Whisper of Magic Page 3

  Before she could react more sensibly, the gentleman gagged on a growl of surprise as Jamar wrapped a brutal arm around his spotless neckcloth and lifted him off of her.

  Shakily, she straightened and tried to puzzle out what had just happened.

  “Put…me…down,” the gentleman said precisely and threateningly, even though Jamar had his head pulled back and could have broken his neck in a single jerk.

  Those handsome dark curls looked familiar, as was the expensive tailoring. She thought the stranger’s intonation a little constrained, but she applauded his courage under fire. “Jamar, I believe the gentleman prevented a very unpleasant drenching. Put him down, please.”

  Once Jamar obeyed, both men reached for the weapons beneath their coats, but they refrained from drawing them while they studied each other with male belligerence. Celeste thought the haughty stranger might be the one who had called after her the other day, the one who had come knocking with the ladies yesterday. He was taller than she by half a head—and she was of above average height. Muscular, broad-shouldered, and thick-chested as a boxer, he was still no match for Jamar, despite his defiant stance. She had to admire him for not backing down from a fiercer opponent.

  But apparently satisfied he would not be attacked again, the stranger removed his hat and bowed stiffly, revealing a visage as handsome as the rest of him. “I saw the wretch in the upper window with a pail. I did not mean to frighten you. I apologize for the presumption.”

  Dragging her gaze from his taut, angry jaw and compelling dark eyes, Celeste glanced up at the tall brick building they stood below. All the windows were shut and blank now. The only evidence of what could have been a damaging attack to her hard work was the malodorous smell of the slop pail’s contents running down the street.

  She would have asked if London was still so primitive as to use slop buckets, but she knew better—this had been another personal attack. Remembering her role, Celeste tugged the cloak tighter, nodded without speaking, and hurried on her way. The persistent gentleman followed. Irritatingly, Jamar did not chase him off but began watching the windows of the buildings they passed.

  “I do not mean to impose,” the gentleman said, matching his stride to hers, “But I need to speak with Bardolph, Lord Rochester. It’s a matter of immense urgency. If I could importune you to let me know of his return . . .”

  The mention of her father’s name startled her almost as much as his thrusting her against a wall. London had been a difficult learning experience these past horrible months. She was rather tired of the constant need to adapt to new circumstances. She didn’t need arrogant gentlemen pushing their way into her life. What could he possibly know of her origins?

  She cast him a sideways glance, but beneath his polished exterior, he seemed most earnest. He really did want to speak with her father.

  That meant he wasn’t from her father’s cousin or the estate solicitors.

  She sighed as she followed that thought—it probably meant he was from her landlord’s solicitor. The letters from them had been far more frequent than any communication from her wretched conniving relation.

  Trying to maintain a subservient demeanor, she kept her face hidden and applied her repelling vocalization beneath her most melodious tones. “We do not know, sir. I should not speak with strangers. You must leave. Good day to you, sir.”

  She hurried toward the safety of the tailor’s shop around the corner, fully expecting him to go away as she’d commanded. As further warning, Jamar placed himself at her back.

  She started in surprise as the audacious gentleman circumvented Jamar, not put off by her voice or a giant. What manner of devil was this? She halted to glare at him before he discovered her destination.

  She had to admit that having an elegant gentleman addressing her with intensity was pleasing, as were his features. He had long-lashed dark eyes beneath slashing dark eyebrows, eyes that studied her with the same interest as she studied him. Blatantly, she let her gaze drop to his very masculine nose with a bit of a crook in it, his supple lips, and his dimpled chin. She adored dimpled chins, even worn on a visage frosty with determination. Still, she did not speak.

  “I know you do not understand this country,” he said.

  That he had not obeyed her command immobilized her with confusion. Men always obeyed her voice. Despite her pleasure at his looks, her loss of control of the situation made it difficult to comprehend his words.

  “You have no cause to sympathize with the problems facing my family,” she heard him say, “but perhaps you are familiar with the fight to free the slaves in places such as your home? What I have to say affects that fight as well.”

  Had he just addressed her deepest fear—right here in public? Was he a mind reader? Celeste nearly stumbled in shock.

  He reached to catch her before she fell, but she was quick on her feet and righted herself, still in an appalled daze.

  Could he really be speaking about the anti-slavery bill that might stop her uncle’s predations? And what would this stranger have to do with her late father?

  Three

  Erran had never been reduced to begging, especially from beautiful women. But he was too caught up in the urgency of this opportunity to recognize any loss of dignity. Obtaining his brother’s town house was the most important goal in his rotten life right now. If he must implore servants to gain access to the tenant, he would bow down on bended knee.

  Besides, it was no hardship to study this mystery woman who did not scream assault when attacked or retreat to hysterics when confronted. He had his suspicion that she was no simple servant. From what he could see beneath her concealing hood, she had long-lashed eyes, lush lips, and a complexion as rich as her accent—all of which spoke of foreign aristocratic refinement.

  Somehow, he had to breach the lady’s rather formidable defenses to resolve the problem at hand. An armed, seven-foot tall Nubian was a rather daunting obstacle—although perhaps not so much as the lady’s refusal to speak.

  At her nod of dismissal, her bodyguard stepped around Erran to open the door of the tailor shop. The lady hastened inside, and the servant closed the door, blocking Erran from following. Servants did not have servants.

  Erran studied his adversary. “You saw what happened back there. You know the lady has enemies.”

  Garbed in the formal, if old-fashioned, attire of a gentleman, the towering African remained stoic, staring over Erran’s head.

  “I can find out who would want to harm her and why, but only if I know for certain that she is who I believe she is. It would be rather futile to search for her enemies if she’s someone else.” He didn’t even know if the other man spoke English, but he had to assume he did since the lady had addressed him that way.

  No response. Erran contemplated testing his Courtroom Voice on the irritating Colossus, but temptation was addictive and dangerous, not to mention illogically superstitious, and he refused to give in to it. If that meant demeaning himself before a footman or butler, so be it. It wasn’t as if an Ives existed who stood on formality.

  “I’m Lord Erran Ives, brother to the Marquess of Ashford,” he said stiffly. “My family owns the house in which you’re living. If the lady is not safe there, we can arrange better, safer accommodations.”

  He noted a flicker of interest. Before he could find a more persuasive argument, the lady returned, empty-handed. If she really was a lady, why would she be running menial errands to tailor shops? And yesterday, she had been doing so without the accompaniment of any servant.

  Determined to solve the puzzle, Erran refused to be pushed aside. He fell in step with them as they returned the way they’d come. “My sister-in-law has been doing some research,” he said.

  In actuality, after he’d given Aster all the names he’d acquired, she’d fallen into near fits of ecstasy. But describing Malcolm weirdness was beyond him. He stayed with the facts he understood. “She says that the Rochester family and hers are distantly related, if Lord Rochester
is from the same branch. She is a genealogist and would very much like to meet the family, if that’s possible.”

  The lady said nothing, merely hurried toward the mews as if he were no more than a talking lamp post.

  “As I’ve told your friend here, the family of a marquess could be very influential in dealing with those who might threaten your household.” Erran considered that a fairly persuasive argument—until the lady finally spoke, decisively turning his own words against him.

  “And they can be equally dangerous enemies,” she replied in honeyed tones that did not seem to match her meaning. “How do we know you aren’t the ones causing us grief? I would rather you left us alone.”

  For a brief moment, she turned almond-shaped, spectacularly blue eyes to him with what appeared to be expectation. He was so startled at the juxtaposition of light eyes, dark lashes, and bronzed complexion that he almost forgot to reply.

  Dismissively, she turned to escape into her hidden garden.

  He recovered his tongue. “If a marquess wants to harm you,” he retaliated, “he’d march an army to your door and haul you out. He wields that kind of power but has refrained from using it.”

  For some reason, his argument seemed to alarm her. She shoved anxiously at the garden gate.

  Her bodyguard halted her. “I think we should listen to him.”

  At that, she tensed and straightened her shoulders, obviously preparing a rejection. She was tall for a woman, but Erran could tell little else about her beneath the concealing cloak. It was hard to imagine a lady taking suggestions from a servant, but he had no better means of reaching her.

  “We do not know him,” she said in a tone reflecting hesitation and . . . fear? Why would she fear him?

  “How does one come to know anyone without talking to them?” Erran asked. “I can bring my sister-in-law here. I can bring you references from dukes and judges. What do you require?”

  “A message from God,” the giant said with wryness.

  “He does not respond to my vocalization,” the lady whispered. “I cannot trust anyone that unpredictable.”

  Erran raised his eyebrows. “I respond to spoken words just as everyone else. That illogic sounds like my sister-in-law and her relations. Do I have the honor of meeting Miss Celeste Malcolm Rochester?” He repeated the name Aster had given him, almost hoping he was wrong. Malcolms were impossibly irrational.

  She peered at him from beneath her hood. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing.”

  He winced. “Sorry. The Malcolm ladies sometimes have windmills in their heads, and I do not fully comprehend their rationale. It would be better if I could speak with your father, but I’m a desperate man. I’ll bring Lady Aster to translate woman-speak for me, if necessary.”

  “Woman-speak,” she said in an expressive tone that probably reflected eye-rolling, if only he could see her eyes again, but she’d retreated beneath her hood. “Yes, it would probably be better if I spoke with this Lady Aster, except you are here and she is not. I cannot imagine how we can help you.”

  “You are Miss Rochester?” Erran asked, trying not to show his disbelief that Aster had been right. “Then by all means, we must speak. I think we can help each other.”

  ***

  Celeste doubted that anyone could help her, but this haughty aristocrat had saved her—and their valuable shirts—from a particularly nasty misadventure. That cautious Jamar was willing to listen said much about their desperation.

  She was terrified of letting anyone new into their precarious lives, and someone resistant to her . . . charms . . . seemed especially risky.

  Jamar would not understand that she needed every little bit of control she possessed to hold herself together. If she could not influence this powerful gentleman by using her voice—as she did everyone else—she would never be rid of him until he had what he wanted. Without her shield, she had no backbone at all. A man like this would walk right over her.

  She craved the influence and security she had lost with her father’s death. Still, a man who knew a marquess and who had relations who might be distant family . . . offered some small hope.

  Crushing her terror at trusting the unknown for the millionth time these past months, she opened the gate and allowed him inside. A wind greeted them as if recognizing an invader, and she shivered with the rustle of her petticoats.

  Dusk had fallen, and the air was exceedingly damp. She could not, in all good conscience, leave a gentleman standing in the overgrown garden. Reluctantly, Celeste led him to the kitchen door. She wasn’t about to lead him into their lives.

  His Arrogance raised a noble brow as she passed by the ground floor door, but he did not comment when she led him down the mossy stone stairs instead. Inside the kitchen the fire blazed, eradicating any lingering cold and damp from outdoors. She might never become used to England’s gray fogs, but the lovely hearth with its crackling flames helped immensely.

  Nana had apparently been watching from the upper story and hurried to join them—fortunately, without Trevor and Sylvia. Garbed in the printed red and blue cottons of home—not the dull black uniforms of English servants—the cook and kitchen maid they’d brought with them glanced up, but accustomed to Celeste’s ways, they returned to their chopping and stirring on the far end of the large cellar.

  Celeste was too nervous to care how her colorful company looked in the eyes of a dignified London aristocrat. They were Jamaican, not English. He’d have to accept them as they were.

  At least by bringing these few servants with her, she’d been able to save them from the earl’s greed—for now. She prayed the dastard didn’t know of their presence here, which was why she had insisted that Jamar stay inside. But in his male arrogance, he had refused, time and again.

  She slipped off the cloak’s hood and waited for the gentleman to introduce himself. To her surprise, Jamar performed the courtesy.

  “Lord Erran Ives, brother to the Marquess of Ashford, our landlord,” the majordomo intoned. “Miss Celeste Rochester, daughter of the late Baron Rochester.” He nodded at Nana. “Miss Delphinia, our housekeeper. I am Jamar, the baron’s estate manager in better times.”

  Brother of a marquess! This was even worse than she feared.

  “Delphinia and Jamar are family to us,” Celeste said stiffly. “They were given the name Rochester when they were given their freedom, as were all our people, unless they had names of their own already. If you’ll have a seat, we can have coffee. We have not yet learned your custom of tea.”

  To his credit, his lordship pulled out chairs for both her and Nana and gestured for them to sit first. She rather missed such niceties. With a sigh of resignation, she hung up her concealing cloak. She knew her mourning gown wasn’t the latest fashion and that she hadn’t the buxom hourglass figure so admired by handsome gentlemen like this one. Those things no longer mattered. Survival did.

  She waited until the kitchen maid set out cups and saucers and brought the coffee. It wasn’t as if she knew where to start.

  “Your father is deceased?” Lord Ives asked as she poured the steaming beverage and before she could summon a single opening sentence.

  Her tears of grief at any mention of her beloved father had become those of self-pity, so she fought them. “On the voyage here,” she acknowledged, adding cream to her coffee but not the expensive sugar. “There was a terrible storm. The crew lost men. Since Father had sailing experience, he helped out, probably saving the lives of everyone aboard when one of the masts broke, and he knew exactly how to react. But he was injured in the process, and there was no ship’s surgeon. Despite every effort, we did not have enough knowledge to save him.”

  And still, after all these months, she choked back a sob—of sorrow and of exhaustion. Her sheltered life had not prepared her for these months of tribulation.

  “That was in spring,” Jamar said, taking up the story when she could not speak further. “The baron wished to bring his daughters out in London society and give his so
n an Oxford education. His executors have other ideas.”

  Sipping her coffee to steady her nerves, Celeste watched Lord Ives’ dark eyes narrow, as if he saw an opportunity. She feared the advantage would be all his and none of theirs. She was discovering that was how this gray, clammy world worked.

  “And your mother?” he inquired with caution.

  “Deceased, several years past,” Jamar answered for her.

  His lordship nodded. “Leaving the burden on your shoulders, I understand. If I might suggest . . .I often act as a solicitor for my family. If you give me the name of the firm handling your father’s estate,” Lord Ives said, “I can carry out any dealings with them that you require. Sometimes, men of business are not amenable to persuasion from females, but they will listen to authority.”

  Celeste didn’t even bother testing her charm but spoke bluntly. “His executor is my father’s cousin, Quigley, the Earl of Lansdowne.”

  His lordship covered his shock well, but she could tell by the way he sat back and sipped his coffee before replying that he saw the obstacle, even if he didn’t know the goal.

  “The earl is . . . a trifle strapped for cash, I hear,” he said in a far more polite tone than Lansdowne deserved.

  “For all I know, the earl is a degenerate who has gambled away his estate,” she said flatly, tempering her anger. “He has stolen my brother’s inheritance for his own purposes and is at this moment arranging to sell all my father’s free people, claiming there is no proof of their freedom. That is a lie.”

  Lord Erran glanced at Jamar, who nodded once. That he turned to a man to verify her declaration irritated her even more. She bit her tongue, knowing she could not expect more of this starched and stiff nobleman.

  “I witnessed the signing of the freedom papers and the baron’s will,” Jamar said. “You must understand that on the island, we do not have access to your courts of law. The papers should have been properly registered with authorities on the island and a copy sent to solicitors here in England for filing, but we have no proof. We have sent for additional copies, but the earl has placed his people in control of the plantation. They will not give our representatives access to the baron’s office.”