“We are not exactly assertive people, as you may have noted,” she said dryly, confirming his conclusion. “Have you found documents in our father’s trunk that we didn’t? Ones with which to take the executors to court?”
“No documents,” Erran acknowledged. “But the executors have no documents either. All they have is the earl’s place on the family tree. The Ives family is more powerful and wealthier than Lansdowne. We will declare Ashford as your guardian. As his wards, you will be presented to society. We will begin making demands on the banks, forcing them to stop handing out your funds to the earl, if nothing else.”
“This is how you will approach the solicitors on Monday?” Miss Rochester asked, still not expressing excitement or approval.
“From a position of strength, yes. We’ll bring in my brother, Lord Theo, to act as Ashford’s personal representative, and Lady Aster, who is the daughter of a powerful earl. We can point out that instead of using your father’s funds to feed and clothe his young relations, the estate has grossly neglected you. Then we can offer to take the responsibility from the estate to sponsor you in society ourselves. We will demand an allowance for Lord Rochester’s education and your clothing. We will threaten to sue the estate if an allowance isn’t forthcoming.” Erran didn’t think anything would come of a suit, but often, just the threats of a lengthy, expensive lawsuit forced a settlement. Chancery was a headache everyone wished to avoid.
“And how will this help save the plantation and our people?” the boy demanded. “An education avails me nothing in their defense.”
Erran approved of the elder sister not interfering while the young baron attempted to step up to his father’s role. Why did he suspect she was just biding her time?
“What Lansdowne has done is called asserting authority,” Erran explained. “The British have conquered entire countries by stepping in and using bullying tactics to restore order over people who haven’t the ability to fight back. First, however, you have to establish your authority. By taking your place at Oxford as a baron, you will be connecting with others of your station and higher, making the kind of connections that present a powerful front.”
This idea hadn’t come to Erran earlier because his family had seldom bothered to wield their influence in society. Their interests lay in scientific and business pursuits, scorning frivolity. But after Duncan had been attacked, Theo had told them the family needed a united front to fight the malefactors, and Erran realized the same tactic would work here.
He turned to the ladies. “Women create power in ballrooms—you build formidable alliances to aid and abet your family’s goals. If Ashford sponsors you, you will be in a position to aid him, and all and sundry will know that he will return the favor. It will become apparent that opposing you will be the same as opposing him.”
“And you think to influence judges by this behavior?” Miss Rochester asked incredulously.
His reaction exactly, and it still stuck in his craw, but using society was a more civilized method than bullying and bribing his way through the court. “Wielding power is the only way to win in a civil case, short of beating judges about the head with a big stick,” he said with cynicism. “There is always bribery, of course, and some amount of that will have to happen, which is why I said the case would be expensive. But right now, the earl’s solicitors are the only ones leaning on the court—and Lansdowne doesn’t have the family we have. He has gone about this entirely wrong—he should have enlisted you from the start, instead of driving you away.”
Erran watched as this sank in. It wasn’t the immediate solution they wanted, he knew. Miss Rochester was looking particularly mutinous, but the other two seemed hopeful. There were enormous hurdles, of course. He didn’t possess a magic wand. His all male family hadn’t wielded social influence in generations.
But Erran had watched Lady Aster and her family in action, and they worked together like a well-oiled machine. He didn’t see why Ives couldn’t duplicate that social command as well or better.
Once Erran presented his plan, Theo would have a fit as thorough as one of Duncan’s—but even his big brother would ultimately concede it had to be done. After Lady Aster’s family heard of the predicament of the African servants, they’d be sending armies of women to Jamaica unless provided alternatives.
And this way, Erran could provide Duncan with the impetus to rejoin the society he needed, without using deception.
Twelve
After Lord Erran outlined his outrageous battle plan, Celeste was ready to chew off her fingernails and possibly her toes. And she still wanted to flee to her sunny home, where she knew where she belonged. If she couldn’t be pretty, she could excel at practical, and she’d been running the household for years. She couldn’t smile and enchant a room full of strangers, but she could feed hundreds of workers.
Except—as much as she loathed admitting it, Lord Erran was correct. If the earl controlled the plantation, the home she wanted to return to was gone, along with everything else familiar. Her whole world felt ready to shatter and she with it.
Sylvia and Trevor were more enthusiastic about conquering new worlds. So much so that Celeste had to wonder if Lord Erran didn’t employ some charmed voice that she couldn’t hear—as he couldn’t hear hers.
“He says I could take finishing classes with the daughters of dukes!” Sylvia said excitedly once they’d returned to their sewing.
“I cannot imagine how we can repay the marquess for the lessons if we don’t win access to our funds,” Celeste said dampeningly.
But nothing would quell Sylvia’s high spirits, and after all they’d been through, Celeste hated to be the spoil-sport. Her siblings were young and accepted their helplessness. They needed hope and a little joy to keep them looking to the future.
Trevor needed to be in school. He had an exceptional mind when he applied it.
It was only Celeste who longed for home and felt the weight of responsibility for what was happening. She understood better than her siblings that once the marquess moved in, this house would no longer be theirs—it would be his.
She had never needed to be strong. Until her father’s death, she’d had little experience at it. These last months, she’d learned survival, but that wasn’t sufficient. To protect the people like Jamar and Nana, who had taken care of her all her life, she needed to be brave and bold. She couldn’t imagine saving anyone by wearing nice clothes and dancing—which left her feeling even more helpless than before.
She never wanted to be helpless or dependent on a man again.
She was relieved when Lord Erran rode off to discuss his grandiose plans with his family. Perhaps they would put some sense into him. Surely, if they could just send her home, there was something she could do once she was on familiar ground again.
He returned just before dark with some contraption he installed on the back gate. Celeste watched the men working on it from her bedroom window. His lordship had doffed his long-tailed coat. Since the evening air was chilly, he presumably did so to avoid damaging it. In shirt sleeves and waistcoat, he still looked the epitome of elegance, and she couldn’t stop her erratic heart from pounding with an excitement she didn’t want to feel. For just a moment, she wished circumstances could be different.
Still, she wanted to go home, and he belonged here. A man like that would marry a beautiful heiress. She had no claim to beauty or wealth—and he thought her only asset was evil. She needed to stick to her sewing and not develop impractical notions—even if he did occasionally hold her hand as if he enjoyed the sensation as much as she did.
Sunday did not improve the situation. Lady Aster and her intimidating Aunt Daphne arrived to escort them to church. The wife of a viscount and daughter of an earl, Lady McDowell used her formidable Junoesque frame to simply carry all obstacles in her way with the force of a tidal wave. Lady Aster’s younger cousins followed in her wake, and Celeste admitted she enjoyed their lively company—especially since Lord Erran managed to elude the
swelling tide.
But once they returned to the house, the horror began again.
“Lord Rochester will need new clothes if he’s to attend school with Kenan,” Lady McDowell asserted as if she had been making lists of announcements all through the sermon. “The teachers will make certain he’s up to snuff before he’s thrown into the rigors of Oxford.”
“I thought perhaps a tutor . . .” Celeste suggested. “Oxford is out of the question unless we regain our inheritance.”
“Nonsense. He needs to meet people just as you do,” the lady said imperiously, gesturing for the footman to set the tea tray down in front of her. “You need maids!”
Celeste blinked at this abrupt change of topic and glanced to copper-haired Lady Aster for explanation. Short and well-rounded, Lord Erran’s sister-in-law had a mischievous smile that dazzled when her family’s apparent lunacy prevailed.
“Aunt Daphne is intent on saving women from the workhouse by finding them employment,” the younger lady explained. “My city household is small and can only take a few. And there are only so many I can train at once in Iveston. I don’t suppose your housekeeper would be willing to train inexperienced maids?”
“Ashford will need them,” Lady McDowell proclaimed, before Celeste could reply. “If only to keep coal in the scuttles in this drafty old house.”
“Nana is elderly,” Celeste said hesitantly. “I suppose she could use helping hands so she needn’t run up and down stairs so much. I just don’t know . . . . She’s trained maids at home, of course, but they’re . . . not English.” And Nana needed to be sewing shirts, but money didn’t seem to be a consideration in Lord Erran’s world.
“The Rochesters have African servants,” Lady Aster explained to her aunt and cousins. “Even in the kitchen.”
“Better yet,” Lady McDowell decided, after a moment’s thought. “We have several mixed bloods who can’t find employment. Indian, I believe, not African. Will that be a problem?”
Celeste shook her head. “Of course not, if it isn’t a problem for Lord Ashford.” Who couldn’t see, she remembered. He threw shoes at all and sundry, without regard to race or gender. She bit back a smile at her own foolishness.
Lord Erran wandered in after having some discussion with Jamar. With his solid, impressive build clothed in the finest tailoring, he could have been the marquess instead of simply his brother’s solicitor. He helped himself to a sandwich and raised his dark eyebrows. “If what is a problem for the Beast of Iveston?”
The ladies explained, and he shook his head with an impolite snort. “The maids just need to stay out of his way and keep objects from his path and they could be green three-eyed Martians for all Dunc will care. It might be interesting to see how his guests will react, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it. If we come to it. Prying him out of the country comes first.”
“He knows how important the election is,” Lady McDowell said with a sniff. “We’ll see that he comes to London.” Straight-backed and regal, she rose from the old chair as if it had been a throne. “Come along, girls. We’ll return in the morning to begin the round of modistes, and a tailor for Lord Rochester.”
Alarmed, Celeste jumped up with far less grace. “Modistes?” She glanced anxiously at Lord Erran, who didn’t seem at all surprised. “But the solicitors are coming tomorrow,” she protested, although that wasn’t her only concern.
“They’ll be here mid-afternoon. There’s plenty of time for a round at the shops,” he said with a dismissive air—as if spending a fortune on clothing for impoverished relations was of no moment whatsoever.
Sylvia was practically drooling and watching them hopefully. Trevor . . . needed new everything. He’d outgrown almost all his clothes this past year. It was all too much, too fast. Celeste wanted to weep her frustration.
“United front,” Lord Erran said with a wave of his sandwich. “You’ll be entering the wars as Dunc’s troops. He can provide the uniforms.”
Uniforms! Celeste thought hysterics might be appropriate, were she given to such excessive display, which she was not. She had just established a new normality, and now he would throw all her routine into disarray again. She opened her mouth to argue, but no words would emerge. She, who had wielded her voice to good purpose for a lifetime, was speechless.
From beneath a rumpled cap of dark curls, Lord Erran winked. He winked. As if this were all a grand jest and not their lives! Now she not only wanted to weep, but to pound her fists against his broad chest in hopes of beating sense into him.
Instead of railing like a shrew, she smiled graciously at her guests, escorted them to the door with promises to look forward to the morrow, then stomped up the stairs without returning to the parlor.
***
Happily oblivious to his surroundings while working out the intricacies of the sewing mechanism, Erran installed the elastic to improve the working machine. If his formidable intellect couldn’t be applied to a courtroom, he could study machines for ways to better society, and this mechanism would be a boon to the overworked eyes and fingers of tailors and seamstresses.
Earlier, he had sorted through the late baron’s workbox and found tools but little else, not even drawings for the mechanism. He’d started reading through the various documents in the other trunk, but as the lady had said, they were mostly letters of introduction. Lord Rochester had attended schools in England and lived with relations here for a large part of his life. He had an extensive collection of acquaintances, and if Erran did not mistake, some were related to Lady Aster’s family. The Rochesters might not recognize all the names, but he had a good memory for connections. He’d have to ask Aster later.
Without a defined direction for his energy, he played mechanic.
Still under the table, Erran sensed more than saw Jamar’s arrival. The majordomo wasn’t in the habit of visiting the sewing room. Erran scooted out and looked up questioningly as he dusted himself off.
“There are two young women pulling the bell at the back gate. Will the ladies have sent over maids this quickly?” Jamar asked in his lilting English.
“The bell works, does it?” Pleased, Erran stood up. “The Malcolm ladies have magic wands which produce servants in the blink of an eye.” He bowed before Nana to catch her attention.
She gave him a wary look and stopped sewing.
“I should have told Lady McDowell that you needed help with the sewing. I’ll rectify that error instantly, if you would be so kind as to take charge of the maids she has sent over. They’re new. They’ll need training. There will be more to follow, so we’ll leave it up to you as to what positions need filling first.”
The gray-haired housekeeper rested her hands in her lap and studied him as if he might be a curious specimen of insect. “You and she are two peas in a pod,” she said slowly, frowning. “The power in this house is very strong. Use it for good and not evil.”
Without further explanation, she rose and sailed from the room. With a shrug, Jamar followed after her.
Erran fought a shiver of foreboding. Evil? Had she really said that?
Having feared that his mysterious verbal ability to bully came straight from the devil, he’d rather consider her comment about two peas in a pod. What did that mean? And was it a good thing? Because the only “she” he could think she meant was Miss Rochester, and he didn’t think it very fortunate to resemble a woman, no matter how lovely.
Thinking of Miss Rochester made him restless. He should go to his club, lift a few mugs, learn the drift of the political winds—perhaps hit the streets in search of the latest beauty of the night.
Instead, insanely, he was more inclined to walk around the block, looking for any sign of miscreants. He didn’t want to believe the influential earl of Lansdowne had sent rogues to drive his relations out of the house just to reclaim the rents. He preferred to believe it was his own family’s enemies.
Perhaps he could enlist a few troublemakers of his own to find out. That would get him out of
the house, and he could lift a pint in the tavern while doing so.
Dropping his tools into the box, Erran returned to the study where he’d left his valise, retrieved an old coat he’d meant to wear while working, and set out for the newly improved back gate. While he was verifying that the new iron bolt operated properly, the young baron approached him.
“If you are going out, sir, might I ask to walk with you awhile?”
Hiding his surprise, Erran slipped the bolt and gestured for the boy to precede him. “You might actually help me on my enterprise. Shall we discuss it over a tankard?”
Lord Rochester’s dark eyes registered surprise and pleasure. “Thank you. My sisters do not believe in strong spirits.”
“Ladies generally don’t,” Erran agreed, fastening the bolt with a turnkey before leading him across the mews to the tavern. “They don’t understand that a man’s tongue only loosens over a mug of ale. Tea isn’t quite the same.”
The tavern wasn’t crowded at this early hour. Erran bought two mugs of ale and took a table where he could keep an eye out for the young lads he’d talked to before. “What’s on your mind, Rochester?”
“Trevor, please, sir. It’s too hard to be my father just yet.” The boy tasted the warm ale and grimaced. He brushed a dark lock off his bronzed face and sighed as if all the world weighed on his shoulders. “I cannot think tutoring will help me run an estate. Oxford was a fine idea while my father was alive, and I had no other responsibility, but now it’s important that someone manage the plantation. If Jamar and I could return home, we might recruit aid from some neighbors—”
Erran shook his head. “I understand that you prefer immediate action. We all do. If I had command of an army, I’d ship them out now to protect your workers. But we’re civilized these days, and we don’t hire privateers anymore. Information and who you know will accomplish the same, although admittedly, it is slow going from this distance.”
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