Whisper of Magic (11 page)

How did he
do
that? She wanted to box his ears all over again for taking charge of her entire
life . . . and hug him for calling her a genius and sending her
footmen and looking after her family. While she was still feeling the glow of
flattery, she placed a hand on his arm to prevent his departure. “Tell me about
your voice. I have never met another who possessed such a gift.”

He made a noise deep in this throat and glanced up and down
the mews, but it was early, and no one lingered. Looking uncomfortable, he
clenched his gloved fingers. “The first time I used it was shock enough. I’d
rather not discuss last night. It’s not the act of a gentleman to use a weird
aberration to influence others.”

“It’s the act of a lady?” she asked with sarcasm. “Am I
beneath you now?”

“That’s different,” he argued. “Women have no other defense.
I should be able to use my fists and weapons and logic without resorting to
mumbo-jumbo.”

If she said what she thought now, she would inflict harm.
She didn’t wish to hurt a man who had offered his aid. Biting her tongue, she
merely made a polite curtsy and allowed him to go.

How did one argue with a force of nature who did not respond
to even her most convincing voice?

Sadly realizing a plain beanpole like herself could never
make a man like Lord Erran listen to her when he was appalled by her one gift,
she trailed back to her sewing. She would simply try to be grateful that he was
condescending enough to notice their plight.

Wearing his best black business coat, Erran rode back from
the city in an ill temper. One of the less pecuniary reasons he had gone into
law was that he’d admired the way the rules of law worked in the same way as
the rules of physics—cause and consequence.

The Court of Chancery, on the other hand, followed no rhyme
or reason much less anything resembling
rules
.
The equity courts were so overburdened that only corruption produced results,
and the decision of judges often depended on what they ate for breakfast that
day.

He’d almost unleashed his unholy Courtroom Voice this
morning and was regretting that he had not. How much longer could he resist the
temptation to make grown men weep?

He’d like to blame last night’s episode on the very tempting
Miss Rochester, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was irritated that her
charms seemed to work better than his commands. And still, he’d taken her in
his arms and might have done more if his over-developed conscience hadn’t
intruded.

How long could he hold out against Miss Rochester’s charms
and
the infuriating urge to demand
justice? Something had to give or he would explode.

He arrived in St. James just as his cousin was dismounting
from his horse. Zack was one of the rare light-haired Ives, lighter than even
Theo’s brown. Wide of shoulder but not as broad in chest as Erran, Zack dressed
in tradesman’s tweed and a countryman’s knee boots, without regard to fashion.

“So that’s where our ancestors sank all their money,” Zack
said in greeting, studying the stone façade. “And we proceeded to let it run to
rack and ruin.”

“Not entirely, but close enough. The tenants have kept it up
better than we would have, I suspect. Homemaking has never been an Ives’
trait.” Erran flipped a coin to a street boy who ran up to watch the horses.
“But Ashford means to move into the ground floor, so we need to adapt it for
him.”

Zack made sympathetic noises as he examined the front walk and
step. “I’ve never attempted to construct an apartment for someone who can’t
see. We’ll probably need his instructions, although a railing from gate to door
might be beneficial.”

“He’ll tell us all to go to hell and he doesn’t need
anything special,” Erran said in resignation, rapping the knocker. At least
they’d made enough progress that the Rochesters trusted leaving a knocker on
the door to let people know they were in town. And the front draperies were
partially open.

Erran stifled his disappointment that the lad opened the
door and not Miss Rochester. On a day as rotten as this one, he shouldn’t
expect the brief pleasure of her reluctant smile. “This is my cousin Zack Ives.
He’s an architect and can help us determine what changes need to be made in the
house. Zack, this is Trevor, Lord Rochester, a distant branch of the family.”

Jamar joined them in the narrow foyer. Erran knew he could
explain the result of his courthouse search to the Rochester’s imposing man of
business, but he wanted the lady to hear what he had to say as well.

She wouldn’t be happy, but he needed to see her reaction. Or
so he told himself.

He’d spent the night in the downstairs office he thought
would suit Duncan for a bedchamber. It was windowless, but Duncan would
scarcely notice. As they tramped through the back corridor, Erran pointed out
the need for a chamber for a valet adjoining the study, and Zack measured the
rooms behind the stairs to draw up plans.

“I would like to see stronger bars on the entrances,” Jamar
suggested. “We cannot have guards sitting at all the doors, all the night. And
if the ladies are to take the next floor, there should be a wall down this back
hall so they might enter and leave without disturbing the marquess.”

“Perhaps we should discuss this with Miss Rochester?” Erran
suggested, while pretending interest in testing the lock mechanism on the study
door. “We do not wish to make the ladies feel uncomfortable.”

He could hear the rhythmic thumping of the sewing mechanism
and assumed they were sewing to make their daily quota, which irritated him
beyond all reason. He had no way of subverting their ambition and no funds to
replace the tailor’s trade.

Before Jamar could reply, the knocker rapped. Erran glanced
questioningly at the majordomo. “Has Lady Aster sent over the footmen yet?
Could that be them?” Even as he asked, he knew the footmen would have gone to
the back door.

“The lady sent a note saying they will arrive before
evening. We have been arranging suitable accommodations,” Jamar said, striding
toward the foyer.

Erran followed, interested in seeing who dared knock and how
they would react to a black giant in gentleman’s clothes opening the door. A
footstep from above caused him to glance up the stairs.

The lady was hesitating on the landing, frowning as she,
too, waited. She’d most likely been watching from the front window and had seen
their visitor arrive. Dressed in drab gray—although of excellent cut on her
slim figure—she caught his eye and flattened her lips in disapproval again. His
cheek stung in memory of last night. Would he ever land on her good side?

Jamar opened the door. A woman shrieked as if the house had
fallen on her, and a man exclaimed in irritation. Erran stepped up, allowing
Jamar to retreat into the foyer, out of the public eye.

On the doorstep, a footman in elegant livery cursed and
attempted to hold up a beribboned and frilled lady of larger girth than
himself—who had apparently fainted at sight of Jamar. Erran was reluctant to
lay hands on a woman he didn’t know, but he felt sorry for the poor fellow
dealing with foolish vapors.

“One would assume the populace of a city as large as London
would be a little more sophisticated,” he muttered under his breath, taking the
female’s other arm and lifting her upright. Aloud, he asked in annoyance,
“Shall we escort her back to her carriage?”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.” The new
arrival abruptly straightened, taking her weight off the young footman, much to
his evident relief. She waved a lace handkerchief under her nose. “Where is
Lily? My smelling salts, please.”

A tiny, terrified maid peered from behind the hedge.
Apparently relieved that no foreign entities darkened the doorway, the maid
scurried to help her mistress.

Feeling mean, Erran released the lady’s arm and blocked the
doorway with his bulk. “Perhaps we could provide you with direction?” he
inquired in his coldest, most aristocratic tones.

“I’m here to see my dear, dear sisters and little brother,”
the lady protested. “Lily, give this person my card. I’m sure they will be
eager to see me.”

“This is the home of the Marquess of Ashford,” Erran
informed them with hauteur. “He has no sisters.” He took the card proffered and
added with disdain, “Mrs. Guilford.”

At last, Miss Rochester joined him at the doorway and elbowed
him to one side. Erran rather enjoyed the intimacy her touch produced—he
thought she must be feeling more comfortable in his company to dare strike him
again. He inhaled her delicate floral scent as a reward for his rotten day, and
fought a proprietary urge to place his hand at the small of her back.

His hostess wasn’t smiling in welcome, however, as she
snatched the card from his hand. “Come in, Charlotte,” she said curtly. “We may
call you Charlotte, may we not, since we are sisters? I am Celeste. We have
corresponded.”

The difference in the ladies was so striking that Erran had
difficulty believing there could be any relation at all. Mrs. Guilford was
obviously older, with the plumpness of childbirth and fine dining. But she was
also built sturdier and closer to the ground than the taller, more willowy Miss
Rochester. The older sister had frizzed her yellow hair to disguise the pasty
roundness of her face. Whereas Miss Rochester’s sleek mahogany hair was drawn
severely back, deliberately exposing sun-browned high cheekbones and those
wicked, slanted, blue eyes.

Accepting the invitation, the newcomer deliberately ignored
the amused Jamar in the hall and waddled in the direction of the front parlor.

“Oh, no, Charlotte, dear. We must go upstairs to the
family
parlor. The front is for the
marquess’s
distinguished
guests,”
Miss Rochester said in polite tones that Erran could swear hid a solid streak
of derision.

“Shall I join you, Miss Rochester? I have news from the city
that should be discussed. Perhaps Mr. Jamar could join us?” Erran couldn’t
resist adding that, just to detect the direction of the social wind.

“I shall stay here and discuss renovations with the
architect,” Jamar said in his dry Jamaican lilt. “Miss Rochester will catch me
up later.”

Mrs. Guilford was too busy huffing and puffing and dragging
herself up the stairs by the railing to take notice of the undercurrents. “A
nice coze with family,” she gasped. “That’s just what
we need.”

Miss Rochester, looking a trifle exasperated, met Erran’s gaze
in a manner he could not quite interpret. “If you would not mind joining us,
please, I would be appreciative.”

“I will happily tear her to shreds if you require,” he
murmured, relishing the thought of taking apart a woman who would abandon her
bereaved siblings without a single offer of aid.

Relief, delight, and a hint of mischief lit the lady’s
lovely face. “Oh, you may simply witness that event. But detecting truth of
matters we know nothing about may be needed.”

“Indeed.” Bowing his agreement, Erran carried his ruthless
mood up the stairs, but this time it was in defense of a lady and not because
the world did not comply to his sense of order.

***

Physically aware of Lord Erran’s sturdy frame brushing
entirely too close on the way up the stairs, Celeste nervously put a distance
between them on the way to the parlor.

Now that their long-lost half sibling had showed up on their
doorstep well after they needed her help, Celeste wasn’t certain whether to
rail at the fates or be wary of treacherous shoals. Since learning to survive
in London had taught her suspicion, she was inclined toward the latter.

She watched with interest as Charlotte glanced around the
shabby family parlor. After they’d seen this stranger alight from a carriage
outside their door, Trevor and Sylvia had hidden the linen bolts and sewing
baskets in spare bedrooms. Celeste deliberately opened the draperies enough to
reveal the faded upholstery and threadbare carpet. She wanted to rub their
sister’s face in the poverty they’d been left in.

“I would have thought a marquess’s establishment would be a
little more . . . fashionable,” Charlotte mused in dismay,
taking a sofa that had probably been new during the reign of the first King
George in a prior century.

“Our father would have brought in new furnishings, had he
survived,” Celeste said sweetly. Curious to know how much their half-sister
knew about their circumstances, she didn’t expound further.

Lord Erran stood near the window behind Charlotte,
apparently keeping an eye on the street while listening to their conversation.
She liked that he’d accepted that she would lead the attack, if attack was
necessary. But she dared not rely on him as she had relied so heavily on her
father. She wasn’t about to be left helpless again.

But his lordship’s aristocratic hauteur and imposing
physique lent an air of . . . security . . . that
she would not have had otherwise. Every time she glanced at his glowering
visage, her insides did a little dance of glee that so handsome and intelligent
a gentleman was willing to linger in their company.

That was very definitely a rash and irrational reaction. He
was still the enemy who would oust them from their home if he could.

“Of course,” Charlotte said with a bewildered note. “I had
assumed the estate would be sufficient . . . Is that why I heard
nothing from his executors? There was no estate left? I am so sorry that I did
not come sooner . . .”

A year ago, Celeste would have believed her. These days, she
believed few. Worse yet, she thought she detected a layer of artifice beneath
the lady’s protestations. She’d never particularly noticed levels of emotion in
other people’s voices . . .

She widened her eyes. Was her gift actually increasing with
their residence in this house as Lady Azenor had suggested?