Theory of Magic Page 2

  The imposing gentleman hadn’t introduced himself, but Harriet didn’t doubt his identity. Her stepfather had a habit of ranting against reformers like Ashford and had actually been delighted when the marquess had suffered the accident that had left him blind and helpless. No one had seen the rakehell marquess since the fall from his horse, but she’d heard enough to be intrigued.

  And now that she’d met him, instead of regarding a debauchee with appropriate horror, she was captivated. He stood even taller and broader than she. His size was all muscle, if she was to judge by the arm she gripped and his graceful stride. He possessed the famous Ives thick black hair and masculine, square jaw—even though one side of his handsome visage bore a ragged red scar from eye to temple. No dashing dueling scar there, but if he couldn’t see the damage, it hardly mattered. He was a wealthy marquess and carried himself with the arrogance of his position. She understood why he’d had so many women in his bed. He even set her battered heart aflutter.

  Had she been properly introduced as a lady, she would have been horribly intimidated by a ravishing, aristocratic rake and would have had nothing to say. But as a poor relation looking for a position, she was too far below his notice to be of consequence—even if he could see, which he couldn’t.

  That he couldn’t see how unprepossessing she was also added to her freedom to be herself, she suspected.

  It also helped that the marquess emitted waves of sadness and loneliness as strong as hers. Unfortunately, he was also a volcano of suppressed fury. She supposed he might have a lot to be angry about after losing his eyesight, but he possessed everything else a person could desire, and wrath was such a wasted emotion!

  She ought to run the other way, but he had connections far beyond anything she could conceivably wield. His company couldn’t be more harmful than walking in front of a carriage, as she’d considered doing yesterday.

  As a dyed-in-the-wool Tory, her stepfather would have an apoplexy if he knew she was consorting with the enemy. She vaguely understood that Wellington and the Tories represented educated landowners like Townsend and her mother’s noble family. However, Ashford had radical ideas and supported Earl Grey and the Whigs, who demanded equality for the common man, possibly even criminals and sailors. She couldn’t imagine why one would support criminals, and she probably ought to be ashamed to be seen with such a decadent profligate.

  Instead, she held her breath in hope and trepidation as a footman ran ahead to open the impressive double doors of one of the grander old houses. She really did mean to enter this stranger’s house alone—a much more interesting way to die than being run over by a carriage.

  She’d never been a risk taker, but then, she’d lived an extremely sheltered rural life and had never had the opportunity to do anything even remotely daring. This was her chance to be impossibly foolish.

  After the marquess’s manservant held their umbrellas for them, his lordship placed his large—bruised—hand at her back to assist her up the granite front stairs. She shivered at the physical contact.

  All thoughts of herself fled the moment they stepped through the front doors, into a fantastical world of utter chaos.

  Harriet blinked and attempted to adjust to the whirl of activity. This wasn’t a narrow, modern terrace house like the one her stepfather had rented. The front doors opened onto a wide corridor that led the length of the house. To each side there were formal public chambers and an enormous staircase leading to the family rooms above, although paltry candle sconces were the only illumination.

  This was an old house, one laced with a dizzying array of inquisitive spirits almost lost in the confusion of people and activity. Harriet had to rub her forehead to sort through the incoherent chatter, both spiritual and actual.

  Deliberately shutting out the voices in her head, sealing off any emotional influences, she turned her concentration outward.

  Ladders blocked the staircase where workmen painted and papered. Carpenters and plasterers carried buckets and lumber over soiled canvas that would have protected carpet had there been any. In the large, dim parlor off to the left, female voices prattled excitedly. Deep male voices carried from a room behind the staircase.

  A giant hound raced after a black kitten. A maid flattened against the wall to avoid spilling the tea tray she held. If Harriet did not mistake, childish voices rang from overhead.

  How in the name of all that was holy did a blind man navigate this circus?

  “Dammit,” the aristocratic gentleman abruptly roared into the chaos. “What slubber-de-gullion allowed that wretched, beef-witted hound in here?”

  More footsteps on the stairs above, whispers, and then a boy darted down to chase after the dog.

  “In here,” Ashford directed, as if he hadn’t just roared curses with the vehemence and volatility of a Shakespearean actor. He slapped his walking stick against a door frame to ascertain its location. Then he steered her toward their left, into a chamber containing three women so different that there could be no possible blood relation between them.

  “Aster!” the marquess thundered. “Tell the brats to lock up their pets before the maid scalds herself again.”

  “Tell them yourself, Ashford. They’re your brats and that’s Theo’s dog.”

  Stunned into dizziness already, Harriet thought she might fall over her own feet at such a defiant retort to a marquess! Good heavens, had she said any such thing to Townsend, he would have locked her up with bread and water for a week. Or thrown her out in the snow.

  “Very well, then I’ll leave you to introduce yourselves,” Ashford replied with acid sarcasm. “I thought Miss Christie might be the solution to a few of your problems, but I’ll let you sort that out.”

  In the blink of an eye, the polite, laughing gentleman from the park and the roaring lion from the foyer transformed into a cold aristocrat. He stalked away, spine rigid, shoulders back, just as she’d always envisioned men of power would do.

  The old Harriet Townsend cringed and wished she had never been so idiotic as to involve herself in this mad escapade. The new Miss Christie was a bold wench, however. She swallowed hard and waited to see what would happen.

  Since the three fashionable ladies currently occupying the parlor were studying watercolor sketches and fabrics in the gray light from the front window, Harriet could only stand dumbly and hope to be acknowledged. She knew for fact that she wasn’t invisible, no matter how hard she tried to be.

  With interest, she noticed the . . . telescope? . . . in the front window.

  “Have a seat, Miss Christie.” The outspoken copper-haired lady finally acknowledged her, gesturing at a sofa with once-pretty slipcovers that had been torn and muddied. “Moira needs to run to the shops, and we must make a decision on the upholstery fabric now. Ashford has another gathering planned at week’s end, and the animals and twins have nearly destroyed everything in here.”

  “If pets and children are involved, I’d recommend leather,” Harriet—Miss Christie—said daringly, refusing to cringe. Yet. “Not fashionable but practical.”

  “Better yet, keep the menaces in the country where they belong, and then you can use the pretty satin you prefer,” a slender blonde proclaimed, gesturing at the sketches.

  Opening her emotional awareness again, Harriet/Christie sensed the confusion and dissatisfaction of the copper-haired lady and the dark lady who had yet to speak. But her awareness was too vague to determine if the ladies were equal in status. All three dressed in expensive fabrics. None of them seemed concerned with the marquess’s opinion. She didn’t know a great deal about his family, but she hadn’t heard he had a wife—although he apparently had children.

  “Have you asked Ashford?” she asked, more timidly than she liked, but she was, after all, being intrusive.

  All three women stared at her. Oh well. In for a penny and all that. She might not always be bold Miss Christie, but timid Harriet offered a tentative smile. “I cannot know the circumstances, so I apologize. It just seemed
if this was his parlor, then either he or his wife should be the final arbiter.”

  “My word, Ashford has gone out and found his own general!” the copper-haired lady exclaimed in awe, dropping the sketches and hurrying forward, hand extended in greeting.

  A general? Harriet almost glanced over her shoulder to see if someone else had entered the room. Speaking up was all it took to be a general?

  “It is our place to apologize for ignoring you, Miss Christie. I am Lady Aster Ives, Ashford’s sister-in-law. Our dark beauty is Mrs. Celeste Ives, another of his much put upon in-laws. And the annoyingly blond English nuisance is my cousin, Moira McDowell. She has a brilliant gift for beauty, but apparently not for practicality.”

  “This is a formal parlor—for entertaining prime ministers and important men,” the blond Miss McDowell exclaimed. “They will expect fashionable elegance, not these horrid slipcovers you threw over everything!”

  “Fashionable salons have telescopes these days?” Harriet asked, unable to hide her doubt.

  Lady Aster laughed. “That’s Theo’s. He’s testing different lenses. It’s naughty fun looking through it at night when no one draws their draperies.”

  Harriet frantically tried to remember if she’d drawn her bedchamber draperies at night.

  “Aster is wanting to go back to her husband and charts.” The slender, mahogany-haired lady with the bronzed complexion finally spoke, drawing Harriet back to the conversation. Her musical voice, with its foreign accent, conveyed amusement. “Miss Christie is correct. Even though he cannot see what we are doing, Ashford should be consulted. It is his money and his home, after all.”

  Harriet had seldom had the opportunity for feminine company. It was immensely refreshing to be with people who were amused by their problems, instead of frustrated and critical of all suggestions. She sensed Lady Aster’s impatience and desire to be elsewhere underneath her geniality, but she was the person to whom Miss Christie must talk about a position. She had to walk a narrow path here—which shouldn’t be difficult after a lifetime of experience in treading cautiously.

  “Please correct me if I am speaking out of turn,” she said with her former humbleness—another quality she’d learned after years of being ground into dust. Humility didn’t quite suit her emerging persona, which was, admittedly, a work in progress. “If I may be blunt, Lady Aster is in an interesting condition and has need of a . . . general . . . to take some of the decision-making from her hands. Was that too bold?”

  The blond Miss McDowell shrieked and flung her sketches aside to hug her cousin. The dark-haired Mrs. Ives smiled serenely, as if she was already in the lady’s confidence. And Lady Aster turned pink beneath her cousin’s hugs.

  “How did you know?” Lady Aster asked with interest, studying Harriet as if she were a fascinating new fabric.

  Harriet had never been able to explain her feelings, not any more than she explained the voices in her head. But avoiding mentioning those matters had given her lots of experience in fudging the truth. “You seem to glow with it.”

  The lady raised her eyebrows in disbelief, but she nodded without questioning. “It’s true, I’d rather be back in Surrey with Theo, only there is likely to be a vote on the current administration during this session. Ashford needs to be here to represent his party and someone needs to direct his household. Moira has no authority, and Celeste has her own home and business she should be attending.”

  “Lord Ashford brought me here because I told him I was looking for a new position,” the bold new Miss Christie said. “I have many years of experience as a nurse, companion, and secretary. I can be . . . a little overbearing,” she claimed, lying through her pretty white teeth—Harriet’s best feature.

  “How would you make the decision on this room?” Mrs. Ives asked in her lilting accent. She seemed to be regarding Harriet with interest, as if she knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  Harriet would make the decision the way she always had—by sensing how everyone around her felt, judging who had the most interest, and finding a compromise. Doing so would give her a dreadful headache and possibly let in nattering spirit voices, but it was a price she would pay for this opportunity.

  “If it were up to me,” she said judiciously, “and Lord Ashford agreed, I would decorate this room as Miss McDowell suggests, in the finest elegance for special guests. And I would keep the door locked and keep out children and pets. And then I would decorate a room on the family floor for them in leather and cane and indestructible fabric.”

  Miss McDowell beamed. Mrs. Ives looked even more thoughtful but nodded agreement. Lady Aster—opened her eyes wide in surprise, nodded hasty acceptance, and squeezed Harriet’s hand.

  “Yes! I’ve only recently had excess rooms to decorate and so hadn’t thought of actually banishing family from an entire parlor. Excellent! Bring us references, and you’re hired!” Lady Aster beamed and hurried toward the door.

  Shocked, Harriet cried after the lady’s retreating back, “As what?”

  “Lieutenant general,” Miss McDowell said with a snicker as Lady Aster vanished into the din of the corridor without answering. “Can you keep accounts? I am very bad at them. I could start my own business as a designer of interiors if only I knew how much to charge.”

  Lieutenant general? “Yes, I’ve kept accounts for years,” Harriet said, without lying. “And I have a fine hand for correspondence. I’ve been told I have a good reading voice,” she added, thinking of the blind marquess, even though she would do well to stay out of his way.

  “All excellent qualities,” the exotically lovely Mrs. Ives said. “But it is evident that you are a lady and not a common servant. The problem with that is that without Aster and I on hand, this is an all-male household. Moira goes home to her family in the evenings. Unless you have your own flat . . . ?”

  Of course she didn’t. She lived nearby and could walk easily. But the whole point of this episode—the blinding revelation that had come to her as she’d made up her tale— was to escape her stepfather’s house for these next six months. She didn’t wish to see him become truly desperate and hold some poor man at gunpoint to force him to marry her.

  Apparently noticing her dismay, Miss McDowell interrupted. “What if we bring in Aunt Nessie? Then I could stay here, too. My work would be done much faster. Ashford refuses to navigate the stairs, so we could take rooms above. The twins and the servants are on the third floor and shouldn’t be any problem, although the twins really should be in school.”

  “They were sent down for brawling and something to do with snakes in pillows,” Mrs. Ives said with more amusement than disapproval. “For some odd reason, they lack discipline.”

  “Their uncles often stay here. They are no help and should probably be banned from the house if we are to move in,” Miss McDowell suggested. “Or Miss Christie and I must repair to the attic with the servants.”

  “Nessie won’t make it to the attic,” Mrs. Ives said. “I believe if we tell Aster what we wish to do, she will happily allow William and Jacques use of her townhouse, and she and Theo will stay here those nights they are in town.”

  Harriet assumed William and Jacques were the useless uncles. Her head spun too much just trying to follow her part in this quick exchange.

  “Is it settled then?” Miss McDowell demanded. “Aster remains our general for major decisions. Miss Christie will be our lieutenant general to carry them out . . .” She hesitated and swung to meet Harriet’s gaze. “Will you be able to face Ashford and tell him exactly what we want? And force him to listen if he begins yelling?”

  “I found him to be very r-reasonable,” Harriet said with a slight stutter. The marquess had, after all, punched a full grown man in the face and nearly brought him to his knees. And then turned into a cold aristocrat in a heartbeat. He was not precisely an easy man, but he’d been thoughtful.

  The tall Mrs. Ives shrugged her elegant shoulders. “If he terrifies you, then we are no worse off than befo
re, and Aster will find you another position. Bring us the reference, and we’ll send for Nessie. You are now captain of a very leaky ship. Or I suppose, officer of a rebel army.”

  Terrified at what she’d just done, Harriet nodded and wondered if all the inhabitants of this house were as mad as she.

  A voice in her head chortled Finally! in what seemed to be delight. Harriet rapidly slapped the mental door shut against the intrusion.

  3

  “Mary, I have decided to stay with Cousin Deirdre for a few weeks,” Harriet told her maid several nights later, with all the confidence of the almost-independent. She’d just received word that Aunt Nessie, the chaperone, would arrive in the Ives’ household on the morrow. Her heart thumped with the audacity of what she planned next. “Why don’t you take the time to visit your family while I am gone? You’ve earned a bonus for your attempts to create a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

  She produced a small bag of coins for her startled maid. After a few minutes of argument, Harriet had brushed aside all of Mary’s objections, and the maid was happily giggling over this opportunity to see her mother and siblings again.

  Later that night, Harriet surreptitiously packed a valise with her older gowns. A companion could not look too elegant, and the plain cloth and design suited her better than the London finery the modistes had dressed her in these past weeks. Who needed silk when they were writing accounts anyway?

  This modern townhouse lacked the spirit to answer her silent question, possibly another good reason to leave. Maybe she needed to develop the courage to listen to the voices in her head, especially the ones who delighted in her decisions like the one had in Ashford’s home. But she feared that way lay madness.