Magic in the Stars (17 page)

“I warn you, I’m bringing the stewards straight up here
unless you come up with a better solution.” Theo slammed out, leaving the
marquess half-dressed and swearing like a sailor.

Theo bit back his own stream of profanity when he discovered
Lady Azenor intrepidly swinging down the hall, using the walking stick as if
she’d held it all her life. She brightened at seeing him.

Her smile made him feel ten feet tall and produced the
nonsensical need to shelter her from all life’s travails. Or at least carry her
to a chair so she didn’t harm that curvy little ankle. He could probably
envelop it with one hand.

“There you are,” she said. “The first of your stewards has arrived.
I’ve had Barton put him in the downstairs office. Will that suit?”

“I don’t suppose you can give me a list of questions to ask
him?” Theo asked gloomily. Stars did not expect anything of him. People
inevitably did. Lady Azenor wasn’t any better than the rest—probably worse if
he gave it any thought.

“I am not a miracle worker. Your farmers should be here
soon, shouldn’t they? Will they know what to ask?”

She peered up at him as inquisitively as a little wren, but
there was nothing wren-like about the lady. Today, she wore what was most
likely supposed to be her housecleaning, taskmistress gown. It had no lace or
ruffles, but instead of a drab brown or gray, it appeared to be a gleaming
bronze that set off her riot of copper curls as if she were some rare metallic
object.

And she had made it clear that he could not have her.
Nothing like rejection to put a man off his feed.

“The tenants will
listen
.
They never talk,” he grumbled. “And they’ll choose the gaffer who says what
pleases them most, and not what’s best for all. I’ll ask our potential stewards
if they know their multiplication tables.” Theo offered his arm to help her
back downstairs.

“Does your brother have an office up here?” She glanced down
the hallway, where, from the sound of it, Dunc’s current fit of fury seemed to
involve slippers and possibly hounds.

“Next to his chamber,” Theo told her. “He turned a sitting
room into a library and office. But I won’t find anything any more helpful
there. Ledgers are meaningless to me. Obviously, I took the wrong sorts of
mathematics.”

She tapped her good foot and studied the corridor for a
moment. Theo watched with interest. He had full confidence in his brains and
his achievements, but he had never applied himself to as many different sorts
of tasks as this petite whirlwind. He couldn’t help but wait with anticipation
to see what fantasy emerged from those deliciously rosy lips this time.

“Tie Ashford up, if you must,” she said slowly, apparently
plotting as she spoke. “Have his valet clean him up. Seat him in a corner of his
office near the desk where you’ll be sitting. Pull the draperies and don’t
light any lamps. Provide chairs for your farmers. I will tell the interviewees
that you are occupied, until you send word that you are ready, and then I’ll send
them up here.”

“To what purpose?” Theo asked, intrigued despite himself.
“The task you’ve assigned is Sisyphean. Duncan is likely to take off all our
heads.”

“Knock him unconscious and prop him up then,” she said
without a qualm. “Just as long as he’s awake when we show the stewards up. Give
me a minute to think this out. Fetch your valet and hot water and whatever. Ashford
is a Scorpio, so he’s difficult. Is he involved in any competitions that you
know of?”

“Endlessly. He always wins. Or did. That’s half his problem
now. He can’t best anyone while blind.”

She offered a smile that would shame the sun. “With a mind
like his? Don’t be foolish. Is he decent?”

“Not in weeks,” Theo said dryly. “Don’t you dare go in
there.”

“Send the valet, please.” She wriggled her fingers to signal
that he was dismissed.

Theo wanted to wring the lady’s pretty little neck when she
marched down the hall and knocked on Dunc’s door. She had to knock several
times before the roar decreased to a level where she could be heard.

Theo leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. She shot
him a glare. He waggled his fingers at her as she had at him. She stuck her
nose in the air and knocked again.

“Lord Ashford, it is most urgent that I speak with you,” she
said clearly over the angry mutters from the other side of the door. When she
received no reply, she spoke more loudly. “I have received a message from a
friend who knows Miss Caldwell. You do not wish me to shout what it says to the
world, do you?”

Theo pursed his lips in a silent whistle. The lady was
devious beyond any politician or snake oil salesman he’d ever encountered. No
way could Duncan deny her entry after being reminded of his ex-fiancée.

Sure enough, the door jerked open. Duncan had managed to don
his trousers but not his boots or stockings. And his shirt was still untied.
Theo wanted to rush down the hall and grab the lady before the dragon devoured
her, but she didn’t even scream when Dunc hauled her inside and slammed the
door.

Thoroughly improper and beyond outrageous, but she’d done
what few others had accomplished these past weeks. She’d made the dragon open
his door.

Theo hurried in search of the valet so he could rescue her.

“Your friend says that sapskull
Montfort
is courting Margaret?” the marquess bellowed.

Aster glanced nervously at the ceiling, expecting the
plaster ornamentation to rain down on her head. The marquess had a
reverberating bellow.

“It has something to do with field production?” she said
tentatively. It wasn’t as if she had any idea if crops or sheep or whatever
could be measured, but she was looking for a goal that he would understand—and
that would return his interest in farming.

“Roddy doesn’t even know what grows in his fields,” Ashford
said in disgust, fumbling with the ties of his shirt. “Your friend is
ill-informed.”

“It’s not as if I am a farmer who understands this sort of
thing,” she retorted. “Perhaps this Montfort has a relation who knows what
should be grown? It did seem as if there were expectations that his income will
exceed yours, which interests Miss Caldwell’s father.”

Azenor did not
like
to outright lie, but she had learned that the more she knew of the situation,
the more accurate her predictions. She had read Ashford’s chart—it was littered
with danger and earth. She knew exceedingly little about farming. But she
understood people. So she fed him what little she knew and let him take it the
rest of the way.

“Roddy’s father. And Margaret’s,” the marquess said with
disdain, grasping for something on the floor. Apparently not finding it, he
flung what appeared to be a dog’s toy at the wall. “Two peas in a pod. Where
are my boots?”

She found his shoes on a shoe tree and handed those to him.
He growled in protest. She moved quietly out of his way in case he chose to
throw them.

Really, she could never care for Ashford as she cared for
her family, but she could care for him as one does a querulous patient. Would
that be sufficient to prevent the danger in her chart? He really did need her.

Except then all the Ives would be family—which practically
spelled Doom and Disaster in capital letters.

“You are saying that Montfort’s and Margaret’s fathers have
some means of improving field production?” she asked with interest.

“If Roderick marries Margaret, their lands would be joined
and they could use threshing machines for harvest, as just one small example,
especially if they enclosed their fields. They’ll reduce costs, tear down those
ramshackle cottages, put the tenants in the workhouse, and improve their
profits—while starving people who’ve worked for them for years.” He yanked on
his shoe rather than flinging it.

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good for the tenants. Is that what
you’ve done and why the farmers are rioting?” She hoped that his pulling on
shoes was a positive sign.

“We’re the largest estate in the shire. The Swingers are
just picking on us because the instigators steered them in our direction. I
can’t believe Margaret would actually let that drunken ass court her.” When he
couldn’t pry the other shoe on properly, he flung the shoehorn against the
wall, and slammed his foot in with sheer force.

“Perhaps she has no choice? I don’t know the lady. But I
must see to training the maids. While you and Lord Theo to talk to the farmers,
we’ll tidy up this chamber.” She hastily backed out of the room before he could
locate her voice and use her as a target.

Lord Theo was still leaning against the wall, apparently
waiting for her to be heaved bodily from the room. She marched up and pointed
at the office. “I’ll send footmen to arrange the chairs, shall I? He is almost
dressed, but he requires a valet. I’ll assume you can manage that much?”

She could swear the silver blue of his eyes laughed as he
unfolded from the wall.

“I think I’ll keep you,” was all Lord Scientist said before
he loped off, presumably in pursuit of a valet.

Aster didn’t know what he meant by that. She didn’t intend
to be
kept
by anyone. Irritated, she
clumped the stupid walking stick down the stairs in search of footmen. The Ives
household had a few, although they seemed to be exceedingly dilatory. She
nabbed one slinking down a back corridor and sent him upstairs.

The cook and Mrs. Smith, the portly housekeeper, were
waiting for her in the downstairs office, their faces stern and unhappy. Aster
sighed and prepared herself for the diatribes to follow. The Ives’ servants
really were not well trained.

The housekeeper vociferously registered her complaints about
Dee and Bree’s interference in rearranging the formal rooms for their
anticipated guests. The cook demanded the perfect soufflé recipe if he was to
prepare meals—but at least he was back on the job.

Aster resigned herself to not charting anyone or anything
until the household was organized. That must be her first goal, preparing Iveston
Hall for a tea party so she could introduce Lord Theo’s prospective mates
without them running screaming into the night.

Training a few footmen and maids in the process was an extra
benefit, although it had been much easier in her small London household. Here, the
house was so large, she tended to lose track of who was doing what.

She sent two maids and a footman up to Ashford’s chambers to
clear out the ratty carpet and debris. Then she led Mrs. Smith, the Ives’ sherry-tippling
housekeeper, into the drawing room with Mrs. Barnes, Emilia’s lofty London
housekeeper, to discuss what needed to be done.

The room was immense, apparently running the length of the medieval
hall. A massive stone fireplace heated this area as well as the dining hall.
Two huge iron-wheel chandeliers hung over two large sitting areas, with various
game tables and side chairs scattered around the edges.

Aster gaped at the two-story walls of framed oil paintings
above the wainscoting. The Hall’s entire history was probably up there on those
walls—coated in centuries of soot.

The footmen had already rolled up the threadbare carpets in
the sitting areas under Mrs. Barnes’ direction. Aster ordered them to haul the
musty, insect-ridden wool to the dustbin, then settled into a grubby wing chair
to consider the hodge-podge of furniture.

She studied an odd contraption of rusted metal and wire on
the hearth, surrounded by tools of various sorts. “Is that a work of art?” she
asked skeptically, nodding at the . . .
machine?

The housekeeper shrugged. “Lord Erran tinkers.”

Deirdre lifted a stack of musty old cloaks off a
once-elegant Chippendale chair and dropped them to the floor. “We will never
have this place ready in less than a fortnight,” she said in despair. “The
draperies are ready to rot off the windows.”

“They’ve been cleaned regular, they have,” Mrs. Smith
insisted indignantly. “And so be that carpet. What will go there now, I ask?”

Aster scowled at the lighter square of wood flooring where
the carpet had once been. Then she studied the heavy maroon velvet blotting out
most of the summer light—except through the moth-eaten holes.

“I’m certain the draperies have been cleaned as they ought,”
she said to the housekeeper. “But would you like to venture to guess how old
they are?”

Mrs. Smith opened her mouth, thought better of speaking, and
narrowed her eyes as she studied the ancient fabric. “Before my time,” was her
reply.

Since she looked to be sixty, Azenor would rather not calculate
how old that made them. “What condition is the under-drapery in?”

“Stained with damp and mold,” Briana announced, lifting the
velvet. “The panes appear to leak and there is rot in the wood.”

“His lordship said we was to wait until his lady wife decided
what to do with them,” Mrs. Smith said stiffly. “This room ain’t much used
these days.”

Except as a receptacle for storing old schoolbooks, game
boards, dog bones, and tennis racquets, if she was to judge by the clutter on
the furniture that Mrs. Barnes was sorting disdainfully through. She had donned
gloves to do so.

“Is there a seamstress in the village?” Aster asked, examining
the size of the windows.

“But his lordship—” Mrs. Smith started to say, before
catching Aster’s pointed stare and shutting up.

“Lord Theophilus expects us to give his guests an idea of
what this place could be like. Let us burn the moldering draperies along with
the carpet. If there are workmen who can begin work on the panes, call them in.
And I’ll send for some fabric if we can have the seamstress out immediately.” Aster
put her aching foot up on a stool and returned to contemplating the bare floor.

Enthusiastic clapping in the doorway behind her forced her
to peer over her shoulder. The blond Jacques and bronzed William stood there,
hats in hand, looking—and smelling—as if they’d just come in from a bruising
ride.