“Service to your country,” he answered without hesitation. “Your exploits at the docks have been reported to Earl Grey. He thinks we need an orator on our side. I’ve a pocket borough you can fill for now. We’ll consider a larger election after you’ve developed a feel for it.”
Erran was glad he was sitting down. “You want me in the Commons? Have you run mad? Did you hear me speak?”
“A lot of people heard,” Dunc said dryly. “Smart men would prefer to have you on their side rather than railing insurrection against them.”
“Where they can control me.” Erran nodded understanding even if Dunc couldn’t see him.
There had been a time when he’d controlled himself out of fear. Now that he’d learned more of his ability, it was frighteningly tempting to use it. If word of the dock riot hadn’t reached the court, another event would in due course. The judge hadn’t acknowledged Erran’s compulsion over the paper-signing, but there could always be a next time. Sooner or later, they’d ban him from practice.
Except now that Dunc dangled the opportunity—Erran discovered he urgently wanted this chance where his voice might make a difference. He had hoped to serve justice in the courts through legal means, but the pace was petrifying. Here was his chance to change the courts.
Only—if he couldn’t trust himself in front of a single judge, how could he stand in front of all Commons and threaten and cajole and compel? “I’m not entirely certain I can be controlled. Or want to be,” he admitted.
“Understood,” Dunc said with unusual equanimity. “That’s why you’ll start in my pocket. If you don’t work out, we’ll not have invested a great deal. Are you interested?”
He was more than interested. He was trying not to float to the ceiling like a helium balloon. Here was his chance to offer Celeste more than a hope and a prayer. Of course, she still might not have him. Probably wouldn’t, since she’d let her family come between them ever since the riot. She’d had him draw up papers that gave her the independence to return to Jamaica.
He couldn’t think what he had done to deserve her rejection, but it wasn’t as if he’d done much to deserve her acceptance either, except ruin her.
Remembering the moment the sun had abruptly vanished—Erran knew he had to fight to keep Celeste. He hadn’t thought himself ready for marriage—but he knew he’d found the only woman he wanted to share his life. If gaining her required using his bully voice, then so be it. It wouldn’t work on Celeste, though. For that, he had to rely on matters of the heart, a subject well beyond his comprehension.
Thirty-one
Celeste adjusted the folds of her new gown. At the time she’d ordered it, she had been trying to be demure while pleasing her need for color. She’d chosen a flowered muslin with an azure bodice that she hoped would match her eyes. Today, when her future was at stake, she would rather wear red, but even she knew that would be brazen. Perhaps a striped burgundy someday. She gazed critically at the result in her mirror.
“You look positively regal,” Sylvia said in awe. “They will think you are a queen and do anything you say.”
From her rocking chair, Nana emitted a snort.
On any other day, Celeste would agree that she could persuade lawyers to do anything she said. Today, of all days, however, she couldn’t speak. The dunking in the Thames had given her a catarrh that had settled in her throat. She had hidden upstairs for days hoping the cold would go away. But she couldn’t delay this meeting any longer.
She clutched her throat in an age-old expression of terror. Today was the day that set the rest of her life. She had to do this, had to know she had the backbone she needed to face Erran’s proposal. If she kept remembering that her voice was a gift meant to help others, she could be strong.
Sylvia and Trevor trailed after her as she descended the stairs to the front parlor. The marquess now occupied the study, but he had offered his hastily refurbished front room for this meeting.
Jamar and Erran waited in the entry hall. She allowed Erran to escort her into the parlor. She held her breath as she clasped his arm. He was so solid, so confident . . . She wanted to simply hand him all her problems and rely on him forever.
For her own sake and that of her family and the people in Jamaica depending on her, she could not. She must show that she had the confidence and ability to direct her own life—and that of her siblings and an entire plantation on the other side of the world.
All their futures rode on today’s outcome— and she couldn’t speak.
She’d spent days frantically looking for ways to work around her lack of charm. If all else failed, she could do hysteria well. It wasn’t the option she wanted.
A game table had been brought in to use as desk. Her father’s solicitor, Mr. Herrington, stood and beamed genially at her. She had manipulated him into agreement last time. He must agree with her now on principle alone—not a simple task given England’s preference to treat women as children or furniture.
Ashford’s elderly solicitor nodded as they were introduced. Legally entangling her family with the Ives required an objective third party—not Erran. She had to overcome this man’s objections with reason and by projecting confidence the way the Ives men did.
She swallowed hard and resisted the urge to flee.
Lansdowne’s disapproving attorney, Mr. Luther, glared at her from over his spectacles. His animosity she could safely ignore. The angrier he became, the less anyone would listen, she hoped. Unable to use her persuasive voice, she’d developed another plan for dealing with him. The important part was that she dealt with him, not any man. She needed to know she could handle her father’s affairs with the same competence as her father once had.
She took a seat on the sofa between Trevor and Sylvia.
In a fashionable gray morning coat, striped trousers, and red vest, Erran stood with hands behind his back on the far side of the parlor, away from the negotiating table. While she’d convalesced, she had sent him notes asking him to draw up the documents on the table now. He’d sent her notes of protest and notes requesting that they speak, but in the end, he’d done as she’d asked, to the dismay of her heart and the relief of her head. She needed to think straight, and emotions had a tendency to muddle her concentration.
Erran had the ability to stir every emotion she possessed, and some she hadn’t known existed. Was lust an emotion? Because he inspired that too, and it was even less conducive to concentration than love. She deliberately looked at the gouty old men across the table rather than the handsomely aristocratic one making her heart race.
“Lord Rochester, Miss Rochester, Miss Sylvia,” Mr. Herrington addressed them, once they were settled. “Lord Ashford and Mr. Brown, Ashford’s solicitor, have consulted and decided as head of your maternal family, the marquess is in the best position to conduct your affairs until such time as the baron reaches his majority.”
Trevor scowled, but nodded to what he’d known was coming.
“Miss Rochester, being of age, will have her share of the estate, understanding that other than her dowry, the rest will be as income from the Jamaican property. The property shall be maintained by the marquess of Ashford and his representatives until such time as the baron is of age.”
Lansdowne’s man rose to object. “He cannot usurp the rights of the father’s family! The earl already has his men in place, as is his right—”
Celeste glanced to Erran. Her notes had told him what needed to be done. He’d agreed. As a confident man of the law, he could easily step in now and handle it for her, but she’d made it plain that she wanted to do it herself, to make these men understand that she was captain of her own fate now. Grimacing reluctant agreement, Erran waited for her to make her stand. He understood her need to establish her independence. For that alone, she could love him.
Once this was over, they needed to talk—about them. About his proposal. She had to block that from her mind. She could only take one enormous step at a time.
Drawing a deep br
eath for courage, Celeste gestured to indicate that Luther take his seat. Luther glowered and resisted. She had to save her voice for more important matters, and the lawyer wasn’t important in the greater scheme of things. She found the document she sought on the table and held it out to Erran to read aloud.
He did so in a gloating tone despite the list being no more than a boring sum of the earl’s rather extensive debts. Celeste took the list when he was done and produced a small pouch of coin she’d had Erran draw on her father’s account now that the court had freed her funds. She picked up a pen, circled the debt owed to Luther’s firm, and counted out the sum in coin. She shoved it toward the earl’s solicitor.
“The lady is offering to pay your firm what it is owed for your oversight of her father’s affairs these past months,” Erran translated for her.
Luther looked wary. “In return for what?”
“In return for resigning Lansdowne’s claim to the estate,” Ashford’s elderly attorney stated sonorously, at her behest. “Lansdowne cannot pay you, even if he wished to do so. The Jamaican estate is a mere drop in the bucket of his debts. A suit will expose the details, making it obvious he is not the careful caretaker the court would approve. Such a revelation will almost certainly drive his creditors to demand bankruptcy. We have a judge’s signature confirming the marquess’s responsibility toward the family and their estate. We do not wish to drain the young baron’s coffers with an expensive, protracted lawsuit—for which you will not be paid whether you win or lose. Sign the release and your hard work shall be recompensed despite your efforts to deplete the Rochesters’ assets.”
The list was a threat Celeste would have loved to deliver herself. The earl had attempted to steal everything they owned, but she wasn’t facing the earl, just one of his lackeys. Her gesture would suffice in light of the more important task she still had to accomplish.
Once Luther’s vociferous arguments had been defeated, and he had agreed to her payment, his involvement was moot. She’d done it! With Erran’s aid and her suggestions, she’d defeated Lansdowne’s representative—without need of her voice. She might have a backbone after all.
Triumph wasn’t hers yet. She had thought long and hard about her future in deciding this next step—there were so many people counting on her! But she had found a solution that suited her and made as many people happy as possible.
Except possibly Erran. She hadn’t told him. This was her decision and hers alone.
She now had to stand up to the men who sought to protect her—a much harder task than defeating a lackey. After the lawyers finished bickering over the details of the earl’s resignation, Celeste gestured for Trevor to hand over the papers in his pockets.
Erran raised his eyebrows in surprise when she rolled out documents he hadn’t prepared. She’d hated relying on him up until now, but for her family, she understood the necessity. For them, she would take no risks.
For herself—and the child she might be carrying—she must learn the confidence to act on her own. This was her declaration of independence.
“I would like the release of my dowry,” she whispered as clearly as her voice allowed. She set the purchase agreement in front of Ashford’s daunting solicitor. “To buy a house of my own. I will also need the return of my family’s rents from the marquess, as my siblings will be moving in with me.”
Sylvia and Trevor had been along when she’d visited the charming cottage Lady Aster had told her about. Both her siblings had agreed that if they were to stay in England, they couldn’t continue sharing with the marquess. The cottage wouldn’t be a grand London townhouse, but it would be theirs.
Celeste prayed Erran understood. Men liked to make big decisions, but if they expected a woman to make a decision as important as who she meant to spend her life with, then she should be able to decide on buying a home for her family.
She hadn’t dared look at Erran to see how he was taking the news that she meant to stay in England, if only until she saw Sylvia and Trevor established on their own. Her heart had resolved the dispute between place and people. She didn’t know if Erran would grasp what she was doing. She didn’t know where his heart was.
“A young unmarried lady cannot set up her own establishment!” Mr. Brown said in horror, not even acknowledging that she wouldn’t be returning to Jamaica. “It is not done.”
“It is up to your husband to choose how your dowry will be spent,” Mr. Herrington said nervously, polishing his glasses. “One cannot expect a young lady to manage her funds successfully in supporting her own household.”
Celeste refused to back down. “The money is mine,” she whispered as defiantly as she could. “I am independent in the eyes of the law. I have no husband to speak for me, so I speak for myself. I wish to establish my own household. I have an elderly companion who cannot make the return journey to her home, and she deserves a proper one here.”
While the solicitors hemmed and hawed over costs and the wisdom of allowing a young lady such profligate use of funds destined for a husband, Erran stepped up to slap his hand on the document and call for silence. “The lady is of an age and intelligence to chart her own course without our guidance. Grant her request or I shall bring in Ashford so you might explain your objections to him.”
After nearly fainting in relief that he agreed, Celeste laughed at the promptness with which the lawyers approved her request. Erran hadn’t even used his compulsion. Just the possibility of Ashford’s furious interference had cowed them.
She ought to be upset that she’d still needed him to help her, but the look he gave her was heated, and she quit thinking again. He understood. And her heart beat so quickly, she feared she might actually give into the vapors.
Thirty-two
Erran properly rapped Ashford’s front knocker. A footman in gleaming linen and black coat opened the door and bowed to gesture him in.
So much formality would be off-putting if Erran hadn’t been focused on one goal. He would not be deterred in his mission. “Is Miss Rochester at home?” He offered his card.
It seemed the height of idiocy to ask after weeks of coming and going through the kitchen and finding her when he liked, but after all his impropriety, he had to show her the respect she deserved. He smoothed his glove over his new morning coat and pleated shirt—to replace the one that had been ruined by the Thames. Celeste had seen him at his worst, but today, he’d dressed for her.
“I shall see, my lord. The marquess has requested that you make yourself known to him when you arrive. I will find you in his study, shall I?”
Torn, Erran glanced up the stairs, but there was no sign of Celeste. He prayed she hadn’t moved out yet. With a grimace, he followed the footman to Dunc’s study. Inside, he found Jamar reading a letter aloud in a sonorous voice that would have suited a judge’s chamber.
Dunc looked up at his entrance. If nothing else, his brother had learned to listen. Jamar set down the letter when Dunc spoke.
“We need to send representatives back to Jamaica with Jamar to throw out Lansdowne’s louts and bring the locals back into line,” Dunc said angrily. “I want someone there who can monitor the slavery situation. It seems they’re on the brink of revolt in surrounding plantations. We need to keep communications open and let Trevor’s workers know we are on their side, working to eliminate slavery. Jamar can tell them, but we need to put a landowner’s face on it.”
“I trust you are not asking me,” Erran said. “I will only go if Celeste wishes to go, and she’s made it plain she is staying here with her siblings.”
“And Nana Delphinia,” Jamar said gravely. “She does not wish to make the return journey. We can send her daughters here, where she need not worry about them.”
“I’m asking which of our misbegotten relations would be best for the task.” Duncan tapped his desk with his pen as if he actually meant to use it. “There are enough idlers about who ought to be willing to go adventuring.”
A few months ago after his first c
ourtroom debacle, Erran would have happily volunteered. These days, he had new goals he was eager to pursue, including testing his voice only for good purpose—like fighting for the bill to end slave ownership. Celeste would help keep him from straying down Cousin Sylvester’s path—if she would only have him. Which was why he was here, confound it.
He cast his mind over a list of relations as disaffected as he had been earlier in the summer. “Cousin Athan comes to mind. Now that Uncle Timothy has passed most of the estate responsibilities to his eldest, Athan is at loose ends.”
“Loose ends,” Dunc snorted. “Is that what one calls piracy these days?”
“Not piracy. Just smuggling. It’s either that or the mines in Cornwall. He does not seem to have developed an aptitude for anything except leadership of thieves,” Erran said with a shrug, listening for Celeste in the hall and not too concerned with the conversation. Dunc would do what Dunc wanted to do, regardless of all advice.
“A leader of thieves might be the best choice for this venture,” Jamar said in amusement.
A footman scratched at the open door. “Miss Rochester is available in the parlor, my lord.”
Nervously, Erran clutched his gloves and hurried after the servant.
She was wearing a celestial blue-and-gold striped gown that brought out the brilliance of her azure eyes. She cocked her head with interest as he entered, and he almost stumbled over his own damned feet. Only Celeste could make him aware of the man he was beneath the clothes he wore to impress. She saw right through them and stripped him naked. It was a daunting experience for a man who preferred his privacy.
“I have come wooing,” he said. “How is your voice today?”
“Better,” she said, with only a trace of huskiness. Her eyes crinkled in the corners, as if she might be laughing at him. “Thank you for asking.”
Wanting to haul her from her seat and cover her with kisses and make his demands right here and now, Erran tamped down his impatience and continued to play his role. “Did you receive the flowers I sent?”
Whisper of Magic Page 27
