He wanted her with every ounce of his body. He seldom craved anything the way he craved Celeste. He would concentrate on how to have her—except he was still uncertain that she wanted him. Not in the way he needed her—permanently.
He terrified himself thinking like that. Maybe he’d been infected by Wystan’s spirits.
“Has there been more trouble?” he asked, rather than make a declaration he had no right to make.
“Nothing new. I have been recruited as hostess for your brother’s meeting this afternoon, but that apparently means no more than greeting and offering refreshments and disappearing.” She didn’t sound worried by the task.
“Use your calming influence when Dunc starts bellowing,” Erran suggested with a smile. “I think it works on him.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “You don’t think that’s unfair of me?”
“I think creating calm is a good thing. It’s riot that I worry about.” At least Celeste would listen to his weird concerns, even if no one else believed him.
“I promise to create no riots,” she agreed, looking relieved. “But your brother does need a calming influence. I shall see what I can do, now that I understand the importance of the legislation he wishes to pass.”
“Keep that in mind when he roars the plaster off the ceiling. I expect to spend most of the day in the city, so I cannot come to the rescue. For that, I apologize.” He bowed over her hand and left her in Jamar’s capable care.
There were far too many people around to even dare a kiss.
***
As the day progressed, Celeste thought of a dozen different things she should have said to Erran when she’d had him so briefly alone. She should have wished him safety, above all. He held papers the earl might kill him for. But with luck, their father’s cousin did not know they’d found the will. The troubles would come once Erran filed the papers and reclaimed their inheritance. How long would that take? And in what form would it come? Lansdowne had shown a nasty predilection for sneakiness.
She couldn’t settle down while considering what might happen. She’d all but given up sewing. Nana and Sylvia turned out several shirts a day, just to keep occupied. Still, they were living off the marquess’s largesse—or his rent, as his family called it. She didn’t know how long that would continue.
They could scrape by on the shirt income should the inheritance case last for years, but she could not bear worrying about the servants at home living in danger. And scraping by wouldn’t put Trevor through school or bring out Sylvia. She had to pray Erran could overcome the powerful earl’s objections and put an end to this purgatory.
So she helped the Malcolm ladies rejuvenate the front parlor where the marquess would entertain his guests. She descended to the kitchen to ask for special treats for the company—and to hug the youngest members of the staff and play with the kittens.
Just thinking of what those children had been through put Ashford’s irascible demands in perspective. She thought he needed to physically vent his frustration over his limitations, so she tried not to take his curses too seriously. If he could improve the working conditions of laborers and give slaves their freedom, then she needed to support him and his family in any way she could.
She rather liked the idea of being useful.
The first of Ashford’s invited guests had been led to the front parlor when the potboy came racing up the backstairs shouting in distress.
“Jamar! They have taken Mr. Jamar!”
Twenty-nine
Stretching the limits of his patience, Erran reached into his purse of coins and produced a silver one to wave below the clerk’s nose. “I have told you, this matter is of great urgency to the marquess. It is a matter of life and death and could affect the entire ministry! I must have the judge’s signature now.”
He had known he’d set himself an impossible task—but he couldn’t bear the idea of dragging Celeste into a courtroom setting where Lansdowne’s lawyers would smear her name. Such a case could drag on for years.
He had this one chance, and this one chance only, to drive the baron’s will through Chancery before Lansdowne heard about it. Once the will and the guardianship papers were filed—the banks would accept them. Lansdowne would have to be the one to file suit.
Today wouldn’t end the conflict. It would just turn the tables. Establishing an executorship should be a simple thing—but not in this pathetic excuse for a court.
Erran kept his voice regulated, but he could feel his fury boiling—which only served to increase his frustration. All his life he’d done his absolute damned best to play the part of noble, responsible gentleman—and no one noticed or even cared.
While Lansdowne lied, cheated, and stole with impunity and no one stopped him. Justice was a damned elusive concept.
“His Honor is otherwise engaged, my lord,” the obsequious clerk responded, managing to palm the silver despite his refusal to expedite matters. “I will see that he knows you are waiting.”
“I have been waiting these last three hours. You are the fourth clerk whose palm I’ve greased, and I’ll not be pawned off on another. All I need is a bloody signature.” He’d drawn up all the papers necessary for Celeste to control her portion and be appointed executor for the estate. He had Ashford’s signature agreeing to take her siblings as his wards because a judge would never deem a woman capable of caring for her own damned family.
All he needed was a signature from the court approving the documents so they might be filed with the will. And the bloody damned judge he’d bribed his way in to see had wandered off to tup his mistress. So now Erran was on a mission to corner another judge.
“His Honor is in court, my lord,” the clerk said apologetically, nearly cringing from Erran’s suppressed fury. “I will send you to him as soon as—”
“My lord, my lord! Over here, my lord!” a boy’s voice cried. “It’s Jamar. They’ve taken Jamar!”
What?
Erran whirled around to gaze over the sea of faces in the crowded waiting room. In the doorway, a bailiff held a small boy by the back of his coat. The boy kicked and screamed and increased his cries when Erran looked his way— a one-armed boy.
“Sir, please! Miss Celeste says help!”
“Put that boy down,” Erran thundered in his Courtroom Voice, not giving it a second thought.
The guard dropped the boy. Every parent with a son in the room did the same, although more gently. An infant began wailing.
“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Erran muttered. He needed to phrase his bellows better. “Tommy, make your way here, if you please,” he said in a more moderate tone. “Explain yourself.”
Although the boy’s terrified cry had been explanatory enough. Erran simply needed a moment to cool his fury and panic.
“The lads from the tavern, sir . . .” the potboy said, gasping for breath. “They came to the kitchen looking for Mr. Trevor, said three big sailors carried off Mr. Jamar when he went to the market. Miss Celeste is crying. Mr. Trevor has gone off to find him.”
Erran put a steadying hand on the weeping boy’s shoulder, trying to calm himself as much as the boy. “You did brilliantly, Tommy, thank you. Are any of the lads out there now?”
Tommy hiccuped and nodded. “They showed me where to go.”
Aware that the entire room was following this drama with fascination, Erran shoved his fury deep inside and feigned a composed demeanor. Thank goodness the boy hadn’t used Trevor’s correct title or the fascination factor would escalate given what he was here to do. “Wait for me on the steps. I’ll be right out.”
Sniffing, wiping his nose on his sleeve, Tommy nodded in relief and hurried out, past the bailiffs who had stopped him earlier.
“I have told you the matter was urgent,” Erran said to the clerk in his most patient voice. “And now a respectable gentleman has been kidnapped and abused by a gang of thugs under the pretense of legality. These papers will end that pretense.” Erran slapped the documents against the
desk, his voice deliberately rising as he carefully framed the words. “I will see the judge, and I will see him now!”
Erran’s forceful tone carried only as far as the clerk—who went wide-eyed as the papers rose off the desk.
He’d levitated papers—probably out of suppressed frustration. He’d probably be burned at the stake if anyone believed it, but they wouldn’t. Even he didn’t believe the evidence literally right beneath his nose.
“Poltergeists,” Erran said curtly. “Don’t anger them.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. If you will come this way . . .” Looking even more terrified, the clerk leapt from his chair, not touching the documents that flopped back to the desk.
The clerk actually obeyed his command! The floating debacle had horrified Erran as much as it had the clerk, but his appalled shock transformed to wicked elation as he grabbed the documents and followed the clerk’s flight. Nothing like terrorizing clerks into doing their duty. He’d be following Cousin Sylvester to the Americas before long.
Hurriedly, the clerk led him down a corridor and opened a door to a chamber filled with dark-coated gentlemen. Inside, the judge was wearing his wig and robes but was obviously presiding over a meeting and not a courtroom.
Erran had no compunction about striding through their midst to lay his papers on a table in front of the judge. The last time he’d raised his voice to a judge, he’d been banned from the courtroom. He was likely to be banned from the bar now, but he no longer had time for noble patience. If he had the power to save a man’s life, he had to conclude morality belonged to his side and not that of the errant court.
“A man has just been kidnapped because I cannot have these filed without your signature,” Erran said in a reasonable tone, despite his fury. “If you wish to save a lady’s family and fortune, you need only press your seal here, and here, Your Honor. If you want the entire story, I’ll be happy to relate it. You will not be happy for these good fellows to hear it.”
This time, he took no chances by following his noble conscience. Despite his calmness, Erran let his fury flow into his voice. If the clerk was any example, it was his anger that fed the compulsion. If this worked, he was being a bully, but he could hope the judge wouldn’t know what hit him.
“Ives? Is that you? What is this about?” a querulous voice called from the gathering as the judge took the papers and affixed his seal without reading or even questioning.
His vocal coercion was actually working with an experienced man of the law! It certainly hadn’t been his eloquent speech. Erran would examine his astonishment later. Right now, he needed to run before the judge regained his senses.
He turned to find the questioner. “Lord Montfort.” Erran bowed while tucking the signed documents into his coat. “You may wish to reconsider which side your bread is buttered on. Lansdowne has committed the unpardonable this time. I will personally see him dragged through the streets.”
Without lingering to see the effect of his declaration, Erran shoved back to the terrified clerk’s desk in the front room and slapped down one of the signed copies. “Take care of this with your life. Have it filed as if the king commands it.”
He added a gold coin as atonement for using intimidation. What purpose was Ashford’s wealth if not to be used for the greater good?
As he walked out, Erran felt no jubilation at achieving what should have been—in a just world—accomplished months ago, when the Rochesters had first arrived and the head of their damned family should have taken them in.
He had stayed within the boundaries of the law. He refused to feel guilty for expediting what had been left unattended too long.
But if he couldn’t save Jamar . . . There was no justice anywhere. What did he do then?
Tommy ran up the moment Erran stepped outside. “The docks, sir. One of the lads will show you.”
The docks, of course. They’d drag dignified Jamar down in chains and be waiting for the next tide out. Filth and damnation.
Erran filled the boy’s meager pocket with silver. “Pass this on to your friends. Have them keep me and Miss Celeste informed, if they can. We will find Jamar, lad, with your fine help.”
The boy’s eyes widened so far, Erran feared they’d fall off of his face. Then Tommy nodded and pointed out a grubby urchin kicking at dried horse dung on the corner. “That’s William. He’s the one what came calling for Mr. Trevor, says he knows which dock they’re at.”
“Can you return to the house on your own?” Erran asked. The court was closer to the docks than the house. He didn’t want to go out of his way, but the boy was small and a stranger to the city.
“Trevor’s lads will take me in their skiff,” Tommy said proudly. “I’ll give them your coins like you said.”
Erran hoped Trevor had chosen his urchins well. He sent Tommy off and faced the older lad watching him warily. “To the docks, William.”
He’d worry about how he’d board a ship on the river and fight an army of sailors once he got there— nobility be damned.
Justice obviously required leadership—or a good healthy shove off a cliff.
***
“Miss Rochester, where the devil are you? Where are the d—, bl—” Ashford swore under his breath, swung his stick at a hall tree, and finally finished bellowing—“Servants?”
Wearing her riding apparel and tying on a cloak, Celeste breathlessly ran down the stairs to the tune of this tirade. “I do apologize, my lord,” she called, as she rushed toward the front door.
The marquess stood commandingly in the arched doorway of the formal parlor. He stuck his walking stick across the hall to halt her. Behind him milled an assortment of gentlemen following their conversation with interest. She assumed they would observe anything the marquess did at this point. Watching a blind man taking his place in Parliament would be much akin to watching monkeys in a cage.
The fate of all Britain might rest on Ashford’s shoulders. And still she could not abandon Jamar. Perhaps her newly developed backbone was in the wrong place.
“Where are you going?” the marquess demanded.
“Lansdowne’s bullies have stolen Jamar,” she said furiously, pulling on her riding gloves and shoving aside his stick. “They will claim he is part of the estate and sell him. It is not to be borne. You may tell your friends that slavery is inhumane . Who do they think they are, allowing human beings to be sold away from their families? The Roman Caesars and their armies are deservedly dead . Britain should not court their fate.”
“I do not need a lecture, Miss Rochester,” the marquess retorted. “I asked where you are going. Do you need the carriage?”
She tried not to gape in astonishment. “I believe a horse will be quicker, my lord. Trevor has gone to fetch some.” She was terrified. She had never done anything like this in her life. But if she had any spine at all, it was because Jamar had showed her how to grow one.
And Lord Erran had given her the support to use it.
“And just what precisely do you hope to achieve by going alone? One assumes you are not carrying pistol or sword.”
She had no idea what she hoped to achieve. A riot, perhaps. “I will not let Jamar believe he’s been abandoned. I have my sewing money. I will find some way—”
“You have wits to let, Miss Rochester.” The marquess turned back into the room. “You have your phaeton, George?”
***
By the time Erran reached the dock, a mob had formed. Carriages and wagons filled the cobblestoned roadway and the pier was milling with laborers.
His blood thundered in panic. He prayed Celeste had stayed home and not ventured into this crude sailor’s hurly-burly.
But even as he thought it, he heard her crystalline angel’s voice carry over the rumbles of the rough and disorderly crowd. “It is that ship right out there, the Jolly Wench. We cannot let it sail!”
Oh hell and damnation—did the woman not remember how a London riot deteriorated into violence?
Erran
swung off his horse and hauled down the urchin who had directed him here. “My thanks, lad.” He pressed a gold coin into the boy’s palm. “We may need your help rescuing the lady, if you wish to hang about a bit.”
Gazing at the coin in astonishment, the tough tested the metal with his teeth. “I can look after your horse for you.”
Not looking back, Erran shoved his way into the mob, keeping his eye out for the blasted female doing her best to get herself killed. Or worse. The docks were no place for a woman alone.
He discovered Celeste standing on a pylon on the pier, balancing her tall, slender frame with delicate grace above the rough men with whom she pleaded.
One small shove—and she’d be dragged down into the tide, into the filthy sewer of a disease-ridden river. The mob was too close. One shove was inevitable with the fury she was raising.
He could hear her fear and fury. The mob heard only her command. Seamen were already leaping into skiffs and setting sails as if she were their general. She was damned well sending them to war!
Her hood had fallen back from her mahogany hair, revealing the full beauty of her brilliant eyes and slashing cheekbones. Half the men here were probably spell-bound by her captivating looks alone. Erran elbowed a filthy sailor out of his way in his rush to reach her.
“We must stop this piracy!” she called in a soaring voice that carried over the dock and probably the water. “A man should not be taken in chains and forced to abandon his home!”
Eminently foul word. Erran elbowed faster. She was describing the British system of punishment—chain up the thieves, heave them on a boat to the penal colonies, and forget about them.
The rumbles around him were that of agreement. These men lived with that threat every day. They didn’t care about Jamar, probably didn’t even know he was African or Jamaican. Prison ships, they understood. She was brilliant.
And her magic was terrifying. But it couldn’t save her from the river. Her layers of petticoats alone would drown her.
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