Whisper of Magic (30 page)

With experience, she could lead armies of workers on strike.
That terrified the hell out of him.

Her voice could lead
insurrections
.
The French had shown the disaster of that sort of upheaval. Britain had been
fighting off the fear of revolt for decades. It was the whole reason London had
finally agreed to a police force after centuries of fighting against the
notion. This beautiful, intelligent woman would be despised and reviled by
every person in society, should she persist in this new direction.

She would shatter the cautious life of reason and justice
he’d been trying to build, and he couldn’t even voice a good argument to stop
her—because he had wanted to do what she had just done.

He wanted to march into Parliament and shout them into
reform.

Celeste could be carrying his
child
. He’d always used precautions before. As far as he was aware,
he’d not left a string of bastards across the countryside. But this time . . .
he’d dishonored a lady. What the devil had overcome him?

If his Courtroom Voice was evil, then he’d have to say the
devil made him do it. But he wasn’t the one who had used the voice in the mill.
Celeste had. And he was pretty damned certain the devil worked for the abusers
and not the abused.

Fighting his conscience and cautious nature, Erran spent the
night watching from the window for angry men to storm the inn. He’d prefer to wake
up the woman in the bed and make love to her again, but he wasn’t selfish
enough to put his needs over her safety.

Small groups of men formed on the street, gesticulating
angrily, but one by one, their wives came to drag them home. Several groups of
women formed, glancing up at the inn with confused frowns, but they, too,
gradually returned to their homes. He saw Myron enter the inn. Erran checked
that his pistol was loaded, but other than drunken arguing below, no one
stormed up the stairs.

Whatever
magic
Celeste had used may have worn off, but no one had associated the
sweet-talking, polite lady with the walk-out. She’d simply left the village
confused. How long would that last?

And would the women go back to work in the morning and
forget everything that had happened? He didn’t intend to take chances and find
out.

Before dawn, Erran was up and ordering their post chaise. He
had breakfast carried out in a basket before Celeste had time to don her cloak.
He carried down their boxes and helped the postilion to tie them on back to
speed the process.

They were on the road as the sun came up—before the
villagers comprehended what had hit them.

“Will we ever know what happened to those workers?” his
witchy lady asked as the horses thundered down the road to the safety of
Newport and their waiting ship.

“Only if anarchy explodes,” Erran said, stifling his voice
to a mutter for fear all his emotions would erupt with the same devastation as
a riot.

“Perhaps we need better communication between mill workers.”
She crossed her gloved hands and seemed to be considering this madness. “Each
location shouldn’t have to reinvent the wheel.”

Erran tried not to groan aloud. “I have created a monster.
Isn’t training workhouse inhabitants sufficient aid to the public good?”

Her bonnet prevented him from seeing her expression as she
spoke. “That is Lady Aster’s and her aunt’s project. I am happy to help out for
so long as I might. I suppose I cannot plan anything until I know whether or
not we are staying in London. Our people at home really must come first.”

Erran congratulated himself on not ripping the hair from his
head. If she had to choose between returning to Jamaica and a possible slave
revolt or staying in England and creating riots among millworkers . . .
“This is the reason women shouldn’t be allowed out of the house,” he grumbled.

She prodded him with her elbow as if she thought he was
jesting.

He could only undertake one obstacle at a time, Erran
concluded. First, he must confront Lansdowne with Lord Rochester’s will. That
should cause riots of a different sort.

Their sailing return to London was uneventful. Even Mrs.
Lorna managed to knit and chatter through their journey. Erran spent most of
his time in the engine room, discussing machinery, Celeste assumed. He’d
returned to his tight-lipped, grim state, and she had to admit, he had reason
to do so.

He thought he had to marry her. She supposed she ought to
agree. But she was just discovering who she could be on her own. She didn’t
really want a man shutting the door on her world again, especially if she would
soon have the means of supporting herself.

But the child deserved a father—if it survived. Celeste was
well aware that many babes were lost in the first few months. Her own mother
had lost several. And she could have just been dreaming that strange night when
the spirits had walked the halls. She shouldn’t act in haste.

She tried to smile normally when the ship docked and Erran
came to fetch her—she needed to remember to call him Lord Erran now that they
were back in society. His frown as he assisted her and Mrs. Lorna into a coach
helped her keep her equilibrium.

It was dark already, and the docks were unlighted except for
the lanterns hanging outside taverns. She swallowed her fear when Erran held
his pistol in his hand as the coach traversed back alleys on the way to the
main thoroughfare. Even her companion sat silently until they reached the
better lighted districts.

She’d been attacked on these streets in broad daylight, so
she wouldn’t feel safe day or night. But surely no one knew of her return. Did
she want to live in a city where people threw stones at her because she looked
different? In a country where she was incensed into causing riots? There were
so many things she needed to consider before she took any action.

When the coach rolled into their street, she could see
lights in all the townhouse’s windows. Celeste clasped her hands nervously, and
Erran dropped the pistol back in his pocket.

“I doubt the reception committee is for us,” he said dryly.
“Mrs. Lorna, would you like the coach to carry you home or would you prefer to
stay here tonight and wait until daylight?”

“I’d like to be in my own bed tonight, if you do not mind, my
lord. It looks as if the lady has family waiting up for her, so my job is done.
It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, but it’s always lovely to be home
again.”

The front door swung open as the driver unloaded their
boxes.

“Celeste, hurry! I think he is having a fit!” Sylvia cried
from the doorway.

Erran muttered a few curses and shoved coins at the driver.
Startled, Celeste picked up her skirts and hurried up the short walk.

Erran grabbed her arm before she could reach the step. “I
doubt she’s referring to Jamar or Trevor. Wait. I would introduce you
properly.” He gestured at the driver to carry the boxes to the front door.

Tired and bewildered, assuming he knew what was happening
even if she didn’t, Celeste waited for Erran to sort out the harassed-looking
footmen who belatedly appeared.

Sylvia ran down the steps to hug her. “Did you find the
journals? Can we go home now? The marquess is quite, quite mad.”

That was the meaning of the uproar? Shocked, Celeste cast
her escort a look of pure fear. “The
marquess
has arrived? I cannot think the construction is done! Where will we put him?”

Erran hefted his valise to his shoulder and gestured for her
to precede him. “It would be exactly like Dunc to do whatever created the most
havoc. We will leave him to camp in the parlor, if so.”

“He is . . . very large,” Sylvia said, following
them inside. “Even Jamar will not go near him.”

Her words were abruptly punctuated by a roar from the rear
of the house. “Don’t give me that twaddle, you sorry jackanapes! Bugger it!” A
large object hit a wall with a resounding crack.

“I assume that’s his valet with him?” Erran asked, setting
down his burden and proceeding down the corridor as if violent curses normally
permeated the air.

“I don’t know, my lord,” Sylvia whispered, hanging back.
“We’ve stayed upstairs, out of his way.”

“That won’t do, you know,” Celeste informed them. “We have
paid for the exclusive use of this house. A guest is one thing. A berserk
marquess is another.”

More pounding and glass shattering accentuated her words.

“You slubber-degullion, not
there!” the lion roared.

“Miss Sylvia, if you will direct the servants to carry up
your sister’s trunk, please. We’ll see what we can do to quiet the Cyclops.”
Holding Celeste’s hand on his coat sleeve, Erran dragged her toward the room at
the rear.

“Leading the lamb to the lion?” she asked with a pinch of
irony.

“More like the witch to the dragon. I expect fireworks,” he
retorted. “Keep in mind Duncan was an all-powerful marquess who commanded
armies of men before his fall. Now, he can’t even read the estate books or race
his horse. I would probably have slit my throat. He prefers verbally slitting
the throats of others.”

“A subtle difference,” she said as he rapped on the panel
behind the stairs.

“No more swag-bellied hedge pigs,” roared the beast. “Begone, the lot of ye.”

“Shakespeare?” Celeste asked with interest.

“Is that where he gets it?”

“That last part. I’m not sure about the slubber-degullion.”

“That’s cant. I don’t spend much time in the theater and
didn’t recognize the rest.” Erran cracked open the door without permission and
called around it. “If anyone is a hedge pig, it’s you, oh brother mine. There
is a lady present, so stow it until I can present her.”

A shoe flew past his nose and hit the wall. An elegant but
harassed looking servant appeared in the narrow aperture between door and
frame. “His lordship has only just arrived and is not prepared for company.”

“His lordship is never prepared for company,” Erran said as
if asking for a neckcloth. “Is he dressed? That’s all I need to know.”

“Erran, get your sorry arse in
here, now!” the marquess shouted.

“Why, so you can fling a shoe at me? Or at our hostess? You
do remember that you are here at the indulgence of the Rochesters? She will
turn you out if you behave like an ogre to her and her family.”

“If you will excuse me, I am not suitable company this
evening, Miss Rochester,” the marquess boomed from the darkened room. “Just
send in my brother so I can remove his head.”

“It is very good meeting you, my lord,” Celeste called
sweetly through the opening. “I do hope you are settling in nicely.”

Silence.

Beside her, Erran winked and waited. He’d heard her calming
charm.

“Another devious, manipulative Malcolm witch, I believe you
said?” Ashford said without bellowing. “Come in.”

Erran had called her a witch to his brother? With surprise
as well as trepidation, Celeste cast Erran a quizzical glance. He nodded,
offered his arm, and pushed the door open. She was relying on his strength
again, but life kept heaving surprises at her, and she felt unbalanced.

“Ashford, may I present Miss Celeste Malcolm Rochester, part
owner of a very large property in Jamaica. Miss Rochester, my hedge-pig
brother, Duncan, Marquess of Ashford, Earl of Ives and Wystan, et cetera, et
cetera. Dunc, she is making a very pretty curtsy even though she’s been tossed
about on a steamship these last twelve hours and more.”

His lordship was an exceedingly large man, as Sylvia had
noted. The marquess was not, however, taller than Jamar. He simply exuded an
air of command and authority in just the way he stood—in shirtsleeves with
hands on narrow hips, towering above the room’s occupants. He still wore his
knee-high boots and riding trousers, although Celeste assumed he had not ridden
his horse to town. He stared blindly over her head, but he knew her direction.

“A curtsy is wasted on me, Miss Rochester, but the perfumed
soap isn’t. Nor the voice. Let me hear you speak again.”

“Are you serious?” she asked, shocked enough by his
bluntness to respond in kind. “You call me a devious, manipulative Malcolm
witch and then order me around as if I’m a pot boy?” She used her best
welcoming voice.

The red raw scar of Ashford’s brow rose and his lips quirked
in a manner reminiscent of Erran’s—when he bothered to smile.

“By the devil, you’ve found another one, Erran, old boy.
Does she collect orphans too? I heard something of the sort.” Ashford stuck out
his hand to his side in a demanding gesture.

The beleaguered valet hastened to place a walking stick in
it. Ashford swung it about, apparently looking for a piece of furniture,
Celeste hoped. At least he was not swinging it at them.

“We will discuss orphans at a later time. For now, we’re
weary,” Erran said with annoyance. “What the devil are you doing here before
the construction is complete?”

Celeste wanted to hear more about being a witch who
collected orphans, but she supposed it was not smart to argue with the marquess
who defended her family. Besides, Erran was right. She was too tired to think.

“Lansdowne is attempting to turn the party against me. I
need to be here to take him down a notch or five. If you’ve found the documents
the Rochesters need, we’re taking him to court.” Complacently, he took a seat
in a large upholstered chair. “You will pardon my behavior, Miss Rochester. My
leg still aches abominably.”

“Of course, my lord,” she almost whispered before she found
her tongue again. “To court, my lord?”

“Yes. It has come to my attention that the earl is a thief
and a liar and quite possibly a potential employer of murderous rogues. Erran,
you will file the papers in the morning. I can’t prove any of the other, but we
can remove the Rochesters as a source of funds and show him to the world as the
hog-grubber he is.”