Whisper of Magic (32 page)

“I think I shall,” she said vaguely, producing a fan and
flapping it to conceal her expression. “It is the only way to go about in
society, isn’t it?”

“Not in Malcolm society,” he said with a laugh.

She swallowed, wondering if she could believe that, if she
dared drop her deceptive charm and be herself.

Her maid brought her pelisse and Erran helped her don it.
Then they were on their way to Celeste’s first formal London event. She took
comfort in Erran’s assurance that her hostess would not invite anyone who would
scorn her—unless one counted Celeste’s own half-sister. The Guilfords had been
invited.

Erran’s prediction proved correct. Lady Aster and Lord
Theo’s guests asked politely after the marquess, then proceeded to quiz her on
her own interests. Her half-sister Charlotte and her husband looked a little
rural and out of place, but they were treated with the same respect as Celeste.
In return, they barely said a word.

Celeste answered questions as honestly as she could,
refraining from using her Other Voice, and no one appeared to object to her
sometimes sharp observations.

“I feel horribly uneducated,” she whispered to Erran as the
evening progressed. “Everyone here has such fascinating interests! I sew and
cook and keep house. I take it those are not done here?”

“You need only look beautiful and nod intelligently and they
will be thrilled to make your acquaintance. You are doing just fine.” He
squeezed her hand beneath the table

After dinner, Celeste listened to the other ladies, spoke of
her interest in Aster’s charities, and did her best to blend in with the
beautifully exotic withdrawing room. Lady Aster’s tastes in decor reflected her
eccentric interests, resulting in a London room that resembled an Indian jungle
dotted with stars and moons and cats.

When the men joined the women later, the conversation took a
more treacherous turn.

“The reports make preposterous claims that some female demon
lured the mill workers out, then entranced them into making impossible
demands,” Celeste heard one of the political types say. “Superstitious rural
sorts don’t look for logical explanations, of course, but it
is
unusual for women to stand up for
themselves.”

Several of the lady guests raised objections to that
assessment. Clenching her teeth in fear as well as in angry protest, Celeste
let them speak for her. She really had not thought of repercussions when she’d
demanded that poor mother be taken home. Although she would probably have done
the same, even if she’d known the gossip would run straight to London.

Erran strolled over to stand behind her chair. She was
grateful for his presence, but she had to learn to do this on her own—if only
she knew what “this” was.

“The workers can’t possibly win against the mill owners,”
one of the men argued. “They will all starve.”

“Or start a revolution,” another man warned.

“What do you think, Miss Rochester?” one of the women asked.
“You are familiar with slavery. Would you say that the mill conditions are any
different?”

“I have only ever seen one mill,” she said, choosing her
words with care. Erran had said to
be
herself
with these people. That meant not sweet talking them into hearing
what she wanted them to hear, or relaxing into the comfortable mood she might
weave around them. “But if all mills are similar, then I would have to say that
many slaves are treated better, though not all, certainly. Slaves are valuable
property, so working them to death or deformity is a foolish waste. Whereas the
mill workers are apparently expendable. That, alone, makes a difference,
although not a moral one. People are people and all should be treated with
respect.”

She held her breath, waiting for tempers to explode and
people to turn their backs on her. Instead, they dived into a much deeper
discussion about the ills of slavery, the need for labor reform, and the
economic advantages of income equality. Her head swam with the topics springing
up around her.

Erran squeezed her shoulder and moved into the crowd.

“That was very nicely said,” one intimidating lady said. “I
wonder if you might speak at my salon someday? There is a bill being prepared
to abolish all slavery on British soil, and you might sway a few influential
people.”

“I . . . Yes, of course,” Celeste said,
wondering if these people had heard the rumors the earl was spreading about her
and didn’t care, or if they hadn’t heard.

“You will be attending the McDowell soiree tomorrow night,
won’t you?” a young gentleman asked. “I look forward to introducing you to a
few people who will be delighted to meet a new face in town. We can look
forward to a number of balls once the rest of Parliament returns for the vote.
I will score a feather in my cap for knowing you first.”

“Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting new people,” Celeste
agreed faintly.

She glanced at her half-sister and waited for Charlotte to
repeat the earl’s rumor about her being a bastard, but the Guilfords had
cornered a gentleman who might press their ambitions in government and scarcely
acknowledged her existence.

She’d survived her entrance into London society—but she had
still done it with Erran’s aid. Somehow, she had to learn to do it on her own.
If she had learned nothing else this past year, it was that she could not
always rely on others.

She needed to be in full control of her fate before she made
any decisions.

As had become his custom, Erran entered the town house
through the kitchen door early the next morning. The cooks ignored him. Usually
Nana or Jamar was around to acknowledge him, but not this time. The one-armed
potboy gave him a gap-toothed grin, and the lame little girl looked up from her
seat at the table where she peeled potatoes. They looked healthier and better
dressed than when they’d first arrived. That was how a fair world should work,
and no magic had been involved.

Aster had apparently been by to check on them. The children
now had kittens—in their laps and in a basket by the hearth. One tumbled out to
investigate his boots before he could reach the stairs. Erran bent to rub the
little fellow’s head before preventing it from escaping up the stairs with him.

Pondering the best way of convincing Celeste to the insanity
of marrying him to live in poverty in chilly England instead of returning to a
plantation in sunny Jamaica, he strode upstairs to enter the chaos only his
brothers could create.

Except, this time, Celeste’s family and servants seemed to
have joined with Aster’s, and his brothers were more or less sidelined in
confusion. Interesting.

Standing in the back of the hallway, Erran crossed his arms,
leaned a shoulder against the wall, and simply observed the sublime folly.
Aster’s Aunt Daphne stood in the foyer, chanting and waving a lit candle as if
directing an orchestra. Aster was reading from what appeared to be one of her
family journals, sing-songing her aunt’s chant and
sprinkling dried herbs along the newly-built walls enlarging Duncan’s chamber.

He could hear Celeste and her sister in the parlor. He
couldn’t detect the words but he could feel . . . prayer . . .
in them. That was the only description he could apply. Such celestial voices
had the power to make him feel as if he were in church.

He could use a little prayer to help him push the Rochester
documents through the medieval maze of Chancery before Lansdowne caught wind of
them. Once the papers were filed, the old goat would have to sue Dunc to get
his hands on the estate funds.

But even Erran had to admit that ramming the documents
through the kingdom’s slowest, most corrupt, court probably wouldn’t happen without
supernatural aid. Apparently Celeste and her family had concluded they needed
the help of ghosts or the devil. He couldn’t tell. His wearing a fashionable
new coat and pleated shirt were as much superstition as chanting, he supposed.
They wouldn’t impress the court or sway a judge who already held him in
contempt, but they gave him confidence.

Theo and Trevor weren’t looking prayerful. They were wearing
disgruntled expressions and waving flaming candles at the ceiling as they
roamed from room to room. Erran couldn’t see Jamar or Nana, but he could hear
their mellifluous accents intoning along with the others from rooms along the
corridor.

He could swear he heard his half-brother Jacques in Duncan’s
room, although it was hard to tell over Duncan’s roars. Jacques had been
more-or-less squatting in Aster’s London home while hunting for directors for
his plays. He would do anything Aster ordered him to do, and Jacques loved a
good drama.

All the scene needed was their half-brother William’s dogs
and a sacrificial goat.

It wasn’t Iveston or this house that was crazed—it was the
whole damned family.

Erran waited until Aster had vanished into the parlor.
Hoping Lady McDowell wouldn’t notice him in the shadows, he steeled himself and
strode down the hall. In the study he could hear Jamar intone a chant in a
language that wasn’t English. The ladies probably couldn’t tell the manservant
wasn’t following the program, but Jamar seemed enthusiastically involved in
whatever in hell was happening. Erran pushed open the door to Duncan’s
bedchamber.

“You’ve brought me to a nest of Bedlamites,” Ashford shouted
at the sound of the opening door.

“I didn’t bring you here,” Erran retorted, studying the
situation.

Jacques was seated cross-legged in the center of the massive
bed, presumably where Duncan couldn’t whack him with his walking stick. His
blond half-brother held a candle and read incantations from a script, ignoring
Ashford’s ire.

“I was the one who recommended that you
wait
until I had removed the Rochesters to better accommodations,”
Erran reminded him.

Ashford was pacing the room, using his stick to fend off
objects in his way. “If you’re coming in here with more prattle about
protective charms and enhancing the power of the ley lines, you can walk right
out again.”

“Do you happen to know what set them off?” Erran removed a
tea tray before it fell victim to Ashford’s counting of steps—his means of
determining his location.

“Damned if I know,” the irritable marquess growled. “No one
tells me anything. I thought something must have happened at Theo’s dinner last
evening.”

Erran thought about it. “I can’t recall anything that would
require protective charms. I told Theo I was taking the Rochester documents
into the city today. Miss Rochester’s half-sister was present, but I don’t
think they exchanged half a dozen words. Perhaps the spirits spoke to them,” he
said jestingly, although unease crept down his spine recalling the odd
atmosphere of Wystan. Could he dismiss the possibility of spirits without
scientific investigation?

Duncan waved a cantankerous dismissal. “Where are those
contractors? Shouldn’t they be finishing that wall?”

“It’s early yet. They should be here shortly. Does Jones
approve of his new chamber?” Erran looked for the valet but the man had
apparently gone into hiding.

“He’s out choosing wallpapers,” Duncan complained. “He’ll be
gilding the ceiling if you don’t take him in hand. Jacques, will you shut up
the infernal incantations so we can hear ourselves think!”

As if the spirits had spoken, the entire household grew
silent. Jacques crumpled up the paper he’d been reading from and grinned. “Oh,
yes, my lord and master. I can feel the power now. I
shall
sell this play and make my fortune!”

“Balderdash. You’d sell it faster if you were actually
talking to people who could buy it and not witches who think they can pull
power from the earth. Go find out if anyone is fixing my coffee.” Duncan
smacked his stick against a bedpost.

“Aster says we’re witches too,” Jacques chortled as he
sprang from the bed. “Or maybe sorcerers. I could use a little magic power. So
could both of you.” He strode off, whistling.

“The hell of it is, I think she may be right,” Erran
muttered, straddling a chair and prying out that admission for public
humiliation. “And I think your Wystan property is haunted.”

Ashford waved a dismissive hand. “Unless we can summon
demons or angels to win this vote, I don’t care if we’re Merlin’s descendants.
Just get the Bedlamites out of sight before my guests start arriving. I’m
holding a party meeting this afternoon.”

Erran grimaced at Ashford’s complete dismissal of his
deepest, darkest secret. So much for thinking he had any importance. “
There’s
the key to their ritual, lunkhead,” he retorted. “The women have a lot riding on the
election, and they’re no doubt hoping to cast a spell of good fortune on you.
You brought the fol-de-rol on yourself.”

Duncan glared sightlessly at Erran. “Take your damned papers
to court. Crucify Lansdowne and his cronies. That will help more than singing
hymns.”

“If you think they’re singing hymns, you either need a
physician to check your ears or you need a woman of your own to remind you of
what they’re like, old boy. I recommend the latter. You don’t need eyes to bed
them,” Erran suggested cynically. “But I’d wait until we’ve moved out the
Rochesters before you start trotting light-skirts through here.”

He escaped before the book Duncan threw slammed into the
door. The blind man was getting too damned accurate in his aim.

Erran wasn’t entirely certain why he’d stopped by. He should
have gone straight from Pascoe’s house to the city, but he’d been up early and
had the time and . . . he wanted to start his day by seeing
Celeste. He found her in the front room with her family, all of them talking at
once.

“I’ll have Emilia look at the garden once the workmen are
gone,” Lady McDowell was saying as Erran entered. “The rowan bush is still
alive, at least. I think if you place a few twigs in the corners of the house,
you’ve done all you can. Your servants have a very powerful magic. I could feel
the difference.”