilities? I think you mistake me.” Christie examined the chart on the wall but could make neither heads nor tails of it. “I can sew, but that’s about the only ability I possess. Painting and music are beyond me.”
Lady Aster removed a thick tome from her satchel. “Did your mother keep journals?”
Christie tilted her head to admire a delicately tinted lion claiming a large area of the circle chart. “She died when I was twelve and was ill for a long time before that. I believe she wrote in a journal when she was feeling well enough.”
She had not thought of that for a long time. She had a sudden desire to run home and look for that book of her mother’s words.
“Did she encourage you to write also?” Celeste asked. “Both my parents did, and it turns out they both have Malcolm roots. It’s all quite fascinating once you learn about it. We’re sisters through the blood.”
“I doubt writing in journals means we’re related,” Christie said prosaically, returning to sit on the bed.
The voice in her head cackled in delight.
“It is a common pastime,” Christie continue doggedly, ignoring the voice. “I kept one for a while, but my life was too boring, and I lost interest. Just having you to talk with is exciting to me.”
“If Ashford has aught to do with it, we will all become quite close, so we may as well use our names and not our titles. Do you prefer to be called Harriet or Christie?” Lady Aster asked. “I am actually named Azenor, but my friends and family call me Aster. And Celeste really cannot be called anything else. Her voice is beyond celestial.”
“No one has ever asked how I would like to be called,” Harriet Christie said. “I do not exactly feel like a Christie—except when I’m acting completely out of character. It was my grandmother’s maiden name. Ashford calls me Miss Chris. Maybe I could be Chris.”
“The person who came to us was bold and called Christie. Let’s try Christie and see if you don’t grow into it.” Aster found the place she wanted in the book she was studying. She pointed at a page. “Here’s your family. Your father’s name was Russell, was it not? And your mother’s maiden name was Winchester? Did your mother choose your name?”
“I was told the girls in my mother’s family were always named some variation of Christina and the boys were named Harry. Apparently, my father agreed to calling me after both, since Christie also honored his mother. I don’t know if they knew then that they’d not have another child.” The memory brought sadness.
“Yes,” Aster said in satisfaction. “That’s the family I’m thinking of. The Winchesters are related to the duke of Sommersville. The first Malcolm in the duke’s family, several generations ago, was named Christina. Her son was a gifted healer. You’ll find their journals in Wystan.”
Duke? Healer? Harriet—Christie—opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Her spinning head had apparently fallen off.
“You offer too much at once, Aster,” Celeste protested. “You always knew who you were, but those of us who had no notion need time to adjust.”
“I believe the Winchesters and Russells were distant cousins,” Aster continued, “so it’s possible Christie has several lines of Malcolm blood, as you do. It’s not so very uncommon given the intermingling at our level of society. But the branches are growing in many directions, so it’s difficult following the genealogy.”
“Family I do not know and who do not acknowledge me are less than useful,” Christie said. “Once my father died, my mother and I lived in rural obscurity. I cannot remember any of my mother’s family visiting after she married Townsend.”
Aster flipped pages in the book she’d produced from her satchel and found what she wanted. “Viscount Russell was an only son. His parents died shortly after your father did. A cousin inherited the title and estate—he may not even know of your existence.”
“He does,” Harriet said with a shrug. “We choose not communicate.”
&nb
sp; Undeterred, Aster continued. “On your maternal side, the current duke of Sommersville prefers his northern estate and seldom comes to town. He was a famed physician in his day—quite possibly a Malcolm ability. Men are unfortunately erratic in keeping up with family. So if your mother’s family was not the visiting type, and haven’t asked him for anything, then he no doubt assumes all the various cousins are fine.”
“Which we were,” Christie said with a shrug. “My mother was too ill to travel or consort with dukes, but she never lacked for anything.”
“But the relationship to a duke makes you perfect for Ashford,” Aster declared. “We won’t tell him about the Malcolm connection; it will only annoy him. And if you exhibit no unusual abilities, he cannot mock you as he does us.”
“He mocks, but he listens,” Celeste corrected. “The man is a deep well with a boiling stew at the bottom. One never quite knows what will come out next.”
He’d certainly mock if he knew she heard his great-grandmother in her head! Besides, she wasn’t marrying a bully.
“Has he always been that way?” Christie asked, hoping against hope that things might be different. “It seems to me he’s festering with frustration at his inability to act on many, many things. If he does not find some outlet soon, he will turn explosive.”
“You understand him very well already,” Celeste said in approval. “Most women would merely see the trappings of wealth and power and not understand what he has lost. To understand him as well as you do, you must have a latent gift you simply don’t recognize.”
“I would love to have a gift of any kind,” Christie said in despair, wondering if she must exhibit eccentricity to fit in. Telling them she heard voices wasn’t a gift, but it would be eccentric. Ashford would hate it though. And why should she care if he hated her voices?
Perhaps wait, the voice recommended judiciously. These modern women don’t believe in ghosts.
Ghosts? If she told them she heard ghosts as well as voices in her head, they’d lock her in Bedlam. Appalled, Christie hurried to reassure the ladies. “At the risk of being repetitious, I am not special. I am an overlarge, boring nonentity who has never met her very distant, noble relations. I am amazed that Ashford has not thrown me in the street. Perhaps I’m simply a new toy that he will tire of when a more exciting prospect comes along.”
The voice cackled in delight again.
“Since I disagree with your basic assumptions that you are overlarge or boring, I must also question the rest of your argument. For the sake of the kingdom, I think we must take the risk that you are what Ashford needs,” Aster said. “Surely you understand the desperate need for reform.”
The petite lady didn’t think Christie was overlarge? Or boring? She’d had those notions beaten into her head for so long, she didn’t trust a second opinion. She couldn’t go past that disbelief to reach the even larger one of Ashford needing anything at all, much less a woman with voices in her head. It would be lovely to be needed and useful, but independence was a far more achievable goal.
A rap at the door interrupted. Celeste opened it to a maid who conveyed her message in a whisper.
“Excellent, thank you. We’ll be ready.” Celeste closed the door and announced, “Ashford is dressing for dinner and claiming he is going out.”
“Why would he say that?” Christie asked in annoyance. “He won’t go out. He refuses to be seen as less than perfect, and the more he stays hidden, the less he will go out. It’s not healthy.”
She looked up when both of her chatty companions stayed silent. They stared at her as if she’d turned into a unicorn. “What?” she asked. “Does one not call a marquess a liar or a hermit?”
“Your understanding of his behavior is quite extraordinary,” Aster said. “If he’s actually staying in, let’s surprise him and appear in our most elegant attire.”
Christie laughed. “If anything, he knows you too well and that is just what he’s expecting. I have no elegant attire. I will remain here.”
“The plot thickens,” Celeste said with a trill of laughter. “He’s trying to trick you into coming down! You do not actually need visible elegance, you know, since he cannot see you. You need sensual elegance—a nice perfume, a velvet wrap, your hair . . . Why do you hide your hair under that dreadful cap?”
Christie yanked off the cap and admired the rosettes and frilly lace. “Because it’s pretty and I am not.”
Both women shook their heads in combined exasperation. Christie could feel their incredulity. Nervously, she ran her hand over her stringy mop, tugged back in an uneven bun. “What?”
Celeste smiled. “Do you really believe we all climb out of bed looking perfect? Very few people are actually beautiful. Most of us learn to make the best of what we have.”
“Don’t you have a ladies’ maid we can send for? You have lovely gold locks. They just need trimming and arranging.”
“I sent my maid to stay with her family for a while. She simply braids my hair in the evening, though. I don’t go anywhere, so there is not much need for fancy.” Beneath their scrutiny, Christie started to feel like a bug under glass. She had nothing that could be made the best of.
Celeste removed Christie’s hair pins. “We will tell Ashford it is a glorious pale yellow gold with strands of ivory and bronze. Aster, do you know if we have scissors and a curling tong anywhere?”
“I am not going down to dinner if he’s dressing and pretending he’s going out,” Christie protested, brushing Celeste away from her hair. “He’s looking for trouble.”
“And we’re here to provide it,” Aster said cheerfully. “You said yourself that he is bored and it is unhealthy for him to stay inside. For the fate of a nation, we must keep Ashford entertained. Have you not noticed that his tantrums disappear when you’re around? He actually smiled earlier. You are the key.”
“I am not the key to anything! I yell at him!” But Christie felt their sincerity. How could she say no if there was any chance she might be allowed to stay and help the marquess recover? And she desperately wished to be friends with these women.
Now that Townsend knew where she was . . . Did she need to run? Would it be better for Ashford . . . and thus the kingdom . . . if she stayed?
Perhaps she could lead Ashford a merry chase—as the ghost claimed. She must be running mad. And he was very bored. Two such combustible elements were an explosion waiting to happen. But perhaps . . . just perhaps . . . she could persuade him out and about again. At which point, he would tire of her, and she would be free to go home—to Dorset.
She could spend the rest of her life on the wonderful memories of a dashing marquess following her through London.
16
Sitting behind his desk, Ash heard the women descend, chattering like birds escaped from a cage. With grim satisfaction, he could tell that Christie was among them. She’d freshened her perfume, and his unruly cock rose to attention as they passed the open door of his study on the way to the dining room.
His fury now was as much anxiety as anger, which only served to make him more determined. As long as he was making an ass of himself, he might as well satisfy his curiosity. “Is Miss Townsend still wearing her cap?”
Theo was closest to the doorway and replied, “No, but the sconces don’t give enough light to tell a great deal. We really need gas lighting in here.”
“I don’t,” Ash said. “Wait until I am elsewhere to install it. You can describe her once we join them.”
“Not likely,” Erran said. “Theo could describe a moon on the other side of the universe better than he could describe his own wife. Let the women do it.”
“I’m starving,” Theo said without disputing Erran’s claim. “May we join them now? Do you think they will all run screaming, from your presence?”
“Of course not.” Ash shoved Theo into the corridor, out of his way. “It’s just that Miss Townsend has the irritating habit of staying upstairs when I am present.”
“That may be becau
se she’s a proper lady,” Erran observed. “And you no doubt have done something to distress her.”
He’d kissed her. And he would kiss her again, because she liked it and deserved to be kissed. His brothers weren’t stupid. They’d know that. Ash concentrated on entering the dining room without stumbling over chairs or footmen. Between his leg and his eyes, he was half the man he’d been.
How the devil could a blind man court a lady? For courting was apparently the road his lust was leading him down.
Ash followed his nose to Christie. She was still standing, as were the other ladies, waiting for the footmen to seat them. He grasped her chair back and held it for her. “I am out of practice, Miss Townsend,” he murmured, delighted that she stood tall enough for him to reach her ear without burying his nose in her hair. “But I believe I can manage chair shifting.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said stiffly. He could sense her lowering slowly so he had time to arrange the chair beneath her petticoats.
His sisters-in-law had had the sense to sit her beside his place at the table, on his good side. Ash claimed his seat with one hand while pretending to balance by placing the other on Miss Townsend’s shoulder.
She wore a damned shawl. It was thin, and he could feel her shoulder beneath it, but he had anticipated—had spent this last half hour thinking about—finally touching warm flesh. Sulking, he took the chair.
“I am glad you could come to the table tonight,” he said. He was accustomed to watching for smiles and flirtatious looks to determine a woman’s reactions to him. Now, he was forced to listen to both words and intonations to judge his success or failure.
“It would be rude of me to ignore the ladies’ requests,” she said primly. “You should entertain more often.”
“You wouldn’t come down for strangers for fear of being recognized,” he argued. “That ridiculousness must stop.”
“Miss Townsend is your guest, Ashford,” Aster said from across the table. “Quit badgering her. Your valet has outdone himself this evening. Is that a new waistcoat? The indigo almost matches Miss Townsend’s eyes.”
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