Theory of Magic Read online

  A man who couldn’t see how plain she was . . .

  She swallowed hard and listened to the men on the other side.

  “You were right,” Pascoe Ives said, clinking the crystal decanter.

  She peered through the crack to watch.

  Ashford returned to his seat behind the desk, showing little sign of what they’d just been doing beyond a slightly askew neckcloth. “Aren’t I always right?” he asked.

  Pascoe raised his glass. “At least when you’re being cynical. Lansdowne has land in Dorset that abuts your heiress’s acres. He and Townsend have plans to enclose both properties and raise sheep.”

  Christie covered her gasp with her hand and remained frozen where she was. She thought maybe Ashford knew she hadn’t left, because he looked directly at her, even though she was hidden behind the door.

  Her stepfather meant to enclose her land? She might be ignorant, but even she knew what that meant—dozens or more families would lose their homes and their only means of making a living. Little children, who now lived in sweet little cottages with gardens out back, would be on the street, forced to go north and work in the manufactories—like the crippled servants Lady Ashford hired.

  “Tell me Lansdowne is selling Townsend the sheep from his Northumberland estates,” the marquess said, drumming his fingers on the desk. “And that Caldwell and Montfort have both agreed to buy into this monumental stupidity. Enclosures and sheep are not cheap, and none of them have cash.”

  “Damn, but you’re good. How do you know that? You’ve scarcely given me time to discover details. I’ve set men to hunting down the investors, but from what little I’ve put together—it’s likely fraud, on Lansdowne’s part, at the very least. I have evidence that he’s done this before. In the last case, he told the bank he had a thousand acres of land for grazing a thousand sheep—or whatever the number was—and that he needed funds to enclose the land.” Fortified by the whiskey, Pascoe took a seat.

  “He assembled a consortium of landowners, then took the consortium’s deeds to the bank. The bank lent whatever he asked for building fences,” Ashford continued for him, tossing an empty inkpot back and forth.

  Christie frowned. She’d removed the spilled inkpot after yesterday’s flinging incident. Where had he found this one?

  She studied Ashford’s desk through the crack. While she’d dithered and hidden in her room, he’d set his uncle to investigating her stepfather. And then he had somehow collected an entire array of inkpots—cut glass, crystal, painted metals of some sort, a dozen or more! He must have set servants hunting through every shop in town.

  He’d lined the pots up in a neat row across the desk. She prayed he had not yet filled them with ink.

  She was thinking of anything but the enormity of the plot wicked men could devise to rob each other. Or the decision he was forcing her to make.

  “Lansdowne apparently has found some source of funds stupid or crooked enough to lend him money recently, yes. If he follows his usual path, he will put the proceeds into his own account, go to another source, show he has funds and property, and borrow the funds for sheep. Then he can take the sheep purchase to another source and borrow against them, and so on.”

  “While his investors are doing what?” Ashford asked with interest.

  “Going bankrupt, eventually, as most of Lansdowne’s investors do. He’ll send them some sheep, hire a few laborers for the fences, show progress, but his hand is on the purse. Next, he’ll start selling shares in his new woolen mill to be provided by his nonexistent sheep. The only fleecing that will be done is to his investors.”

  “Brilliant mind, heart of coal,” Ashford said disparagingly. “Will we be able to save Miss Townsend’s property from being mortgaged or enclosed? I don’t have much sympathy for the others.”

  He might not be concerned by the other investors, but Christie was concerned about the villagers she had never met. She had neglected them because she’d foolishly thought her stepfather understood property management better than she did!

  How could she have been so naïve? Men were no smarter or better informed than she could be, if she only asserted herself! Why should she be the polite, well-behaved miss while men trampled all over her? She was practically shaking with fury—at herself.

  “Erran is looking into whether Townsend has the right to mortgage the trust’s lands, but as executor, he probably does,” Pascoe concluded. “They have not yet done anything illegal, and once they are done, it will be nigh impossible to know who to blame for the disaster.”

  “Or they could conceivably make money, but Lansdowne will siphon it off before anyone knows of it. I suppose I should warn the parties concerned, although they’ll not appreciate the information and will no doubt ignore me. Rumors of my madness will escalate,” Ashford said with his usual matter-of-fact pessimism.

  “I’ll put together the figures when I have copies of documents and written evidence from previous investors,” Pascoe said, rising. “I’ll let you know the instant I have word that he has formed another consortium. You can decide how to deal with it.”

  Ashford frowned. “I’ll not be satisfied until Lansdowne is behind bars.”

  “He’s an earl. It’s unlikely,” Pascoe warned. “Destroy his sources of cash, and you’ll destroy him just as well.”

  Ashford set aside the ceramic inkpot he’d been tossing and saluted his advisor as Pascoe let himself out. Then he rose and approached the door where Christie waited.

  “Do you have any doubt now about the wisdom of taking charge of your own affairs?” he asked, taking her in his arms again as if she’d never left them.

  “No, I have no doubt about taking charge. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a dozen different doubts.” She shoved away, determined to be in charge of her entire life, and not just the property.

  Decide what you want, the voice had said. Taking a deep breath, she made her decision. “If we are to wed, I wish you to take me into society and show that you are not ashamed of me, as Townsend was.”

  18

  Take her into society? Walk out in public for all to see his helplessness? He nearly panicked until he took in the rest of her statement, and then his fury erupted.

  “What the devil does that mean?” Ash tried not to roar as his bride-to-be shoved from his arms and seemed prepared to flee. He grabbed for her but missed.

  “What does what mean?” she asked in puzzlement, opening the study door as if they’d just been working on correspondence.

  “That remark about being ashamed of you.” He wanted to shout and stomp and shake whoever had put that inane notion in her head. “Why the devil would I be ashamed of you? Are you purple and missing your nose?” He stalked her to check her nose.

  He heard her skirts rustle as she dodged him and slapped away his questing hand.

  “Purple, indeed! Because I have the appearance of a dowdy rural nonentity, as I’ve tried to explain to you. It will look as if you are taking your housekeeper into society. Your friends will laugh behind your back. I expect you’ll change your mind swiftly after that. I’ve spent my entire life living in the shadows, and I don’t intend to do so for anyone ever again.”

  “That sounds like a declaration of war,” he protested. “I don’t give a damn what my so-called friends say.”

  “If you don’t, then there is no reason for you not to leave the house. Shall I go through your invitations?” she asked, the taunt in her voice.

  “I don’t leave the house because I cannot see!” he roared. “It has nothing to do with what people think.”

  “Being blind doesn’t stop you from living your life in here, in the safety of your family. You are afraid people will point and laugh if you stumble in public.”

  “A marquess cannot stumble in public,” he roared his father’s edict. “A man of authority must be in full possession of his faculties.”

  She patted his arm. “As you manifestly are not, my lord, of course, why did I not see that? So we are
at an impasse. I am hampered by being a single female and cannot be introduced to society on my own. Without you, I am nothing and no one. If you will not leave this house, you will have to marry someone already established in society who can go out without you. You need a political wife, and I am very obviously not one. Marry Margaret.”

  She walked out.

  “That’s just another excuse,” he shouted after her. “Quit hiding, Christie!”

  “Harriet hides,” she threw back senselessly. “Christie is going shopping.”

  “Devil take it, you can’t go alone.” He stomped into the corridor but heard her heading up the stairs. He was pretty certain everyone in the whole damned house was standing about, listening.

  “Then if you won’t go with me, I’ll take the twins,” she called back. “Or perhaps Aunt Nessie.”

  “I’ll go,” Moira called from the front of the house.

  “See? I’ll have an entire entourage. I won’t need you.” Her voice faded as she reached the upper story.

  “Smith!” Ash yelled. “Jones! Call the carriage, fetch my coat and hat!”

  “You’ll need a chaperone, my lord,” Moira called, voice filled with mischief. “I’ll be ready when you are—unless you want Nessie, of course.”

  He wanted the whole damned world back in proper alignment, but he wasn’t stupid enough to give them that much insight.

  He figured the bedeviled women already knew it and merely mocked him with what he couldn’t have.

  “That indigo velvet bodice is stunning on you,” Moira said in genuine admiration. “Simplicity becomes you. Matching a frilled sleeve cuff with the ruffles on the gray taffeta hem adds beauty without marring the sleek line. Complete it with a cashmere shawl in those colors and maybe a jewel tone or two, and it’s perfect.”

  Appreciating Moira’s description, Ashford nodded agreement just as if he could see. He intended to get some reward for being dragged from his lair. Following Christie’s scent and using his stick, he groped his way through the modiste’s cluttered salon to examine the quality of the material and fullness of his bride-to-be’s sleeve. She wore some fanciful hat that tickled his nose. “I want to test how much the bodice reveals,” he murmured for her ears alone. If he was to be stared at like a circus act, at least he’d have some pleasure of the day.

  “For evening attire, I’ve chosen a lingerie bertha with a minimum of lace and no frill, my lord,” she retorted. “It will be very respectable.”

  “And rural,” he complained. “If you do not wish to be a rural nonentity, as you so crudely put it, drape a bit of silky stuff instead, but don’t cover your lovely throat. Neckcloths are for men.”

  “He’s right. A simple surplice crossed over the neckline, possibly in a gray lace,” Moira said.

  Satisfied he hadn’t made a complete spectacle of himself yet, Ashford retreated to a wall of fabric bolts. He didn’t dare lean on anything for fear there wasn’t enough support for his size.

  “Is that Ashford?” he heard a querulous matron ask from a row behind him. “I heard he was dead.”

  “I heard he was blind and insane,” another woman whispered in the rounded tones of nobility. “And who is that with him? I didn’t think there were any women in that family. And certainly none so unprepossessing.”

  He could hear other customers join the whispering, but Ash discovered he truly didn’t give a fig for their gossiping. Once upon a time, he’d enjoyed the envy of other men as he'd escorted the most beautiful women in town about. Now that he’d set his sights on marriage, his Miss Chris’s happiness was more important than feeding his pride. It helped to know that she didn’t care if he looked like an ogre and stumbled over his own feet. Her admiration held him steady.

  He hoped the ring on her finger was the reason she’d come out of hiding, that he had given her the same confidence she had given him.

  That didn’t mean he wasn’t wary of being seen in public. If Townsend hoped to steal Christie’s land, there would undoubtedly be nasty repercussions if he perceived Ash’s courtship as an obstacle. A blind man couldn’t easily defend his family against physical assault, so he had to hope Townsend’s anger wouldn’t come to that.

  Still, the whole shopping expedition was unnecessary and asking for trouble. He could summon any modiste in the city to the house. They didn’t need to parade in front of tittering foolish females and draw attention to themselves.

  Unfortunately, he understood the recognition that his betrothed craved. He had walked these streets in his youth, to see and be seen, to show the town that he had arrived. His Christie had never had that opportunity, and she deserved it.

  The scent of lilies wafted around him, and he unbent slightly as she took his arm.

  “Now that I have a notion of what is available, my lord, I’ll have Madame come to the house for the remainder of my wardrobe. May we take a look at shoes and hats, or are you bored?”

  There she went again—understanding his discomfort. How the devil did she do that?

  For her sake and to stop the whispering biddies, Ash established his proprietary pride in his chosen bride. “I can never be bored in your company, my dear. Your trousseau should be of the finest.” He claimed her hand and placed it on his arm, hearing the gasps of the matrons behind him with malicious gratification.

  His sharp hearing caught mutters of madness, insanity and why her? Since he couldn’t punch ladies, he covered Christie’s hand, squeezed, and indicated with a defiant nod in the direction of the shopkeeper his intention of purchasing everything she’d chosen.

  “You do enjoy upsetting apple carts, do you not?” she asked in amusement, understanding his ploy.

  “You know me too well.” He followed her guidance from the shop. They’d met less than two weeks ago. How could she understand him better than his family?

  “You roil with emotion,” she said placidly, as if reading his mind. “It’s hard not to notice. I gather from the spitefulness emanating from the corner behind you that you were eavesdropping on the gossips?”

  “Spite is the general way of gossips,” he said, trying to puzzle out how spite might emanate but needing to concentrate on where he put his feet. He could see movement directly in front of him, if he concentrated. “I have been a target of matchmaking mamas since I was in leading strings. It is a relief to let them know I’m off the market again.”

  Christie laughed. Moira muttered something about an arrogant donkey’s posterior, but aloud, she only asked, “Trousseau? I heard that remark. Is there an announcement in the making?”

  “Not here,” Christie said equably. She added a warning for Ash’s benefit. “I think that dapper gentlemen is about to intrude.”

  “Ashford, good to see you out and about,” a bluff familiar voice called from directly in front of him. “Heard you were in town but haven’t seen you at the club.”

  Not being able to recognize people until it was too late to avoid them was one of the many reasons he did not present himself in public. Ash did his best to keep an even demeanor when he wanted to glower at the rake. “Been busy, Whyte, old man, unlike layabouts like you. Miss Townsend, have you met Viscount Whyte? He plays cards, horses, and ladies, in that order. Whyte, my fiancée, Miss Christie Russell Townsend, from Somerset and Dorset. And you know Miss McDowell, of course.”

  Christie held his arm as she bobbed a brief curtsy. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” she murmured.

  She didn’t sound pleased. Recalling Whyte as a young fop, Ash assumed the idiot was looking dumfounded. “Do I punch him in the nose for salivating over your beauty?” he asked into the silence, reminding Whyte that he could not see what was happening.

  “’Pologize, stunned and all that,” Whyte said hurriedly. “Hadn’t heard the announcement. Miss Townsend, it’s a delight to meet you, except it means another of us shackled and my mama will be making demands again.”

  “One will note,” Moira said cheerfully, “his lordship is tugging anxiously at his neckcloth and glancing
in the direction of his club, where one assumes a wager needs to be paid or amended.”

  “Perspicacious, Miss McDowell,” Whyte grumbled. “I look forward to seeing you at the season’s events, Miss Townsend. Congratulations, Ashford, wish you well and all that.”

  The lout scurried off. Ash stamped his walking stick. “Putting up with donkey’s posteriors is one of the reasons I don’t go out,” he said irritably.

  Moira giggled. Christie didn’t.

  Of course, he’d just declared them betrothed when she hadn’t actually agreed, but she was wearing his ring. He could feel it through her glove.

  “This is likely to be the most fun I’ve had since Emilia set fire to her laboratory,” Moira declared. “I want to look in this hat shop.”

  “I cannot comprehend the minds of women without speech,” Ash said after he heard Moira pattering off. “Your silence does not speak to me. Did Whyte insult you in some manner I could not see?”

  “Of course not,” she said stiffly. “His disbelief is insulting, but nothing more than I was expecting.”

  “Since everyone assumed I would eventually marry Margaret, disbelief is to be expected. If he was actually rude, I will break his nose.”

  She relaxed and laughed a little. “I’d rather not wrap your fingers every time we go out together. I appreciate that you have taken time from your busy schedule to escort me. I will simply go with Moira next time. We should go home now.”

  “Not until we have bought you a new hat and some walking boots, unless you wish to send to Townsend for your wardrobe? I thought to wait until the nuptials were set before stirring the hornet’s nest.”

  “Oh, that’s already stirred, I’m sure,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve avoided taunting him in public until now, but he’ll be on the doorstep when we return.”

  “Fine. We’ll invite him to the ceremony. Erran has gone to purchase the license.”

  “You presume a great deal, my lord,” she chided.

  Moira returned in a flurry of petticoats and rose scent. “If you are talking weddings, you will have to wait for Mama and her bag of Malcolm tricks,” she said. “Come along, Christie, there is the most exquisite hat in here.”