Whisper of Magic (35 page)

She had been trying to pretend such a gifted man couldn’t
really want an ungainly spinster. She had sought to set him free. Instead, he
was risking arrest, humiliation, and the ultimate destruction of his career for
her, and for Jamar, and because her family would be devastated at Jamar’s loss.

He had to be the most selfless man she’d ever met. And she
loved him with every soggy fiber of her heart.

Her dripping, seaweed-adorned suitor stood like a towering,
waistcoat-wearing pelican on the highest pier post and bellowed for order in no
uncertain terms.

And maddened men listened.

The chaos gradually died down, except for rowdies engaged in
hand-to-hand combat with uniformed men. She could hear cries of pain and
anguish and winced at what she’d done.

“Cease and desist!” Erran roared again. It was easier to
hear him now that the worst of the shouting had stopped. “These men have a
right to protest! Their voices should be heard. You have no power to arrest
working men for enforcing the laws our wealthy aristocrats cannot and will
not!”

“Protest? Is that what they are doing?” Celeste asked in
confusion.

“Probably not,” Trevor said with a shrug. “But there are
soldiers beating up those fellows who were trying to help you, and I don’t
think we can explain tearing apart the
Wench
any other way.”

She was grateful that her brother took her riot-inducing
ability in stride.

She didn’t dare stand up and use her voice if Lansdowne was
still out there. There might really be a riot if she screamed her opinion of
her father’s dreadful cousin.

She and Erran did tend to approach riots from opposite
sides, so it might be best if she let him handle this one. Besides, her throat
hurt and her voice rasped.

“We are a kingdom of free men,” Erran shouted—presumably at
Lansdowne and his soldiers. Perhaps at the occupants of the expensive carriages
watching the entertainment. She winced, remembering the marquess was in one of
them. It was a good thing he couldn’t
see
his brother. Hearing Erran would be shock enough.

“We have the
right
to speak our minds,” Erran continued roaring as the noise died down. “These
good men have been unemployed and underpaid and treated like human waste for
far too long. Let them be heard all the way to the halls of Parliament!”

“Is that stopping the soldiers?” Celeste asked with
curiosity.

“It’s hard to tell,” Trevor acknowledged, standing over her
to keep her from being trampled. “There’s an old man standing on a wagon,
berating the soldiers and pointing at Lord Erran. I’d say that was Lansdowne.
He seems to be turning purple. And there are more carriages filled with
gentlemen who are shouting back. I think perhaps he’s causing the
gentlemen
to riot.”

“How very . . . original.” She coughed and
hacked some more.

Trevor stiffened at some sight out of her view. Frightened
at his look of helpless terror, she struggled to sit up.

“He’s aiming at his lordship,” her brother said, shoving her
down again. Before she could scream, she heard Erran thunder, “Put that gun
down!”

A clamor of more than one weapon hitting cobblestones
followed. Celeste watched in bemusement as a few of the guns seemingly slid of
their own accord toward the water.

“I think his lordship has learned the purpose of his talent,”
she whispered in awe.

A gloved hand reached down to help her up. “Let’s take the
lady out of here, shall we?”

“Not without Erran,” she argued, standing of her own
volition to meet the eyes of Erran’s blond younger brother Jacques.

He grinned. “You’ll be good for the family, even if you’re
as tall as I am.” He gestured at a few less filthy thugs and pointed at the
orator on the post. “Haul his noble lordship off his pedestal and carry him
along with the lady. The marquess is tired of waiting.”

Celeste watched speechlessly as a couple of brawny sailors
lifted Erran from his post and propped him on their shoulders. Erran continued
waving and ranting and gesturing at the carriage surrounded by soldiers.

The mob parted to let them pass.

When Jamar finally caught up with them, he lifted Celeste
into his arms and followed in Erran’s wake. Despite her elation at learning her
lover had come to her rescue, she despaired at the thought of a future without
him.

Even a blind marquess couldn’t accept a riot-invoking Fury
into his household, not if he meant to win votes and influence Parliament. This
was probably where he politely but sternly requested that she and her family
find another home—far, far away. Well, that had been what she’d wanted, wasn’t
it?

***

Three days later and Erran still hadn’t seen Celeste to
determine how she felt. He knew she was alive because she’d been bombarding him
with impersonal commands rather than face him. He paced the parlor with
increasing dudgeon.

“You sorry dunghill, don’t pigeon me with that claptrap! I
may be blind but I’m not dead yet.”

As Ashford’s howl echoed down the corridor, Sylvia tittered
and covered her mouth with her fingertips. Aster rolled her eyes and continued
laying out bolts of cloth and studying the parlor windows.

Erran snarled and watched London pass by outside the
hundred-year-old panes.

“Erran, swing your hide in here and make yourself useful,”
the frustrated marquess shouted from his newly completed apartment. “Tell this
jackanapes the walls could be purple and the hangings fishnet, and I wouldn’t
give a fig!”

Aster raised one eyebrow at him. Erran wanted to toss her in
the drink. “Where’s Theo?” he growled. “Hiding?”

“Harvest, and swearing and scowling like the rest of you.”
She rolled up two bolts and opened another. “We need a miracle worker to fix
Ashford’s blindness so everyone can return to normal.”

“He hasn’t found a better steward yet?” Ignoring his
brother’s howls, he continued pacing up and down the parlor, listening for any
sound from Celeste’s chambers overhead. “It’s not as if Theo was raised to ride
the fields like Dunc.”

“It will take time to sort out,” Aster said with a shrug.
“The stars aren’t in the right house yet. But Ashford is doing considerably
better. You should stage more riots. I think he enjoys them.”

Erran refrained from rolling
his
eyes. He was not exactly proud of what he had done. He’d just
known he’d had to stop Lansdowne from hurting the men who had saved Jamar.
Perhaps this purgatory was his punishment for using his wyrd
voice for his own purposes. Although dunking shotguns in the Thames hadn’t been
part of his plan.

Aster and her damned family had kept him from Celeste,
saying she was too ill for male visitors. How could he even think if he could
not see for himself that she’d survived her near-drowning intact?

They just thought he was restless. They didn’t know what
Celeste meant to him.

Maybe he should bolt up the stairs . . .

Jamar appeared in the doorway. Erran glanced his way in
hope. The man merely shrugged. “His lordship requires your presence, my lord.”

“You are not his butler nor his manservant,” Erran pointed
out. “You have the power and position of a respected majordomo who should be
treated with dignity.”

“As he treats you, an educated barrister?” Jamar asked.

“We’ll tie him up and shove him in a closet.” Erran stalked
past Jamar and down the corridor to Duncan’s chambers to confront the monster.
His patience was at an end.

Duncan stood in the middle of his chamber, swinging his
walking stick and pointing at the various workmen applying paint and plaster.
Cousin Zack was working through a checklist and attempting to ask questions
that Dunc apparently did not wish to answer.

“Erran, quit moping over that bird-witted female and explain
to this jinglebrain that I just want his men
out
. I do not need plaster birds and
cherubs or Wedgewood blue, whatever the hell that is. I want peace and quiet!”
Duncan whipped his cane against the post of his mahogany tester bed, cracking
the stick.

“We’ll need a few timbers to carve out more canes for you to
break,” Erran said, shoving his hand in his pocket and surveying the scene.

Zack shot him an amused look. “Rotted wood, perhaps? Better
to break the stick than heads.”

“I am right here! Why does no one listen to me?” Ashford sat
down on the mattress and bounced, testing it. “It’s too soft.”

“When you start saying something worth hearing, we’ll
listen, your noble lord and master. Do we bring in Goldilocks to test your beds
now? We’re all busy men. What, precisely, did you want of us that you cannot do
yourself?” Erran took the list Zack handed him and began ticking off items with
a pencil.

And, of course, there was the crux of it. Duncan couldn’t
check off the list to see what had been done to his satisfaction. He couldn’t
go out and order his own bed. He couldn’t see the colors he wanted. Someone
needed to deal with him with patience.

Right now, that wasn’t Erran.

“I need a word with you without all the clamor about,”
Ashford complained. “How the devil am I to have a confidential meeting with a
house full of witches and workmen?”

Zack snorted and took back the paper Erran had initialed.
“Kick his valet in here to oversee the decoration, and use the valet’s room. I
don’t know what you do about witches.”

“Dunking apparently doesn’t work anymore,” Duncan snarled,
heading unerringly for Jones’s chamber.

Erran followed into the dimly lit dressing room. Jones was
tidily dusting his new furniture. The valet gaped at his employer’s entrance
and fled when Ashford pointed at the door.

“Terrorizing servants, nice, Dunc.” Erran perched on the
manservant’s narrow cot and watched his brother pace off the chamber’s
dimensions. “What do you want of me?”

“Service to your country,” he answered without hesitation.
“Your exploits at the docks have been reported to Earl Grey. He thinks we need
an orator on our side. I’ve a pocket borough you can fill for now. We’ll
consider a larger election after you’ve developed a feel for it.”

Erran was glad he was sitting down. “You want
me
in the Commons? Have you run mad? Did
you hear me speak?”

“A lot of people heard,” Dunc said dryly. “Smart men would
prefer to have you on their side rather than railing insurrection against
them.”

“Where they can control me.” Erran nodded understanding even
if Dunc couldn’t see him.

There had been a time when he’d controlled himself out of
fear. Now that he’d learned more of his ability, it was frighteningly tempting
to use it. If word of the dock riot hadn’t reached the court, another event
would in due course. The judge hadn’t acknowledged Erran’s compulsion over the
paper-signing, but there could always be a next time. Sooner or later, they’d ban
him from practice.

Except now that Dunc dangled the opportunity—Erran
discovered he urgently
wanted
this
chance where his voice might make a difference. He had hoped to serve justice
in the courts through legal means, but the pace was petrifying. Here was his
chance to change the
courts
.

Only—if he couldn’t trust himself in front of a single
judge, how could he stand in front of all Commons and threaten and cajole and
compel? “I’m not entirely certain I can be controlled. Or want to be,” he
admitted.

“Understood,” Dunc said with unusual equanimity. “That’s why
you’ll start in my pocket. If you don’t work out, we’ll not have invested a
great deal. Are you interested?”

He was more than interested. He was trying not to float to
the ceiling like a helium balloon. Here was his chance to offer Celeste more
than a hope and a prayer. Of course, she still might not have him. Probably
wouldn’t, since she’d let her family come between them ever since the riot.
She’d had him draw up papers that gave her the independence to return to
Jamaica.

He couldn’t think what
he
had done to deserve her rejection, but it wasn’t as if he’d done much to
deserve her acceptance either, except ruin her.

Remembering the moment the sun had abruptly vanished—Erran
knew he had to fight to keep Celeste. He hadn’t thought himself ready for
marriage—but he knew he’d found the only woman he wanted to share his life. If
gaining her required using his bully voice, then so be it. It wouldn’t work on
Celeste, though. For that, he had to rely on matters of the heart, a subject
well beyond his comprehension.

Celeste adjusted the folds of her new gown. At the time
she’d ordered it, she had been trying to be demure while pleasing her need for
color. She’d chosen a flowered muslin with an azure bodice that she hoped would
match her eyes. Today, when her future was at stake, she would rather wear red,
but even she knew that would be brazen. Perhaps a striped burgundy someday. She
gazed critically at the result in her mirror.

“You look positively regal,” Sylvia said in awe. “They will
think you are a queen and do anything you say.”

From her rocking chair, Nana emitted a snort.

On any other day, Celeste would agree that she could
persuade lawyers to do anything she said. Today, of all days, however,
she couldn’t speak
. The dunking in the
Thames had given her a catarrh that had settled in her throat. She had hidden
upstairs for days hoping the cold would go away. But she couldn’t delay this
meeting any longer.

She clutched her throat in an age-old expression of terror.
Today was the day that set the rest of her life. She had to do this, had to
know she had the backbone she needed to face Erran’s proposal. If she kept
remembering that her voice was a gift meant to help others, she could be
strong.

Sylvia and Trevor trailed after her as she descended the
stairs to the front parlor. The marquess now occupied the study, but he had
offered his hastily refurbished front room for this meeting.