Whisper of Magic

by Patricia Rice

  She had wanted to shower him with kisses of gratitude when he’d returned, whole and unharmed. There for a brief moment, he had held her against his big body and made her feel safe. And then he’d shattered her brief peace by calling her bad.

  She sniffed in disdain. “I’d rather box Lord Erran’s ears for explaining nothing. For all I know, he instigated the attacks to scare us into accepting his aid.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” Trevor said in indignation. “You just don’t like anyone disturbing your boring routine.” He stalked off down the hall, leaving her to hurry down the stairs alone.

  If she was to put food on the table, she must put one foot in front of the other and march onward, not fret over impossibilities.

  At least Nana had said the machine was running more smoothly, and she should make better time now that she didn’t have to rip out bad stitches. Celeste need only convince the tailor that the rioters were at fault for their not finishing the order.

  Wrapping her cloak around her, she entered the kitchen. She stumbled to a halt at finding Lord Erran ensconced at the table, sipping coffee and filling his plate with bacon and toast. He rose at her entrance and bowed as if they met at this hour every day. Her heart thumped so hard, she feared everyone heard it. He called her evil, then usurped her home!

  He hadn’t shaved. His dark beard shadowed a square chin and the hollows beneath his strong cheek bones. His usually immaculate linen was rumpled and dusty, but he wore his frock coat buttoned and had made some effort to brush off the dirt. He’d slicked his unruly black curls with water, but they were springing back up as they dried. One fell over his sardonic eyebrow as he regarded her dreary attire.

  “Good morning, Miss Rochester. Were you intending to go out without an escort at this hour? I don’t advise it.” He used a modulated baritone far different from last night’s that still managed to reflect his irritation.

  Deciding it was easier to suspect his motives than accept his aid, she tightened her bonnet strings and crossed the kitchen to the door. “I am capable of walking around the block without guard dogs. I have been doing so for a considerable amount of time without incident.”

  “She bites anyone who approaches,” Jamar added with humor, setting down his coffee. “Do not underestimate her.”

  “This is London. A lady does not go about unescorted, especially after last night’s events. Jamar hasn’t finished his breakfast, so I’ll be happy to attend you.” Lord Erran removed his high-crowned hat from a hook and opened the door for her.

  When Jamar didn’t object, Celeste pressed her lips tight in disapproval and hurried out. They had been imposing on Jamar’s good nature by requiring that he behave as a menial instead of the educated businessman that he was.

  It was Lord Erran to whom she objected, but he seemed immune to her persuasion. She wouldn’t waste energy arguing with the deaf. She stayed silent when he took the satchel and opened the back gate. She lifted her skirts from the muck and hurried faster.

  She should never have allowed this man into their lives.

  They could have been burned out of their home if they hadn’t.

  She gritted her teeth against her own inadequacy.

  “I will insist that the solicitors release funds for your family’s support,” he said as they walked through the morning fog. “It is unconscionable that Lansdowne should leave you sewing shirts for a living—although the pleats are a nice touch. I mean to buy one of those when my allowance permits.”

  He was fishing. He could not possibly know what was in the satchel or that she was the one who sewed the pleats. She had spent these last months doing her best to hide the fact from their aristocratic neighbors that they were in filthy trade. And now their landlord was about to find out. She continued her silence.

  She shivered in unease when he opened the tailor’s door before she could do so.

  Looking like a disreputable rake in his expensive clothes and beard shadow, Lord Erran arrogantly set the box of shirts on the counter, looming over the small man behind it. The tailor looked nervous and reached for his coin pouch without counting and examining the detail of every single shirt, as he’d done in the past.

  Her landlord gazed in noble disdain at the amount the shopkeeper held out. “You’ll have to find another source. That’s scarcely sufficient for the quality of these shirts, and you know it. You’ve been charging your customers four times that amount.”

  Celeste’s eyes widened, and she just barely kept her mouth from dropping open. How did he know that? Or did he? Here she’d been horrified at revealing their occupation, and instead, his noble lordship took them one step better by negotiating as if he were a shopkeeper!

  Head bent, she watched him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. Lord Erran seemed perfectly comfortable with whatever tale he was spinning.

  The tailor hastily doubled the amount of coin on the counter, even though she’d brought him fewer shirts. “I had no idea . . . . Certainly. Of course. For the exclusive sale of these shirts, we can pay a trifle more.”

  The tailor wasn’t demanding that she double her supply as he had last time. He was simply ingratiating himself with a gentleman. That grated even worse. She’d been using her most persuasive charm to wheedle a higher price, but his lordship simply waltzed in and got what he wanted by demanding it. And she was fairly certain he wasn’t even using that dreadful voice he’d used to terrify rioters. That was so unfair!

  Lord Erran took the coins, handed them to her, and held the door open without a word to her. Celeste wanted to stomp his boot as she passed all that big male body . . . but he’d more than doubled their earnings! That would halve the time it would take to earn funds for a solicitor.

  “How did you know how much he was selling those shirts for?” she asked, finally gaining sufficient control of her tongue to speak.

  “My uncle wears them. I wanted one. Every bachelor I know covets them, but his prices are beyond our means. You could set up your own shop and make a fortune,” he replied curtly, placing her hand on his arm and striding down the street.

  “We’ve considered it,” she admitted, finally opening up in the astonishment of knowing her work was valued. “We had ordered fine linen for delivery to Jamaica so we might teach some of our people to sew as Nana does. We thought we could set up a shop on the island where they could sell the shirts to other planters. But after Papa died . . .” She fought to keep the grief from her voice for fear she would make everyone within hearing weep. “We didn’t pay attention to the return cargo manifests. The ship sailed without the linen, so we had it sent here.”

  “Another triumph over the estate executors,” he said in approval.

  Approval. He wasn’t about to scold her for ruining the family reputation by engaging in mercenary commerce! Or tell her she was ruining her siblings’ chances of making their way in society. Celeste didn’t know how to respond.

  “The executors may have tied up your bank accounts,” Lord Erran continued, “but they cannot lay hands on what’s in your possession. It must be driving them mad, although I suppose the solicitors have little inkling about linen shipments.”

  Celeste allowed herself to relax into a small smile. “Now that I understand what type of man the earl is, I am not sorry that we’ve stolen from the estate.”

  “I should think not. It’s pure genius. But from now on, you’ll send a footman to the tailor. Lady Azenor will be sending two over today, along with a butler, I hope.” He stopped at the back gate and bowed over her hand. “I will leave you here. I’ll be visiting the city today, and we’ll see what comes of it. I’ll try to be back in time to introduce my Cousin Zack, who will be overseeing the repairs.”

  How did he do that? She wanted to box his ears all over again for taking charge of her entire life . . . and hug him for calling her a genius and sending her footmen and looking after her family. While she was still feeling the glow of flattery, she placed a hand on his arm to prevent his departure. “Tell me abou
t your voice. I have never met another who possessed such a gift.”

  He made a noise deep in this throat and glanced up and down the mews, but it was early, and no one lingered. Looking uncomfortable, he clenched his gloved fingers. “The first time I used it was shock enough. I’d rather not discuss last night. It’s not the act of a gentleman to use a weird aberration to influence others.”

  “It’s the act of a lady?” she asked with sarcasm. “Am I beneath you now?”

  “That’s different,” he argued. “Women have no other defense. I should be able to use my fists and weapons and logic without resorting to mumbo-jumbo.”

  If she said what she thought now, she would inflict harm. She didn’t wish to hurt a man who had offered his aid. Biting her tongue, she merely made a polite curtsy and allowed him to go.

  How did one argue with a force of nature who did not respond to even her most convincing voice?

  Sadly realizing a plain beanpole like herself could never make a man like Lord Erran listen to her when he was appalled by her one gift, she trailed back to her sewing. She would simply try to be grateful that he was condescending enough to notice their plight.

  Nine

  Wearing his best black business coat, Erran rode back from the city in an ill temper. One of the less pecuniary reasons he had gone into law was that he’d admired the way the rules of law worked in the same way as the rules of physics—cause and consequence.

  The Court of Chancery, on the other hand, followed no rhyme or reason much less anything resembling rules. The equity courts were so overburdened that only corruption produced results, and the decision of judges often depended on what they ate for breakfast that day.

  He’d almost unleashed his unholy Courtroom Voice this morning and was regretting that he had not. How much longer could he resist the temptation to make grown men weep?

  He’d like to blame last night’s episode on the very tempting Miss Rochester, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was irritated that her charms seemed to work better than his commands. And still, he’d taken her in his arms and might have done more if his over-developed conscience hadn’t intruded.

  How long could he hold out against Miss Rochester’s charms and the infuriating urge to demand justice? Something had to give or he would explode.

  He arrived in St. James just as his cousin was dismounting from his horse. Zack was one of the rare light-haired Ives, lighter than even Theo’s brown. Wide of shoulder but not as broad in chest as Erran, Zack dressed in tradesman’s tweed and a countryman’s knee boots, without regard to fashion.

  “So that’s where our ancestors sank all their money,” Zack said in greeting, studying the stone façade. “And we proceeded to let it run to rack and ruin.”

  “Not entirely, but close enough. The tenants have kept it up better than we would have, I suspect. Homemaking has never been an Ives’ trait.” Erran flipped a coin to a street boy who ran up to watch the horses. “But Ashford means to move into the ground floor, so we need to adapt it for him.”

  Zack made sympathetic noises as he examined the front walk and step. “I’ve never attempted to construct an apartment for someone who can’t see. We’ll probably need his instructions, although a railing from gate to door might be beneficial.”

  “He’ll tell us all to go to hell and he doesn’t need anything special,” Erran said in resignation, rapping the knocker. At least they’d made enough progress that the Rochesters trusted leaving a knocker on the door to let people know they were in town. And the front draperies were partially open.

  Erran stifled his disappointment that the lad opened the door and not Miss Rochester. On a day as rotten as this one, he shouldn’t expect the brief pleasure of her reluctant smile. “This is my cousin Zack Ives. He’s an architect and can help us determine what changes need to be made in the house. Zack, this is Trevor, Lord Rochester, a distant branch of the family.”

  Jamar joined them in the narrow foyer. Erran knew he could explain the result of his courthouse search to the Rochester’s imposing man of business, but he wanted the lady to hear what he had to say as well.

  She wouldn’t be happy, but he needed to see her reaction. Or so he told himself.

  He’d spent the night in the downstairs office he thought would suit Duncan for a bedchamber. It was windowless, but Duncan would scarcely notice. As they tramped through the back corridor, Erran pointed out the need for a chamber for a valet adjoining the study, and Zack measured the rooms behind the stairs to draw up plans.

  “I would like to see stronger bars on the entrances,” Jamar suggested. “We cannot have guards sitting at all the doors, all the night. And if the ladies are to take the next floor, there should be a wall down this back hall so they might enter and leave without disturbing the marquess.”

  “Perhaps we should discuss this with Miss Rochester?” Erran suggested, while pretending interest in testing the lock mechanism on the study door. “We do not wish to make the ladies feel uncomfortable.”

  He could hear the rhythmic thumping of the sewing mechanism and assumed they were sewing to make their daily quota, which irritated him beyond all reason. He had no way of subverting their ambition and no funds to replace the tailor’s trade.

  Before Jamar could reply, the knocker rapped. Erran glanced questioningly at the majordomo. “Has Lady Aster sent over the footmen yet? Could that be them?” Even as he asked, he knew the footmen would have gone to the back door.

  “The lady sent a note saying they will arrive before evening. We have been arranging suitable accommodations,” Jamar said, striding toward the foyer.

  Erran followed, interested in seeing who dared knock and how they would react to a black giant in gentleman’s clothes opening the door. A footstep from above caused him to glance up the stairs.

  The lady was hesitating on the landing, frowning as she, too, waited. She’d most likely been watching from the front window and had seen their visitor arrive. Dressed in drab gray—although of excellent cut on her slim figure—she caught his eye and flattened her lips in disapproval again. His cheek stung in memory of last night. Would he ever land on her good side?

  Jamar opened the door. A woman shrieked as if the house had fallen on her, and a man exclaimed in irritation. Erran stepped up, allowing Jamar to retreat into the foyer, out of the public eye.

  On the doorstep, a footman in elegant livery cursed and attempted to hold up a beribboned and frilled lady of larger girth than himself—who had apparently fainted at sight of Jamar. Erran was reluctant to lay hands on a woman he didn’t know, but he felt sorry for the poor fellow dealing with foolish vapors.

  “One would assume the populace of a city as large as London would be a little more sophisticated,” he muttered under his breath, taking the female’s other arm and lifting her upright. Aloud, he asked in annoyance, “Shall we escort her back to her carriage?”

  “No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.” The new arrival abruptly straightened, taking her weight off the young footman, much to his evident relief. She waved a lace handkerchief under her nose. “Where is Lily? My smelling salts, please.”

  A tiny, terrified maid peered from behind the hedge. Apparently relieved that no foreign entities darkened the doorway, the maid scurried to help her mistress.

  Feeling mean, Erran released the lady’s arm and blocked the doorway with his bulk. “Perhaps we could provide you with direction?” he inquired in his coldest, most aristocratic tones.

  “I’m here to see my dear, dear sisters and little brother,” the lady protested. “Lily, give this person my card. I’m sure they will be eager to see me.”

  “This is the home of the Marquess of Ashford,” Erran informed them with hauteur. “He has no sisters.” He took the card proffered and added with disdain, “Mrs. Guilford.”

  At last, Miss Rochester joined him at the doorway and elbowed him to one side. Erran rather enjoyed the intimacy her touch produced—he thought she must be feeling more comfortable in
his company to dare strike him again. He inhaled her delicate floral scent as a reward for his rotten day, and fought a proprietary urge to place his hand at the small of her back.

  His hostess wasn’t smiling in welcome, however, as she snatched the card from his hand. “Come in, Charlotte,” she said curtly. “We may call you Charlotte, may we not, since we are sisters? I am Celeste. We have corresponded.”

  The difference in the ladies was so striking that Erran had difficulty believing there could be any relation at all. Mrs. Guilford was obviously older, with the plumpness of childbirth and fine dining. But she was also built sturdier and closer to the ground than the taller, more willowy Miss Rochester. The older sister had frizzed her yellow hair to disguise the pasty roundness of her face. Whereas Miss Rochester’s sleek mahogany hair was drawn severely back, deliberately exposing sun-browned high cheekbones and those wicked, slanted, blue eyes.

  Accepting the invitation, the newcomer deliberately ignored the amused Jamar in the hall and waddled in the direction of the front parlor.

  “Oh, no, Charlotte, dear. We must go upstairs to the family parlor. The front is for the marquess’s distinguished guests,” Miss Rochester said in polite tones that Erran could swear hid a solid streak of derision.

  “Shall I join you, Miss Rochester? I have news from the city that should be discussed. Perhaps Mr. Jamar could join us?” Erran couldn’t resist adding that, just to detect the direction of the social wind.

  “I shall stay here and discuss renovations with the architect,” Jamar said in his dry Jamaican lilt. “Miss Rochester will catch me up later.”

  Mrs. Guilford was too busy huffing and puffing and dragging herself up the stairs by the railing to take notice of the undercurrents. “A nice coze with family,” she gasped. “That’s just what we need.”