Whisper of Magic (10 page)

He’d label this Malcolm madness and walk away . . .
except he wasn’t entirely certain that he hadn’t just commanded a mob to
disperse. And she’d beat him at his own game. Only he’d bellowed and she’d
sung; he’d ordered, and she’d entreated.
Madness
.

“You ask nicely and you are given lace and oranges and
little boys run away?” Erran asked sarcastically. Needing solid reality, he
leaned against the wall, circled her waist, and tugged her back with him.

To his astonishment, she rested her head against his
shoulder as if she needed this contact too. “Only Jamar notices when I do it.
He told Papa that he gave in to my wiles too easily. It was never intentional
at first.”

“You just ask, and people give? You could walk up to the
bank and ask for your father’s money, and they would hand it over?” Erran was
tired and confused enough to appreciate the sound of that, even though he knew
in the light of day, it wasn’t right or just. That was temptation speaking.
Just because one could do something, didn’t mean he should—as Cousin
Sylvester’s case proved.

“I’ve always had anything I wanted,” she admitted. “I’ve
never needed to ask for what might not be given freely. And
you
don’t respond when I try to tell you
what I want. Neither does Jamar now that he knows of my persuasion. So how can
I know a banker would listen? I’ve never really tested myself. What about you?
I’ve never
ever
heard a voice like
yours. You spoke with the power of gods,” she said in what almost sounded like
awe.

Erran wanted to gather her in his arms and kiss her for not
calling him a monster. That would end this impossible conversation in a more
comprehensible manner.

He didn’t want to consider what they’d just done because it
was bloody damned spooky. He could write it off as coincidence that they’d
shouted just as the mob decided they’d gone too far and shrank away in shame after
they struck the carriage.

But he knew better, just as he knew that crowd hadn’t turned
down this side road by accident. Mobs kept to the main streets where they could
summon the most notice. He didn’t blame them. Without a vote, it was the only
way poor men could make their voices heard. But the spy with his torch in the
mews warned that this was no ordinary mob led by the usual troublemakers. Their
route had been planned.

“Whatever we did, it was wrong, and doing it again would
make us more evil than the rioters,” he said angrily.

“Are you calling me evil?” she asked in surprise, shoving
away.

“You drove away the villains I needed to talk to. You might
as well have been in league with whoever sent them.” He said it as
disparagingly as possible so she wouldn’t fall into his arms again.

He needed to get away from a woman who could counter and
possibly exceed his Courtroom Voice. He couldn’t trust her any more than he
could trust himself.

She smacked his whiskered jaw and stalked out. The smack
stung, and he almost felt better for it.

***

Leaving the Rochesters to themselves, Erran located a few
of the miscreants in a tavern on a back street off St. James. The first lot he
talked to weren’t drunk enough to do more than growl at him to back off. He
needed to change into something less . . . tailored.

He returned to the house, left his coat in the kitchen, and
borrowed one of Jamar’s old ones. It hung on him so badly that it looked as if
it came from a second-hand store. By this time, he was tense enough to need a
few pints of his own.

When he stopped in the next tavern, the men were drunk
enough to include him in their revelry. While Erran guzzled his ale, he
listened.

Among the usual uneducated diatribes against politicians,
government, and aristocrats, he caught the puzzled murmurings of men who had
marched with different goals in mind. Even in their drunkenness, they were
trying to work out how they’d been diverted. Erran edged in their direction.

“We ain’t gonna get paid,” one mourned. “All this work for
naught.”

“Ain’t no work,” another scoffed. “Bit o’fun
is all. Why’d you run when the toff shouted? There
was more of us.”

“I didn’t run,” the first speaker protested. “But the lady
promised us a tankard. I thought we was done.”

“Ain’t natural,” one of the less drunk said in puzzlement.
“He yells at us to stop, and the fools stopped as if he were the king.”

A fellow in a knit cap snorted. “We wouldna
stopped for no king. Thought it was the fellow who paid us, myself. Did you see
them swords? He coulda skewered us right proper.”

“The lady had the voice of me own mama,” one drunk said
rapturously.

The argument descended from there into inebriated
reminiscences. The chances of finding out
who
had promised payment weren’t high.

Erran questioned them a time or two as the night wore on,
but it became apparent they had taken coins, threats, and promises from men no
better than themselves. Whoever had set the rioters loose had sent minions who
would be difficult to trace.

After ascertaining no actual harm had come from their venture
into the Wyrd, Erran gave up, drank his ale, and dismally contemplated his
future as a mute.

The next morning, Celeste did her best to pretend it was a
perfectly ordinary day, rather than consider herself evil as Lord Erran had
suggested.

She had slapped a gentleman! She had never in her life been
so . . . so rude.

Of course, no one had ever made her feel as furious, or as
lonely.

She yanked her hair into a braid, pinned it at her nape,
covered it with a dark bonnet, and picked up the satchel of newly-sewn shirts.
Lady Azenor’s visit yesterday had interrupted their routine and put them behind
schedule.

Trevor met her in the hall. “Did Lord Erran explain how he
held off a mob?” he asked in wide-eyed anticipation. “He confronted a mob with
nothing more than a sword and rapier!”

She had stayed awake all night fretting over Lord Erran’s
behavior. Such bravery was beyond her experience. That somehow they’d managed
to disperse a mob still caused her to shiver, but she refused to believe what
they’d done was
evil
.

She had wanted to shower him with kisses of gratitude when
he’d returned, whole and unharmed. There for a brief moment, he had held her
against his big body and made her feel safe. And then he’d shattered her brief
peace by calling her
bad
.

She sniffed in disdain. “I’d rather box Lord Erran’s ears
for explaining nothing. For all I know, he instigated the attacks to scare us
into accepting his aid.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Trevor said in indignation. “You just
don’t like anyone disturbing your boring routine.” He stalked off down the
hall, leaving her to hurry down the stairs alone.

If she was to put food on the table, she must put one foot
in front of the other and march onward, not fret over impossibilities.

At least Nana had said the machine was running more
smoothly, and she should make better time now that she didn’t have to rip out
bad stitches. Celeste need only convince the tailor that the rioters were at
fault for their not finishing the order.

Wrapping her cloak around her, she entered the kitchen. She
stumbled to a halt at finding Lord Erran ensconced at the table, sipping coffee
and filling his plate with bacon and toast. He rose at her entrance and bowed
as if they met at this hour every day. Her heart thumped so hard, she feared
everyone heard it. He called her evil, then usurped her home!

He hadn’t shaved. His dark beard shadowed a square chin and
the hollows beneath his strong cheek bones. His usually immaculate linen was
rumpled and dusty, but he wore his frock coat buttoned and had made some effort
to brush off the dirt. He’d slicked his unruly black curls with water, but they
were springing back up as they dried. One fell over his sardonic eyebrow as he
regarded her dreary attire.

“Good morning, Miss Rochester. Were you intending to go out
without an escort at this hour? I don’t advise it.” He used a modulated
baritone far different from last night’s that still managed to reflect his
irritation.

Deciding it was easier to suspect his motives than accept
his aid, she tightened her bonnet strings and crossed the kitchen to the door.
“I am capable of walking around the block without guard dogs. I have been doing
so for a considerable amount of time without incident.”

“She bites anyone who approaches,” Jamar added with humor,
setting down his coffee. “Do not underestimate her.”

“This is London. A lady does not go about unescorted,
especially after last night’s events. Jamar hasn’t finished his breakfast, so
I’ll be happy to attend you.” Lord Erran removed his high-crowned hat from a
hook and opened the door for her.

When Jamar didn’t object, Celeste pressed her lips tight in
disapproval and hurried out. They had been imposing on Jamar’s good nature by
requiring that he behave as a menial instead of the educated businessman that
he was.

It was Lord Erran to whom she objected, but he seemed immune
to her persuasion. She wouldn’t waste energy arguing with the deaf. She stayed
silent when he took the satchel and opened the back gate. She lifted her skirts
from the muck and hurried faster.

She should never have allowed this man into their lives.

They could have been burned out of their home if they
hadn’t.

She gritted her teeth against her own inadequacy.

“I will insist that the solicitors release funds for your
family’s support,” he said as they walked through the morning fog. “It is
unconscionable that Lansdowne should leave you sewing shirts for a
living—although the pleats are a nice touch. I mean to buy one of those when my
allowance permits.”

He was fishing. He could not possibly know what was in the
satchel or that she was the one who sewed the pleats. She had spent these last
months doing her best to hide the fact from their aristocratic neighbors that
they were in filthy trade. And now their landlord was about to find out. She
continued her silence.

She shivered in unease when he opened the tailor’s door
before she could do so.

Looking like a disreputable rake in his expensive clothes
and beard shadow, Lord Erran arrogantly set the box of shirts on the counter,
looming over the small man behind it. The tailor looked nervous and reached for
his coin pouch without counting and examining the detail of every single shirt,
as he’d done in the past.

Her landlord gazed in noble disdain at the amount the
shopkeeper held out. “You’ll have to find another source. That’s scarcely
sufficient for the quality of these shirts, and you know it. You’ve been
charging your customers four times that amount.”

Celeste’s eyes widened, and she just barely kept her mouth
from dropping open. How did he
know
that? Or did he? Here she’d been horrified at revealing their occupation, and
instead, his noble lordship took them one step better by
negotiating
as if he were a shopkeeper!

Head bent, she watched him surreptitiously from beneath her
lashes. Lord Erran seemed perfectly comfortable with whatever tale he was
spinning.

The tailor hastily doubled the amount of coin on the
counter, even though she’d brought him fewer shirts. “I had no idea . . . .
Certainly. Of course. For the exclusive sale of these shirts, we can pay a
trifle more.”

The tailor wasn’t demanding that she double her supply as he
had last time. He was simply ingratiating himself with a gentleman. That grated
even worse. She’d been using her most persuasive charm to wheedle a higher
price, but his lordship simply waltzed in and got what he wanted by demanding
it. And she was fairly certain he wasn’t even using that dreadful voice he’d
used to terrify rioters. That was so unfair!

Lord Erran took the coins, handed them to her, and held the
door open without a word to her. Celeste wanted to stomp his boot as she passed
all that big male body . . . but he’d more than doubled their
earnings! That would halve the time it would take to earn funds for a
solicitor.

“How did you know how much he was selling those shirts for?”
she asked, finally gaining sufficient control of her tongue to speak.

“My uncle wears them. I wanted one. Every bachelor I know
covets them, but his prices are beyond our means. You could set up your own
shop and make a fortune,” he replied curtly, placing her hand on his arm and
striding down the street.

“We’ve considered it,” she admitted, finally opening up in
the astonishment of knowing her work was valued. “We had ordered fine linen for
delivery to Jamaica so we might teach some of our people to sew as Nana does.
We thought we could set up a shop on the island where they could sell the
shirts to other planters. But after Papa died . . .” She fought
to keep the grief from her voice for fear she would make everyone within
hearing weep. “We didn’t pay attention to the return cargo manifests. The ship
sailed without the linen, so we had it sent here.”

“Another triumph over the estate executors,” he said in
approval.

Approval
. He
wasn’t about to scold her for ruining the family reputation by engaging in
mercenary commerce! Or tell her she was ruining her siblings’ chances of making
their way in society. Celeste didn’t know how to respond.

“The executors may have tied up your bank accounts,” Lord
Erran continued, “but they cannot lay hands on what’s in your possession. It
must be driving them mad, although I suppose the solicitors have little inkling
about linen shipments.”

Celeste allowed herself to relax into a small smile. “Now
that I understand what type of man the earl is, I am not sorry that we’ve
stolen from the estate.”

“I should think not. It’s pure genius. But from now on,
you’ll send a footman to the tailor. Lady Azenor will be sending two over
today, along with a butler, I hope.” He stopped at the back gate and bowed over
her hand. “I will leave you here. I’ll be visiting the city today, and we’ll
see what comes of it. I’ll try to be back in time to introduce my Cousin Zack,
who will be overseeing the repairs.”