Theory of Magic Page 16

  Christie’s hand dug into his arm. “Malcolm tricks?”

  Ash wanted to ask the same. He wasn’t female and didn’t need Malcolm witchery. “We’ll say our vows in secret,” he murmured.

  “I don’t want them said in secret,” Christie said irritably. “That is the whole point. I wish to be acknowledged as an independent lady of good family and wealth, not someone’s shameful secret.”

  “You have bats in your attic. There is nothing shameful about you.” He left the bright daylight to enter the crowded dark shop and froze when he could barely see a shadow. “Now who’s concerned with what people think?” he retorted, to cover his hesitation.

  “I am concerned for you, since you won’t care for yourself,” she said. “Stand right here, and I’ll try on the hat and we’ll leave. Smith, order the carriage brought around, will you?”

  As Christie abandoned him near the door, a voice at his side added to his annoyance. “Ashford, it’s generous of you to take your decorator and her assistant shopping. Or is she your secretary? I have heard both.”

  Margaret. Town was too damned small this time of year. Ash tried not to sigh in exasperation, but his frustration was building to dangerous proportions. “If you wouldn’t wear a different perfume every day, I might know you are there and could greet you without you sneaking up on me.”

  “You never knew I was there before you were blind,” she said resentfully. “Miss McDowell is a relation of Lady Azenor’s, isn’t she? And is her rather large assistant another cousin? She resembles Lady McDowell.”

  Ash remembered Moira’s mother from before his accident. Viscount McDowell’s wife resembled a galleon in full sail when she entered a room—wide prow, thick waist, sailing along on billows of skirts. “That’s spiteful, even for you, Margaret.”

  “If I’m to be a dried-up old maid, I’m allowed to be spiteful. I thought you might appreciate the image. That family is a managing lot. I trust you’re not considering marrying into it.”

  “The McDowells? Hardly. And Miss Townsend is no relation.”

  Although now he thought on it, his uneasiness increased. Aster had known a little too much about Miss Townsend for comfort. A moment ago, he had believed Moira was jesting about a Malcolm ceremony. Perhaps she knew something he didn’t? Was Christie lying to him again? He’d better have a talk with Aster, the little witch.

  Margaret returned him to the moment. “Miss Townsend, is that who she is? So you have stolen Townsend’s missing heiress! That’s rich, even for an Ives. How many more votes will you lose your party by encouraging that family of eccentrics? I wish you well, Duncan.” She squeezed his arm and drifted out the door, if he was to judge by the cold blast of air.

  Why the devil had he ever thought it amusing to visit London?

  Christie approached. Taking his hand, she set it on her new hat. “It has lace and roses. That is not too much, is it?”

  Absurdly, that she’d asked his opinion lightened his mood. He counted the roses and examined the quality of the lace and nodded approval. “Blue ribbons, to match your eyes?”

  “The roses are blue, my lord,” she said with laughter. “A blue ribbon is an excellent idea, thank you.” She kissed his cheek.

  She was tall enough to kiss his cheek. He tried not to beam like a besotted idiot.

  Margaret irritated him. Christie made him happy. This marriage business wasn’t so difficult to decide after all.

  That thought lasted until the carriage arrived at the house and Christie leaned over to whisper, “That’s Townsend’s carriage across the street. The nest has been stirred.”

  “As ye sow, so shall ye reap,” he quoted philosophically. “Go visit the twins and see what they’ve been up to. It will keep them from worrying when I start flinging things about.”

  She laughed, sounding relieved. “Just don’t fling Townsend about. You’ll strain yourself.”

  He wasn’t about to do that before his wedding night!

  19

  “Ashford!” Townsend roared. His countryman’s bellow echoed up and down the city street.

  Harriet wanted to cringe, but bold Christie turned and kissed Ashford’s cheek as he descended from the carriage. Then she sailed into the townhouse without acknowledging the shouting fool.

  She’d had her very first taste of freedom today, and it had been delicious. Arrogant Ashford hadn’t even cringed when the gossips had called him mad. And he’d barely acknowledged his beautiful ex-fiancée when she’d whispered whatever poisonous words she’d had to say in his ear. He almost gave her confidence that he meant what he said about not minding her plainness—if only he could see, and she could be sure.

  However, her stepfather had humiliated her beyond all redemption yesterday. She refused to let him do so ever again, not when she finally had the power to escape his control. Knowing he meant to invest her holdings in a fraudulent plot added resolution. Her stomach was in knots and her hands were shaking, but she could not, would not, let Townsend know.

  “I will fetch mama,” Moira told her as Christie hurried toward the stairs to protect the twins. “You’re a Malcolm now, and we take care of our own.”

  “I think Ashford can do that, but he might need to be hauled off the ceiling before day’s end.” She tried to sound amused and unafraid. “There are only so many inkpots that can be thrown.”

  It was amazing that others couldn’t tell when she was about to boil over like burned soup. Perhaps that was her gift—hiding her emotions from others.

  Moira laughed, hearing only what Christie wanted her to hear. “Mama won’t like to miss the show. I should stay and watch instead, but I won’t. I admire your bravery!”

  “No promises have been made,” she called after her friend, but she had to admit that she had severely limited her choices by wearing Ashford’s ring and appearing in public with him and not correcting his possessive behavior. It had felt so very lovely to feel cherished for a short while, which made her a self-destructive goosecap.

  Lifting her skirts, she raced up the stairs to the attic. Out on the street, Townsend continued shouting like a coarse peasant.

  The twins were sitting at their desks, working, when Christie entered the schoolroom. Steadying herself, she smiled at the startled tutor. “If you would, please, take Hartley and Hugh to the park for a while. Or for a lesson in the abbey.”

  Hartley looked anxious. “Is Papa in trouble? Shouldn’t we stay and help?”

  Hugh was already up and aiming for a window. “Father wouldn’t want us to desert him if there is to be a fight.”

  Christie studied them in exasperated amusement. “The two of you are so much like him that I really ought to send you downstairs and let you deal with my stepfather. But your father wouldn’t appreciate our interference. There will just be a lot of shouting and improper language, and you shouldn’t have to hear it.”

  “Then you should go with us,” Hugh said seriously. “Have you seen Westminster? It is very grand.”

  “I would like for you to show it to me. Go make notes of what you like best and what you think I’d like best. But I’m expecting visitors and can’t go out again. I shall be fine. My stepfather has yelled before, and I’ve survived, as you can see.”

  “Can we take Chuckles?” Hartley asked, already donning his coat.

  “Not if you’re going to the abbey,” the tutor said. “We will take our poetry books and you may discuss the poets buried there.”

  Satisfied the man had the twins in hand, Christie hastened down to her room. She took off her lovely new hat, discarded her pelisse, and checked the mirror. She didn’t mean to confront Townsend unless it became necessary, so she prepared herself for Moira’s family.

  She would leave off her cap. The complicated coif Moira had created for her looked rather elegant. Could she find a maid who could do that for her every day?

  Nothing would ever change her size, but knowing Lady McDowell was large—and also the wife of a viscount—seemed to have a steadying
effect. Aster had said Christie was a Malcolm, like Lady McDowell. Perhaps her family was meant to be large. And gifted. And wouldn’t mind the voices in her head if she didn’t call them ghosts.

  Perhaps she could learn to lie to herself as well as everyone else.

  She took the back stairs down. The footman stationed at the garden door glanced up in surprise. Pretending she was Ruler of the World, she nodded regally and listened for Ashford’s voice.

  He’d taken Townsend to his study, of course. She could linger in the anteroom and hear muffled roars. Or she could hide in his bedchamber and hear almost everything.

  Even Ruler of the World hesitated at entering the marquess’s bedchamber in view of the footman.

  She smiled at the servant. “The gentlemen will need tea shortly, if you please.”

  He bobbed his head and trotted off. She slipped into the chamber—the one she would share with Ashford if she were so crazed as to agree to his proposal.

  She was fairly certain she was that crazed. Or desperate. His proposal had melted her mind along with her heart. She knew better, but a lifetime of longing couldn’t be dissuaded. Independence sounded even lonelier than being bullied.

  The voices in her head laughed. She didn’t have time to listen, so she shut them out.

  The door between the chambers was open slightly. She waited with interest to see how the madman dealt with her stepfather at his worst.

  “You were seen with my daughter!” Townsend shouted.

  Christie sighed and pulled up a chair so she could see through the crack. If stating the obvious was his idea of argument, then this would be a long fight.

  “Stepdaughter,” Ash corrected in a bored drawl. “Miss Townsend is of an age to set out on her own without your permission.”

  “An unmarried lady does not stay under the roof of an unmarried gentleman! You have ruined her. I’ll never find her a suitor now.”

  Townsend sounded apoplectic and used his worst bullying tones. Christie wondered what she thought she could accomplish by eavesdropping. Perhaps she should simply walk in there now and tell her stepfather to go home—not that he’d ever listened to her.

  “Miss Townsend is of the legal age of consent and has agreed to be my wife,” Ashford stated in what passed for patient tones for him. “She is quite adequately chaperoned by my sister-in-law’s family. I would not harm the woman with whom I mean to spend my life. It is you who is causing her grief. Mortgaging her properties was not well done, especially if you are trusting Lansdowne to return your funds.”

  Oh very good. Even she recognized that tactic—take the offensive. But a thrill shot down her spine at his declaration of protection. Marriage suddenly felt a little more real.

  “I am doing what any proper executor must do to maintain his assets!” her stepfather argued. “They cannot be allowed to lie fallow or deteriorate. This is none of your concern. You cannot just appropriate my daughter like so much baggage without consulting me!”

  “I can and I have, and if you do not return the funds from the mortgages to her accounts, I will have you drawn up on charges of fraud,” Ashford said relentlessly. “As her husband, I will have the power to do that.”

  Christie frowned. Was there an undercurrent here she hadn’t realized? Ashford hated Lansdowne. He wanted to stop the earl and his manipulations. Would forcing her stepfather to back out of his dealings with the earl achieve his goal? And had she conveniently provided the means to destroy Ash’s enemy? That took some of the starch out of her newly-discovered backbone.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Townsend practically spat out. “It’s a very profitable deal. It will make Harriet a fortune.”

  There was the confirmation Ashford had sought—her stepfather really had mortgaged her properties and spent the money! Christie bit her hand to prevent crying out her rage and despair.

  “It will cost Miss Townsend all her property if you continue on this disastrous path,” Ashford retorted. “You are gambling on a known thief. In a few days, I shall have the documents to prove that Lansdowne intends siphoning the funds to his own purposes. You will be left holding nothing but a mortgage. Demand the return of your funds, and withdraw from the earl’s consortium, and I will provide you with safer investments upon my marriage to your stepdaughter.”

  “You have robbed me of my daughter and now you would rob me of her property?” Townsend asked. “And you think I should trust you?”

  “I’ve robbed you of nothing,” Ashford said curtly, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Miss Townsend chose to leave you. And Lansdowne has already robbed you, whereas I am willing to offer you a substantial investment upon my marriage, one with none of the strings I’m certain Lansdowne has attached. You would do well to look to the industrial future of England rather than sheep.”

  Now she was confused. It didn’t sound as if Ashford would need her help for anything—or even that inkpots would be flung. He was very much in control. He didn’t need her after all. Disappointed, she thought she might join the boys at the abbey, with a poetry book. That sounded more interesting than this.

  “Woolen mills are industrial,” her stepfather declared belligerently.

  “Not profitably,” Ashford said implacably. “Cotton is cheaper and superior.”

  “I don’t need the advice of a young whippersnapper!” Townsend shouted, turning purple with fury. “If you actually mean to marry my daughter, then I’ll call my solicitor to negotiate her dowry. You needn’t give me anything. I’ll simply keep the properties.”

  Nooooo, Christie howled inside her head. Those properties were her independence.

  “Under no circumstances,” Ashford said, repeating her objection with more erudition. “Those properties are part of Miss Townsend’s inheritance, and she does not wish the lands enclosed. They are to remain in her trust for her children.”

  “And if I refuse?” Townsend asked in an ugly tone.

  “Then I will marry her and sue you for fraud, quite simple. My brother is a barrister, so it won’t cost me anything but time. You, unfortunately, will be out a fortune in legal fees and bribes to the court. And until the issue is settled, I’ll notify the banks that the properties aren’t yours to mortgage, and I’ll post guards on the land to prevent enclosures.”

  My word, she thought in awe. For most of her life, she had seen Townsend as the law, as the ultimate ruler of all she owned. The marquess was turning all she’d known on its head—because he had power and knowledge she would never possess.

  Ashford’s bullying had silenced a tyrant. This was a spectacular new perspective to the concept of privilege, arrogance, and domination. When applied appropriately and for the betterment of others, power might actually be a good thing.

  Townsend was sitting there speechless, looking for another advantage. Ashford had left him none.

  Of course, she would be passing her inheritance from one despot to another if she married. That ought to give her pause. But as a marchioness, she would possess a modicum of that power—

  Any immediate explosion in the other room was circumvented by the footman scratching at the door with the tea she’d requested. Both men uttered annoyed exclamations at the interruption, but Ashford called for entrance.

  She wished she knew for certain that Ashford wasn’t marrying her just to spite Lansdowne. She knew she wasn’t a prize in any other sense of the word. He certainly didn’t need her wealth.

  But he did need a woman. His lust could not lie.

  Her stepfather stuttered and argued awhile longer, then caved to the marquess’s greater strength.

  When the argument settled into boring details, she got up and wandered the room. Ashford’s bedchamber was Spartan, which made sense. Fewer objects gave him less to stumble over. He could no longer see to read or write, so he needed no desk or shelves. His washstand was fastened in place, so even if he bumped into it, it wouldn’t tilt and spill the pitcher.

  The valet would take care of his wardrobe, so there were no mo
re than a robe and slippers in here. She studied some odd contraptions fastened to the wall and decided the straps were for exercise. He couldn’t ride or box any longer, so he had to keep up his powerful build in some manner.

  She admired him all the more for overcoming his disability in any way available to him. She should use him as an example of how to surmount her own damaged pride and timidity and be a better person for it.

  She smoothed her hand over his covers and tried to imagine herself beneath them. Her imagination wasn’t that good. Remembering his heated kisses, she just shivered with anticipation and returned to the door when voices rose again.

  “You cannot possibly expect me to sway the votes of Montfort and Caldwell!” Townsend shouted in the other room, coming out of his fugue with what sounded like panic. “They’ll despise me for pulling out of the consortium as it is. They are relying on the mill to repay their mortgages!”

  “You will be saving them from financial disaster and be a hero,” Ashford retorted. “I ask nothing more of you except your votes.”

  “Damn you, Ashford! You leave me little choice.” Townsend said. “What will become of Harriet if I do not cooperate?”

  There was just enough hesitation for Harriet-Christie to chew her fingernail in anxiety. She ought to go in there and tell Townsend what she thought of him, but Ashford seemed to be enjoying himself. Besides, it wasn’t in her to be rude to the man who had cared for her and her mother all these years. She waited to hear what the marquess thought of her worth.

  “Miss Townsend will become my wife and worth nothing to you if you vote against me,” Ashford finally stated. “However, she is worth a great deal to you and England’s future if you work with me,”

  A pawn, that was how he viewed her. Really, that’s all she’d ever been. And she’d known he would bully and intimidate her.

  As a marchioness, she might work around that—if she kept her independence. She just needed to be brave and stand up for herself and see how he liked it. Ashford could not have it all his way.