“What happened?” the boy demanded.
“Nothing,” Erran snarled, pointing to indicate that Trevor return to the yard.
Workmen had piled construction materials along the path. The bags of Portland cement and stones would make excellent obstacles to trip up intruders, but the piles of lumber would aid an arsonist. He despised thinking like this.
“The team spooked. That’s not nothing.” The young baron looked almost as shaken as Erran felt. “Are my sisters in danger? Do we need to move them elsewhere?”
“That’s precisely what someone wants.” And what they were likely to get, because Erran couldn’t think of a way to keep them safe in the city. But then, it wouldn’t be safe for Ashford either, and his brother would never come to London if he couldn’t have his own home.
And without Dunc here to whip the Whigs in line, the Tories would win again. Filth and bother! Was that the whole point of this torment? Someone was trying to make Duncan stay away?
“Dressing up and going to parties won’t be enough, will it?” Trevor asked, speaking what Erran was thinking.
“We’ll talk to the solicitors first.” He couldn’t see a positive outcome, but he needed to know where they stood. He needed the solid ground of law beneath his feet before deciding on action.
No man should be above the law. If a law was wrong, then it should be changed, not trampled beneath the feet of men powerful enough to escape punishment. Righting wrongs was what he’d wanted to do with his life.
He hadn’t wanted to bellow people into submission. That was the same as bullying and totally, irrevocably wrong.
Although Miss Rochester thought it was perfectly fine to charm people into compliance, Erran realized later as they gathered in the study with the solicitors.
Theo had arrived with documents from Ashford allowing Erran to speak on the marquess’s behalf. Their Uncle Pascoe had shown up just to intimidate with his official, imposing presence. On the surface, Pascoe dealt in transporting goods, but anyone with connections to government knew he had influence with the king and others in the cabinet. Erran suspected his uncle transported more information than goods.
The Rochester estate had sent Mr. Herrington, a plump older gentleman who kept nervously polishing his spectacles. Erran thought Mr. Luther, Lansdowne’s solicitor, looked more like a card shark than a man of the law. Balding, narrow-eyed, and skinny, he appeared to be gauging the other players and arranging his documents in order like a hand of cards.
Lady Aster had insisted that she and Sylvia stay out of the crowded study, but she hadn’t been able to dissuade Celeste or Trevor from taking part in their fate. As Erran listened to Celeste speak with the compelling voice of angels, he wished he’d locked her in the cellar. The damned female was trying to charm hard-headed lawyers.
“It is only a matter of time until my father’s will is found,” she said with crystalline sweetness that had the idiot solicitors actually bobbing their heads and hanging on to her every word. “His majordomo was witness to the document and has provided an affidavit attesting to our father’s wishes. I am of an age to take charge of my share, and the marquess has generously offered to act as guardian for my siblings. I think this is a very simple matter, if you’ll agree.”
“Yes, yes, of course, Miss Rochester,” Herrington, her father’s lawyer, agreed, crossing his hands over his paunch in satisfaction. “The baron gave all indication that he meant for the three of you to share the estate. We’ve read your letters and seen the affidavit. It’s all very proper and in order.”
Theo sent Erran a look expressing his surprise at this easy capitulation. This was the solicitor who had handed the estate over to the earl without a qualm. Unable to explain what Celeste was doing in terms even remotely logical, Erran shook his head and waited for the axe to fall.
Luther, the rat-faced solicitor from Lansdowne’s firm, was looking as if he’d eaten lemons, even though he’d nodded agreement.
Erran suspected charm only went so far. He watched with interest as Luther clenched and unclenched his fists and moved papers about on the desk as if fighting a compulsion.
Which he could very well be doing. It would take strength and determination to overcome Celeste’s persuasive tones.
“Your father . . .” Luther shoved forward one of his documents, stumbling for words. “The firm you say drew up the will, has no record of it. This is their affidavit.”
Pascoe’s thick eyebrows raised, but he waited for Erran to speak.
Erran snatched the letter, made note of the firm’s name and Jamaican address, and compared that to the papers he’d found in the baron’s trunk. Without holding one against another, he could not immediately determine if the signatures were identical.
“The majordomo . . . is an African slave belonging to the estate,” Luther said sluggishly, searching for words as if shaking off a spell and needing to find his argument again. “His testimony is . . . irrelevant. The law is clear. As head of the Rochester family, the earl must act in his cousin’s place.”
Celeste seemed set to argue. Erran slapped a hand over her arm and shook his head at her and his uncle. He wanted to hear the entire argument before she began twisting words and heads.
Apparently finding his way again, Luther picked up speed. “Unfortunately, Miss Rochester’s birth outside of legal wedlock prevents her from inheriting any part of the estate. Her father was still married to another woman at the time she was born. The earl would like to place the younger siblings in the proper schools and have their half-sister, Mrs. Guilford, preside over their household until they come of age. Miss Rochester, of course, being of the age of consent, may choose her own way.”
Celeste and Trevor gasped. Pascoe almost looked amused, so he saw through the ruse too. Good.
Without questioning Luther’s scandalous assertion, Erran merely placed his hands over the documents on the desk. Letting the Jamaican one fall to the floor where he could collect it later, he crumpled the others, and said, “No.”
He tossed the papers at the grate. “As marquess and head of the baron’s maternal family, Ashford has greater jurisdiction. We will take the case to court. Until such time, the children, including Miss Rochester, are under his protection. I have already filed documents with the banks preventing anyone from access to their funds until this matter is settled.”
The injustice and outright fraud of naming Miss Rochester a bastard almost had him bellowing with his Courtroom Voice, but Erran’s sense of fairness prevailed. He was in the right. He didn’t need to savage a bonehead. Yet. “Should the earl dispose of any assets, we can and will sue the earl for everything he owns. The plantation and its inhabitants are the property of the estate until such time as this matter is settled, and the courts will appoint a neutral executor. We have notified the Jamaican authorities accordingly.”
“You have no basis for this wholesale takeover of the earl’s responsibilities,” Luther shouted.
“But he does, sir,” Celeste said sweetly. Erran could hear her fury but she had marvelous control. “We are of Malcolm descent, and as such, the property passes through the female line. I do not believe the earl is female.”
Erran almost choked on surprise and laughter. She was feeding him Aster’s nonsense, and both the men of business were willing to eat it up—because of her damned voice and not any logic that he could discern. Female line! As if such a thing were possible under British law.
Caught in her spell, without any prepared document or counter-argument, Luther spluttered incoherently. Even Theo and Pascoe didn’t protest the idiocy.
“We’ll provide the proper credentials to the court, of course, gentlemen.” Pascoe finally spoke, while standing up to dismiss the company as if he were judge and jury. “The king will stay apprised of the proceedings. Good meeting you, Herrington.” He held out his hand to shake the hand of the Rochesters’ solicitor. “Keep up the good work. Ashford will be pleased.”
Luther looked prepared to protest.
Celeste rose, and etiquette forced all the men to rise as well. “It was lovely clearing the air, gentlemen. I do thank you for your concern. I’m sure we’ll remember your kindness when Lord Rochester comes into his estate. It was good of you to come. Jamar will be happy to see you out.”
And the solicitors left as if they were puppets on her strings. Erran could barely keep from gaping, even though he knew what she was doing—he could hear her sarcasm beneath the syrup.
Apparently, although her charm didn’t work on Erran, his family had soaked it up right along with the solicitors. But after Celeste quit speaking and lapsed into angry silence, Theo and Pascoe shook their heads as if to clear them and watched in disbelief as the angry solicitors filed out without argument.
“What just happened here?” Pascoe demanded once the study door closed on their departing guests. “I came here prepared to take the matter to the Crown, and they just run off as if a hound is on their heels.”
Having experienced some of his wife’s weird abilities, Theo was a little slower to react. He glanced questioningly at Erran, and then to their hostess.
Who promptly broke into tears. “He called me a bastard! My mother and father would never ever do anything improper. How dare that dastard suggest such a thing? How dare he!”
The glass on the oil lamp shattered.
Fifteen
Sprawled across her bed, sobbing, Celeste ignored the timid knocks at her chamber door. Fire bombers, runaway carriages, nasty lawyers, and bastardy had shattered her too-brief joy at walking about shops as the lady she’d once been. While indulging in fabulous fabrics, she’d even allowed herself hope that she might have some small part of her life back.
But the reality was that she would never be her father’s pampered daughter again. Her world had irrevocably changed to one of chaos and anarchy. And even though she knew she was engaging in self-pity, she couldn’t control her tears of pure terror and loss.
Burying her head in the pillow to hide her weeping, she scarcely heard Lady Aster’s worried call through the locked door.
If only she could just shrivel up and blow away! Or go home. She so very much wanted the comforting familiarity of blue skies and warm breezes and the soft murmurs of patois . . . .
But that seemed long ago and far away, in a time when her father had handled all difficult matters and all she had to do was choose menus and gowns. Those days were gone. She cried harder, burying all her bottled up grief and despair into her pillow, where she hoped she couldn’t hurt anyone or anything.
She’d shattered glass. She had never, ever used her voice as a weapon of destruction. What had she become?
What was this house doing to her?
She didn’t hear the key in the lock but was instantly aware the moment Lord Erran’s imposing presence crossed the threshold. She couldn’t look up. Her face would be all blotchy and wet from crying. “You don’t belong here. Go away,” she said, using her most compelling voice.
He ignored her command, as usual. Why was she cursed with the company of a man who couldn’t be seduced by her voice?
“You’ve missed dinner,” he said. “The entire household is on edge because of you. I’ve sent your sister off with Aster and have your brother patrolling taverns. Jamar wanted to break down the door, but I said I’d try civilized methods first.”
Celeste scrubbed guiltily at her damp cheek, realizing how she’d let everyone down to indulge in selfish megrims. She refused to look at him, even though it was difficult to keep her head averted when she so much wanted him to do something, to make things better— as her father had once done.
That realization struck her painfully. She could not, would not sink down that hole again. She must stand strong and on her own—in the morning, after her tears had dried. “Where did you find a key?” she muttered into her pillow.
“I didn’t. I made one. Hundred-year-old locks are very crude. I’ve been unlocking them since childhood.”
Of course he had. This man knew no boundaries, as evidenced by his appearance in her room. It wasn’t as if anyone, anywhere, cared if she lost her reputation! Instead of causing another bout of weeping, that made her angry.
The bed sagged from his weight. She was painfully aware of the incongruence of his masculine size in her dainty surroundings. She’d chosen this room for the rose-printed calicoes and spring green walls. She’d decorated with the gauzy summer bed hangings from home. It wasn’t a room meant for men. He would be wearing the black coat that reminded her of mourning, and she couldn’t bear the dark cloud of gloom.
“Breaking and entering is more civilized?” she asked with a sniff, forcing herself to focus on his imposition instead of her terror at what she’d done. “Go away. You don’t belong in here. I just need to be alone for awhile.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry,” he said, without really sounding sorry.
He rested his hand near her hip and leaned closer, giving her far more to think about than self-pity.
“I wish I could create a magic bubble that would shut out reality,” he continued, “and surround you in sunshine and roses, but I can’t. You’re the one with the magic to create change, not me.”
“Me?” she asked in incredulity, wiping at her face and inching away from his encroaching presence. “ Change is the very last thing I want. I want everything to go back to the way it was.” His assertion terrified her.
“If you can’t accept change, you might as well be dead,” he countered with scorn. “Being able to wrap everyone around your little finger has made you weak.”
“Weak!” Outraged, she wiped at her eyes and dragged herself up to sit against her pillows. He was every bit the black thundercloud she feared, but she had to admit that Lord Erran’s chiseled features were magnificently handsome wearing a frown of concern. “I am not weak!”
“You are,” he asserted. “You’ve never had to fight for what you want.”
That was true. She glared. “Preferring peace is not a weakness!” He was sitting on her bed—as if he had every right to do so. Nervously, she scooted a little farther, but the bed was not large—and he was.
“I heard you the night of the riot,” she said, trying to steady her breathing but still nervous at his proximity. “Do not pretend I am the only one with magic. You could have ordered that dreadful mob to go soak their heads, and they would have rushed off in search of a horse trough.”
“ I wanted to talk to them. You drove them off so I couldn’t,” he retorted. “Whatever I did that night is not something I’m proud of, but you did not help.” Beneath lashes too long for a man, his dark eyes smoldered, igniting fires she preferred to deny.
Crossing her arms in a protective gesture against his too-masculine proximity, Celeste studied this lordly English aristocrat. His attire was spotless. No wrinkle marred his linen. Every polished silver button was in place. He hadn’t shaved, and his stern jaw was dark with stubble, but that didn’t detract from his mien of competence and assertiveness—characteristics she found all too attractive and ought to avoid if she meant to stand up for herself from now on.
Weak—he thought her weak. And pathetic, and a weepy clinging vine, she supposed. Worse, he was right in too many ways she didn’t want to consider.
“I don’t believe you,” she said frankly, refusing to back off any further, although the delicious scent of his shaving soap had her wanting to taste him. Perhaps she should have eaten dinner. She took a deep breath and concentrated on his infuriating argument. “You have the ability to command armies with a voice like yours, and you’re not proud of it?”
“Women need mystical crutches because they’re weak,” he said with an expression of disdain. “Men command through respect and intelligence and strength. Not that I’m convinced I’ve done anything except assert authority, I still maintain that manipulation by . . . weirdness . . . isn’t fair play or good for character.”
Astonishingly, Celeste punched his muscular arm. She had never done
such a thing before. She stared at her fist in disbelief, but the act felt good enough to repeat. That she refrained made her feel even better.
Unharmed, his elegant lordship merely raised his black eyebrows in question.
“If you really believe in fair play, then you’re already living in a fantasy world,” she said witheringly. “Fair play only exists for the privileged few with the wealth and power to be noble. ‘Nice try, little girl,’” she mimicked. “‘Let me pat your little head so I can walk all over you again using my rules because it’s my game.’ Balderdash.”
He studied her as if she’d just emerged from a wall painting. She nearly leapt off the bed when he brushed her hair behind her ear. Lust as a distraction from weeping worked well, although she thought it might be dangerous.
“So you think I should confront Lansdowne and bellow at him to jump off a high cliff?” he asked without rancor. “Wouldn’t that be akin to murder—except no court could convict me?”
She shrugged. “I’ve found that people do not respond well if it goes against their beliefs. You will notice that the earl’s solicitor worked past my charm within minutes. He truly believes I’m a worthless bastard! Unless the earl is already suicidal, I doubt that jumping off a cliff would appeal to him.”
She was coming out of her despair despite herself, fascinated by discussing the forbidden topic with someone who understood—and even more fascinated with the man nearly leaning over her. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his beard shadow and longed to stroke his jaw—if only he would give her some excuse.
“There are unanticipated casualties, though,” he argued, properly keeping his hands to himself. “If I believed in your weird theory and shouted at the earl where others could hear, we might have an entire rash of suicides. Or today, I could have had carriages colliding as pedestrians ran into the street to snuff the wick. Or had it been evening, they might have attempted to snuff gas lights by smashing them. Even if I should be superstitious enough to believe I wield that kind of unreliable power, I wouldn’t use it.”
Whisper of Magic Page 13
