Whisper of Magic (8 page)

“It is old,” she said stiffly. “It will soon wear out.”

“Not if the parts can be replaced,” Erran said cheerfully,
crouching down to examine the mechanism when the woman pushed her chair away.
“He used screws to hold it to the cabinet! Where did he find them? This one
should be tightened.”

He produced a knife from his pocket and proceeded to twist
the metal head back into place.

***

Once she and the delightful Lady Azenor had worked out the
details of how she might keep control of her family’s affairs rather than hand
them over to Lord Erran, Celeste realized the men had left the room.

Alarmed, she glanced around. Sylvia reminded them of the
attic leak conversation.

“Erran loves fixing things,” Lady Azenor said with a
dismissive wave. “Not only does he enjoy fixing legal puzzles and injustices,
he mends plumbing and machines. He’ll have repaired the roof and will be
looking for more things to do. Shall we see what they have found?”

Celeste was terrified of what he could have found. Since the
lady was already rising and heading for the door, she had no choice but to
follow. It had been a relief finding that she hadn’t lost her ability to
persuade, but just as she’d thought she’d reclaimed her authority, his wretched
lordship had stolen it again.

He hadn’t been at all swayed by her voice, drat the man. How
would she ever induce him to go along with what she and Lady Azenor had
planned?

To her utter horror—but not surprise—they found Lord Erran
sprawled beneath her father’s sewing mechanism. His lordship had grease on his
linen and a knife in his hand and bits and pieces of everything all over the
floor. Nana stoically looked on as Trevor fashioned a circle from wire while
his lordship gave instructions.

Celeste remembered her father doing exactly the same, and
she fought a wave of nostalgia—and admiration. “Really, my lord, it is not
necessary for you to fix everything in our lives.”

He didn’t even bother looking up, although his once-immaculate
clothing was now rumpled and dusty. “This is a rare pleasure. Consider it
payment for my legal services, such as they are.”

She glanced to Lady Azenor. “Is he quite mad?”

The lady laughed. “Ashford will not let him near the mines
or the steamships for fear he will take apart all the equipment and not be able
to put it back together again. But Erran has been quite clever in installing
gas lighting in my parlor.”

“It would be simpler if I could rip out the walls,” the
gentleman said from beneath the table. “I’m thinking that needs to be done
here, but there isn’t time for that amount of repair.”

He backed out and took the wire ring from Trevor. Glancing
up at Celeste, he actually grinned. The sardonic gentleman with the
disapproving glare actually
grinned
.

“I’ll have this right in a trice. I need better parts, but
these will do for now. I can draw up a patent application, but it would be best
to keep it to yourself until Trev is old enough to sell the idea to people who
can manufacture it.” He slid beneath the table again.

He didn’t mind that they were sewing shirts for strangers?
That they were essentially in trade? Celeste bit a fingernail and tried hard to
believe that. What was a patent application?

“First, we must retrieve the Rochesters’ plantation and
fortune from thieves,” Lady Aster reminded him, tapping his boot with her shoe.
“Patents are for those with leisure time. We have developed a strategy, if
you’ll come out from there so we might explain it.”

“I’ll go to the city, search for the registered will, take a
letter from Ashford to the solicitors demanding that they appear here where
they might be interrogated by the marquess’s representatives, including Miss
Rochester,” Lord Erran recited. “Child’s play.”

Celeste refrained from rolling her eyes. She had wasted half
the morning on charming Lady Azenor into this plan when she could have been
sewing pleats, and his arrogant lordship had it all mapped out without her
having to say a word. Having her wishes anticipated was most distressing,
perplexing, and just a trifle . . . exhilarating.

Behind all that lordly linen, Lord Erran was a scarily
dangerous man.

“In return, Miss Rochester has agreed that we might start
fixing up the lower floors for Ashford’s use,” Lady Azenor explained with
cheer. “The arrangement will be convenient for all of us. We have been quite
busy while you’ve been painting yourself black.”

“I have returned the machine to proper working order so Miss
Delphinia might work easier,” Lord Erran retorted, sliding back out again and
tucking his knife away. “I’ll hire an architect to begin work. I have a good
man in mind, one who would delight in having his name known in these parts.”

“He means one of his cousins,” Lady Azenor explained. “Ives’
talents are manifold. They are all dangerously intelligent, practical, and
scientific, and there are far too many of them. There is always one with empty
pockets who can do what’s needed.”

“As if you don’t already have
your
cousin ready to putter in the garden,” his lordship retorted,
wiping his greasy hands on what had once been a pristine handkerchief. He
turned to Celeste. “The lady’s family are a meddling lot. Once you allow them
into your life, you will never be left alone. Be certain of what you wish for.”

“I wish beyond all things to have meddling family,” Celeste
admitted fervently. “It has been exceedingly difficult these last months of
managing on our own in a strange city.”

“The hard part comes when you want one thing and they insist
on another,” he warned.

“No, not at all.” Celeste smiled. Lady Azenor had responded
to her voice and acknowledged her wishes without a single objection. She was
certain the rest of the lady’s family could be as easily manipulated. It was
only Jamar who frowned and muttered about curses when she used her charm. Celeste
couldn’t see any harm in persuasion when it was her only defense. “I think it
only takes a little discussion for all parties to find an amicable middle
ground.”

She hoped and prayed the marquess would merely stay long
enough to cast his vote and return to the country, leaving them alone with an
improved home where she could eventually bring out Sylvia. But the return of
some of their rent would ease a few of their money woes.

“You may have to find a middle ground over Lansdowne’s dead
body,” Lord Erran reminded them. “I’ll have to find out what that’s about or
some of his cohorts are likely to escalate to arson.”

That
was not the
pleasantry she wished to hear, and Celeste shivered in her shoes. She would not
allow her family to go homeless, ever, even if she must use her skill to
persuade the earl to leap off a high cliff.

“I swear to you, your damned tenant is another Malcolm
witch,” Erran declared in disgruntlement, putting his boots up on the
marquess’s desk and swilling the brandy offered. “I don’t know if it’s wise to
put you in the same house with her. She’ll have you voting for women’s
emancipation.”

Ashford sipped from his glass and stared—blindly—at the wall
above Erran’s head. “Emancipation would not be all bad except for the battle
necessary to accomplish it. I’d rather fight a war I can win.”

“That’s not the point!” Erran swished the brandy, searching
for more goads. “Miss Rochester is devious, manipulative, and apparently
dabbling in trade. We would fare better moving her out of the house entirely,
but the women are resisting. They think the house is enchanted or some such
rot.”

The marquess snorted. “Lady Aster reads her family’s
journals. They’re packed with such idiocy. It gives the women something to talk
about. I’m less concerned with the ladies and more concerned with Lansdowne. I
was hoping to sway his vote, but if we take the Rochesters under our wing and
threaten his income, he’s likely to turn against us. I suppose I’ll have to
move in just to keep security on the place.”

Erran slammed his hand down on the desk so Dunc could hear
his exasperation—even though his brother was saying exactly what Erran wanted
to hear. Manipulating Dunc didn’t set well, but dammit, a brilliant mind
shouldn’t be left to rot.

“Fine, then. Have eggs flung at you and the roof fall on
your head in the next hard rain.” Erran meant every word he said, knowing his
obstinate brother would do exactly the opposite of what he suggested. “The
Rochesters will probably burn voodoo charms in the kitchen. Which is another
thing . . . I’m not certain we can remove their servants and
replace them with ours.”

Ashford’s mouth quirked. “Our
what
? Non-existent servants? Have Lady Aster magically summon a
very large butler and two strong footmen to guard the doors. We’ll sort the
rest later.”

“They have no proper chaperone,” Erran argued, keeping his
tone dispassionate. He intended to influence his brother, but not with any kind
of . . . what? Silver tongues weren’t magic, but what was the
difference if he lashed out or twisted words? Either way, he was manipulating
Dunc. He needed to examine his morals at a better time. “You’ll ruin their
reputations!”

The marquess snorted. “I’ll call them my wards. No one will
believe a blind man could compromise two perfectly healthy females accompanied
by their brother and Nubian giants.”

Erran sat up, rocking his chair to indicate surprise. “You
really mean to go through with this—just move into that aging mausoleum with a
flock of lunatics?”

Ashford drew a sour face. “It’s no worse than sitting here
moldering. At least there I can rot while talking to men with influence.”

“It’s on your head then,” Erran declared, standing, hiding
his triumph. By jingo, he could see where the power of persuasion could go to
the head. “I have to head back and start digging through files to see how much
Lansdowne’s solicitors have destroyed or if they’ve ignored the courts
entirely. I shall be pleased to call on you once you’re installed in London so
I may say I told you so.”

“Go to hell,” Ashford answered complacently as Erran opened
the door wide enough for him to hear the hinges creak.

The blind marquess had
finally agreed to leave the house!
Duty accomplished—to his own
amazement—Erran took the Iveston stairs to the ground floor two at a time. At
the bottom, he found Theo waiting for a report. Erran slapped him on the back.
“He’s agreed to move to London, warts and all. Aster just needs to summon a
burly butler and two giant footmen.”

Theo snorted. “I could talk to him logically and explain all
the reasons he needs to go to town, and he’d throw his snifter at me. You go in
and tell him all the reasons he shouldn’t go, and he decides town’s the place
to be.”

Erran shrugged uncomfortably and sounded out his theory on
his more scientific older brother. “I apparently possess a lawyerly ability to
twist phrases to my advantage.”

Theo snorted in disbelief. “Right-o. You were always a
silver-tongued little mongrel. How did an uncommunicative scientist like me get
stuck in this family?”

That wasn’t what Erran had wanted to hear, but he played it
nonchalant. “Luck, pure luck, old boy. Except you’re the madman who married
into your wife’s witchy clan. There is no accounting for taste.”

It was the damned witchy family causing his confusion. He
ought to quit worrying about Cousin Sylvester, silver tongues, levitating
gavels and vases, and go back to what he did best—twisting words. That’s what
lawyers did, right?

Erran donned his redingote and hat and pulled on his gloves.
“I’ve sent word to Cousin Zack to meet me at the house tomorrow to look at the
repairs, so I need to ride back tonight. Do you think Aster can summon servants
from nowhere?”

“She has two suitable footmen trained, but she’ll have to
raid the staffs of her family to find a butler. She’ll make it happen. She’s quite
taken with Miss Rochester and her family.”

So was Erran, but he wouldn’t admit his fascination. Women
were fine in bed when one had the wherewithal. He seldom did. And he certainly
had no home in which to install a wife. He had a future to build before he
could even consider it. He touched the brim of his hat and set out into the
dusk.

A good long ride back into the city should shake off his
need to see how Miss Rochester spent her evenings.

***

Upon Erran’s return to London, rioters were marching past
Westminster, drunkenly smashing windows and stoning carriages. The new police
force had been set up only a year ago, with this kind of commotion in mind, but
they’d had a rough year and lacked experience. The mob flung stones and curses
in the direction of any blue uniform, cursing Robert Peel and rudely calling
them
bobbies
. Erran didn’t blame the
force for playing least-in-sight.

Mobs weren’t uncommon, but the direction of the marchers
toward the park worried him. Erran urged his horse past the relative quiet of
St. James and down the side street.

He could see lights in the upper story of the townhouse, so
the Rochesters were home. This back street had little activity except for
people avoiding the protestors approaching the square. Recalling how Duncan’s
enemies had hid their depredations behind rural rioters, Erran stopped at the
stable across the mews from their townhouse, boarded his horse, and entered the
tavern for ale and gossip. The inhabitants were boisterous and loud but didn’t
appear to be violent.

Carrying his tankard to the lane between the tavern and the
house, Erran lurked in the doorway, studying pedestrians hurrying through the
unlit space. Oddly, lantern light glinted through the gates of the townhouse.
What were the Rochesters doing in the yard at this hour?

And then he noted the darker shadow leaning against a
building farther down the alley, seemingly appraising the back gate. The noise
of the rioters came closer, and the shadow straightened in response, crouching
down to pick up objects at his feet.
Damn
.
This was no idle drunk. Erran tensed with anticipation.