Whisper of Magic (18 page)

“Breaking and entering is more civilized?” she asked with a
sniff, forcing herself to focus on his imposition instead of her terror at what
she’d done. “Go away. You don’t belong in here. I just need to be alone for awhile.”

“I understand, and I’m sorry,” he said, without really
sounding sorry.

He rested his hand near her hip and leaned closer, giving
her far more to think about than self-pity.

“I wish I could create a magic bubble that would shut out
reality,” he continued, “and surround you in sunshine and roses, but I can’t.
You’re the one with the magic to create change, not me.”

“Me?” she asked in incredulity, wiping at her face and
inching away from his encroaching presence. “
Change
is the very last thing I want. I want everything to go back
to the way it was.” His assertion terrified her.

“If you can’t accept change, you might as well be dead,” he
countered with scorn. “Being able to wrap everyone around your little finger
has made you weak.”

“Weak!” Outraged, she wiped at her eyes and dragged herself
up to sit against her pillows. He was every bit the black thundercloud she
feared, but she had to admit that Lord Erran’s chiseled features were
magnificently handsome wearing a frown of concern. “I am not weak!”

“You are,” he asserted. “You’ve never had to fight for what
you want.”

That was true. She glared. “Preferring peace is not a
weakness!” He was sitting on her
bed
—as
if he had every right to do so. Nervously, she scooted a little farther, but
the bed was not large—and he was.

“I heard you the night of the riot,” she said, trying to
steady her breathing but still nervous at his proximity. “Do not pretend I am
the only one with magic. You could have ordered that dreadful mob to go soak
their heads, and they would have rushed off in search of a horse trough.”

“
I
wanted to talk
to them.
You
drove them off so I
couldn’t,” he retorted. “Whatever I did that night is not something I’m proud
of, but you did not help.” Beneath lashes too long for a man, his dark eyes
smoldered, igniting fires she preferred to deny.

Crossing her arms in a protective gesture against his
too-masculine proximity, Celeste studied this lordly English aristocrat. His
attire was spotless. No wrinkle marred his linen. Every polished silver button
was in place. He hadn’t shaved, and his stern jaw was dark with stubble, but
that didn’t detract from his mien of competence and
assertiveness—characteristics she found all too attractive and ought to avoid
if she meant to stand up for herself from now on.

Weak—he thought her weak. And pathetic, and a weepy clinging
vine, she supposed. Worse, he was right in too many ways she didn’t want to
consider.

“I don’t believe you,” she said frankly, refusing to back
off any further, although the delicious scent of his shaving soap had her
wanting to taste him. Perhaps she should have eaten dinner. She took a deep
breath and concentrated on his infuriating argument. “You have the ability to
command armies with a voice like yours, and you’re not proud of it?”

“Women need mystical crutches because they’re weak,” he said
with an expression of disdain. “Men command through respect and intelligence
and strength. Not that I’m convinced I’ve done anything except assert
authority, I still maintain that manipulation by . . . weirdness . . .
isn’t fair play or good for character.”

Astonishingly, Celeste punched his muscular arm. She had
never done such a thing before. She stared at her fist in disbelief, but the
act felt good enough to repeat. That she refrained made her feel even better.

Unharmed, his elegant lordship merely raised his black
eyebrows in question.

“If you really believe in fair play, then you’re already
living in a fantasy world,” she said witheringly. “Fair play only exists for
the privileged few with the wealth and power to be noble. ‘Nice try, little
girl,’” she mimicked. “‘Let me pat your little head so I can walk all over you
again using
my
rules because it’s my game.’
Balderdash
.”

He studied her as if she’d just emerged from a wall
painting. She nearly leapt off the bed when he brushed her hair behind her ear.
Lust as a distraction from weeping worked well, although she thought it might
be dangerous.

“So you think I should confront Lansdowne and bellow at him
to jump off a high cliff?” he asked without rancor. “Wouldn’t that be akin to
murder—except no court could convict me?”

She shrugged. “I’ve found that people do not respond well if
it goes against their beliefs. You will notice that the earl’s solicitor worked
past my charm within minutes. He truly
believes
I’m a worthless bastard! Unless the earl is already suicidal, I doubt that
jumping off a cliff would appeal to him.”

She was coming out of her despair despite herself,
fascinated by discussing the forbidden topic with someone who understood—and
even more fascinated with the man nearly leaning over her. Even in the
semi-darkness, she could see his beard shadow and longed to stroke his jaw—if
only he would give her some excuse.

“There are unanticipated casualties, though,” he argued,
properly keeping his hands to himself. “If I believed in your weird theory and
shouted at the earl where others could hear, we might have an entire rash of
suicides. Or today, I could have had carriages colliding as pedestrians ran
into the street to snuff the wick. Or had it been evening, they might have
attempted to snuff gas lights by smashing them. Even if I should be
superstitious enough to believe I wield that kind of unreliable power, I
wouldn’t use it.”

She glared at him. “You halted a riot and stopped a
terrorist and still you do not believe you have an . . . ability . . .
greater than most? No wonder it’s only the Malcolm ladies who talk about
oddities, gifts, and talents. Men are too thickheaded to accept what they don’t
understand—which includes pretty much the entire universe.”

“Men like scientific evidence before they believe the
ridiculous,” he countered.

“Artists are not called
weird
because scientists haven’t proved they paint better than anyone else! Priests
aren’t called weird because they have faith without science. It does not seem
extraordinary to me that some people can speak well and influence others. You
have surely seen eloquent orators who can sway crowds—are they witches
employing magic?”

“That was not your
erudition
seducing hardheaded lawyers,” he exclaimed, leaning closer with the intensity
of his argument. “As much as I want to believe it’s my authority to which
people respond, I simply cannot take a chance on such unfair use of my
ability
. It would be akin to practicing
Mesmerism.”

“Mesmerism
! Is
that how you explain what we do?” she asked in amazement, admiring the flash of
his dark eyes as he spoke of this interesting new theory.

“It’s the only scientific explanation I can determine,” he
said, almost angrily, although his hand brushed hers on top of the covers as if
seeking reassurance. “I mesmerized an entire courtroom once.” He dismissed the
discussion with a complete change of subject. “Would you like to come down and
have a bite to eat so the household knows you’re alive?”

Fascinated despite their disagreement, Celeste didn’t ever
want to end this moment, but he was right to cut it off. She feared her entire family
would be here if they lingered longer. “I don’t think I can. I’m not hungry.”
Not for food, at least. “It’s been a horrible day. And I broke an oil lamp. I
do
not
want to consider what that
means. I think it best if I rest so I have better control.”

As if they hadn’t just been quarreling, his lordship offered
one of his rare smiles—more heart-stoppingly effective
because of their rarity. His fingers enclosed hers, offering the reassurance
she craved, and she would have swooned, had he not continued with his usual
pragmatism. “I had wondered if that was intentional. I’ve heard of opera
singers who can shatter glass. I’ll have the maid carry up some hot tea.
Perhaps that will help you relax.”

Opera singers—she’d like to believe that, but she was a
contralto, not a soprano. But if that’s what he wished to believe . . .
She was done arguing.

“You are upsetting me as much as the lawyers,” she admitted,
although not clarifying in how many ways he disturbed her. “I wish I could tell
you to go away and let me return to my sewing. It’s safer.”

His expression darkened, and he withdrew his hand. “When
this is all over, I promise to leave you in peace. But it’s far from over.”

She lowered her gaze in acceptance and disappointment that
someday, he would no longer be part of her life. Maybe then she could seek
normality again. No, normal was being weak. He was right. She must learn
independence. “I cannot promise to contain myself if faced with any more days
like this one. I’m worn thin as it is.”

“I can respect that, although I will not lie to you. Given
the circumstances, I cannot promise to bring you peace, but I will work toward
that goal.” He patted the hand he’d just released. A frisson of electricity
passed between them. She froze, and he hastily stood up, as if he’d felt it
too. “Good-night, Miss Rochester.”

She fell asleep wondering what it would be like if his
lordship didn’t have to leave her room—if she could have his comforting size
and security all night long.

That was the old Celeste speaking. In the morning, the new
independent and strong Celeste would scorn him.

***

Wishing he could simply wrap the glass-breaking,
manipulative, fragile Miss Rochester in cotton batting and ship her somewhere
safe until this was all over, Erran sought activity to distract him from the
woman upstairs. Her beautiful, tear-streaked face had nearly broken his heart.
Her refusal to believe that charm and bullying were unfair and a dangerous path
to perdition made him want to bang his head against a wall.

So he spent the evening digging through the rest of her
father’s document trunk. The man collected papers the way squirrels gathered
nuts. Why the devil hadn’t he included his will?

Because a reasonably young man of strength and good health
does not expect to die. And a man of integrity does not expect his relations to
be treacherous frauds.

Erran compared the letter purloined from Lansdowne’s
solicitor with a few of the Jamaican solicitor’s letters in the trunk. The
handwriting was different, but there could have been a new clerk.

None of the documents in the trunk had the same signature as
the letter stating there was no will, however. How many partners were in the
firm? Who was authorized to speak for the Rochester estate? Or had Lansdowne
simply made up the entire letter?

Finding answers meant sending more letters to the governor’s
office and court clerks, asking about the discrepancy—months more time lost.
Erran’s suspicion was that someone in the Jamaican office had been bribed to
keep the will hidden and was receiving a commission on assets sold. Preying on
the weak was a game to the bullies of the world, morality and legality be damned.

Ashford was depending on Lansdowne’s support in the Whig
campaign for the prime minister. Without proof, Erran hated to accuse the earl
of lies, theft, and fraud, but he was furious enough to confront the man.
Better he do so with evidence in hand.

He dug deeper and scanned more papers. Invoices for
shipments, journals of daily thoughts and appointments, lists of household
items Rochester wished to buy—the trunk was bottomless. And useless.

Beneath all the papers and books was a small package wrapped
in brown paper with a note attached—
For
the Malcolm library
.

Suddenly wide awake, Erran tore off the wrapper and scanned
the contents—more slender journals similar to the one he’d already perused. No
wonder the siblings hadn’t bothered opening it. They must have seen packages
like this regularly, and in their grief, probably respected their father’s
privacy.

He scanned the dates of these tomes—all from the last few
years. There were entries on weather, crops, experiments on the sewing
mechanism and other equipment. He noted the sketches of the design, but he’d
already drawn similar ones.

Disappointed, Erran looked at the brown paper again—
the Malcolm library
. Aster only kept
genealogical records. She had no room in her small townhouse for a library.

The earl of Lochmas, Aster’s father, had spoken of his
castle full of moldering old medieval Malcolm volumes from distant, prolific
ancestors. But the wrapping paper hadn’t specified Edinburgh or even Scotland.

The
current
Malcolm library was in Wystan—one of Ashford’s holdings in Northumberland.

Was it possible . . . ?

He would never know without trying. Wystan was much closer
than Jamaica.

The next morning, to avoid any chance of running into Lord
Erran, Celeste asked one of the new maids to carry her tea and toast to the
sewing room. She could hear the construction men pounding on walls below and
felt certain he’d be there directing them.

If she had learned nothing else these past months, it was
that circumstances changed in the blink of an eye, and she could only rely on
herself. The marquess’s family could suddenly decide the Rochesters were a
liability and all promises of allowances and schools might disappear in a puff
of smoke. She would attempt to continue earning her own way, and sewing was the
only way she knew to do it.

“This house, it may be too strong for you,” Nana said as she
took another basic shirt body from her machine. “You should explore your gift,
not run from it.”

Nana seldom spoke, but when she did, Celeste felt compelled
to listen—even if she didn’t like what was being said.