Apparently accompanying her family to London had given the marquess incentive to leave the protective walls of his manor, from what she’d been able to determine. If a carriage was required for Sylvia and Nana, then Ashford could escort them in the carriage and salvage his masculine pride. His custom previously had been to gallop into town on his stallion, which he could no longer do.
It was good that they could be of assistance, she thought. She’d reserve her opinion until she learned how obnoxious the marquess intended to be now that he was installed downstairs.
Celeste studied her meager jewelry box and decided on her childhood pearls. She fastened the earrings while watching her sister in the glass.
Sylvia laughed. “Iveston was like living in a zoo with horses and dogs and sheep and goats. Trev rode out with a group of boys every day, so he was happy. But there are no women there, except a few maids and Lady Aster. We scoured the library for Malcolm journals and measured windows for new draperies. It was interesting, but I expected the home of a marquess to be more elegant.”
“Well, you saw this place, so you shouldn’t have expected better. Men take little interest in their surroundings, and it does seem to be an all-male household.” Although Erran had been quick to note improvements needed here, but as a younger son, he didn’t have the authority to change his brothers’ careless ways. She thought he might be different from his brothers, given the chance.
That gave her something pleasant to think about when the carriage arrived. She was relieved to see that Erran accompanied it.
The marquess had retreated to his own quarters after the carpenters left for the day, leaving Jamar guarding the front door. Entering through the foyer, Erran doffed his hat and watched her descend the stairs, but he revealed nothing of his thoughts. Celeste was left hoping that was admiration in his eyes when he offered his gloved hand to assist her on the last step.
“I knew that gown would look excellent on you,” he murmured as he lifted her hand to his lips. In front of Jamar, he could scarcely do more.
He stirred everything in her that was female. With Erran’s approving gaze on her, she felt as if her breasts might actually be the perfect size, and that her height was ideal. None of that ought to matter, but somehow, it did. She lowered her lashes so he couldn’t see the longing there, but her gown was so revealing, she feared he could see her breath catch.
“The gown does what it must,” she admitted, trying to sound as casual as he. “The problem is in knowing what I must be to achieve the approval we seek.”
He quirked his dark eyebrows, showing he understood. “Aster and Theo will only invite sympathetic guests. Their friends are scientists and intellectuals who will be intensely curious about your home, the charities you mean to support, and your politics. Try being yourself and see if I am not right.”
“If only I could believe it so,” she murmured. But so much rode on her making an impression that she didn’t think she could do it, even if she knew who she was, which she didn’t, really. It had been so long since she’d not had to disguise herself!
Erran knew the real her. He appeared to like her without need of her charm—which enthralled her far more than it should. She had little hope that he would follow her to Jamaica.
“Do you have additional footmen to send with us?” Erran turned to Jamar, obviously more interested in practicalities than the state of her foolish heart.
“Two who claim they can use pistols,” Jamar replied. “Or I can ride on the outside.”
“No, you need to be here with the others. The driver has pistols. We’ll station one with him and the other in back. I don’t expect trouble tonight. It’s too soon. I just prefer to be cautious.” Erran placed Celeste’s hand on his arm. “I apologize for such harsh talk, but I wish you to be prepared as well. I don’t think you will become missish on me, will you?”
“I think I shall,” she said vaguely, producing a fan and flapping it to conceal her expression. “It is the only way to go about in society, isn’t it?”
“Not in Malcolm society,” he said with a laugh.
She swallowed, wondering if she could believe that, if she dared drop her deceptive charm and be herself.
Her maid brought her pelisse and Erran helped her don it. Then they were on their way to Celeste’s first formal London event. She took comfort in Erran’s assurance that her hostess would not invite anyone who would scorn her—unless one counted Celeste’s own half-sister. The Guilfords had been invited.
Erran’s prediction proved correct. Lady Aster and Lord Theo’s guests asked politely after the marquess, then proceeded to quiz her on her own interests. Her half-sister Charlotte and her husband looked a little rural and out of place, but they were treated with the same respect as Celeste. In return, they barely said a word.
Celeste answered questions as honestly as she could, refraining from using her Other Voice, and no one appeared to object to her sometimes sharp observations.
“I feel horribly uneducated,” she whispered to Erran as the evening progressed. “Everyone here has such fascinating interests! I sew and cook and keep house. I take it those are not done here?”
“You need only look beautiful and nod intelligently and they will be thrilled to make your acquaintance. You are doing just fine.” He squeezed her hand beneath the table
After dinner, Celeste listened to the other ladies, spoke of her interest in Aster’s charities, and did her best to blend in with the beautifully exotic withdrawing room. Lady Aster’s tastes in decor reflected her eccentric interests, resulting in a London room that resembled an Indian jungle dotted with stars and moons and cats.
When the men joined the women later, the conversation took a more treacherous turn.
“The reports make preposterous claims that some female demon lured the mill workers out, then entranced them into making impossible demands,” Celeste heard one of the political types say. “Superstitious rural sorts don’t look for logical explanations, of course, but it is unusual for women to stand up for themselves.”
Several of the lady guests raised objections to that assessment. Clenching her teeth in fear as well as in angry protest, Celeste let them speak for her. She really had not thought of repercussions when she’d demanded that poor mother be taken home. Although she would probably have done the same, even if she’d known the gossip would run straight to London.
Erran strolled over to stand behind her chair. She was grateful for his presence, but she had to learn to do this on her own—if only she knew what “this” was.
“The workers can’t possibly win against the mill owners,” one of the men argued. “They will all starve.”
“Or start a revolution,” another man warned.
“What do you think, Miss Rochester?” one of the women asked. “You are familiar with slavery. Would you say that the mill conditions are any different?”
“I have only ever seen one mill,” she said, choosing her words with care. Erran had said to be herself with these people. That meant not sweet talking them into hearing what she wanted them to hear, or relaxing into the comfortable mood she might weave around them. “But if all mills are similar, then I would have to say that many slaves are treated better, though not all, certainly. Slaves are valuable property, so working them to death or deformity is a foolish waste. Whereas the mill workers are apparently expendable. That, alone, makes a difference, although not a moral one. People are people and all should be treated with respect.”
She held her breath, waiting for tempers to explode and people to turn their backs on her. Instead, they dived into a much deeper discussion about the ills of slavery, the need for labor reform, and the economic advantages of income equality. Her head swam with the topics springing up around her.
Erran squeezed her shoulder and moved into the crowd.
“That was very nicely said,” one intimidating lady said. “I wonder if you might speak at my salon someday? There is a bill being prepared to abolish all slavery on B
ritish soil, and you might sway a few influential people.”
“I . . . Yes, of course,” Celeste said, wondering if these people had heard the rumors the earl was spreading about her and didn’t care, or if they hadn’t heard.
“You will be attending the McDowell soiree tomorrow night, won’t you?” a young gentleman asked. “I look forward to introducing you to a few people who will be delighted to meet a new face in town. We can look forward to a number of balls once the rest of Parliament returns for the vote. I will score a feather in my cap for knowing you first.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting new people,” Celeste agreed faintly.
She glanced at her half-sister and waited for Charlotte to repeat the earl’s rumor about her being a bastard, but the Guilfords had cornered a gentleman who might press their ambitions in government and scarcely acknowledged her existence.
She’d survived her entrance into London society—but she had still done it with Erran’s aid. Somehow, she had to learn to do it on her own. If she had learned nothing else this past year, it was that she could not always rely on others.
She needed to be in full control of her fate before she made any decisions.
Twenty-eight
As had become his custom, Erran entered the town house through the kitchen door early the next morning. The cooks ignored him. Usually Nana or Jamar was around to acknowledge him, but not this time. The one-armed potboy gave him a gap-toothed grin, and the lame little girl looked up from her seat at the table where she peeled potatoes. They looked healthier and better dressed than when they’d first arrived. That was how a fair world should work, and no magic had been involved.
Aster had apparently been by to check on them. The children now had kittens—in their laps and in a basket by the hearth. One tumbled out to investigate his boots before he could reach the stairs. Erran bent to rub the little fellow’s head before preventing it from escaping up the stairs with him.
Pondering the best way of convincing Celeste to the insanity of marrying him to live in poverty in chilly England instead of returning to a plantation in sunny Jamaica, he strode upstairs to enter the chaos only his brothers could create.
Except, this time, Celeste’s family and servants seemed to have joined with Aster’s, and his brothers were more or less sidelined in confusion. Interesting.
Standing in the back of the hallway, Erran crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the wall, and simply observed the sublime folly. Aster’s Aunt Daphne stood in the foyer, chanting and waving a lit candle as if directing an orchestra. Aster was reading from what appeared to be one of her family journals, sing-songing her aunt’s chant and sprinkling dried herbs along the newly-built walls enlarging Duncan’s chamber.
He could hear Celeste and her sister in the parlor. He couldn’t detect the words but he could feel . . . prayer . . . in them. That was the only description he could apply. Such celestial voices had the power to make him feel as if he were in church.
He could use a little prayer to help him push the Rochester documents through the medieval maze of Chancery before Lansdowne caught wind of them. Once the papers were filed, the old goat would have to sue Dunc to get his hands on the estate funds.
But even Erran had to admit that ramming the documents through the kingdom’s slowest, most corrupt, court probably wouldn’t happen without supernatural aid. Apparently Celeste and her family had concluded they needed the help of ghosts or the devil. He couldn’t tell. His wearing a fashionable new coat and pleated shirt were as much superstition as chanting, he supposed. They wouldn’t impress the court or sway a judge who already held him in contempt, but they gave him confidence.
Theo and Trevor weren’t looking prayerful. They were wearing disgruntled expressions and waving flaming candles at the ceiling as they roamed from room to room. Erran couldn’t see Jamar or Nana, but he could hear their mellifluous accents intoning along with the others from rooms along the corridor.
He could swear he heard his half-brother Jacques in Duncan’s room, although it was hard to tell over Duncan’s roars. Jacques had been more-or-less squatting in Aster’s London home while hunting for directors for his plays. He would do anything Aster ordered him to do, and Jacques loved a good drama.
All the scene needed was their half-brother William’s dogs and a sacrificial goat.
It wasn’t Iveston or this house that was crazed—it was the whole damned family.
Erran waited until Aster had vanished into the parlor. Hoping Lady McDowell wouldn’t notice him in the shadows, he steeled himself and strode down the hall. In the study he could hear Jamar intone a chant in a language that wasn’t English. The ladies probably couldn’t tell the manservant wasn’t following the program, but Jamar seemed enthusiastically involved in whatever in hell was happening. Erran pushed open the door to Duncan’s bedchamber.
“You’ve brought me to a nest of Bedlamites,” Ashford shouted at the sound of the opening door.
“I didn’t bring you here,” Erran retorted, studying the situation.
Jacques was seated cross-legged in the center of the massive bed, presumably where Duncan couldn’t whack him with his walking stick. His blond half-brother held a candle and read incantations from a script, ignoring Ashford’s ire.
“I was the one who recommended that you wait until I had removed the Rochesters to better accommodations,” Erran reminded him.
Ashford was pacing the room, using his stick to fend off objects in his way. “If you’re coming in here with more prattle about protective charms and enhancing the power of the ley lines, you can walk right out again.”
“Do you happen to know what set them off?” Erran removed a tea tray before it fell victim to Ashford’s counting of steps—his means of determining his location.
“Damned if I know,” the irritable marquess growled. “No one tells me anything. I thought something must have happened at Theo’s dinner last evening.”
Erran thought about it. “I can’t recall anything that would require protective charms. I told Theo I was taking the Rochester documents into the city today. Miss Rochester’s half-sister was present, but I don’t think they exchanged half a dozen words. Perhaps the spirits spoke to them,” he said jestingly, although unease crept down his spine recalling the odd atmosphere of Wystan. Could he dismiss the possibility of spirits without scientific investigation?
Duncan waved a cantankerous dismissal. “Where are those contractors? Shouldn’t they be finishing that wall?”
“It’s early yet. They should be here shortly. Does Jones approve of his new chamber?” Erran looked for the valet but the man had apparently gone into hiding.
“He’s out choosing wallpapers,” Duncan complained. “He’ll be gilding the ceiling if you don’t take him in hand. Jacques, will you shut up the infernal incantations so we can hear ourselves think!”
As if the spirits had spoken, the entire household grew silent. Jacques crumpled up the paper he’d been reading from and grinned. “Oh, yes, my lord and master. I can feel the power now. I shall sell this play and make my fortune!”
“Balderdash. You’d sell it faster if you were actually talking to people who could buy it and not witches who think they can pull power from the earth. Go find out if anyone is fixing my coffee.” Duncan smacked his stick against a bedpost.
“Aster says we’re witches too,” Jacques chortled as he sprang from the bed. “Or maybe sorcerers. I could use a little magic power. So could both of you.” He strode off, whistling.
“The hell of it is, I think she may be right,” Erran muttered, straddling a chair and prying out that admission for public humiliation. “And I think your Wystan property is haunted.”
Ashford waved a dismissive hand. “Unless we can summon demons or angels to win this vote, I don’t care if we’re Merlin’s descendants. Just get the Bedlamites out of sight before my guests start arriving. I’m holding a party meeting this afternoon.”
Erran grimaced at Ashford’s c
omplete dismissal of his deepest, darkest secret. So much for thinking he had any importance. “ There’s the key to their ritual, lunkhead,” he retorted. “The women have a lot riding on the election, and they’re no doubt hoping to cast a spell of good fortune on you. You brought the fol-de-rol on yourself.”
Duncan glared sightlessly at Erran. “Take your damned papers to court. Crucify Lansdowne and his cronies. That will help more than singing hymns.”
“If you think they’re singing hymns, you either need a physician to check your ears or you need a woman of your own to remind you of what they’re like, old boy. I recommend the latter. You don’t need eyes to bed them,” Erran suggested cynically. “But I’d wait until we’ve moved out the Rochesters before you start trotting light-skirts through here.”
He escaped before the book Duncan threw slammed into the door. The blind man was getting too damned accurate in his aim.
Erran wasn’t entirely certain why he’d stopped by. He should have gone straight from Pascoe’s house to the city, but he’d been up early and had the time and . . . he wanted to start his day by seeing Celeste. He found her in the front room with her family, all of them talking at once.
“I’ll have Emilia look at the garden once the workmen are gone,” Lady McDowell was saying as Erran entered. “The rowan bush is still alive, at least. I think if you place a few twigs in the corners of the house, you’ve done all you can. Your servants have a very powerful magic. I could feel the difference.”
“I should speak to them before they return to their duties,” Celeste said, catching Erran’s eye and crossing the room toward him.
“Yes, of course,” Aster said, although she smiled knowingly. “And be sure to tell Lord Erran that his mission has been enhanced to the best of our abilities.”
He bowed silently, refusing to rise to her bait. “Good morning, ladies. I believe I saw Jamar in the study. I need a word with him also. Shall we greet him together?” He offered his arm and was rewarded with Celeste’s ungloved hand on his sleeve and her floral scent easing his confusion.
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