Whisper of Magic (5 page)

“And your mother?” he inquired with caution.

“Deceased, several years past,” Jamar answered for her.

His lordship nodded. “Leaving the burden on your shoulders,
I understand. If I might suggest . . .I often act as a solicitor
for my family. If you give me the name of the firm handling your father’s
estate,” Lord Ives said, “I can carry out any dealings with them that you
require. Sometimes, men of business are not amenable to persuasion from
females, but they
will
listen to
authority.”

Celeste didn’t even bother testing her charm but spoke
bluntly. “His executor is my father’s cousin, Quigley, the Earl of Lansdowne.”

His lordship covered his shock well, but she could tell by
the way he sat back and sipped his coffee before replying that he saw the
obstacle, even if he didn’t know the goal.

“The earl is . . . a trifle strapped for
cash, I hear,” he said in a far more polite tone than Lansdowne deserved.

“For all I know, the earl is a degenerate who has gambled
away his estate,” she said flatly, tempering her anger. “He has stolen my brother’s
inheritance for his own purposes and is at this moment arranging to sell all my
father’s free people, claiming there is no proof of their freedom. That is a
lie.”

Lord Erran glanced at Jamar, who nodded once. That he turned
to a
man
to verify her declaration
irritated her even more. She bit her tongue, knowing she could not expect more
of this starched and stiff nobleman.

“I witnessed the signing of the freedom papers and the
baron’s will,” Jamar said. “You must understand that on the island, we do not
have access to your courts of law. The papers should have been properly
registered with authorities on the island and a copy sent to solicitors here in
England for filing, but we have no proof. We have sent for additional copies,
but the earl has placed his people in control of the plantation. They will not
give our representatives access to the baron’s office.”

“This does not explain why Miss Rochester is being attacked
in the streets,” his lordship said, drawing out his words as if he was thinking
while he spoke. “Do you think the earl is to blame for that?”

“Unless you believe in coincidence,” Celeste replied
frostily, reminding them of her existence. “We were shattered and lost when we
first arrived. Hoping for direction, we sent messages to the earl and to our
half-sister, who had promised to bring us into society. We received notes of
condolence only. A month later, the attacks began.”

Nana finally spoke. “They were
cruel
to my little ones. Instead of sympathy, these cold English
send unkind notes saying they are not in town, without saying when they might
return or offering aid. We know
nothing
of this city, and they cannot even give advice. Jamar and Miss Celeste make
repeated requests for allowances, for visits, for information, and we hear
nothing. These are bad people. We want to go home to our families and friends,
but we cannot.”

Celeste patted Nana’s hand, knowing her fear went deeper
than expressed. The earl might sell off Nana’s sons while their mother was
helpless here in England.

“Lansdowne is a powerful political figure,” Lord Erran said
with a frown. “He may be strapped for cash, but I have not heard that he is so
degenerate as to ignore his own relations.”

“Why would my father allow a bankrupt to be executor of his
will?” Celeste cried in frustration. “I do not understand how this earl we do
not know can control our property and lives!”

“Your father may not have named him executor,” his lordship
explained. “If there is no formal document filed with English courts, he would
be appointed executor simply as head of the family. You have not received the
documents from the island authorities either?”

She shook her head. “I do not understand the delay. We wrote
as soon as we realized there was a problem, months ago. There has been time
enough for a reply. I fear Lansdowne’s hired help has intercepted them.”

“Do you know your father’s solicitors here in London?”

She was terrified he was simply another swindler out to
deprive them of what little they had. She despised living in fear, but she’d
lost all her security when her father died. If her persuasive voice had failed
her too . . . She had
nothing
.
Catastrophe loomed a single word away, no matter how she looked at it. She
didn’t reply.

Jamar gave his lordship the name of the firm. He’d been
handling Rochester affairs for decades. He knew these things better than she
anyway.

“It’s a decent firm,” Lord Erran acknowledged. “I’ll draw up
a statement that you can sign appointing me as your man of business in your
father’s London affairs, and I’ll see what I can find out. Sometimes, it’s
simply a matter of who is standing in the office at the time a question comes
up. If Lansdowne stepped up, they might take an earl’s word over a dead man’s.”

“Sign papers?” Celeste panicked, fearing anything that might
give him authority over her. “Why can you not simply take me to these
solicitors and let me speak with them? What do you expect in return for helping
us?”

Nana squeezed her hand, but Celeste was not reassured. She
could tell from his lordship’s hesitation that he most definitely wanted
something—and this was his family’s house.

A commotion on the stairs interrupted any reply their
visitor might make. Already on edge, Celeste rose to meet whatever calamity had
arrived on their doorstep now.

“Celeste, there are soldiers out front!” Trevor shouted
before he’d even reached the kitchen.

Every chair at the table scraped back.

Erran held his hand up to prevent his hostess from fleeing
up the stairs. “London doesn’t have an army. We do have a fairly new and
inexperienced police force. Let me handle this.”

The sad story their tenants had recited of thieving
executors wasn’t uncommon. The Chancery Court was buried in similar civil
complaints, and it could take years to untangle lost or unregistered documents.
Usually, only the lawyers came out ahead, so Miss Rochester had every right to
be suspicious of him.

But
Lansdowne
 . . .
The irony of the earl’s relations landing in an Ives’ residence didn’t escape
him. The Whig party needed Lansdowne’s support in this next election. Lansdowne
was playing the reformists and Tories against each other, no doubt in an
attempt to fill his coffers. Antagonizing the man at a politically sensitive
time like this— would not aid Ashford’s candidate for prime minister.

The whole point of gaining this house was so Ashford could
come to London and twist the arms of men like Lansdowne.

Erran took the kitchen stairs two at a time, passing a lanky
youth resembling the woman below. With her striking eyes and lush lips, the
lady had an expressive countenance that had almost caused him to lose the path
of his thoughts several times. The boy was less prepossessing and more
terrified.

Erran could hear the rustle of petticoats as Miss Rochester
followed him up. Of course the woman hadn’t stayed behind. And from the sounds
of it, the others were on her heels.

From the top of the back stairs, he could hear pounding on
the front panel. The racket echoed in the nearly bare, dark-wainscoted
corridor. He had vague recollections of this house from his childhood, but it
had been leased to tenants for decades. He didn’t recall the emptiness. Or if a
knocker had ever existed on the door. The pounding was quite loud enough
without one.

“Don’t answer it,” Miss Rochester whispered, grabbing
Erran’s arm and nearly upsetting his balance with the proximity to her lush
scent. “They’ll go away. Everyone always does.”

“And then they throw rocks and chamber pots at you,” he
responded in disgust. “Hiding is no solution.”

She held his arm with long fingers and pressed close enough
that her skirts brushed his legs. “It’s
my
solution. I have not given you permission to run our lives.”

He’d never backed down from a challenge in his life—except
from his inexplicable, potentially dangerous vocal ability.
I will not shout, I will not
 . . .
he chanted internally.

Keeping his tone even, he replied with patience, “They will
simply keep coming back. At some point, they will batter the door down. Let me
handle this while I am here. You and your siblings stay out of sight. This is
my family’s house. I do not have to tell them you are in residence.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She studied him through wide,
up-tilted eyes that jolted his pulse, then ushered her brother, Jamar, and a
young woman he hadn’t seen earlier into a front chamber. She closed the heavy
dark oak door to the foyer, and he could hear the click of a latch.

He’d like to think she was a woman of sense, but most
likely, she would come after him with a tomahawk if he failed. He straightened
his neckcloth, checked his buttons, and ran his hand through his disheveled
hair. Donning his best glare, he opened the door.

A rotund bailiff Erran recognized from the courts stood on
the step, his waistcoat stained with gravy and his outdated overcoat open to
make room for his paunch. Behind him stood two trim policemen in their new
uniforms, looking vaguely uncertain. Erran doubted they were accustomed to
knocking on the doors of the wealthy.

He crossed his arms and glared down at the shorter bailiff.
“What the devil do you mean by raising this rumpus? Do you wish to disturb the
entire neighborhood at this hour?”

“We’re to evict these here tenants,” the bailiff said with
an air of accomplishment, pointing at a battered document he produced from his
pocket.

Erran prayed his hostess couldn’t hear that or she’d never
speak to him again. “Then you have the wrong house. I am the brother of the
marquess of Ashford, and we
own
this
place and have so for a century. You cannot evict us from our own home.”

He snatched the document from the bailiff’s grubby hand
while the young policemen looked even more uncertain. Shaking the paper open,
Erran peered at it in the fading light, finding the name of Lansdowne’s
solicitors on the last page.

Damn. Duncan was going to despise knowing a potential
political ally was a bully and a thief. He could hope this was the solicitor’s
work and that the earl didn’t know about it.

“This is a fraud,” he said, looking over the bailiff’s head
to his uniformed escort. “The marquess would not evict himself, and these
papers are not penned by his solicitor. Ashford is ill and is not to be
disturbed, which is why the knocker is
not
on the door,” he said pointedly. “Should you trouble us again with this taradiddle, we’ll have all of you arrested!”

“It’s not for his lordship,” the bailiff tried to protest.
“It’s for these here foreigners that been walking our decent streets! Look at
them names. It don’t say Ashford.”

Erran forced down his desire to experiment with his
courtroom bellow. He was a civilized lawyer, not a beast who menaced the
stupid. “It says
Rochester,
a very
proper family who happen to be our guests and our cousins. That’s
Baron
Rochester to you, and they’re as
English as I am. I have my doubts about your origins, however.”

While the bailiff flapped his gums incoherently, Erran
glanced back to the policemen. “If you good sirs would remove this repugnant
piece of filth from our doorstep, the marquess will show his appreciation
later.”

Bribery, they understood. Nodding respectfully, they grabbed
the bailiff’s elbows and led him off, protesting, into the dusk.

Erran shut the door. Before he could completely process the
pure brutality of such fraud, the drawing room door opened and the Rochesters
rushed out. Their dignified majordomo merely watched over them without
expression.

“You should have shown us that document,” the lady said
angrily. “How do we know that it didn’t come from the marquess and you were
simply covering up the bad timing?”

“Dashitall, you’re a suspicious wench.” From his pocket,
Erran produced the document he’d pilfered. “Here. Take it somewhere with light.
I merely glanced at the names, but I recognize the earl’s solicitor.”

The boy held out his hand. “We have not been introduced,
sir. I am Trevor, Baron Rochester.”

He could not be older than sixteen, much the same age of the
blond girl beside him. The boy had his older sister’s dark coloring but lacked
her extraordinarily light eyes. His as yet unformed features promised his
sister’s handsomeness, but the plump bottom lip looked more petulant than
pretty at the moment. His blond sister possessed the blue eyes but not the dark
coloring or the striking cheekbones of her siblings. Still, she was pleasant
enough and would do well when it came time to present her.

Erran shook the boy’s hand and introduced himself while
keeping an eye on the older sister. Miss Rochester lit a candle and was
perusing the eviction notice with more care than he had.

“He is saying the rents must be returned to the estate, and
we must move by the end of next month! Is this at all legal?” she asked in
dismay.

“Not in the least,” Erran said with assurance. “If you’ll
return the paper to me, I’ll show it to our firm and have them respond
appropriately with threats of lawsuits and criminal trespass. My assumption is
that—if Lansdowne is truly behind this—he wants the cash your father paid to
lease this place. Such a sum would stave off the worst of his debtors.”

She slumped dejectedly onto an old wooden settle. “Our own
family wishes to throw us into the streets?”

“He doesn’t even know us,” the younger sister said, patting
her on the shoulder. “If he cares at all, he may assume we can go to Mother’s
family or our half-sister.”

“Your mother has family here?” Erran asked, consumed with
curiosity. He really needed to be encouraging them to run to any other family,
so Dunc could have his house back. But their executor’s dirty trick had raised
his unholy need to fight injustice.