She glared at him. “You halted a riot and stopped a terrorist and still you do not believe you have an . . . ability . . . greater than most? No wonder it’s only the Malcolm ladies who talk about oddities, gifts, and talents. Men are too thickheaded to accept what they don’t understand—which includes pretty much the entire universe.”
“Men like scientific evidence before they believe the ridiculous,” he countered.
“Artists are not called weird because scientists haven’t proved they paint better than anyone else! Priests aren’t called weird because they have faith without science. It does not seem extraordinary to me that some people can speak well and influence others. You have surely seen eloquent orators who can sway crowds—are they witches employing magic?”
“That was not your erudition seducing hardheaded lawyers,” he exclaimed, leaning closer with the intensity of his argument. “As much as I want to believe it’s my authority to which people respond, I simply cannot take a chance on such unfair use of my ability. It would be akin to practicing Mesmerism.”
“Mesmerism! Is that how you explain what we do?” she asked in amazement, admiring the flash of his dark eyes as he spoke of this interesting new theory.
“It’s the only scientific explanation I can determine,” he said, almost angrily, although his hand brushed hers on top of the covers as if seeking reassurance. “I mesmerized an entire courtroom once.” He dismissed the discussion with a complete change of subject. “Would you like to come down and have a bite to eat so the household knows you’re alive?”
Fascinated despite their disagreement, Celeste didn’t ever want to end this moment, but he was right to cut it off. She feared her entire family would be here if they lingered longer. “I don’t think I can. I’m not hungry.” Not for food, at least. “It’s been a horrible day. And I broke an oil lamp. I do not want to consider what that means. I think it best if I rest so I have better control.”
As if they hadn’t just been quarreling, his lordship offered one of his rare smiles—more heart-stoppingly effective because of their rarity. His fingers enclosed hers, offering the reassurance she craved, and she would have swooned, had he not continued with his usual pragmatism. “I had wondered if that was intentional. I’ve heard of opera singers who can shatter glass. I’ll have the maid carry up some hot tea. Perhaps that will help you relax.”
Opera singers—she’d like to believe that, but she was a contralto, not a soprano. But if that’s what he wished to believe . . . She was done arguing.
“You are upsetting me as much as the lawyers,” she admitted, although not clarifying in how many ways he disturbed her. “I wish I could tell you to go away and let me return to my sewing. It’s safer.”
His expression darkened, and he withdrew his hand. “When this is all over, I promise to leave you in peace. But it’s far from over.”
She lowered her gaze in acceptance and disappointment that someday, he would no longer be part of her life. Maybe then she could seek normality again. No, normal was being weak. He was right. She must learn independence. “I cannot promise to contain myself if faced with any more days like this one. I’m worn thin as it is.”
“I can respect that, although I will not lie to you. Given the circumstances, I cannot promise to bring you peace, but I will work toward that goal.” He patted the hand he’d just released. A frisson of electricity passed between them. She froze, and he hastily stood up, as if he’d felt it too. “Good-night, Miss Rochester.”
She fell asleep wondering what it would be like if his lordship didn’t have to leave her room—if she could have his comforting size and security all night long.
That was the old Celeste speaking. In the morning, the new independent and strong Celeste would scorn him.
***
Wishing he could simply wrap the glass-breaking, manipulative, fragile Miss Rochester in cotton batting and ship her somewhere safe until this was all over, Erran sought activity to distract him from the woman upstairs. Her beautiful, tear-streaked face had nearly broken his heart. Her refusal to believe that charm and bullying were unfair and a dangerous path to perdition made him want to bang his head against a wall.
So he spent the evening digging through the rest of her father’s document trunk. The man collected papers the way squirrels gathered nuts. Why the devil hadn’t he included his will?
Because a reasonably young man of strength and good health does not expect to die. And a man of integrity does not expect his relations to be treacherous frauds.
Erran compared the letter purloined from Lansdowne’s solicitor with a few of the Jamaican solicitor’s letters in the trunk. The handwriting was different, but there could have been a new clerk.
None of the documents in the trunk had the same signature as the letter stating there was no will, however. How many partners were in the firm? Who was authorized to speak for the Rochester estate? Or had Lansdowne simply made up the entire letter?
Finding answers meant sending more letters to the governor’s office and court clerks, asking about the discrepancy—months more time lost. Erran’s suspicion was that someone in the Jamaican office had been bribed to keep the will hidden and was receiving a commission on assets sold. Preying on the weak was a game to the bullies of the world, morality and legality be damned.
Ashford was depending on Lansdowne’s support in the Whig campaign for the prime minister. Without proof, Erran hated to accuse the earl of lies, theft, and fraud, but he was furious enough to confront the man. Better he do so with evidence in hand.
He dug deeper and scanned more papers. Invoices for shipments, journals of daily thoughts and appointments, lists of household items Rochester wished to buy—the trunk was bottomless. And useless.
Beneath all the papers and books was a small package wrapped in brown paper with a note attached— For the Malcolm library.
Suddenly wide awake, Erran tore off the wrapper and scanned the contents—more slender journals similar to the one he’d already perused. No wonder the siblings hadn’t bothered opening it. They must have seen packages like this regularly, and in their grief, probably respected their father’s privacy.
He scanned the dates of these tomes—all from the last few years. There were entries on weather, crops, experiments on the sewing mechanism and other equipment. He noted the sketches of the design, but he’d already drawn similar ones.
Disappointed, Erran looked at the brown paper again— the Malcolm library. Aster only kept genealogical records. She had no room in her small townhouse for a library.
The earl of Lochmas, Aster’s father, had spoken of his castle full of moldering old medieval Malcolm volumes from distant, prolific ancestors. But the wrapping paper hadn’t specified Edinburgh or even Scotland.
The current Malcolm library was in Wystan—one of Ashford’s holdings in Northumberland.
Was it possible . . . ?
He would never know without trying. Wystan was much closer than Jamaica.
Sixteen
The next morning, to avoid any chance of running into Lord Erran, Celeste asked one of the new maids to carry her tea and toast to the sewing room. She could hear the construction men pounding on walls below and felt certain he’d be there directing them.
If she had learned nothing else these past months, it was that circumstances changed in the blink of an eye, and she could only rely on herself. The marquess’s family could suddenly decide the Rochesters were a liability and all promises of allowances and schools might disappear in a puff of smoke. She would attempt to continue earning her own way, and sewing was the only way she knew to do it.
“This house, it may be too strong for you,” Nana said as she took another basic shirt body from her machine. “You should explore your gift, not run from it.”
Nana seldom spoke, but when she did, Celeste felt compelled to listen—even if she didn’t like what was being said.
“Lord Erran thinks it is wrong to force people to do what I want. And breaki
ng glass . . .” Had she done that because she was stronger here or because she was simply more upset than she’d ever been in her life? “I don’t think destruction is a positive use of my gift.” She took the loosely pleated shirt body and smoothed the linen creases with her fingers.
“Explore and control,” Nana said enigmatically. “Or give it up.”
Give up her gift? How would she go on without it? She couldn’t, quite simply. A beautiful woman might not even notice she wielded vocal charm. But Celeste knew that without her voice, no one would pay attention to a lanky, unprepossessing spinster. And if society labeled her as a bastard . . . The horror of that appellation branded her as unworthy as surely as if they’d taken a hot iron to her flesh.
She would go from pampered daughter of a wealthy baron to an invisible nothing who must scramble for pennies. She would be a dreadful liability to her siblings and could not risk their futures by living with them. The earl had picked a frightful way of terrifying her this time. Even her voice couldn’t save her if the rumor spread.
It was nearly luncheon before Lord Erran sought her out. She’d been nervously awaiting this moment, afraid of what new scheme he meant to perpetrate. He was worse than the ocean winds blowing her about with no means of controlling where she was tossed.
He’d already stripped her of most of her defenses by inviting Trevor and Sylvia to go off on their own. Sylvia had happily returned to the shops with Lady Aster, and Trevor was out exploring. Since there was no longer any reason to hide, she would have been a horrible witch to object.
Without any greeting, Lord Erran set her father’s journals on the sewing table accompanied by a torn piece of brown paper. He pointed at the label on the paper. “Did your father regularly send his journals to this library?”
Trying to act as if his presence didn’t leave her breathless, Celeste shrugged. “Jamar is more likely to know than I am. Our parents were always jotting notes of recipes and garden knowledge and such and taught us to do the same. I asked about mama’s diaries once, and Papa said they were in a safe place. Jamaican weather is not good for books and papers, so I assumed he’d found a dry storage.”
“I’ll ask Jamar to which Malcolm library they might have gone. Lady Aster says she has not seen them, so I’m thinking it’s Wystan.” He started out of the sewing room.
“Wait! Why do you ask?” Attempting to assert a little of the authority he’d stolen from her, she set down her sewing.
He opened one of the books to a place he’d marked with a piece of paper. “Your father made notes of important dates and occasions. He’ll have noted the date he married your mother and the date of your birth and all the circumstances. If they’re in his handwriting, they’ll stand up in court better than any Jamaican witness.”
She could tell he was excited. For a man who usually expressed only cynicism, that meant he thought he’d discovered something of importance.
She glanced to Nana. “You can tell them when and how Papa was married, can’t you? And who was there?”
Nana nodded. “He was lonely for many years. When he learned of his English wife’s death, he married a neighbor lady. He was filled with joy that he could finally have the woman he loved. Jamar was there. And the old preacher who died in the hurricane. And a few others.”
“There is no doubt of your legitimacy,” Lord Erran said emphatically. “Jamar has already given me names of witnesses. But they are all either dead or in Jamaica. It will take months of correspondence to clear up this vicious rumor the earl apparently intends to spread. If Lansdowne is that desperate, Ashford will simply have to do without his influence. I will not have him besmirch your reputation, even for the sake of a damned prime minister.”
“Your brother depends on Lansdowne to change the fate of all England,” she said, trying to sort out his arguments. “Wouldn’t the good of everyone be more important than my birth?”
He waved away her concern. “I’ll find another vote. Lansdowne has proved himself unreliable and treacherous.”
Her lonely heart swelled with joy that he would place her above the needs of a marquess. She didn’t think this wise, but she waited to hear what else he planned.
“Your parents’ journals will convince society without need of lawsuits, especially if Ashford declares them sufficient. I am hoping they may contain more information that I can use as well. I’ll be off to Wystan directly.”
She did not even know where this Wystan was. Celeste glanced dubiously at the pages he showed her. Her father’s familiar penmanship warmed her heart, and she smoothed her hand over the page, trying to grasp why his lordship was so excited.
The rap of the door knocker carried up from the foyer. Instead of responding to his lordship’s declaration, she hurried toward the front parlor to look out on the street. Very seldom did visitors bring good news.
“It is our sister’s carriage,” she said when Lord Erran caught up with her. She turned to him in horror. “Will the earl have told her these lies?”
“There is only one way of finding out. I’m of the belief that the more information we possess, the better prepared we are. Do you wish me to leave or stay?”
Her desire for independence warred with her need for safety. It wasn’t just her future at stake, but that of her siblings. Reluctantly, Celeste conceded. “Join us after she’s brought up, if you please. I don’t have Sylvia or Trevor to act as my companions, and I’d rather not ruin my reputation more than necessary.”
He nodded and departed, leaving her to settle in the front parlor like a lady of leisure. She was wearing her gray silk with unfashionably simple sleeves, but she hoped her pearls lent an air of modest respectability. She needed all the protective armor she could summon.
Charlotte was huffing and puffing by the time the footman led her up the stairs. Today, she was festooned in pink frills from head to silk slippers. “A butler,” she exclaimed breathlessly as she entered. “You have acquired a butler and a footman. How extraordinary. Are they Ashford’s?”
“Good morning, Charlotte,” Celeste said sweetly, correcting her half-sister’s rudeness. “How are you today?”
“Terrible, quite terrible. The rumors are all over town.” She glanced up at the footman, waiting for him to depart.
Celeste signaled him to bring tea. He bowed and left the parlor door open, per her instructions. She didn’t trust Charlotte and didn’t wish her to feel too comfortable. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said without curiosity. “And how are your children? Are they well?”
“Well as can be, considering the scandal!” Charlotte said indignantly, flouncing onto the worn sofa. “My own papa, a bigamist! I cannot believe it of him. I will not. I cannot say what it will do to my dear Charles’s position.”
As Lord Erran had said, forewarned was forearmed. Celeste bit her tongue and let her sister ramble. Lansdowne had not been slow in spreading the gossip. Bigamy! That was an interesting new angle.
“And you sitting there with butlers and maids as if butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. That will not last once Ashford hears,” Charlotte said angrily. “We must remove you from this house at once. My Charles will help find you a position before the scandal grows. It’s the least we can do.”
“Don’t be silly,” Celeste said in her sweetest placating tone as a maid arrived with the tea tray. “Papa was the most proper gentleman on earth. Did you hear about our excitement yesterday? An arsonist almost set us on fire.” She poured the tea and spoke as if terrorists were a daily occurrence, waiting to see how Charlotte would react.
“The streets are dreadful these days,” Charlotte said with a wave of her chubby hand after the maid left. “I cannot live in town with any ease. We will be happy to see the baron and your sister to our home in Yorkshire, where they will be safe. It is best to sever the connection quickly, so their reputations do not suffer. You do not have the understanding of gentlemen as I, a married lady, do. Even our dear papa was capable of sin.”
Celeste wonder
ed if the lady always talked in circles or if she was trying to convince herself that what she said was true. Celeste sipped her tea and studied her much older sibling with interest. Charlotte was nearly red-faced with her effort to sound credible.
“I have no notion what you are about,” Celeste lied. “Ashford has been all that is sincere. He is providing Trevor with an excellent school and tutor, and Lady Aster is looking for a good finishing school for Sylvia. We have invitations to dine with them next week, after our new wardrobes arrive. Do you have some quarrel with the marquess?” she asked politely, enjoying watching Charlotte writhe in discomfort. Apparently, the conversation was not going as her sister had hoped.
“No, that cannot be,” Charlotte said, with less confidence than earlier. “He has not heard of your birth, surely. You must be honest with him. And Lansdowne is most certainly the one to take the baron in hand. He’s head of the family, after all.”
The maid arrived in the doorway. “Lord Erran Ives, miss.”
His arrogant lordship strode in without invitation, just as Celeste had hoped he would. Today, he wore immaculate white pantaloons with an elegantly tailored gray frock coat and what suspiciously looked like one of the pleated shirts she’d sewn, topped by a black linen neckcloth.
The thrill of having him as her white knight would have to stop, but she so admired his willingness to dive into battle that she threw his grim visage a bright smile. “My lord, welcome. I was telling my sister how your family has so kindly taken us under their wing. She keeps prattling about scandal. Have you heard anything?”
Charlotte was practically gaping at the elegant aristocrat gracing the shabby parlor and bowing over her hand.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Guilford. Will you be staying in town long? I will have my sister-in-law add your name to the guest list, if so,” he said smoothly.
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