Whisper of Magic (4 page)

That meant he wasn’t from her father’s cousin or the estate
solicitors.

She sighed as she followed that thought—it probably meant he
was from her
landlord’s
solicitor.
The letters from them had been far more frequent than any communication from
her wretched conniving relation.

Trying to maintain a subservient demeanor, she kept her face
hidden and applied her repelling vocalization beneath her most melodious tones.
“We do not know, sir. I should not speak with strangers. You must leave. Good
day to you, sir.”

She hurried toward the safety of the tailor’s shop around
the corner, fully expecting him to go away as she’d commanded. As further
warning, Jamar placed himself at her back.

She started in surprise as the audacious gentleman
circumvented Jamar, not put off by her voice or a giant. What manner of devil
was this? She halted to glare at him before he discovered her destination.

She had to admit that having an elegant gentleman addressing
her with intensity was pleasing, as were his features. He had long-lashed dark
eyes beneath slashing dark eyebrows, eyes that studied her with the same interest
as she studied him. Blatantly, she let her gaze drop to his very masculine nose
with a bit of a crook in it, his supple lips, and his dimpled chin. She adored dimpled
chins, even worn on a visage frosty with determination. Still, she did not
speak.

“I know you do not understand this country,” he said.

That he had not obeyed her command immobilized her with
confusion. Men always obeyed her voice. Despite her pleasure at his looks, her
loss of control of the situation made it difficult to comprehend his words.

“You have no cause to sympathize with the problems facing my
family,” she heard him say, “but perhaps you are familiar with the fight to
free the slaves in places such as your home? What I have to say affects that
fight as well.”

Had he just addressed her deepest fear—right here in public?
Was he a mind reader? Celeste nearly stumbled in shock.

He reached to catch her before she fell, but she was quick
on her feet and righted herself, still in an appalled daze.

Could he really be speaking about the anti-slavery bill that
might stop her uncle’s predations? And what would this stranger have to do with
her late father?

Erran had never been reduced to begging, especially from
beautiful women. But he was too caught up in the urgency of this opportunity to
recognize any loss of dignity. Obtaining his brother’s town house was the most
important goal in his rotten life right now. If he must implore servants to
gain access to the tenant, he would bow down on bended knee.

Besides, it was no hardship to study this mystery woman who
did not scream assault when attacked or retreat to hysterics when confronted.
He had his suspicion that she was no simple servant. From what he could see
beneath her concealing hood, she had long-lashed eyes, lush lips, and a
complexion as rich as her accent—all of which spoke of foreign aristocratic
refinement.

Somehow, he had to breach the lady’s rather formidable
defenses to resolve the problem at hand. An armed, seven-foot tall Nubian was a
rather daunting obstacle—although perhaps not so much as the lady’s refusal to
speak.

At her nod of dismissal, her bodyguard stepped around Erran
to open the door of the tailor shop. The lady hastened inside, and the servant
closed the door, blocking Erran from following. Servants did not have servants.

Erran studied his adversary. “You saw what happened back
there. You know the lady has enemies.”

Garbed in the formal, if old-fashioned, attire of a
gentleman, the towering African remained stoic, staring over Erran’s head.

“I can find out who would want to harm her and why, but only
if I know for certain that she is who I believe she is. It would be rather
futile to search for her enemies if she’s someone else.” He didn’t even know if
the other man spoke English, but he had to assume he did since the lady had
addressed him that way.

No response. Erran contemplated testing his Courtroom Voice
on the irritating Colossus, but temptation was addictive and dangerous, not to
mention illogically superstitious, and he refused to give in to it. If that
meant demeaning himself before a footman or butler, so be it. It wasn’t as if
an Ives existed who stood on formality.

“I’m Lord Erran Ives, brother to the Marquess of Ashford,”
he said stiffly. “My family owns the house in which you’re living. If the lady
is not safe there, we can arrange better, safer accommodations.”

He noted a flicker of interest. Before he could find a more
persuasive argument, the lady returned, empty-handed. If she really was a lady,
why would she be running menial errands to tailor shops? And yesterday, she had
been doing so without the accompaniment of any servant.

Determined to solve the puzzle, Erran refused to be pushed
aside. He fell in step with them as they returned the way they’d come. “My
sister-in-law has been doing some research,” he said.

In actuality, after he’d given Aster all the names he’d
acquired, she’d fallen into near fits of ecstasy. But describing Malcolm
weirdness was beyond him. He stayed with the facts he understood. “She says
that the Rochester family and hers are distantly related, if Lord Rochester is
from the same branch. She is a genealogist and would very much like to meet the
family, if that’s possible.”

The lady said nothing, merely hurried toward the mews as if
he were no more than a talking lamp post.

“As I’ve told your friend here, the family of a marquess
could be very influential in dealing with those who might threaten your
household.” Erran considered that a fairly persuasive argument—until the lady
finally spoke, decisively turning his own words against him.

“And they can be equally dangerous enemies,” she replied in
honeyed tones that did not seem to match her meaning. “How do we know
you
aren’t the ones causing us grief? I
would rather you left us alone.”

For a brief moment, she turned almond-shaped, spectacularly
blue eyes to him with what appeared to be expectation. He was so startled at
the juxtaposition of light eyes, dark lashes, and bronzed complexion that he
almost forgot to reply.

Dismissively, she turned to escape into her hidden garden.

He recovered his tongue. “If a marquess wants to harm you,”
he retaliated, “he’d march an army to your door and haul you out. He wields
that kind of power but has refrained from using it.”

For some reason, his argument seemed to alarm her. She
shoved anxiously at the garden gate.

Her bodyguard halted her. “I think we should listen to him.”

At that, she tensed and straightened her shoulders,
obviously preparing a rejection. She was tall for a woman, but Erran could tell
little else about her beneath the concealing cloak. It was hard to imagine a
lady taking suggestions from a servant, but he had no better means of reaching
her.

“We do not
know
him,” she said in a tone reflecting hesitation and . . . fear?
Why would she fear him?

“How does one come to know anyone without talking to them?”
Erran asked. “I can bring my sister-in-law here. I can bring you references
from dukes and judges. What do you require?”

“A message from God,” the giant said with wryness.

“He does not respond to my vocalization,” the lady
whispered. “I cannot trust anyone that unpredictable.”

Erran raised his eyebrows. “I respond to spoken words just
as everyone else. That illogic sounds like my sister-in-law and her relations.
Do I have the honor of meeting Miss Celeste
Malcolm
Rochester?” He repeated the name Aster had given him, almost hoping he was
wrong. Malcolms were impossibly irrational.

She peered at him from beneath her hood. “You say that as if
it’s a bad thing.”

He winced. “Sorry. The Malcolm ladies sometimes have
windmills in their heads, and I do not fully comprehend their rationale. It
would be better if I could speak with your father, but I’m a desperate man.
I’ll bring Lady Aster to translate woman-speak for me, if necessary.”

“Woman-speak,” she said in an expressive tone that probably
reflected eye-rolling, if only he could see her eyes again, but she’d retreated
beneath her hood. “Yes, it would probably be better if I spoke with this Lady
Aster, except you are here and she is not. I cannot imagine how we can help
you.”

“You
are
Miss
Rochester?” Erran asked, trying not to show his disbelief that Aster had been
right. “Then by all means, we must speak. I think we can help each other.”

***

Celeste doubted that anyone could help her, but this
haughty aristocrat had saved her—and their valuable shirts—from a particularly
nasty misadventure. That cautious Jamar was willing to listen said much about
their desperation.

She was terrified of letting anyone new into their
precarious lives, and someone resistant to her . . . charms . . .
seemed especially risky.

Jamar would not understand that she needed every little bit
of control she possessed to hold herself together. If she could not influence
this powerful gentleman by using her voice—as she did everyone else—she would
never be rid of him until he had what he wanted. Without her shield, she had no
backbone at all. A man like this would walk right over her.

She craved the influence and security she had lost with her
father’s death. Still, a man who knew a marquess and who had relations who
might be distant family . . . offered some small hope.

Crushing her terror at trusting the unknown for the
millionth time these past months, she opened the gate and allowed him inside. A
wind greeted them as if recognizing an invader, and she shivered with the
rustle of her petticoats.

Dusk had fallen, and the air was exceedingly damp. She could
not, in all good conscience, leave a gentleman standing in the overgrown
garden. Reluctantly, Celeste led him to the kitchen door. She wasn’t about to
lead him into their lives.

His Arrogance raised a noble brow as she passed by the
ground floor door, but he did not comment when she led him down the mossy stone
stairs instead. Inside the kitchen the fire blazed, eradicating any lingering
cold and damp from outdoors. She might never become used to England’s gray
fogs, but the lovely hearth with its crackling flames helped immensely.

Nana had apparently been watching from the upper story and
hurried to join them—fortunately, without Trevor and Sylvia. Garbed in the
printed red and blue cottons of home—not the dull black uniforms of English
servants—the cook and kitchen maid they’d brought with them glanced up, but
accustomed to Celeste’s ways, they returned to their chopping and stirring on
the far end of the large cellar.

Celeste was too nervous to care how her colorful company
looked in the eyes of a dignified London aristocrat. They were Jamaican, not
English. He’d have to accept them as they were.

At least by bringing these few servants with her, she’d been
able to save them from the earl’s greed—for now. She prayed the dastard didn’t
know of their presence here, which was why she had insisted that Jamar stay
inside. But in his male arrogance, he had refused, time and again.

She slipped off the cloak’s hood and waited for the
gentleman to introduce himself. To her surprise, Jamar performed the courtesy.

“Lord Erran Ives, brother to the Marquess of Ashford, our
landlord,” the majordomo intoned. “Miss Celeste Rochester, daughter of the late
Baron Rochester.” He nodded at Nana. “Miss Delphinia, our housekeeper. I am
Jamar, the baron’s estate manager in better times.”

Brother of a marquess! This was even worse than she feared.

“Delphinia and Jamar are family to us,” Celeste said
stiffly. “They were given the name Rochester when they were given their
freedom, as were all our people, unless they had names of their own already. If
you’ll have a seat, we can have coffee. We have not yet learned your custom of
tea.”

To his credit, his lordship pulled out chairs for both her and
Nana and gestured for them to sit first. She rather missed such niceties. With
a sigh of resignation, she hung up her concealing cloak. She knew her mourning
gown wasn’t the latest fashion and that she hadn’t the buxom hourglass figure
so admired by handsome gentlemen like this one. Those things no longer
mattered. Survival did.

She waited until the kitchen maid set out cups and saucers
and brought the coffee. It wasn’t as if she knew where to start.

“Your father is deceased?” Lord Ives asked as she poured the
steaming beverage and before she could summon a single opening sentence.

Her tears of grief at any mention of her beloved father had
become those of self-pity, so she fought them. “On the voyage here,” she
acknowledged, adding cream to her coffee but not the expensive sugar. “There
was a terrible storm. The crew lost men. Since Father had sailing experience,
he helped out, probably saving the lives of everyone aboard when one of the
masts broke, and he knew exactly how to react. But he was injured in the
process, and there was no ship’s surgeon. Despite every effort, we did not have
enough knowledge to save him.”

And still, after all these months, she choked back a sob—of
sorrow and of exhaustion. Her sheltered life had not prepared her for these
months of tribulation.

“That was in spring,” Jamar said, taking up the story when
she could not speak further. “The baron wished to bring his daughters out in
London society and give his son an Oxford education. His executors have other
ideas.”

Sipping her coffee to steady her nerves, Celeste watched
Lord Ives’ dark eyes narrow, as if he saw an opportunity. She feared the
advantage would be all his and none of theirs. She was discovering that was how
this gray, clammy world worked.