Whisper of Magic (22 page)

The Jamaica she knew was sprawling green and fields of sugar
cane. It had no manufactories, no coal heaps, no burgeoning industry of the
likes she saw around her. Coal dust and neglect had left much of the town
dilapidated and filthy, but the streets bustled with activity.

This was the world to which Lord Erran aspired with his
mechanical friends?

He had never said as much, but she had heard his fascination
when he spoke of the sewing mechanism and talked with his friends about the
amazing steam engine that had allowed them to travel so swiftly. She liked the
notion that the fastidious gentleman didn’t mind getting his hands dirty when
he was playing with machines. It was an interesting dichotomy of intellect and
manual skill—pursuits only a young, unattached man might follow.

She would remind herself of that every time Lord Erran
looked at her as if she might actually hold his interest. He no doubt thought
of her as a puzzle to be solved and certainly not in a way that might suggest
permanence. She needed a real home and security. She would more likely find
that in Jamaica than with lordly English gentlemen.

Once settled at the inn in a comfortable parlor with tea and
coffee and a large breakfast, Mrs. Lorna showed signs of recovery. She asked to
be excused to repair herself, leaving Celeste alone with Lord Erran—not an
auspicious sign that her companion had all her faculties about her.

“I hate to mention this,” Celeste said as she studied the
situation. “But I fear we have somehow convinced Mrs. Lorna that we . . .
are above the usual propriety?”

Pacing the small parlor while sipping his coffee, Lord Erran
scowled. “She’s just not well.”

“I will not cast aspersions on Lady Aster’s trained
employees. A proper companion would insist that I go with her so we could help
repair each other. She has left me here as if I am of no moment. My choice is
to believe she thinks I’m not a lady or to believe she thinks I am above
reproach. I have chosen to believe the latter.” Celeste buttered her toast and
ate hungrily, undisturbed that he did not understand what she was telling him.
He didn’t want to believe in his gift, so he wouldn’t acknowledge hers.

“She is not well and I cannot see how we can go on,” he
insisted. “I don’t want to leave you here alone for the week or more it might
take me to journey to Wystan and search the library. But I cannot punish that
poor woman by rocking her about in a post chaise over rutted roads.”

Celeste considered her options as she ate. She was fairly
certain she would not reach the same conclusions as Lord Erran. Unfortunately,
he was not susceptible to her counter suggestions. She would have to work
around him.

The merit of clearing her name, establishing the date of her
father’s marriage, and possibly finding information about where he may have
stored copies of his will far exceeded that of propriety, in her opinion.

Rather than argue, she waited for Mrs. Lorna’s return. Lord
Erran finally took a seat and emptied his plate. She could feel his tension as
much as her own. He
knew
what they
had to do. He simply would not admit it, stubborn man.

Even after a night in a hammock, he managed to look
unrumpled and elegant. Yes, his linen was a little worse for wear, but his
tailored coat would not dare possess a wrinkle, it clung so lovingly to his
broad chest and slim hips. And he’d already had someone wipe the mud from his
boots. On a practical level, he’d donned mud brown for his traveling attire
instead of the white and gray he often wore at home. Only his gold vest
revealed his dandyish side.

She was starting to understand that Lord Erran presented the
casual elegance of wealth to influence the company his brother’s business
needed. He no doubt needed that image in court as well. On his own—he would
have fixed things by grubbing in oily machines.

Mrs. Lorna hurried in, using a damp handkerchief to wipe her
brow, pushing at her spectacles, and trying to tuck straying gray curls back
under her cap. “I am so sorry. I usually do not do so poorly. I fear I have
been a terrible burden on you.”

“Dear Mrs. Lorna,” Celeste said in her most charming voice.
She patted the chair beside her. “You will make yourself ill by fussing so. We
have decided that it would be best if you stay here with your feet up, and a
maid to look after you until you are well enough to travel again. You deserve
every consideration after that horrible steamship.”

Lord Erran sent her a sharp look, apparently hearing her
persuasion. Celeste ignored him to fuss over the older lady.

“That is very kind, I’m sure,” the lady said with some
bewilderment, settling into her chair. “I do not wish to be a burden in any
way.”

Since she was saying exactly what the woman wished to hear,
Celeste was confident her charm would sway her. “And you are not a burden! I’m
sure dear Lady Aster will approve, if you do not mind staying at an inn. I
would not ask you to stay somewhere that you’re not comfortable.” The beauty of
her charm, Celeste knew, was that she meant every word.

“I have an aging aunt,” Mrs. Lorna said with eagerness. “She
lives close by. Perhaps I could stay with her and be useful.”

“That is perfect!” Celeste cried. “We’ll arrange for you to
see her, then. Perhaps when it is time to take the return journey, you will be
feeling hale and hearty, and we’ll make a party of it.” She turned a smile to
his disgruntled lordship. “You will not need to hire a horse, just the post
chaise, correct?”

She feared he struggled against bellowing at her in his riot-inducing
voice. But this was the only way. Mrs. Lorna might fret later, when not under
the influence of Celeste’s appeal, but for now, her companion was quite happy
to be charmed into doing what she wanted to do anyway.

“I will make the arrangements,” Lord Erran all but growled,
glaring as if he’d have a word to say to her later.

It was quite freeing not to have to please him, Celeste
decided, sipping the inn’s horrible coffee. She could learn to enjoy her
independence, if she could just overcome her terror.

“You charmed your companion into staying behind without
any consideration to what will happen to your reputation if it becomes known
you’re traveling with me,” Erran said, barely able to contain his fury—and
amazement—at the woman beside him in the small post chaise.

“It was necessary,” his Spanish princess declared with a
regal shrug of her slim shoulders.

Draped in a fur-lined, hooded cloak from Lady Aster, Miss
Rochester looked so damned demure, she could be royalty in her chariot, above all
common expectations. And apparently, she spoke like royalty, too, to convince
the very respectable Mrs. Lorna that a lady could just disappear for a week
without anyone noticing.

And worst of all, she was right, he acknowledged grudgingly.
The trip needed to be made. No one but themselves would know that they did it
without chaperonage.

Miss Rochester, obviously, had no problem being alone with
him. He, on the other hand, was crippled by lust. At this angle, he could see
nothing of her except the loose cloak and bonnet, but her scent filled his
senses, and he was all too aware of her mysterious magnetism. Perhaps he had
gone too long without a woman.

He fought against imagining the night to come at a roadside
inn.

The horses flung filth as they trotted the muddy road. Once
the late September sun emerged, Miss Rochester doffed her heavy wrap.
Unaccustomed to England’s chilly weather, she kept the cloak nearby, but Erran
had the pleasure—and discomfort—of admiring the glory of her supple figure as
the team pulled them north at a good pace.

The jarring ruts made it impossible for him to read a book,
or for her to sew, but she was a pleasant conversationalist. She asked
questions about the surrounding countryside that Erran did his best to answer.
She happily chatted about Jamaica, when he inquired.

They were laughing over the dreadful names of foods:
toad-in-the-hole
in England,
jerk chicken
, and
cowfoot
on the island—when the
horses clattered into the yard of the designated inn for the evening. Erran
hadn’t wanted to risk being on the road too close to dark, so he’d ordered a
shorter journey than he would have made on his own. It was still daylight, and
the inn wasn’t overcrowded.

“Keep your hood pulled around you,” Erran suggested as they
rolled to a stop. “I will try to pass you off as my sister so the innkeeper
doesn’t think we’re running off to Gretna or something disreputable.”

She turned a blinding smile to him. “Or I can go in without
the oh-so-lovely cloak, looking like myself, and say I’m her ladyship’s maid
and ask to inspect the room. Later, I will appear wrapped in furs and pretend
to be me.”

“No one but a sapskull will believe you’re a maid, no matter
how dull your gown,” he said in irritation, climbing down.

“That’s exactly what everyone thought for all those months
before you arrived. That is what people will
always
think when they see me. It is why I’ll never take in London
society. I do not
look
English or
aristocratic.” Without waiting for him to extend a hand, she climbed out the
wrong side, leaving the cloak behind.

She lifted out her sewing bag and came around the carriage
as if she’d been on the postilion seat. Annoyed, Erran stalked inside where the
innkeeper was waiting.

“How may I help his lordship?” he asked, gauging Erran’s
coat and casting Celeste a suspicious glance.

Erran grumpily realized he wore expensive tailoring not
simply because he enjoyed it, but because of just this reaction—clothes forced
people to recognize his place in society. He had never considered how it felt
to be on the other end of the spectrum—being judged as a servant. He wanted to
slug the proprietor for doing exactly as expected—judge his clientele by their
clothing.

“My sister and I would like two rooms for the evening, if my
sister’s maid approves of the accommodations.” Calculating the distance to the
next inn, Erran waited stoically to be flung out on his ear for corrupting a
young lady. A man perceptive enough to judge Erran’s coat surely must see
through this foolish charade and know that Celeste carried herself as a lady,
despite her grim attire.

“It must face east, sir,” Celeste said meekly. “The lady is
very particular. I can replace the linens and scrub the china, but I cannot
move windows.” Her Jamaican accent sounded foreign enough to fool the
uneducated into believing she was Continental.

Apparently that was all that was needed, Erran noted with
exasperation. She hadn’t even used her persuasive voice. The old fool bowed,
wrapped his hands in his apron, and led them upstairs to examine his best
chambers.

“
Oui
,
that is much perfect,” Celeste said in a sweet voice that made Erran want to
strangle her.
He
heard her laughter
and triumph. The innkeeper heard only meekness.

She accepted this insult with laughter instead of fury?
Erran wanted to howl at the idiocy, but he bit his tongue. They had the rooms
they needed, and that was what mattered.

They returned to the carriage, where Erran ordered the
grooms to carry the baggage after the hotelier. Once the innkeeper’s back was
turned, Celeste donned her cloak. When she re-entered the inn, she swept the
velvet and fur around her—in full regal princess mode—even though the cloak was
too short and stopped before the hem of her gown.

With her hood concealing her face, she inspected her chamber
under their host’s anxious gaze, nodded curtly, said a frosty “thank you,” and
gestured imperiously for everyone to leave.

Outside her closed door, the proprietor nearly fell over
himself in his desire to please. “Your sister is all that is gracious, my lord.
It is a pleasure to serve you. I will have hot water sent up at once, and more
coals for the fire so she need not suffer a chill.”

“Most kind, I’m sure,” Erran said absently, thinking that if
it had been left to him, he’d send the devious lady ashes, bread, and water for
that performance.

But again, she had accomplished exactly as she had said she
would. He was gaining some insight into how Miss Rochester had lived all these
years—not being herself but only what people imagined her to be.

Surely that had affected how she saw herself.

He shouldn’t care. He ordered himself not to care. He
wondered if he could shout himself into not caring. He had an assignment to
accomplish. Her presence might speed the task along. He needed to protect her
as part of his duty—no more.

Which was why he dined in her company that evening instead
of repairing to the tavern. And why he slept with his door open so he could
hear anyone who might approach her chamber.

And of course, it was only polite to keep her entertained as
they drove northward the next day. He showed her sketches of the improvements
he would like to make to her father’s sewing mechanism. Since it might be used
by women, it only made sense for a woman to approve the design.

“If you don’t mind,” he suggested at one point, “I might see
if any of my family can produce a machine like this in quantity. Once we have a
prototype, I can patent your father’s invention. The profit from sales may be
negligible for all I know, but I can take a small commission for the
improvements and filing the patent and the rest will go into his estate.”

“We could make money from selling a machine?” she asked in
wonder. “How very amazing. I had hoped we might have one or two more built so I
could set up a dress shop on the island.”

“Imagine that multiplied by hundreds,” he said. “A large
factory could produce basic shirts and undergarments for everyone in England
and maybe the Continent! Machines are our future.”