Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  The boy took another drink. Wiping the froth from his mouth with his coat sleeve, he chose his words carefully. “I know people on the island. I know no one here. I cannot see how I can be of any use when your family is in a better position to do so. At home, I could at least see that the women and children are cared for.”

  Erran sympathized, but the lad didn’t have the experience to know what he was up against. “I have had Ashford’s solicitors send letters to your governor and to your men of business in Jamaica, warning that the executors have no legal right to sell anyone or anything. If you know good neighbors who can be trusted, you might write them and implore them to keep your people safe. I can have the letters sent out with official document carriers so they arrive swiftly. Anything else is likely to end in bloodshed.”

  Trevor scowled. “They’re family, can’t you see? They’ll think we’ve abandoned them, especially if they receive word that we’re flitting about London, having a good time, while they starve.”

  “Jamar won’t allow them to think like that,” Erran argued. “He’s already in communication with his son and will let him know what we’re doing. In the meantime, there is something you can do here besides flitting about ballrooms.”

  “There is?” the boy asked in suspicion.

  Erran hoped Miss Rochester wouldn’t boil him in oil for this, but the boy had every right to want to protect his holdings, and he needed to be included in their plans. “Someone has evidently paid local ruffians to harass your family in hopes of forcing you to leave. It takes only a few ha’pennies to buy anyone around these parts. Do you think you could occasionally step over here, talk to the younger lads, give them a few coins and tip them off that their help would be appreciated, that kind of thing?”

  Trevor glanced around the tavern at the slouching, ill-dressed occupants. He swallowed hard, then nodded. “I can’t stay cooped up inside all day, can I?”

  “You’ve been doing a fine job of it until now,” Erran said without rancor. “And it’s been smart to do so, not knowing your enemies. But now that we have some idea where we stand, I’ll introduce you to a few to get you started. They’re plucky lads, and they’re more likely to work for people who are good to them, than to work for ill-bred bullies.”

  Trevor nodded with a little more confidence. Erran assumed he would be accused of aiding and abetting in the dissipation of a minor or some such, but the young baron had to start somewhere if he was to hold his own at Oxford.

  Ives knew how to raise boys. The real puzzles were women.

  Thirteen

  Lady Aster arrived early on Monday morning, escorted by a sturdy footman, a lady’s maid, and two bedraggled, terrified children.

  “I am desperate,” she announced as Celeste hurried down to meet her in the foyer. “Aunt Gwendolyn says the village will not accept any more maimed children, that their families must care for them. But their mothers must work to put food on the table, and there is never enough to go around . . . .” She halted to catch her breath.

  The child in a shabby dress was balancing on a walking stick. The boy in trousers too short for him had only one hand, and the stub was still wrapped in a dirty bandage. With dismay, Celeste needed no explanation. “And these two have been helping feed their youngers by working in the factory?” The ladies had described the horrors they fought against in the mills—some of which her father’s horrible cousin, the earl of Lansdowne, owned as part of an investment consortium.

  “Exactly. And they have been injured in the process. We have laws, but no one to enforce them.” The lovely copper-haired lady wore an expression of despair—and anger. “They ought to be receiving an education, but their families need their wages or the whole lot will end up in the workhouse. And if they end up in the workhouse, the beasts who sell children out to farmers as little more than slaves will take them. I thought perhaps Marie could learn sewing, but I’m at a loss with what Tommy might do.”

  “We used to have a potboy with a crippled arm. He managed just fine.” Faced with a problem she might handle, Celeste gained a little more confidence. “If you don’t mind, let’s take them down to the kitchen. Cook just made bread, and we have some fresh jam.” Celeste hoped the lady wouldn’t be insulted by suggesting the kitchen, but she needed to introduce the children to her unusual staff on grounds they all understood.

  The two new half-Indian maids sent over by Lady McDowell were shy, but eager to learn. Celeste had hopes the children would adapt just as easily.

  Lady Aster didn’t hesitate but ushered the children ahead of her. “Bread and jam sound perfect. Marie, Tommy, you’re not to gawk but speak politely to those who are about to feed us. A house like this is different from the factory, but you will be safe here.”

  Celeste swallowed hard as the little girl limped down the stairs on her little stick without a whimper of complaint. She couldn’t see beneath the child’s overlong skirt to see how damaged her foot might be, but she’d heard horror stories.

  “They were caught under the machines?” she asked Lady Aster as they trailed after the children.

  “Yes,” the lady hissed with fury. “In the mills. They work the mothers from dawn to dusk—as long as there is daylight. And the mill pays pennies for the children to slide beneath those monster machines to gather the cotton bits that fall out. If they don’t move fast enough . . .” She took a deep breath to calm herself. “We need laws that can be enforced!”

  “And that is why it is so important to have Ashford return to London?” Celeste asked, using her serene voice to aid the lady in regaining her control.

  “Yes, among other things,” the lady agreed with less hysteria. “The Tories and their kind would rather repeal the laws we already have. They claim the laws interfere with private industry, and the government has no right to tell managers how to run their businesses. This is why the nobility should not be in commerce!” she replied in outrage. “They must rule the country for the best of all, not just themselves and their business partners!”

  “But Ashford is in commerce, is he not?” Celeste asked as they reached the kitchen.

  “Yes, to the extent of investing in steam engines and trains,” the lady admitted with a sigh. “It’s a new world, and I cannot say I like all of it.”

  “The laws must change to keep up with the times. Perhaps the government must change, too.” As she must, however reluctantly, she admitted to herself. “Isn’t reform what the election is about?” Celeste took the hands of both children when they stopped to gawk at the enormous cellar kitchen. They shrank back against her skirts in fear when they spotted the kitchen’s colorful occupants. She supposed the exotic turbans must seem as strange to the rural children as dark complexions.

  Celeste put a firm hand on each skinny shoulder and used her best soothing tones. “Marie, Tommy, I’d like you to meet Cook and our two Marys. They are from Jamaica, a country on the other side of the world. Can you make your bows?”

  Their regal, African cook barely looked up from the pot she was stirring as the children performed their awkward obeisance. The two young mulatto kitchen maids, who had come to London for the adventure of traveling, studied the children with interest but offered no greeting.

  “If you don’t mind, we would like some toast and jam and a bit of tea while we discuss where Marie and Tommy will fit in best.” Celeste used her persuasive voice and was relieved to see the maids respond as they would have at home. So far from her normal life, she feared everything she had ever known had changed, but apparently she could still rely on her charm to some extent.

  Persuasion was not evil, she told herself.

  Alerted by whatever secret signal traveled through the house, Jamar arrived to take charge of the latest arrivals. The household would soon be bursting at the seams with untrained servants—as Lord Erran had warned.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” Lady Aster murmured as duties and beds were duly found. “We will need a staff just to sew uniforms for everyone at this rate. Theo is
threatening to burn down the mills, but that will scarcely solve the problem. And the Luddites failed in that endeavor already,” she added with her usual humor.

  “As you said earlier, education is the answer,” Celeste said, leading the way out of the kitchen. “We will see that Marie and Tommy learn to read and write. Your Lord Ashford must write a bill that requires all children be able to read and do sums before they can work. How can we expect the poor souls to make a living if they can’t even count their wages?”

  “Yes, that is it exactly!” Lady Aster said with enthusiasm. “We owe you for being so willing to accept our impositions. I think this is the beginning of a perfect working relationship. I looked up your zodiac chart the other day. We are both on the part of cooperation right now, very strong in the family sector.”

  “Zodiac chart?” Celeste asked warily. Practical problems, she could solve, but they were treading the unknown again.

  “Yes, of course. I am the Malcolm family librarian. I keep the genealogy of all our families. Your birth and that of your siblings was conveyed to us before my time, but my predecessor had already started basic charts for all of you. I amplified yours.”

  That explanation only confused her more, but they had reached the upper hall where Trevor and Sylvia awaited their shopping trip. Rather than ask more questions, Celeste called for her cloak so they might start out on the dreaded expedition.

  Just as they were about to step into the cool morning air, Lord Erran strode up from the back of the house, settling his top hat on his dark curls. “The construction men have arrived. An excellent time for an outing!”

  Celeste was fairly certain he’d slept in the study again last night. He apparently thought staying here was improper, so she bit her tongue about his abrupt arrival in front of his sister-in-law. As much as the gentleman’s arrogant assumptions annoyed her, she welcomed the extra security his presence offered. For some reason, she felt certain the alley ruffians would not attack a gentleman as they might Jamar.

  “Oh, most excellent,” Lady Aster exclaimed. “You may introduce Lord Rochester to your tailor. He will need a complete set of everything, and you have better taste than Theo.”

  “Beasts in the field have more taste than Theo,” Erran said, offering his elbows to Aster and Celeste. “But he never emerges from his cave, so he doesn’t offend anyone with his execrable choices. I’m confident Lord Rochester will know precisely what suits him best, so don’t think we’ll dally long at the tailor. We’ll have plenty of time to criticize your bonnet choices and if you aren’t too cold, buy ices while we’re at it.”

  Celeste wrapped her gloved fingers around his elbow with the fear that she was walking to her execution. She could not imagine London modistes would take to the oddity of her ungainly stature and too-dark features.

  ***

  “Ah, the mademoiselle is exquisite,” the modiste exclaimed, tilting Miss Rochester’s chin to the gray light from the window. “The color, it must be bold to show off these eyes! And the cut . . .” She rummaged in a drawer for a fashion doll, clucking excitedly.

  Assured that Aster’s choice of modiste had the good sense to rave over the lady’s exotic beauty, Erran turned his attention to more serious matters than colors, fabrics, and his disturbing need to shower the lady in all she desired.

  He had a notion that his little party was being observed by more than the usual bored matrons. The hulk in ill-fitting gentleman’s clothes on the corner looked out of place, and the beggar lad who had surreptitiously trailed after Trevor to the tailor shop wasn’t behaving in character.

  As a precaution, Erran sent the carriage back to the house with a call for two sturdy footmen to join them for guard duty. There wasn’t a great deal more he could do except stay alert.

  It was possible that he was overly suspicious, but he was relieved when the ladies finally declared themselves too exhausted to linger over ices, especially since it was starting to rain. He ushered the ladies and Trevor into Ashford’s equipage and mounted his steed, noting the young baron’s wistful glance at the mare. The boy needed his own stable, but there was only so much Erran could appropriate from the estate’s coffers for this project.

  And that’s what it had to be—a project. He’d restore as much of the Rochesters’ inheritance as he could, send them back to Jamaica if they liked, move Ashford in, and then he’d figure out what he could do with himself besides become a mechanic—or an evil bully. Perhaps before all that happened, he could attend a dinner or two to see Miss Rochester in that cream silk she’d so reluctantly purchased today.

  Imagining the lady in a low-cut dinner gown instead of her stiff, high-collared mourning gowns, Erran wasn’t paying attention to the crowded road as he should have. He glanced up just in time to see a ragged beggar darting around a fruit cart in the direction of Ashford’s carriage—with a flaming object in his filthy fist.

  Too much knowledge was a terrible thing. As Erran kicked his mare into action, his mind ran wild through all the ramifications of dynamite, gunpowder, and flame beneath a fragile carriage pulled by skittish horses.

  Aiming for the narrow passage between urchin and carriage, he spurred his mount faster, splashing mud across the well-dressed crowds on the walks. Fixated on his goal, the boy didn’t look up until Erran was nearly upon him. The ruffian shrieked and stumbled backward. Erran’s horse reared. And the carriage team panicked, nearly trampling an elderly pedestrian in their haste to escape.

  The homemade bomb fell to the wet stones, the wick still burning.

  Coachmen roared curses as they reined in their teams. The fruit cart took the corner too fast, dumping its fragile cargo on the street for others to crush.

  Erran struggled to bring his spooked mare under control—not before nicking the boy’s arm with sharp hooves. The would-be terrorist collapsed, screaming, into the mud—not bothering to reach for the burning bomb rolling away.

  Focused on the flame, Erran noted nothing but the seconds it would take to dismount and stomp the wick before the bomb blew him and all around him into bloody pieces. He could have galloped away and left it to explode, but every cell in his body rejected that solution.

  “SNUFF IT,” he shouted instinctively at the moaning boy writhing on the ground, holding his broken arm.

  The burning bottle rattled faster, reversing direction toward the boy.

  Weeping, the boy rolled over the bottle, quenching the flame in the rain-slick street.

  The bottle had reversed direction.

  And the boy had risked his wretched life to snuff a bomb.

  Too shaken to think, Erran simply gulped air. A bobby grabbed the injured boy and hauled him from the gutter by the scruff of his neck.

  That’s when Erran noted the pedestrians swarming out of the street back to the walk—after they had all run to snuff a flame they hadn’t noticed until Erran had bellowed his orders. They’d apparently obeyed his shout without even knowing why.

  Gorge rising at the horror of what had almost happened—and what he’d done—Erran didn’t stop to watch the outcome. He galloped after the carriage fleeing down the street.

  ***

  Celeste clung to Trevor as the closed coach careened through the crowd, cracking against other vehicles, causing pedestrians to flee and cursing horsemen to wheel their horses out of the way. On the forward-facing seat, Lady Aster was pale and gripping a strap while holding on to Sylvia.

  By the time Lord Erran caught up with them, the team was slowing down, but Celeste wasn’t certain she could return to breathing.

  She had seen what had happened and had to watch helplessly, fearing the worst. At seeing his lordship in one piece, she inexplicably wanted to weep and fling her arms around him. Losing their father, plus the burden of coping these last months, had apparently made a watering pot of her.

  She watched as Lord Erran rode past them to settle the team. Instead of stopping to speak with the passengers to see if they were all right once the vehicle quit rocking, he m
erely rode beside them, observing their surroundings with a cold gaze, his square jaw set in anger.

  She had seen him nearly trample a small boy carrying a flaming object. From the furious stiffness of his lordship’s posture, Celeste had to assume the boy had meant harm. This time, it had not just been Jamar or herself, but her siblings and Lady Aster who had been threatened.

  If Lansdowne was behind this, he did not mean for them to have friends.

  After the laughter and excitement of their shopping trip, it was a grim reminder of their precarious situation. She glanced at Lady Aster, who had her arm around a weeping Sylvia.

  “I know Lord Erran doesn’t wish to believe an earl would be so dastardly, but I see no one else who would benefit from terrifying us. And if our enemy could be so callous about harming you as well as us, then it’s quite possible it is not just us he wishes out of the way, is it? Is he a danger to Lord Ashford?”

  Lady Aster shrugged. “From what I have learned of his birth date, the earl’s horoscope is very black, admittedly. He is not a man who likes to be crossed. We have reason to believe Ashford’s accident was caused by men who object to reform, but we have no proof of more.”

  “I would give him our dowries if he would leave us alone, but we cannot let him have the estate and our people,” Celeste said, as much for her siblings’ sake as her own.

  Trevor looked grim, and Sylvia looked frightened, but neither argued with her assessment.

  “Spoken like a true Capricorn,” Lady Aster said with a small smile. “Let us hope the solicitors will give us enough rope to hang him.”

  Celeste clenched her fingers and vowed that she would use every ounce of her persuasive gift to ensure that the solicitors did exactly what she wanted of them.

  Remembering the night of the riot when Lord Erran had apparently used his bellows to counteract her charm . . . she shivered. She must hope they had the same goals.

  Fourteen

  In a black humor after the bomb incident, Erran watched grimly until the ladies were inside the house, then rode around to the mews to stable his horse. With the animal in good hands, Erran stalked in the direction of the gate, just as Trevor darted out of it.