Whisper of Magic Page 5

  Pascoe glanced down at his shirt. “There’s a tailor near St. James that sells them with the pleats neatly sewn in. Merritt is most appreciative that he needn’t learn crimping. Besides, the brats would only rip up anything not sewn down.”

  Pascoe had twins still in the nursery, with no wife to care for them. Erran admired the man’s ability to deal with household, politics, and family—except it made Erran look like a milksop for not being able to handle the one job he’d been given.

  He grabbed a towel to wipe himself down. “Useful to know. I’ll look for him next time I’m down there.”

  “And the reason you’re beating a bag into submission?” Pascoe pushed.

  Erran had hung the bag in an unused portion of Pascoe’s wine cellar so it was available when the boxing salons weren’t open. They had no audience and could speak plainly here.

  “It has everything to do with the world being a rotten core inhabited by worms,” Erran said in disgust, not acknowledging that a woman was at the core of his particular apple. “I need Lady Aster’s genealogical charts. Have she and Theo left for Surrey yet?”

  “Surely you jest?” Pascoe said with a laugh. “You have given her new material with these New World arrivals. She’s frothing at the bit. If you do not introduce her, she will introduce herself. She told Theo to hie himself home for the harvest, if he needed, but she was staying here. And this from newlyweds. It’s a wonder Theo isn’t over here staving in your head.”

  “Poor thug, torn between duty and a woman. Rather him than me.” Except, by Jove, that was exactly where he was. Disgruntled, Erran yanked his waistcoat over his damp shirt. “I don’t know how much of the tale Lady Aster should be given. It involves Lansdowne and filthy tricks. Theo won’t appreciate involving his bride, and Dunc won’t appreciate our interference.”

  “Ah, now I see the difficulty. This is not a task you can punch your way out of, and finesse with ladies is not your style.” Pascoe nodded understandingly. “From all reports, the election date will fall in November. It’s more important that we have Duncan in place than worrying about one earl’s favor. Shall I attend Lady Aster in her visit with her new relations? Will that persuade them from the house any faster?”

  “Nothing will persuade them from that house, I’m convinced.” He should be grateful for his uncle’s offer, but Erran wasn’t a shirker who could send a busy man like Pascoe in his place. “There are a number of legal matters involved. Lansdowne is head of their household. They claim he has usurped their inheritance and is trying to drive them out of the house and into the streets. At the moment, he’s merely using trickery, thinking they’re easily frightened naïfs. He’ll escalate to warfare, if necessary, to drive them out and demand the lease money back from Dunc for his own coffers. That would be our simplest solution.”

  Pascoe frowned, either hearing his reluctance or understanding the lack of scruples involved.

  Erran sighed in resignation. “If Lady Aster can prove the tenants are related to us, I’ll have better leverage with the estate solicitors. Lady Aster it will have to be. Once their funds are safe, perhaps we could find them a smaller place for less cost.”

  Pascoe frowned. “I don’t like it. Lansdowne could be testing Ash. Montfort and Caldwell are wooing the earl’s favor for the Tories and have shown themselves willing to join in his schemes.”

  Sir George Caldwell and Lord Henry Montfort were Ashford’s country neighbors, staunch conservatives who opposed everything Ives represented. Their scruples were questionable. Erran smacked the bag again.

  “If that pair were truly behind the attack on a man as powerful as Duncan, what might they do to ladies if Lansdowne asks it of them?” Pascoe asked.

  “Ladies who have no power? Nothing besides threats,” Erran said with a shrug. “If Lansdowne is truly at fault, he’s after cash. It takes wealth to buy votes, and he has exhausted his. Montfort and Caldwell are far more likely to come after me if they believe I am intervening between the earl and the Rochester money.”

  “I dislike playing our hand too soon.” Pascoe twirled his stick thoughtfully. “We need to install Ashford discreetly, so the Tories won’t realize he’s back in play. Any chance your ladies and the young baron will be willing to share the house?”

  Erran tried to imagine the terrified Rochesters dealing with Duncan’s roars of fury and frustration and couldn’t. But then, he was a lawyer and better at strategy than understanding a woman’s nature. “That’s one solution. I’ll call on Lady Aster and we’ll see what can be done,” he said noncommittally.

  Perhaps his sister-in-law could talk Miss Rochester into signing papers so he could take himself off to the executors and courts and places where he knew what he was doing—far, far away from seductive scents and mysterious females with eyes the color of peaceful seas.

  ***

  The next morning, after receiving a note from Lady Azenor Ives requesting a visit, Celeste dithered in front of the old-fashioned cheval mirror that had come with the furnished household. Her hair was the dismal color of blackened walnut and refused to curl into feminine ringlets. All she could do was pin her thick braids into an elaborate chignon and pretend she was fashionable.

  Sylvia waltzed in, sporting her best lavender silk, wearing her blond tresses in charming curls to frame her face. “Lavender is suitable for mourning, is it not?” she asked with a frown. “I don’t want the lady to take a distaste for me.”

  “It has been almost six months. I think you’ll be fine. It’s not as if anyone knew Father or cares when he died,” Celeste said, hiding the pang of grief at this huge hole in their lives. “I am simply amazed that she responded so quickly after Lord Erran told her of us.”

  She feared they would merely be a subject of dinner table gossip for the next week and no more, but she had to take the chance. Risk-taking had ruined their lives, but sometimes, one had to take risks or surrender.

  “Wear your cashmere shawl,” Sylvia recommended. “It is very elegant and makes your eyes even more blue. At least we will not look like poor relations.”

  No, they would look like old-fashioned colonial relations, but that could not be helped. Their talents for sewing had to be applied to projects that provided an income. Adding wide sleeves and lowering hems to fit more petticoats didn’t fit into their goals.

  “Do we entertain them upstairs or down?” Sylvia asked worriedly. “The parlors are so very drab.”

  “If we bring them upstairs, there’s a chance they might see our fabrics and machine and realize that we’re working for a living. Let us keep visitors to the downstairs and attempt to maintain the pretense that we’re genteel. Although I hate to open the draperies on the street to brighten that room. It will let people know we’re home and make the disrepair more obvious.” Celeste glanced out the upstairs parlor window at the busy street below, fretting over the decision.

  “Let’s open them just a little,” Sylvia pleaded. “We can’t burn oil in the middle of the day!”

  That would be an additional expense, so Celeste reluctantly nodded agreement. “We’ve dusted and cleaned as much as possible. They’re our landlords, after all, they should realize the state the house is in.”

  Jamar had installed a door knocker for the occasion. The rap at the door ended any further fretting. Celeste shook out her skirt over all the petticoats she owned, sent up a prayer of hope, and hurried down the stairs. Jamar played the part of butler, waiting for them to enter the front drawing room before opening to their guests. Sylvia hurried to tug the drapery back just enough to allow in a ray of morning light.

  Garbed in her usual plain gray broadcloth, Nana arrived to arrange a tea tray as the guests were introduced into the front room.

  Lord Erran was dressed in a faultless tailored black coat and starched linen. His dark curls were a little less wind-blown today, and he’d shaved recently. Celeste could see a glisten of moisture in his sideburns, which almost made him human today. To distract from that unwelcome notion, she cu
rtseyed for the lady he introduced as Lady Azenor, his sister-in-law.

  The lady wore an extraordinary silk gown of an iridescent peacock hue with only a minimum of petticoats and no elaborate full sleeves. Her hat, however, was the height of extravagance, with ribbons and feathers and straw . . . stars? She carried a large tapestry bag crammed with papers that she instantly set on a faded chair and rummaged through.

  “It is an amazing delight to meet you,” the lady said with excitement. She was short and plump and not the least bit intimidating as she unrolled papers. “I am so eager to confirm our charts . . . But all of you look just like portraits in the family gallery. My father collects them, you see.”

  Celeste didn’t exactly see, but she managed a smile. “Please, have a seat. Sylvie, if you’d pour . . .” She glanced at his towering lordship, who stood with hands behind his back, studying the aging room as if prepared to deconstruct it. “Do you prefer coffee or tea, sir?” They’d purchased tea for the occasion. She hoped they’d bought the preferred kind.

  Lady Azenor happily settled on a broad horsehair sofa and spread her charts out on a low table. “Tea with milk would be lovely. I think this is the family line you descend from.” She pointed her gloved finger at a paper.

  Lord Erran paced the parlor on his long legs, frowning at the damp spots under the windows and glancing up at the peeling paint on the molded plaster ceiling. “Coffee will be fine, thank you. Are you having problems with roof leaks?”

  Wearing his Sunday frock coat and neck tie, Trevor spoke up. “In the north corner, sir. We’ve put buckets in the attic.”

  His lordship muttered and looked as if he was prepared to take on the attics, but Lady Azenor interrupted. “Here it is, Sir Trevelyan Rochester and Lady Lucinda Malcolm. Are these your ancestors, do you know?”

  Celeste nodded. “Our paternal great-grandparents. Lady Lucinda was a well-known artist in the islands, and Sir Trevelyan eventually became Lord Rochester, a baron in his own right due to some service for the Crown. We have portraits of both of them over the mantel at home.” She bit her lip and tried not to worry that their uncle might sell even their precious family portraits.

  Lord Erran absent-mindedly sipped the coffee Sylvia had poured for him and examined the floor boards. Perhaps he did not approve of his sister-in-law’s interest in their family relationship?

  In any case, Lady Azenor reacted with delight. “Do you paint as Lady Lucinda did? She was said to have the gift of foresight and painted her predictions on the canvas.”

  Celeste could answer that honestly. “I’ve not a drop of her talent.” She didn’t need to mention any other, although it was interesting that the sophisticated lady knew the family legend and seemed to believe in superstition and magic.

  The lady didn’t express disappointment. “My genealogies list Malcolm descendants back to the 1600s, and they all have different abilities. Your great-grandmother, Lady Lucinda Malcolm Childe, the prescient artist, was a cousin of Ninian Malcolm, the wife of the fifth earl of Ives and Wystan. Ninian was a talented healer and herbalist. Our current Marquess of Ashford and his brothers are her direct descendants. So they are your distant cousins,” she exclaimed with all the triumph of a conquering general. “My relationship is a trifle murkier and not as direct, but who cares about a few centuries? We are all family!”

  Celeste wasn’t certain she followed all the names, but she understood the lady’s excitement—in some way, no matter how distant, they were all related. She had family—and they were willing to claim the relationship. She couldn’t explain even to herself how much it meant not to be alone. But what could the connection mean to their aristocratic visitors?

  “We are all in the way of cousins?” Celeste asked tentatively. Even Sylvia and Trevor sat up straighter, waiting for an answer.

  “Probably more distant than most royalty, but we are all cousins, even Lord Erran. One assumes the Earl of Lansdowne is head of your father’s paternal branch, but we are your great-grandmother’s branch. And Malcolm women control their own destinies.”

  The lady sat back and gave Lord Erran a look of satisfaction. “There will be Malcolm documents giving Miss Rochester control of her grandmother’s portion, beyond any shadow of a doubt. We tie up our dowries tighter than any male entail, and they descend through the generations. So if part of Sir Trevelyan’s property came from Lady Lucinda’s dowry, then the funds set aside for their descendants could be substantial, and Lansdowne cannot touch them.”

  “The courts will want documents,” his lordship said forbiddingly, draining the lady’s excitement. “Until we lay hands on those, all we can do is offer our protection.”

  “Oh, we’ll do much more than that,” Lady Azenor corrected, rolling up her charts. “There are a great many of us, after all, and we are all very well-connected. You men can play with courts and papers and official business. The women will ram our willpower down Lansdowne’s throat.”

  Celeste thought the large, authoritative gentleman looked as if he might strangle on his own tongue at that pronouncement.

  Abruptly, the heavy brass vase on the mantel toppled to the hearth with a thud loud enough to mean damage to both hearth and vase.

  Six

  Erran winced at the toppling vase and leaned over to retrieve it. A substantial dent marred the base. “The mantel is no doubt tilted,” he said aloud, quelling his own superstitious theories. Surely raging with frustration didn’t affect inanimate objects. “Perhaps the floor vibrates.”

  The ladies frowned, then shrugging, returned to their insane discussion of ramming their wishes down Lansdowne’s throat.

  Just the thought had Erran vibrating—but he could do nothing. Until proven otherwise, the earl had to be considered both a possible ally—and a dangerous enemy.

  To keep his vexation to himself, Erran counted off steps in the front chamber. He calculated the approximate depth of the house and multiplied it by the width to determine if there would be sufficient space for Duncan’s apartments.

  Most of the family, including himself, had hoped they’d be able to use the upper stories for their own quarters so they needn’t pay the exorbitant rents elsewhere. Jacques, his half-brother, in particular, was hoping to move out of Theo and Aster’s city house.

  But it appeared that Lady Aster meant to treat the Rochesters as long-lost relations and leave them installed here while the women connived in matters over their heads. Erran had no power to overrule her. Desperate heir or not, Theo had attics to let for marrying into a family as manipulative as Lady Aster’s.

  It simply wouldn’t suit to leave unchaperoned single ladies in the same house with unrelated bachelors—especially Duncan, who was the whole point of this venture. The Rochesters had to leave.

  Restless, Erran pondered a means to explore the remainder of the house. A leaky roof meant he needed to call in construction workers immediately. With one ear, he listened to the discussion of Malcolm documents. He was not yet inured to the notion of women managing their own affairs and couldn’t imagine their documents would amount to anything.

  When the excited chatter fell to a natural silence, Erran spoke up. “As I mentioned earlier, I’ll draw up a paper for you to sign, Miss Rochester, authorizing me to deal with your father’s solicitors. As you are unmarried and the legal age of majority, you have the authority to act on your own. You could potentially assume guardianship of your siblings, but we really need your father’s will before we can assume you inherit any portion of his property. The land will otherwise fall to your brother, who is a minor, and Lansdowne can fight for his guardianship.”

  “Why can I not deal with my father’s solicitors directly?” Miss Rochester asked. “I have written to them here and in the islands, but so far the only response I’ve received is that they need permission from Lansdowne. I just cannot imagine that.”

  She had a voice that rivaled the best orchestra he’d ever heard—not that he attended musicales with any frequency. Still, her every word was
a song. He could see everyone in the room waiting, entranced, for his reply.

  Which was when he realized it was unlike Lady Aster to remain silent for long—as if she were truly spellbound.

  Erran raised a quizzical eyebrow at this oddity but nodded to acknowledge the question. “You have the right to question the solicitors directly, certainly. But as the eldest male in the family, Lansdowne is asserting his authority by refusing to give you access to the documents. If they exist, they should be a matter of public record. The question is whether or not the will exists or has been filed with the courts. If there is no will, then Lansdowne has strong rights in the matter. I can search court records, but while I’m at it, I would like to make our case to appoint you as guardian.”

  “May I go with you?” she asked in a voice that sounded sweet as chimes—but concealed a demand.

  Again, Lady Aster raised no objection—although she had to know there were dozens of reasons Miss Rochester could not accompany him. What on earth was wrong with the woman? Did she want the Rochesters to hate him for rejecting all their pleas?

  Stifling his irritation and maintaining a composed tone, he replied, “Of course you can accompany me. There won’t be another lady within a mile of the City, your reputation will be shattered, and any chance of winning the case will be lost, but I have no other objection to your accompaniment. Ladies do not have the same freedom in England as in the colonies.”

  Her frown was ferocious. Oddly, that made Erran smile inside. She looked so damned fragile and vulnerable with all that heavy mahogany hair balanced on such a slender neck…. But her spirit was indomitable.

  “I see,” she said coldly.

  As if a spell had been broken, Lady Aster spoke up. “Let us have Ashford demand that the solicitors come here.”

  Miss Rochester looked almost as surprised as Erran felt. Something dodgy was happening here. He wouldn’t have noticed—except for his own experience with the Wyrd. Hands behind his back, he rocked a bit on his boot heels, watching—and listening—to the ladies at work. He deliberately ignored the errant brass vase.