Erran was measuring the yard for a bell pull when the servants arrived. He stopped to watch how Aster’s newly trained men reacted to Jamar. They merely doffed their caps, hefted their boxes of belongings to their broad shoulders, and followed the giant into the house.
“They seem . . . polite,” a soft voice said from the shrubbery.
Erran swung around to find Miss Rochester sitting on a bench in the barren rose garden behind a hedge. The woman moved with the graceful silence of a butterfly.
“Lady Aster will have grilled them for their birth dates,” he said, “then drawn up their zodiac charts to be certain they are reliable, and trained them to a standard of her own. The ones she’s introduced to Iveston seem to think for themselves—a good thing since we never know what to do with them.”
Her sky blue eyes turned up from her sewing to study him quizzically. “Surely your housekeeper knows how to employ servants?”
He fought the urge to take the seat beside her and discuss any subject on earth but the ones they must adhere to. Tearing his gaze from her entrancingly pursed lips, he jotted figures down in his notebook as a distraction.
“The Iveston housekeeper has taken to tippling after lunch and is incoherent by dinner,” he explained as he tucked his notebook away. “But she has been with us forever and none of us is capable of casting a female into the cold. Ives are not . . . normal by society’s standards. I will warn you now that the marquess is subject to fits of temper and flings things at anyone who stands in his way. Servants tend to disappear regularly on us, so we don’t dare remove the few who linger.”
“So Lady Aster has found servants of independent minds who learn how to avoid the marquess and your housekeeper? Quite enterprising of her, I’m certain.” She sounded amused as she returned to applying tiny stitches to the pleats in the linen.
“Well, she’s stuck living at Iveston most days, so it’s a matter of self-defense. Until she came along, we’d been an all-male household. It was like living in a pig sty inhabited by savages. I’ve been avoiding the place like the plague for years.”
She chuckled. “And here I’ve always thought of noble estates as stuffy and boring. I suppose I must go in and meet our new butler. Will he get along with Nana? She’s been in charge of us forever.”
“As if I have any notion of the hierarchy of servants.” Erran held out his hand. “Come along. I need to be assured that they know how to secure the doors and windows and keep out blackguards.”
The moment she placed her ungloved hand in his, he knew his mistake. He’d removed his gloves to write. With her soft flesh pressed into his rough palm, his instinct was to wrap her hand tightly and not let go. Skin-to-skin contact was electrifying, and he inhaled sharply at the shock.
She tried to slip her fingers away, but he couldn’t have released her if he’d been paid all the gold on earth. She did not protest but let him lead her into the house. She seemed as short of breath as he. This wouldn’t do.
But he didn’t know how to make it go away. Swallowing, he hid his shock by calling roughly to his cousin. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t do anything interesting until I return.”
To his horror, Zack froze in the process of hammering a loose board.
Celeste giggled and called, “The gate is not interesting, Mr. Zack. Please, return to beating it up.”
Zack enthusiastically began beating nails into wood again.
“That did not just happen,” Erran muttered as they entered the garden door.
“Evil, my lord,” she said sweetly. “We are evil, remember?”
Damnation! Before Erran could wring her neck, Jamar led his new charges to meet them. The majordomo didn’t blink at the sight of their clasped hands. He merely introduced the servants Ashford had hired and allowed Miss Rochester to question them.
Erran wanted to scratch under his collar and flee, but he forced himself to study the new staff. Lady Aster had found three burly, seemingly intelligent men to protect the household. He recognized one who had served dinner at Theo’s. Multi-talented servants were excellent. Ones who could survive having rocks and shoes thrown at their heads would be beneficial.
Seemingly unfazed by the weirdness in the garden, Zack entered through the back door, donning his hat and gloves, as the servants were being led off to become acquainted with their duties. “I’ll bring you plans and estimates in a few days.” He hesitated when he realized the lady lingered. “I don’t wish to be alarming, but you might want to employ one of the new men in watching that gate until you can add a more substantial bar.”
Miss Rochester placed her slender hand on Erran’s coat sleeve in a gesture indicating uneasiness. He resisted covering it with his own hand. Instead, he bunched his fingers. “More ruffians lingering in the mews?”
“No, someone has sawed half way through the bar. A few good shoulders pounding against the gate will snap the wood in two.”
Damn.
Erran turned to the lady. “I’ll send one of the men to pick up a few clothes and my gear. I’ll be staying here until this is settled.”
He couldn’t tell if her look of apprehension was for him or the knowledge that their enemies were more dangerous than petty ruffians.
Eleven
Biting her lip, Celeste hesitated in the doorway of Nana’s sewing room.
The aristocratic Lord Erran with his expensively tailored clothes and polished boots had transformed into another man during the last twenty-four hours. He had slept in the study again, despite her protestations that he should take one of the empty beds upstairs. And this morning, he was sprawled on his back like a workman across the floor, fitting bits of metal beneath a table.
He was in stocking feet and shirtsleeves—an intimacy that had her wallowing in admiration at his manly physique, plus other feelings not quite so admirable—especially since his position revealed a great deal of his . . . masculine proportions.
She glanced up at Nana for guidance, but her arbiter of propriety was simply sewing and ignoring the man on the floor.
“I have made teacakes, if anyone is interested in stopping for morning coffee or tea,” Celeste said in a diffident whisper. She hated to disturb them. She was so far out of her depths these days, she might as well be living with penguins and wondering if they ate fish with their tea.
Lord Erran’s head popped out from beneath the old table he’d dragged down from the attics. He had dust in his dark curls and a smudge on his nose. “I need a strong elastic band, two preferably, so I can repair the other machine. I don’t suppose you have anything in your sewing baskets?”
Celeste feared her mouth gaped open for a moment too long. She’d asked if he’d like teacakes. And he wanted elastic? Penguins might be easier.
“You look in your father’s box,” Nana advised in her raspy little-used voice.
Even Lord Erran glanced up at the normally silent woman in surprise. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said politely, before glancing back to Celeste. “Your father’s box?”
“I’m not sure where it is,” Celeste admitted. “Perhaps with the trunks in the attic. He always had a chest of tools and mechanical bits, and none of us knew what to do with them.”
Lord Erran sat up and brushed himself off. “Tell me what the chest looks like, and I’ll hunt for it. I’d love to see the workbox of a man who built this machine.”
“I suppose I might show you,” Celeste said, glancing at Nana for approval. She’d never spent time with a man, unchaperoned, but the elderly woman didn’t even look up from her sewing to glare. Perhaps she felt out of place too. “Shall I have someone bring up cakes for you, Nana? Or will you be going downstairs?”
“Go, child,” Nana said brusquely, turning the linen on the table to start a new seam. “You are the lady of the house now.”
What was that supposed to mean? She’d had to step into her mother’s role years before, but she’d always consulted Nana before making any decisions. She supposed teacakes weren’t important, but she fel
t still even more lost by Nana’s dismissal.
His lordship loomed over her expectantly, and she retreated to the corridor. “It is a large, long wooden box. If you would go up and start searching, I’ll have someone fetch cakes for Nana.” She thought perhaps the “lady of the house” would look after loyal family retainers, and Nana deserved a rest, even if it wasn’t for tea.
“She’s frightened,” Lord Erran said unexpectedly. “She has every right to be. It takes months for us to send word and hear from anyone in the islands. I have an uncle in the shipping business sending me ship schedules so I know which ones will take my letters soonest and fastest. We know people who know people all over the world. It may look as if I’m doing nothing, but my family is doing everything they can to protect your servants and tenants.”
Hearing his concern, overwhelmed by his earnestness, Celeste touched his coat sleeve. “I trust almost no one these days, but I believe you in this. I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve your support, but I hope someday we can repay you.”
And she meant it. She felt lighter for knowing someone else shared her burdens, even if that someone was so far beyond her experience that she could not imagine the world he walked in . . . .
Except for his voice, which left her very confused but on familiar grounds. They really needed to talk about their shared oddity, but she thoroughly disliked being considered evil.
“You’ll take back any desire to repay us once Ashford moves in,” Lord Erran said with dark humor, before trotting off to the attic door.
More unwelcome change, but if it meant her family would be out of danger, she wouldn’t argue. This shabby London mansion was a far cry easier to live in than the caves and fields where the plantation’s workers must be hiding now. It felt safer staying with a mad marquess until they could go home. She hoped they might help each other until then.
She sent one of the new footmen to carry a tray to Nana, then hurried up the stairs to the attic storage room under the eaves. Lord Erran was collecting more dust by crawling around under the low roof, attempting not to bang his head while he sorted through old trunks and boxes. He already had an assortment lined up for her perusal.
“I didn’t want to open anything that might be private,” he explained, pointing at the row of old boxes. “I thought you might recognize your father’s tool chest.”
“Most of those should belong to your family. We’re living out of the trunks we brought with us. But father’s things . . .” She swiped angrily at an escaping tear and pointed at a wooden box with carvings and a leather-bound trunk. “We couldn’t bear to part with them.”
“I don’t suppose he kept documents in any of them?” his lordship asked without hope.
“Nothing useful.” She opened the trunk. “This only contains the lease, introductions to family and friends, letters to the bankers and solicitors . . . no will. He was young and hadn’t planned on dying.”
“Or having Lansdowne usurp his assets,” Lord Erran said grimly, glancing through the papers. “Might I take these down and go through them? It might give me some insight in how best to fight this battle.”
“Please, if you would. All we did was cry as we read through them, which admittedly, is not a very constructive reaction.”
“But a perfectly normal one. Counteracting grief-stricken families is the reason we have cold-hearted lawyers like me.” He flashed her a bleak smile. “And this other box is the workbox? I have your permission to use the contents?”
“Absolutely.” It felt very odd to be in this narrow enclosed space with a gentleman, no matter how unlike a proper gentleman he currently appeared. She wasn’t certain of the etiquette, or even of what to do with her hands.
He stood up, his head bending to accommodate the low rafters. The space became even smaller. “I’d like those teacakes now, especially if they come with your delicious coffee.” He hefted the heavy workbox to his shoulder. “I’ll come back for the trunk before I join you, if that’s all right.”
Lord Erran seldom smiled, but he sounded almost content at the moment. Or pleasant, at least, and Celeste felt another tickle of excitement. She almost rather he would return to calling her immoral so she didn’t have to like him. Recalling what she planned, she wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.
“In the main drawing room?” she asked, leading the way down the stairs.
“Only if I don’t have to clean up too much to sit on the furniture. I want to go back to building another of those machines while I am here,” he said.
While he was here—confirming that he meant to move on after settling in his brother. It was a good thing her goals were the same.
“You could have a healthy business if you hired several seamstresses,” he continued. “You’ll need to charge enough to put money away to buy more linen, though. You need a business manager.”
“We hadn’t planned on running a manufactory,” she said, returning to the practical. “We were dreaming of gowns and balls for Sylvia and Oxford for Trevor. Jamar had planned on starting the shop on the islands.”
“The shirts you’re making are too expensive for a small market. Better to ship a few finished products to the island and sell the rest here.” He stopped at the sewing room to deliver the workbox.
“Are you sure you’re not a tradesman instead of a lawyer?” she asked. She was unaccustomed to bantering with the nobility, but it was hard to take him seriously when he had a dead spider on his neckcloth.
“In our family, we do everything. There are too many of us for any one to be idle. A lazy Ives would be bounced on his ear and flung in the pond and left for the fish to nibble. So drop any preconceptions you might have of idle aristocrats. Or even polite ones. Ashford would as soon throw a shoe at your head as bow over your hand, although admittedly, that is a more recent development.”
He was actually talking to her, man to woman, as if they were equals. He wasn’t making demands or arguing but was actually being self-deprecating, and she didn’t know how to respond. Telling herself it wouldn’t matter shortly, Celeste nodded and left him to play with his workbox while she ran to set up a tea tray.
***
Miss Rochester was the most reticent woman he’d ever encountered, Erran decided as he took the stairs down to the ground floor after moving the boxes. Most women chattered incessantly, but this lady kept her thoughts to herself. He couldn’t determine if he appreciated the difference.
The new footmen had set up a basin and pitcher in the study for his use, and he took advantage of them now to wash up, pondering the mysterious ways of women.
He preferred the challenge of the fascinating sewing mechanism to analyzing women, but that was probably because he was avoiding the lady’s questions about their mutually weird abilities.
Drawing a deep breath to conceal his discomfort, he checked that his neckcloth was straight and his coat buttoned, and proceeded to the front drawing room.
All the siblings had gathered around the tea tray, looking every inch the proper English family except for their darker coloring.
That’s when Erran nearly fell over his feet with a full-blown idea that even his insane sister-in-law couldn’t duplicate—although he’d need her cooperation, and he knew how to accomplish that, too.
He just didn’t know how to approach this solemn, grieving family. He already knew their arguments, because they’d be his own in their place.
“Lord Erran, have a seat, please.” Miss Rochester gestured at an armchair next to her brother’s.
At least with others around, they wouldn’t be having any weird discussion on the topic of voices. Erran took another, less comfortable, chair that kept all three of them in his sight. The boy looked as uneasy as he felt. So they had something to say, as well. Teacakes had just been an excuse.
“We have been talking,” young Lord Rochester said, uncomfortable with his new role of family head. “We wonder if we might break the lease and be returned some of the rent monies so we might re
turn to our home. It’s possible we might stop some of the depredation if we are there.”
That was so exactly opposite of his own suggestion that Erran quit reaching for a cake to readjust his thoughts. Every instinct clamored against their plan, but instincts were unreliable. He needed to understand why he objected since it was the perfect solution to his problem.
“An interesting proposition,” he admitted, giving himself time to think. It didn’t take long to grimace at the ramifications of such a move. He was a practical man, but his one goal in life had always been to serve justice.
Sending the family back to Jamaica might solve his problems, but it would only make theirs worse. He chafed at the choice, but even Dunc would have to agree. “Unfortunately, I fear you will meet with worse aggression there than you have met so far here. The executors have already installed men in your home, men who will not give up their position without a fight.”
He thought he was on firm ground when he saw all three Rochesters frown. He hurried to continue before they could formulate arguments. “If the estate executors—and I still don’t have proof that your father’s cousin is personally involved—are determined to sell your servants, then that means they also intend to sell the land. You will not be allowed in your home. Worse yet, you will be more vulnerable staying with friends than here, in the protection of the marquess. I would not advise returning just yet.”
“Sell the plantation?” the boy asked in dismay. “That is our only income!”
“Exactly.” On firm ground now, Erran sipped his coffee. “The executors have rendered you helpless, with no ability whatsoever to fight, proving your well-being is not their goal. I haven’t had time to think this through, but I think you should turn the tables and become the aggressor.”
The younger siblings gasped and stared at him as if he had started speaking in tongues. Aggressiveness was obviously not in their vocabulary. He hadn’t thought it in Miss Rochester’s lexicon either, but she merely sipped her coffee and regarded him with her usual wariness until she’d prepared her speech.
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