“Sometimes, they don’t feed it,” Erran said knowledgeably, louder than necessary. He didn’t need his impassioned Courtroom Voice to fool a fool. “That’s when it growls. But I ain’t goin’ near. Don’t never know if the gate is barred or if it can leap over if it likes my smell.”
As if on cue, a loud thump rattled the gate. Erran staggered back, as if in fear. His companion took several more steps toward the end of the mews. A low, almost realistic growl emanated from the yard. Erran had never heard a lion and wouldn’t know what one would sound like, but he was pretty certain the maggot in the alley hadn’t either.
Another harder thump and louder growl followed.
“It’s comin’ after us!” Erran hollered, shoving the man between his shoulder blades. “Run!”
The spy didn’t need more encouragement. He sprinted down the alley, leaving Erran in his dust—probably because Erran was leaning against the building, downing his ale and chuckling.
“That you, Jamar?” he called quietly once the lurker was gone.
The gate slid open and the towering African gestured for Erran to enter. “He has been there for nearly an hour. The ladies were frightened by the torches and shouts down the road, so I said I would watch.”
“Excellent thinking.” Before crossing the mews, Erran scattered the pile of throwing-sized rocks where the lurker had stood. To his horror, he found an unlit torch among them. Surely no one meant to torch the house with people in it?
The day’s weariness escalated to fury—and he kicked the pile of stones. They scattered with unusual velocity, as if shot from a cannon. Levitation involved lifting objects, did it not? Not rolling them? He must have hit them harder than he thought. Maybe the power points added force to his swing, he thought sardonically.
More worried about arson than stones, Erran stalked through the open gate with a sense of urgency. “Whoever is behind the alley scalawags is not a gentleman if he’s capable of hiring thugs under cover of the rioters. Does it sound as if the mob is coming closer?”
Jamar frowned worriedly and hastened his step. “They have turned this way.”
Damnation. He had only the one pistol and a pouch of lead shot with him. Good for close range but no more. “Don’t suppose you have a shotgun?” he asked, following the giant into the back hall.
“We have swords.” Jamar confirmed their lack of modern weaponry.
“Keep the ladies upstairs or in the kitchen. Shattering glass is a favorite pastime of mobs. Bring me a sword, if you can spare one. If the ruffians are out there, they may attempt rushing the house.” Erran refused to believe an earl would be behind these depredations, but if Duncan’s new enemies, Montfort and Caldwell, were trying to curry favor—nameless rioters were just their sort of tactic.
“If there are only a few of the ruffians, I can stop them,” Erran added. Not if they came at the house with torches, but he’d have to hope they wouldn’t be that daring. “Just in case, let’s bring some buckets of water up here.”
Looking horrified as he caught the direction of Erran’s fears, Jamar took the kitchen stairs two at a time, reappearing with buckets.
Trevor raced from the upper floor a little later carrying a rapier and a short sword—the weapons of Georgian courtiers. Loading his pistol, Erran counted the blades as one step better than nothing.
“I am a dead aim with a pistol but not good with a sword,” Trevor said, eyeing the long barrel of the one Erran was loading.
“I’ve modified this one to hold more than one round.” Erran sighted along the barrel. “I cannot verify its accuracy.”
Trevor waited silently for his decision. With resignation, Erran handed it over, knowing he had more strength for sword wielding than the lad.
The raucous shouts grew louder. It would be damned expensive replacing the glass windows. They’d probably been there a century or more.
The boy expertly checked the loading and sight and nodded his approval. “Thanks.” A man of few words.
Erran doubted a silver tongue could persuade a mob, especially if he couldn’t be heard over the drunken shouts. But if he was to test his theory and experiment, now was the time.
Before he could step outside, he winced at the sound of shattering glass up the street. Women screamed in terror. He yanked back a drapery panel, and in the torchlight, he saw the mob rocking a carriage. The terrified horses reared while the mob jeered. He didn’t see a policeman anywhere.
Rage filled him. Protesting was one thing. Harming the innocent was quite another. And if this was the work of Lansdowne to drive his relations out of their home . . . he would remove the man’s head—slowly and with great relish.
“Stand here,” he told the boy, pointing at the front foyer. “If anyone comes in through the windows or the door, you have only five shots. Use them wisely.”
The boy nodded, looking more determined than fearful.
Erran clutched the hilt of the sword, knowing the folly of going up against a drunken mob alone. But as an Ives, he never turned away from a challenge. He couldn’t allow those innocent women in the carriage and their horses to suffer.
Holding both sword and rapier upright like torches, he marched down the steps and into the streets. He had no chance of being heard without shouting. If ever there was a time to experiment, it was now.
“Cease and desist!” He didn’t use his courtroom fury but his bellow reverberated loudly in his own ears.
Only a few of the marchers even glanced in his direction. The others continued shouting and rocking the carriage containing the shrieking women.
Feeling like a right bloody fool marching on a mob with a sword, Erran stalked down his street like an avenging warrior. His expertise was in building mechanical weapons, not wielding old-fashioned swords, but he knew the basics. Stick ’em and they bleed. Rather unsporting when it came right down to it.
But he was furious enough to use the flat side of the sword to swat aside a man who approached him with fists upraised. “Cease and desist!” he shouted again. The man fell back, startled. That was satisfying, but not particularly unusual. Erran knew he was big and dressed like a gentleman. Most working men followed orders.
More of the cowards at the carriage turned in his direction. The ones who were merely shouting slogans began to dart uneasy looks toward the alleys. The rock-throwing lot reached for their pockets.
Erran smacked the sword against the ear of a drunk who dared fling a handful of pebbles scooped from the street. The drunk stumbled and fell, but more of the mob grew brave enough to heave their artillery at the windows high above the streets. Glass broke.
The horses screamed as the traces tilted with the carriage.
Stopping a mob by himself was futile.
Erran’s sense of justice required that he test his damned stupid superstitious theory. Praying his fury wasn’t getting the better of good sense—he lifted his sword and allowed his rage at injustice to boil over into the full power of the terrifying voice he’d used to command a courtroom. “Drop that carriage!”
This time, the villains halted and glanced around in panic.
The first time he’d released that peal of sound, he’d shocked himself. This time, it felt devilishly good, which probably meant he was going to hell. But the ladies and horses were still in danger. Concentrating on the carriage, Erran aimed his anger and his sword at the men with torches. “Set the carriage down!”
The rioters abruptly dropped the carriage in mid-push. The nearly-overturned vehicle rocked from its precarious position to miraculously fall back on its wheels.
Could he possibly have levitated a carriage?
Before Erran could sort out his next action, a sweet voice called from an upper story window in the house he’d just left. “Your families need you. Go home before anyone is hurt!”
Beneath the sweetness, Erran heard bitter anger. He glanced back to see the window open, and Miss Rochester’s slender form perched on the sill. Her almond-shaped eyes had narrowed and her lips tightened in
an expression that reflected a fury as great as his own. But her voice was a melodious siren call.
“Run, run before you’re caught,” she cried with deceptive sweetness.
And they did. With guidance now, half the mob fled. Stumbling drunkenly, they melted into the shadows. Whatever their voices were doing, it seemed to be dissolving the riot. Erran was too enraged to be amazed. Torches still advanced in this direction—the real ringleaders?
If so, he needed to know who’d hired them. Erran strode into the street, rapier in one hand, sword in the other. “Halt!” he thundered, the sound echoing off the walls.
There were more of them than him, and still they hesitated—as if he were a conquering army loaded with weaponry. Fearing for his own sanity, Erran had to force his feet to stay planted where they were. “Who sent you?” he demanded.
Before his stunned audience could respond, Celeste’s celestial voice called, “There’s a tankard waiting for you at the tavern!”
The torch-bearers rightfully looked confused. Was her voice actually countermanding his? Erran glared up at her. “Go back inside,” he ordered.
She didn’t. So much for his Courtroom Voice if it wouldn’t command one damned female.
“Tell me who sent you!” Erran roared at the ringleaders before they escaped.
“Go away, little boys,” Celeste sung from on high.
Erran clutched his sword, but he didn’t dare shout at her to shut up. He had no notion of what in hell was happening here, but if there was any chance he had tilted a carriage, he wasn’t risking her falling out of a window because he was furious with her.
With Erran’s attention diverted, his audience chose to follow Celeste’s siren call. They threw down their torches to smolder in the gutter and sauntered off down alleys. The stragglers, without their leaders, threw a few punches at each other and drunkenly marched off—theoretically in the direction of a tavern.
Down the street, a servant raced out of a house to soothe the frantic horses. Two uniformed policemen finally appeared to help the women in the carriage. Only the stench of guttering torches and spilled ale remained of the riot.
Furious, Erran stomped into the house, slammed and bolted the door, and headed up the stairs, more out of instinct than logical decision. When Trevor started to follow, Erran pointed at the foyer. “Stand guard until the streets are quiet. We don’t know if they’ll be back.”
With the boy’s nod, Erran continued up the stairs. The silent African housekeeper stood in front of a closed door, a fireplace poker in hand and a fierce expression on her broad features. She searched his face a moment, then relaxed and slipped back into the room she’d been guarding.
Erran knew for fact that he wouldn’t find the older Miss Rochester sensibly behind closed doors. He stalked down the corridor to the front salon—where he’d specifically told her not to go.
Miss Rochester was still seated in the window. At his entrance, she watched him warily.
“What did you just do?” he demanded. He wanted to yell and shout and call her three kinds of fool, but now that disaster had been averted, he was too confused.
He’d stopped a mob? Or had she? And the carriage?
Abruptly drained of all his avenging need for justice, he dropped on the bench beside her—a mistake. He inhaled her delicate fragrance and had to fight the urge to take her into his arms and shake her. Or kiss her. His rage had become a boiling stew of confusion. Lust was simple and easier to act on.
The most logical conclusion was that he was losing his mind.
She wrapped her slender fingers around his hand, the one holding the sword. He hadn’t even realized he still carried it. He released the hilt, and the weapon dropped to the worn carpet. He tossed the rapier down beside it. She didn’t release his hand. He didn’t know what that meant and was too dazed to care.
“I’m not certain what happened,” she said softly. “All I’ve ever done before is ask for pretty lace or scare bad little boys. Although once I caused a minor riot when all the boys scrambled to fetch me the last orange from a tree.”
Erran pondered a few swear words at that admission. She used her siren call on little boys? And they’d responded?
He was to believe she persuaded a mob to depart with her voice?
He’d label this Malcolm madness and walk away . . . except he wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t just commanded a mob to disperse. And she’d beat him at his own game. Only he’d bellowed and she’d sung; he’d ordered, and she’d entreated. Madness.
“You ask nicely and you are given lace and oranges and little boys run away?” Erran asked sarcastically. Needing solid reality, he leaned against the wall, circled her waist, and tugged her back with him.
To his astonishment, she rested her head against his shoulder as if she needed this contact too. “Only Jamar notices when I do it. He told Papa that he gave in to my wiles too easily. It was never intentional at first.”
“You just ask, and people give? You could walk up to the bank and ask for your father’s money, and they would hand it over?” Erran was tired and confused enough to appreciate the sound of that, even though he knew in the light of day, it wasn’t right or just. That was temptation speaking. Just because one could do something, didn’t mean he should—as Cousin Sylvester’s case proved.
“I’ve always had anything I wanted,” she admitted. “I’ve never needed to ask for what might not be given freely. And you don’t respond when I try to tell you what I want. Neither does Jamar now that he knows of my persuasion. So how can I know a banker would listen? I’ve never really tested myself. What about you? I’ve never ever heard a voice like yours. You spoke with the power of gods,” she said in what almost sounded like awe.
Erran wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her for not calling him a monster. That would end this impossible conversation in a more comprehensible manner.
He didn’t want to consider what they’d just done because it was bloody damned spooky. He could write it off as coincidence that they’d shouted just as the mob decided they’d gone too far and shrank away in shame after they struck the carriage.
But he knew better, just as he knew that crowd hadn’t turned down this side road by accident. Mobs kept to the main streets where they could summon the most notice. He didn’t blame them. Without a vote, it was the only way poor men could make their voices heard. But the spy with his torch in the mews warned that this was no ordinary mob led by the usual troublemakers. Their route had been planned.
“Whatever we did, it was wrong, and doing it again would make us more evil than the rioters,” he said angrily.
“Are you calling me evil?” she asked in surprise, shoving away.
“You drove away the villains I needed to talk to. You might as well have been in league with whoever sent them.” He said it as disparagingly as possible so she wouldn’t fall into his arms again.
He needed to get away from a woman who could counter and possibly exceed his Courtroom Voice. He couldn’t trust her any more than he could trust himself.
She smacked his whiskered jaw and stalked out. The smack stung, and he almost felt better for it.
***
Leaving the Rochesters to themselves, Erran located a few of the miscreants in a tavern on a back street off St. James. The first lot he talked to weren’t drunk enough to do more than growl at him to back off. He needed to change into something less . . . tailored.
He returned to the house, left his coat in the kitchen, and borrowed one of Jamar’s old ones. It hung on him so badly that it looked as if it came from a second-hand store. By this time, he was tense enough to need a few pints of his own.
When he stopped in the next tavern, the men were drunk enough to include him in their revelry. While Erran guzzled his ale, he listened.
Among the usual uneducated diatribes against politicians, government, and aristocrats, he caught the puzzled murmurings of men who had marched with different goals in mind. Even in their drunkenn
ess, they were trying to work out how they’d been diverted. Erran edged in their direction.
“We ain’t gonna get paid,” one mourned. “All this work for naught.”
“Ain’t no work,” another scoffed. “Bit o’fun is all. Why’d you run when the toff shouted? There was more of us.”
“I didn’t run,” the first speaker protested. “But the lady promised us a tankard. I thought we was done.”
“Ain’t natural,” one of the less drunk said in puzzlement. “He yells at us to stop, and the fools stopped as if he were the king.”
A fellow in a knit cap snorted. “We wouldna stopped for no king. Thought it was the fellow who paid us, myself. Did you see them swords? He coulda skewered us right proper.”
“The lady had the voice of me own mama,” one drunk said rapturously.
The argument descended from there into inebriated reminiscences. The chances of finding out who had promised payment weren’t high.
Erran questioned them a time or two as the night wore on, but it became apparent they had taken coins, threats, and promises from men no better than themselves. Whoever had set the rioters loose had sent minions who would be difficult to trace.
After ascertaining no actual harm had come from their venture into the Wyrd, Erran gave up, drank his ale, and dismally contemplated his future as a mute.
Eight
The next morning, Celeste did her best to pretend it was a perfectly ordinary day, rather than consider herself evil as Lord Erran had suggested.
She had slapped a gentleman! She had never in her life been so . . . so rude.
Of course, no one had ever made her feel as furious, or as lonely.
She yanked her hair into a braid, pinned it at her nape, covered it with a dark bonnet, and picked up the satchel of newly-sewn shirts. Lady Azenor’s visit yesterday had interrupted their routine and put them behind schedule.
Trevor met her in the hall. “Did Lord Erran explain how he held off a mob?” he asked in wide-eyed anticipation. “He confronted a mob with nothing more than a sword and rapier!”
She had stayed awake all night fretting over Lord Erran’s behavior. Such bravery was beyond her experience. That somehow they’d managed to disperse a mob still caused her to shiver, but she refused to believe what they’d done was evil.
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