Whisper of Magic (7 page)

Garbed in her usual plain gray broadcloth, Nana arrived to
arrange a tea tray as the guests were introduced into the front room.

Lord Erran was dressed in a faultless tailored black coat
and starched linen. His dark curls were a little less wind-blown today, and
he’d shaved recently. Celeste could see a glisten of moisture in his sideburns,
which almost made him human today. To distract from that unwelcome notion, she
curtseyed for the lady he introduced as Lady Azenor, his sister-in-law.

The lady wore an extraordinary silk gown of an iridescent
peacock hue with only a minimum of petticoats and no elaborate full sleeves.
Her hat, however, was the height of extravagance, with ribbons and feathers and
straw . . . stars? She carried a large tapestry bag crammed with
papers that she instantly set on a faded chair and rummaged through.

“It is an amazing delight to meet you,” the lady said with
excitement. She was short and plump and not the least bit intimidating as she
unrolled papers. “I am so eager to confirm our charts . . . But
all of you look just like portraits in the family gallery. My father collects
them, you see.”

Celeste didn’t exactly see, but she managed a smile.
“Please, have a seat. Sylvie, if you’d pour . . .” She glanced
at his towering lordship, who stood with hands behind his back, studying the
aging room as if prepared to deconstruct it. “Do you prefer coffee or tea,
sir?” They’d purchased tea for the occasion. She hoped they’d bought the
preferred kind.

Lady Azenor happily settled on a broad horsehair sofa and
spread her charts out on a low table. “Tea with milk would be lovely. I think
this is the family line you descend from.” She pointed her gloved finger at a
paper.

Lord Erran paced the parlor on his long legs, frowning at
the damp spots under the windows and glancing up at the peeling paint on the
molded plaster ceiling. “Coffee will be fine, thank you. Are you having
problems with roof leaks?”

Wearing his Sunday frock coat and neck tie, Trevor spoke up.
“In the north corner, sir. We’ve put buckets in the attic.”

His lordship muttered and looked as if he was prepared to
take on the attics, but Lady Azenor interrupted. “Here it is, Sir Trevelyan
Rochester and Lady Lucinda Malcolm. Are these your ancestors, do you know?”

Celeste nodded. “Our paternal great-grandparents. Lady
Lucinda was a well-known artist in the islands, and Sir Trevelyan eventually
became Lord Rochester, a baron in his own right due to some service for the
Crown. We have portraits of both of them over the mantel at home.” She bit her
lip and tried not to worry that their uncle might sell even their precious
family portraits.

Lord Erran absent-mindedly sipped the coffee Sylvia had
poured for him and examined the floor boards. Perhaps he did not approve of his
sister-in-law’s interest in their family relationship?

In any case, Lady Azenor reacted with delight. “Do you paint
as Lady Lucinda did? She was said to have the gift of foresight and painted her
predictions on the canvas.”

Celeste could answer that honestly. “I’ve not a drop of her
talent.” She didn’t need to mention any other, although it was interesting that
the sophisticated lady knew the family legend and seemed to believe in
superstition and magic.

The lady didn’t express disappointment. “My genealogies list
Malcolm descendants back to the 1600s, and they all have different abilities.
Your great-grandmother, Lady Lucinda Malcolm Childe, the prescient artist, was
a cousin of Ninian Malcolm, the wife of the fifth earl of Ives and Wystan.
Ninian was a talented healer and herbalist. Our current Marquess of Ashford and
his brothers are her direct descendants. So they are your distant cousins,” she
exclaimed with all the triumph of a conquering general. “My relationship is a trifle
murkier and not as direct, but who cares about a few centuries? We are all
family!”

Celeste wasn’t certain she followed all the names, but she
understood the lady’s excitement—in some way, no matter how distant, they were
all related. She had
family
—and they
were willing to claim the relationship. She couldn’t explain even to herself
how much it meant not to be alone. But what could the connection mean to their
aristocratic visitors?

“We are
all
in the
way of cousins?” Celeste asked tentatively. Even Sylvia and Trevor sat up
straighter, waiting for an answer.

“Probably more distant than most royalty, but we are all
cousins, even Lord Erran. One assumes the Earl of Lansdowne is head of your
father’s
paternal
branch, but we are
your great-grandmother’s branch. And Malcolm women control their own
destinies.”

The lady sat back and gave Lord Erran a look of
satisfaction. “There will be Malcolm documents giving Miss Rochester control of
her grandmother’s portion, beyond any shadow of a doubt. We tie up our dowries
tighter than any male entail, and they descend through the generations. So if
part of Sir Trevelyan’s property came from Lady Lucinda’s dowry, then the funds
set aside for their descendants could be substantial, and Lansdowne cannot
touch them.”

“The courts will want documents,” his lordship said
forbiddingly, draining the lady’s excitement. “Until we lay hands on those, all
we can do is offer our protection.”

“Oh, we’ll do much more than that,” Lady Azenor corrected,
rolling up her charts. “There are a great many of us, after all, and we are all
very well-connected. You men can play with courts and papers and official
business. The women will ram our willpower down Lansdowne’s throat.”

Celeste thought the large, authoritative gentleman looked as
if he might strangle on his own tongue at that pronouncement.

Abruptly, the heavy brass vase on the mantel toppled to the
hearth with a thud loud enough to mean damage to both hearth and vase.

Erran winced at the toppling vase and leaned over to
retrieve it. A substantial dent marred the base. “The mantel is no doubt
tilted,” he said aloud, quelling his own superstitious theories. Surely raging
with frustration didn’t affect inanimate objects. “Perhaps the floor vibrates.”

The ladies frowned, then shrugging, returned to their insane
discussion of ramming their wishes down Lansdowne’s throat.

Just the thought had Erran vibrating—but he could do
nothing. Until proven otherwise, the earl had to be considered both a possible
ally—and a dangerous enemy.

To keep his vexation to himself, Erran counted off steps in
the front chamber. He calculated the approximate depth of the house and
multiplied it by the width to determine if there would be sufficient space for
Duncan’s apartments.

Most of the family, including himself, had hoped they’d be
able to use the upper stories for their own quarters so they needn’t pay the
exorbitant rents elsewhere. Jacques, his half-brother, in particular, was
hoping to move out of Theo and Aster’s city house.

But it appeared that Lady Aster meant to treat the
Rochesters as long-lost relations and leave them installed here while the women
connived in matters over their heads. Erran had no power to overrule her.
Desperate heir or not, Theo had attics to let for marrying into a family as
manipulative as Lady Aster’s.

It simply wouldn’t suit to leave unchaperoned single ladies
in the same house with unrelated bachelors—especially Duncan, who was the whole
point of this venture. The Rochesters
had
to leave.

Restless, Erran pondered a means to explore the remainder of
the house. A leaky roof meant he needed to call in construction workers
immediately. With one ear, he listened to the discussion of Malcolm documents.
He was not yet inured to the notion of women managing their own affairs and
couldn’t imagine their documents would amount to anything.

When the excited chatter fell to a natural silence, Erran
spoke up. “As I mentioned earlier, I’ll draw up a paper for you to sign, Miss
Rochester, authorizing me to deal with your father’s solicitors. As you are
unmarried and the legal age of majority, you have the authority to act on your
own. You could potentially assume guardianship of your siblings, but we really
need your father’s will before we can assume you inherit any portion of his
property. The land will otherwise fall to your brother, who is a minor, and
Lansdowne can fight for his guardianship.”

“Why can I not deal with my father’s solicitors directly?”
Miss Rochester asked. “I have written to them here and in the islands, but so
far the only response I’ve received is that they need permission from
Lansdowne. I just cannot imagine that.”

She had a voice that rivaled the best orchestra he’d ever
heard—not that he attended musicales with any frequency. Still, her every word
was a song. He could see everyone in the room waiting, entranced, for his
reply.

Which was when he realized it was unlike Lady Aster to
remain silent for long—as if she were truly
spellbound
.

Erran raised a quizzical eyebrow at this oddity but nodded
to acknowledge the question. “You have the right to question the solicitors
directly, certainly. But as the eldest male in the family, Lansdowne is
asserting his authority by refusing to give you access to the documents. If
they exist, they should be a matter of public record. The question is whether
or not the will exists or has been filed with the courts. If there is no will,
then Lansdowne has strong rights in the matter. I can search court records, but
while I’m at it, I would like to make our case to appoint you as guardian.”

“May I go with you?” she asked in a voice that sounded sweet
as chimes—but concealed a demand.

Again, Lady Aster raised no objection—although she had to
know there were dozens of reasons Miss Rochester could not accompany him. What
on earth was wrong with the woman? Did she
want
the Rochesters to hate him for rejecting all their pleas?

Stifling his irritation and maintaining a composed tone, he
replied, “Of course you can accompany me. There won’t be another lady within a
mile of the City, your reputation will be shattered, and any chance of winning
the case will be lost, but I have no other objection to your accompaniment.
Ladies do not have the same freedom in England as in the colonies.”

Her frown was ferocious. Oddly, that made Erran smile
inside. She looked so damned fragile and vulnerable with all that heavy
mahogany hair balanced on such a slender neck…. But her spirit was indomitable.

“I see,” she said coldly.

As if a spell had been broken, Lady Aster spoke up. “Let us
have Ashford demand that the solicitors come here.”

Miss Rochester looked almost as surprised as Erran felt.
Something dodgy was happening here. He wouldn’t have noticed—except for his own
experience with the Wyrd. Hands behind his back, he
rocked a bit on his boot heels, watching—and listening—to the ladies at work.
He deliberately ignored the errant brass vase.

Now addressing Lady Aster instead of himself, Miss Rochester
chatted excitedly in melodious tones, arranging his day—and probably his
future. His damned sister-in-law didn’t find it in the least odd that he’d been
excluded from the conversation that essentially involved him carrying out their
plans. She was indulging every word Miss Rochester spoke, without argument.

He glanced at the siblings. Miss Sylvia appeared pleased
simply to follow the conversation. The boy looked bored and discontent.

“Let us inspect the attics, shall we?” Erran asked the lad,
with deliberate intent. He watched to see if the ladies took notice. They did
not.

Gratified to be acknowledged, Trevor eased from his chair,
keeping one eye on his sister as he followed Erran toward the door. Completely
focused on their plotting, neither lady paid attention to their departure.

Erran mentally measured the front hall and peered into the
foyer’s anteroom on the far side of the wide staircase. He didn’t think it
would take more than a general refurbishment to make the front rooms suitable
for a marquess who needed to entertain his political allies. He needed to see
the area behind the stairs for suitability as Duncan’s private chambers. The
stairs were too dangerous for his brother for now.

Trevor led Erran up the dark oak staircase—it should
probably be painted to brighten the hallway. On the family floor, the carpeting
was threadbare and would need removing. Lady Aster would no doubt be delighted
to take charge. Erran followed the boy toward the back of the house, glancing
in each room with an open door.

He halted at the sound of a machine whirring behind a closed
panel.

It took a moment before Trevor noticed he’d stopped following.
The boy looked uneasy at seeing where Erran stood.

“The stairs to the attic are at the far end.” Trevor nodded
in the direction he’d been heading.

“I like working with machinery,” Erran said, honestly. If
there had been any money in patenting his hay baler, he would have
enthusiastically given up law. But he didn’t have the ability to sell his
ideas, and instead, indulged his mechanical aptitude with experimenting when he
had the chance. “May I see what you’re operating in here?”

He didn’t give the boy time to object but pushed open the
door.

The plump African lady who had served their tea earlier sat
at a machine that she worked with her foot. She appeared to be pushing pieces
of linen beneath a needle that pumped up and down as she pedaled.

At his entrance, she instantly stopped and folded her hands
in her lap, so it took him a moment to realize what she’d been doing.

She’d been sewing! With a machine.

“It’s just something Papa put together to help the women
make shirts,” Trevor whispered anxiously. “Nana doesn’t like to be disturbed.
Please, let us go.”

“If it works, it’s ingenious,” Erran said with genuine
admiration, ignoring the boy’s warning. “You could make your fortune selling
this to tailors and seamstresses.” He addressed the disapproving older woman
waiting for them to depart. “Might I take a look at the machine?”