Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  She’d been attacked on these streets in broad daylight, so she wouldn’t feel safe day or night. But surely no one knew of her return. Did she want to live in a city where people threw stones at her because she looked different? In a country where she was incensed into causing riots? There were so many things she needed to consider before she took any action.

  When the coach rolled into their street, she could see lights in all the townhouse’s windows. Celeste clasped her hands nervously, and Erran dropped the pistol back in his pocket.

  “I doubt the reception committee is for us,” he said dryly. “Mrs. Lorna, would you like the coach to carry you home or would you prefer to stay here tonight and wait until daylight?”

  “I’d like to be in my own bed tonight, if you do not mind, my lord. It looks as if the lady has family waiting up for her, so my job is done. It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, but it’s always lovely to be home again.”

  The front door swung open as the driver unloaded their boxes.

  “Celeste, hurry! I think he is having a fit!” Sylvia cried from the doorway.

  Erran muttered a few curses and shoved coins at the driver. Startled, Celeste picked up her skirts and hurried up the short walk.

  Erran grabbed her arm before she could reach the step. “I doubt she’s referring to Jamar or Trevor. Wait. I would introduce you properly.” He gestured at the driver to carry the boxes to the front door.

  Tired and bewildered, assuming he knew what was happening even if she didn’t, Celeste waited for Erran to sort out the harassed-looking footmen who belatedly appeared.

  Sylvia ran down the steps to hug her. “Did you find the journals? Can we go home now? The marquess is quite, quite mad.”

  That was the meaning of the uproar? Shocked, Celeste cast her escort a look of pure fear. “The marquess has arrived? I cannot think the construction is done! Where will we put him?”

  Erran hefted his valise to his shoulder and gestured for her to precede him. “It would be exactly like Dunc to do whatever created the most havoc. We will leave him to camp in the parlor, if so.”

  “He is . . . very large,” Sylvia said, following them inside. “Even Jamar will not go near him.”

  Her words were abruptly punctuated by a roar from the rear of the house. “Don’t give me that twaddle, you sorry jackanapes! Bugger it!” A large object hit a wall with a resounding crack.

  “I assume that’s his valet with him?” Erran asked, setting down his burden and proceeding down the corridor as if violent curses normally permeated the air.

  “I don’t know, my lord,” Sylvia whispered, hanging back. “We’ve stayed upstairs, out of his way.”

  “That won’t do, you know,” Celeste informed them. “We have paid for the exclusive use of this house. A guest is one thing. A berserk marquess is another.”

  More pounding and glass shattering accentuated her words.

  “You slubber-degullion, not there!” the lion roared.

  “Miss Sylvia, if you will direct the servants to carry up your sister’s trunk, please. We’ll see what we can do to quiet the Cyclops.” Holding Celeste’s hand on his coat sleeve, Erran dragged her toward the room at the rear.

  “Leading the lamb to the lion?” she asked with a pinch of irony.

  “More like the witch to the dragon. I expect fireworks,” he retorted. “Keep in mind Duncan was an all-powerful marquess who commanded armies of men before his fall. Now, he can’t even read the estate books or race his horse. I would probably have slit my throat. He prefers verbally slitting the throats of others.”

  “A subtle difference,” she said as he rapped on the panel behind the stairs.

  “No more swag-bellied hedge pigs,” roared the beast. “Begone, the lot of ye.”

  “Shakespeare?” Celeste asked with interest.

  “Is that where he gets it?”

  “That last part. I’m not sure about the slubber-degullion.”

  “That’s cant. I don’t spend much time in the theater and didn’t recognize the rest.” Erran cracked open the door without permission and called around it. “If anyone is a hedge pig, it’s you, oh brother mine. There is a lady present, so stow it until I can present her.”

  A shoe flew past his nose and hit the wall. An elegant but harassed looking servant appeared in the narrow aperture between door and frame. “His lordship has only just arrived and is not prepared for company.”

  “His lordship is never prepared for company,” Erran said as if asking for a neckcloth. “Is he dressed? That’s all I need to know.”

  “Erran, get your sorry arse in here, now!” the marquess shouted.

  “Why, so you can fling a shoe at me? Or at our hostess? You do remember that you are here at the indulgence of the Rochesters? She will turn you out if you behave like an ogre to her and her family.”

  “If you will excuse me, I am not suitable company this evening, Miss Rochester,” the marquess boomed from the darkened room. “Just send in my brother so I can remove his head.”

  “It is very good meeting you, my lord,” Celeste called sweetly through the opening. “I do hope you are settling in nicely.”

  Silence.

  Beside her, Erran winked and waited. He’d heard her calming charm.

  “Another devious, manipulative Malcolm witch, I believe you said?” Ashford said without bellowing. “Come in.”

  Erran had called her a witch to his brother? With surprise as well as trepidation, Celeste cast Erran a quizzical glance. He nodded, offered his arm, and pushed the door open. She was relying on his strength again, but life kept heaving surprises at her, and she felt unbalanced.

  “Ashford, may I present Miss Celeste Malcolm Rochester, part owner of a very large property in Jamaica. Miss Rochester, my hedge-pig brother, Duncan, Marquess of Ashford, Earl of Ives and Wystan, et cetera, et cetera. Dunc, she is making a very pretty curtsy even though she’s been tossed about on a steamship these last twelve hours and more.”

  His lordship was an exceedingly large man, as Sylvia had noted. The marquess was not, however, taller than Jamar. He simply exuded an air of command and authority in just the way he stood—in shirtsleeves with hands on narrow hips, towering above the room’s occupants. He still wore his knee-high boots and riding trousers, although Celeste assumed he had not ridden his horse to town. He stared blindly over her head, but he knew her direction.

  “A curtsy is wasted on me, Miss Rochester, but the perfumed soap isn’t. Nor the voice. Let me hear you speak again.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked, shocked enough by his bluntness to respond in kind. “You call me a devious, manipulative Malcolm witch and then order me around as if I’m a pot boy?” She used her best welcoming voice.

  The red raw scar of Ashford’s brow rose and his lips quirked in a manner reminiscent of Erran’s—when he bothered to smile.

  “By the devil, you’ve found another one, Erran, old boy. Does she collect orphans too? I heard something of the sort.” Ashford stuck out his hand to his side in a demanding gesture.

  The beleaguered valet hastened to place a walking stick in it. Ashford swung it about, apparently looking for a piece of furniture, Celeste hoped. At least he was not swinging it at them.

  “We will discuss orphans at a later time. For now, we’re weary,” Erran said with annoyance. “What the devil are you doing here before the construction is complete?”

  Celeste wanted to hear more about being a witch who collected orphans, but she supposed it was not smart to argue with the marquess who defended her family. Besides, Erran was right. She was too tired to think.

  “Lansdowne is attempting to turn the party against me. I need to be here to take him down a notch or five. If you’ve found the documents the Rochesters need, we’re taking him to court.” Complacently, he took a seat in a large upholstered chair. “You will pardon my behavior, Miss Rochester. My leg still aches abominably.”

  “Of course, my lord,” she almost whispered before she
found her tongue again. “To court, my lord?”

  “Yes. It has come to my attention that the earl is a thief and a liar and quite possibly a potential employer of murderous rogues. Erran, you will file the papers in the morning. I can’t prove any of the other, but we can remove the Rochesters as a source of funds and show him to the world as the hog-grubber he is.”

  Hog-grubber? She would have smiled, but Erran looked decidedly grim. She thought perhaps this had not been his plan.

  “We will discuss it in the morning,” was all he said however. “I’m escorting Miss Rochester to her family. I will be back after we’ve had time to rest.”

  Celeste bobbed a half curtsy before she remembered the marquess couldn’t see her. His presence was so striking, she’d almost forgotten his blindness. “Good-night, my lord. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  He snorted rudely.

  “You’re in danger of becoming a curmudgeon, Dunc,” Erran warned. Guiding Celeste from the room, he slammed the door so his brother would know they were gone.

  “Court?” she whispered. “Why? I thought we only need present the will to the solicitors.”

  “Lansdowne has evidently thrown down some personal gauntlet to which Dunc objects. We’ll find out in the morning. He’ll have servants posted at the doors, so you should be safe now. I’ll leave you to your family and see you in the morning.”

  He held her hand as if he didn’t wish to let go. Breathless with the agony of releasing him, Celeste merely nodded. Their shared interlude had ended. Reality had returned far too rudely.

  Checking the corridor to be certain no one lurked, he bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. Celeste almost begged him to stay—but she could not. Tears forming, she watched him stride toward the back door, evidently to check their security.

  He was a good man. And she was in grave danger of loving him and ruining his life.

  Twenty-seven

  “Pascoe and Lochmas have discovered Lansdowne has sold his vote and his pocket boroughs to a group of investors willing to loan him enough to cover part of his more pressing debts,” Ashford said bitingly.

  Workmen hammered and nailed next to the downstairs study, creating new chambers in the back of the house. Sitting at the ancient desk in his appropriated office, the marquess almost looked like his old self. Almost. The scar on his brow, Erran observed, had lost some of its raw redness, and the blind eyes didn’t focus with the intensity they once had. But his oldest brother could snarl with the best of them.

  How could he explain why he didn’t wish to take Lansdowne to court? He couldn’t tell Duncan that he would inevitably lose his temper, bellow his fury, and be thrown from every courtroom in the kingdom. With a little time, however, the Rochester issue could be resolved with appropriate threats and posturing without need of a courtroom.

  Erran stretched out his legs and glared at his boots. “Still no proof that Lansdowne is behind the thugs who have been harassing the Rochesters? Or that he’s working with your not-so-charming neighbors causing rural riots? I’d like to keep this civil and settle out of court, if at all possible.” Dunc would laugh himself into a fit if he knew Erran feared turning a staid courtroom into a riot. Or worse.

  “I have no proof other than that Montfort and Caldwell are siding with Lansdowne and the Tories. The hands of time can’t be turned back, industry can’t be halted, but they’re fighting anything that resembles change.” Ashford bounced a ball between his hands, successfully catching it despite being unable to see it. “If Montfort had his way, steam engines would be banned as the work of the devil, and we should go back to knights in shining armor—the good old days when the peasants knew their place.”

  “Lansdowne is more progressive than that. Politics makes strange bedfellows. That still doesn’t persuade me,” Erran argued.

  “Lansdowne is a bully. He is too deeply in debt to settle for anything less than complete control of a very valuable asset when he sees the Rochesters as weak and unable to put up a fight,” Ashford continued. “He is currently smearing Miss Rochester’s name across town and is hinting that Lord Rochester is too dark to be English. That won’t stop the court from deciding on the basis of the will, but it will influence solicitors. Try to settle, if you want, but proceed as if it won’t happen.”

  Erran ground his molars. “Then we need to trot the Rochesters around town, introduce them as your wards, let Aster’s family dote on them, and snub our noses at the old hedge pig.”

  Duncan snorted in amusement. “Or paint hedge pig on his door. The ladies will sort all that out, but they cannot fight the legalities. If there is any chance that Lansdowne can sell the plantation and its inhabitants, he will. I will not have people sold into slavery on my watch.”

  And there was the greatest fear—the Rochesters’ servants could be sold and gone by the time Erran attempted settlements and moved on to courtrooms. Jamar had said the tenants and servants had gone into hiding, but that couldn’t last forever. They needed food and housing, and they were deep into hurricane season. Anything could be happening to them right now. Any delay would worsen the odds.

  “I’ll get it done,” Erran said heavily, pushing out of his chair. “We haven’t had time to refurbish the house for entertaining. How will Zack work around you if you set up court in here?”

  “Aster is working her magic in the front room. I can dictate letters anywhere I can sit. Not your concern. Take those documents and file them and start establishing the Rochesters’ authority over their own damned property. If Lansdowne won’t work for us, we’ll leave him juggling so many debts that he won’t have the ability to work against us.” Duncan waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the door.

  “The late baron’s will left Miss Celeste as the guardian of her siblings until they come of age,” Erran warned. “An English court isn’t likely to accept that. Lansdowne will claim guardianship. I’ll prepare documents for you to sign accepting them as your wards.”

  “At least I’m good for something,” the marquess said bleakly. “Go, do what you must.”

  What he must and what he wanted were rapidly diverging. With a black cloud of doom hanging over his head, Erran headed for the front parlor, hoping for a glimpse of Celeste before he rode into the city. Should he woo her or leave her alone?

  A woman wanted to be wooed, he thought. But what did he have to offer? He knew he was smart and could eventually earn his way in the patent business, if not as a barrister. But he was years from offering her the kind of wealth she deserved. She really needed an opportunity to meet men with titles and land before he tried to tie her down. That she hadn’t responded to his proposal said she felt the same.

  She wanted to return to Jamaica.

  He was normally a cautious man. Erran didn’t know how he’d plunged into this predicament. He’d like to believe in magic just to excuse his inexcusable behavior.

  Celeste and Lady Aster had their heads together over a selection of fabrics in the salon. They looked up at his entrance, and his sister-in-law spoke to him, but all he saw was the worry in Celeste’s eyes.

  “I am going to file your documents with the court,” he said after Aster’s nattering quieted. “Don’t go anywhere without strong servants. Better yet, don’t go anywhere.”

  “If you were paying any attention at all,” Aster scolded, “you would know I am having a dinner tonight to introduce Celeste to a few friends. We have invitations to my Aunt Daphne’s soiree tomorrow. Celeste cannot stay home. You will simply have to come with her.”

  Go with them and act the part of polite but distant escort and pretend he hadn’t spent the best nights of his life in her bed . . . Why didn’t he just strangle himself?

  He bowed. “Your wish is my command. I shall see you this evening, then.”

  “Please be careful, my lord,” Celeste said, as if her voice could wrap him in a protective bubble.

  He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed concern for his safety. Her casual comment s
truck a chord deep inside him.

  He was about to file the papers that would give her the freedom to marry anyone in the kingdom or to return her to the other side of the world. That had been his goal from the start—remove her from the Ives townhouse so his family could return.

  And he didn’t want to do it.

  He’d always been the peacemaking brother. But right now, he wanted to sling arrows and have fits of fury like Duncan, then get down on his knees and plead for Celeste to wait until he’d made his fortune.

  Stiffening his spine, he marched out to the combat zone.

  ***

  “You look beautiful, Cee,” Sylvia said wistfully, straightening a sash on Celeste’s new dinner gown. “Everyone will love you.”

  Celeste frowned at the looking glass, studying the effect of expensive fabric, excellent dressmaking, and a coiffure arranged by one of Lady Aster’s maid trainees. Out of respect for her father, she hadn’t wanted to wear bright colors, but those were the only ones she liked. It hadn’t taken much persuasion for Aster to convince her that a simple cream and gold silk was sufficiently respectful.

  She wouldn’t know how she looked until Erran saw her. She was no judge of London tastes. She saw a tall, thin woman with boring brown hair, un-English tanned skin, a too-long neck, and a nose a trifle too prominent. She’d seldom wasted time over her looks before, but now they seemed crucial to making a positive appearance in aristocratic English society.

  “You will sweep all the gentlemen off their feet when you make your come-out, Syllie, and you know it. So give me a chance first.” Using the childhood nickname to reassure her sister, Celeste pressed a kiss on her cheek.

  “If only I could believe it will happen,” Sylvia said with a sigh. “The world may blow away before next year.”

  “Well, in that case, it will hardly matter if you meet gentlemen, for they will all be dead,” Celeste countered pragmatically. “Matters are out of our hands now. All we can do is enjoy each day as it comes and hope for the best. What was Iveston like? Did you have a chance to wear your new gowns?”