Theory of Magic Page 10

  “Not precisely the best example for my son,” he said without reproach.

  “No, you weren’t,” she agreed, even knowing he’d meant Hugh handing her the ammunition. “But if you hadn’t thrown things, it was very possible Hugh may have. I’m not certain he completely understood who was to blame for your accident.”

  Ashford’s rigid shoulders slumped, and he reached for the tea she pushed at him. “He shouldn’t have to know the depths of human greed and depravity, but one day, he’ll be the steward Theo doesn’t want to be. I can’t keep him innocent forever.”

  “It can’t be easy raising children,” she said noncommittally. This was not her battle, after all—even though she’d enjoyed joining in from the sidelines. “As magistrate, could you not have the offenders up on charges? Someone should be made responsible for injury of such extent.”

  “It’s never that easy. Hearsay is not the same as solid evidence. I know the people, and I know the situation, and I’ve heard as much as I’ll ever hear, and it just isn’t enough for a court of law. Did George look guilty when I made my accusation?”

  “I had to hide behind the door and could only see him in the mirror, my lord. I thought he might turn purple and have an apoplexy. Miss Caldwell seemed shocked, though.”

  He nodded, looking slightly relieved. “She needs to marry and crawl out from under her father’s thumb. George is land rich, but his pockets are always to let.”

  “Why would he harm you if you were betrothed to his daughter?” she asked, sorting through all the revelations of this past hour.

  “My brothers and I surmise that the intent was to disable me to prevent me from interfering in the elections this summer, as well as allowing Caldwell an excuse to take over the estate in the interest of helping. He and Montfort have been protesting my new agricultural practices for years. Their laborers hear what I’m paying mine and demand more for their work. Caldwell and his cohorts probably also assumed any form of incapacitation would prevent me from what I’m doing now—rounding up votes against Wellington’s Tories. I wasn’t able to stop them from filling their rotten boroughs during the election, but I can gather undecideds now. My neighbors are opposed to anyone but landed aristocrats running the country.”

  “I’ve heard some of that ranting,” Harriet acknowledged. “I’ve just not heard it put quite that way. Presumably, your neighbors thought they were saving the country when they tried to incapacitate you?”

  “I doubt that they thought it through more than that, anyway. I’m known as a bruising rider and have yet to break my neck, so killing me was not likely and would have cramped Caldwell’s plans to take over if I married his daughter. He must have had an apoplexy when Margaret walked away.” He sipped his tea and grimaced as if his head still hurt.

  Christie drank her tea and pondered the situation. “Townsend once said that a man only need buy a round or two of drinks at the local pub and mention the name of the merchant causing trouble, and everyone with a grievance against that merchant would form a mob and strike against him. I suppose it’s easier than the courts since mere complaints are seldom actionable. So men riot instead of working out their problems.”

  Ashford rubbed his temple but nodded. “He is not entirely wrong. Let us hope he’s not in the practice of using that method for punishment.”

  “He’s not a bad man, just a selfish one,” she said with a shrug.

  “Which could be said of most of us with the coin to buy a round. Wealth buys bullies, but it does not buy compassion or diplomacy.”

  “We are speaking in generalities, my lord. Not all men are alike. Unfortunately, most have a bad habit of imitating each other. Gives new meaning to the phrase ‘do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’”

  “Because they’re quite likely to do so,” he said with a snort of laughter. “I apologize for taking out my temper on you just now. You deserve better.”

  “You’d not have me treat you as you just did me?” she asked, then wished she could bite back the retort. Pushing him up against the wall and kissing him would not be entirely a bad thing, in her estimation.

  “On the contrary, feel free anytime. Just be prepared for the consequences,” he said, and even in his blindness, he conveyed his meaning with his look.

  She melted just thinking about it.

  12

  The next day, Hidden Harriet reverted to form and cowered in her room.

  Apparently word of Ashford’s public tantrum had spread, and all his family seemed to have descended on the town house. He certainly didn’t need her adding to the melee.

  She was studying the sewing machine and wondering if she could make it work when the twins rapped at her open door. They entered when she looked up.

  “They’re saying father is mad and not fit to serve!” Hugh said indignantly.

  “I should let Chuckles loose and see how they react,” Hartley said. “Could we not throw more pillows and make them leave?”

  Harriet sat back and studied the boys. They seemed sincere, just a little confused. “Should you be listening at doors and who is they?”

  Both twins shrugged in their unbuttoned coats. Hugh wore his neckcloth neatly tied, but Hartley’s was half undone, as was his waistcoat. Except for the auburn hair, they looked like miniature Ashfords in both his personas—dignified aristocrat and furious brat.

  “We decided Papa needs us to listen,” Hartley said, completely oblivious to the deceit of eavesdropping.

  “Some of Father’s guests,” Hugh answered her second question at the same time, sounding worried. “Uncle Theo and Aunt Aster are arguing with them. Uncle Erran and Aunt Celeste look as if they might chew them into bits. Father is tossing pillows back and forth and not saying much.”

  The boys had reason to be concerned. A non-talking Ashford was building up steam. Or perhaps it was helium. Whichever, it wouldn’t be pretty when he exploded. Again. Yesterday’s public performance had shown how far beyond society’s strictures his temper could take him.

  “I don’t think there’s anything I can do,” she said.

  “Papa said he has three secretaries, and they’re all quite capable and aren’t mad. You’re his secretary, are you not?” Hartley asked eagerly. “Could you not tell them Papa is perfectly sane?”

  “People are far more likely to believe Lord Theo and Lord Erran. If they haven’t convinced his visitors, I doubt that I can.”

  The boys looked disappointed. “We thought you might have some idea,” Hugh said, taking the lead again. “London is boring and we won’t mind going back to Surrey if we must, but Father has been better since coming here. He will be horrid if he’s sent back before the vote.”

  Horrid was a pale word for what Ashford would be like without the diversion of politics. If his guests wanted to see him insane, they should stay around to see the result of that ridiculous decision. She thought it might be akin to attempting to geld a wild stallion. Someone would die, of a certainty, and she didn’t it want to be Ashford.

  “Perhaps I can distract him enough to prevent him from throwing inkpots,” she said, not wanting to disappoint the boys. No one had ever come to her for help before, and she hated to let them down.

  They crept down the front stairs, although she doubted if anyone could have heard a tribe of savages beating drums over the noise issuing from the front salon.

  “The issue is that our party has enough difficulties. We cannot look as if it’s being run by raving lunatics!” a stranger’s deep voice rose over the others.

  “I’m not the one raving at the moment,” Ashford said dryly. “And if you would have let your son run into the street to be crushed by a carriage, then I’d change parties too.”

  “You beat up your footman in the street and flung books at a woman!” another voice argued coldly. “You cannot keep a servant. They all claim you’ve run mad. Go back to Surrey, Ashford. We’ll bumble along without you.”

  Overhearing this, Christie’s fury rose so swiftly tha
t she thought she saw red. She had to place a hand against the wall to steady herself. She could not imagine what Ashford might be feeling. My word, if he had a pistol, he’d be using it now. And deservedly so.

  Hurrying to his study, she snatched up the writing desk. Holding her finger up to the boys to warn them to stay quiet, she strode determinedly back to the salon. Ashford’s brothers were speaking while the marquess remained ominously silent.

  The twins watched her with hope shining in their eyes. She scarcely knew what she could do and so had no idea how the boys could help. Her only hope was to open herself to the emotions of his guests for a clue of how to deal with them, while diverting Ashford’s temper and giving his brothers a chance to clear the air.

  She sensed that these were men who respected power and despised weakness—like Townsend. She knew how to deal with that. Taking a deep breath and concocting the most enormous lie she could think of, she strode into the salon and dropped the writing desk on Ashford’s lap. “The messenger from the king cannot wait longer, my lord. I’ve replied as you’ve requested. You might wish Lord Erran to scan the missive for correctness before you sign.”

  She took the document—she thought it was an invoice to be entered in the household ledger—and waved it at Lord Erran. Ashford’s younger brother had the Ives’ jutting cheekbones, but his nose had been broken at some point, and he was shorter and broader than the marquess. Standing with his fingers hooked in his watch pocket, he radiated the part of intimidating barrister in his sophisticated dark suit.

  He looked startled but accepted the document. He glanced at it quizzically. Christie rode over any question he might ask by tapping another invoice on the desk in Ashford’s lap.

  She could feel the marquess’s fury ebbing beneath his maniacal humor as he realized what she was doing. It wouldn’t do for him to start cackling. “Sir George’s debt has come due. While I have your attention, might I ask if you wish to call it in? You were talking of using the funds for the new railroad, I believe.”

  Lord Erran hastily ducked his head to examine the invoice as if it were really an important document.

  “What the devil . . . ?”An iron-gray-haired gentlemen who’d been pacing behind the sofa glared at her. He radiated confusion and a cold cynicism.

  “Pardon me, sir.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I’m one of his lordship’s secretaries. The only way for me to make myself known in this extremely busy household is to be forthright. This meeting seemed likely to last too long, and really, His Majesty cannot be left waiting.”

  Lord Theo, the brown-haired, slimmer, more ascetic-looking brother, started to look amused. Beside him, Lady Aster was hiding a grin behind her teacup. Really, since they couldn’t actually sack someone who wasn’t a true employee, they could do little more than show her the door. And Christie thought perhaps they might not object too terribly to the interruption.

  Lord Theo held out his hand. “Let me see Caldwell’s marker. That’s a year old, isn’t it?”

  The Ives were apparently as adept at prevarication as she was.

  The younger lords seated on the sofa watched this exchange in amazement. “You have a female secretary, Ashford?”

  “Splendid, isn’t she?” Ashford said with a lazy drawl, swinging his stick to bat at her skirts. “Theo is too busy to nag, but Miss Christie keeps a tight ship. Dodges inkpots well, too.”

  To show her annoyance at his inflated self-importance, she picked up the sharply whittled pen on the desk and jabbed his hand with it, although her action was blocked from the rest of the room by her size. “You have yet to fling an inkpot at me, my lord,” she said with the stiff objection of a loyal servant.

  “Pillows, perhaps?” the gray-haired gentleman asked. “Books?”

  Ashford grabbed the pen from her hand before she could fling it at his attackers.

  With as much dignity as she could muster while the Ives brothers and their wives snickered, she said, “I am a valued servant, sir. His lordship treats me with respect. He has an unfortunate impatience with those who offer insolence, however.”

  “The footman was insolent yesterday?” the more affable younger gentleman asked.

  Christie could sense that his earlier concern was ebbing. “Of course not. Is that what this is about? Smith is a recent hire and has not learned to dodge his lordship’s walking stick. He fell and hurt himself. You have only to ask him. The dog was the true culprit in yesterday’s unfortunate incident, but one can hardly blame a dumb animal.”

  “Caldwell claims he and his daughter were attacked. He’s talking about pressing charges,” the pacing man insisted, still not convinced but less furious. “The entire town is buzzing about Ashford’s tantrum and the street incident. Our party is vilified enough as it is. We don’t need this sort of misbehavior.”

  “If Grey wants me to withdraw my leadership, have him say so,” the marquess said in a deceptively languid tone, grasping the document with which Erran was batting his hand. “I believe I’ve been insulted quite enough this morning. Miss Christie, if you would show these gentlemen out, I need to confer with my brothers about this debt before Caldwell spouts any more feeble nonsense.”

  The inference that Caldwell was blackening Ashford’s name in an attempt not to pay his debt finally registered on the strangers, Christie noticed.

  She dipped a curtsy. “Gentlemen, I’ll have Smith bring your hats, shall I?”

  She heard the twins racing back up the stairs.

  The rest of Ashford’s family rose to hasten the guests’ departure.

  Christie shivered with cold sweat as the unsatisfied visitors harrumphed and made their farewells. She hid in the study while the strangers questioned Smith, who held the door for them. She waited until the door shut after them before she sank into a wingchair and tried to pull herself together.

  She didn’t do things like that! What on earth had come over her?

  “Christie!” Ashford’s roar rattled the rafters.

  “I quit,” she shouted back, having reached the very last thread of her nerves. “I plan to join a circus.”

  Laughter erupted down the corridor. Not Ashford’s, she knew. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes. She had not meant to make such a fool of herself. It had just happened. She’d felt Ashford’s pain and humiliation even more than his controlled rage, and she’d lost her own temper and wanted to kick the men causing it.

  Perhaps she should have kicked them. Then they could have called her lunatic too. Now that she thought about it, she was angrier than she had ever been. How dare they accuse a brilliant man like the marquess of being insane?

  Cowering behind the study door, she listened to Ashford stamping in her direction. His brothers were laughing and repeating apparently humorous parts of the conversation. How could they be so oblivious to Ashford’s hurt? They thought him invulnerable, perhaps. He hid behind arrogance as she hid behind doors.

  “My lord,” Celeste Ives called sweetly, “please leave poor Miss Christie alone. It does not do to hunt her like prey.”

  “My dear, your voice does not influence my clodpoll brothers,” Christie thought she heard Lord Erran say. She had no idea what he meant. His brothers couldn’t hear his wife?

  “Oh, Ashford is swayed, all right,” Lady Aster replied with humor. “He’s simply like an angry elephant who can’t stop once he’s on the warpath. Do elephants have warpaths, or is that Indians?”

  Ignoring his family’s inanities, Ashford stomped into his study and found her instantly. “I do not need you to fight my battles,” he thundered.

  For a blind man, he had an excellent sense of direction. She stayed huddled in her chair. “I quit, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “You can’t quit. You were never hired. One cannot hire ladies. Where the devil did you learn to act like that?” He leaned against the door jamb, properly leaving the door open while his family was about.

  “Lying is what I do,” she said with a shrug. “Townsend would demand to know who had let the s
heep escape, or if I knew who broke the clock, or whatever had enraged him that day. And I would say I did, because he couldn’t strike me. The house belonged to . . . my cousin and her mother . . . and so did the servants. After . . . my aunt . . . died, and he tried to marry . . . Miss Townsend . . . off to the local farmers, I told the village she had a contagious disease. They believed me and not him. Storytelling was my only entertainment.”

  His shoulders shook with what she hoped was laughter. “By Jupiter, you should pair with Jacques. Your stories are better than his. The king’s messenger! That flummoxed Birchcroft so badly that he couldn’t speak.”

  “That was rather the point.” She couldn’t unfurl from her tight ball of nerves. He was too close. Her lies were mounting so rapidly, she couldn’t keep up, and she was reaching a breaking point. She was too aware of what they had done yesterday—and that his brothers were just down the hall. And she didn’t want to pair with his playwright brother. “When Townsend had one of his real rages, I had to make up huge tales to distract him. And it sounded as if your brawl was bigger than anything he could generate. The king was the largest distraction I could summon short of the city being on fire.”

  “You don’t like lying,” he said, abruptly sobering.

  “I lack the confidence to be good at it. No one with any real sense would believe such outrageousness.” Harriet lacked the confidence, anyway. Christie was becoming much too good at tale-telling.

  “You convinced that lot of imbeciles,” he argued.

  “Because they couldn’t believe you’d hire a liar,” she suggested. “Lying is the only way I can make myself heard. It’s not as if a mere secretary could tell your guests what she thought,” she continued, “not any more than a plain female could tell Townsend anything.”

  “You should have been born a duchess,” Ashford asserted. “They have the power to command.”

  “Duchesses aren’t born,” Lady Aster said, entering the study and interrupting before that thought could travel to what marchionesses could do. “She’s my lieutenant general, so leave her alone. Miss Christie, you were simply brilliant. We shouldn’t have worried when we heard the news that Ashford had lost his wits.”