Whisper of Magic (9 page)

At some point, bullies would have to learn that Ives
protected their own.

He had grown up in an all-male household that excelled at
all manner of creating havoc—it was either that, or regularly beat the stuffing
out of each other. He couldn’t punch an entire mob, but he knew how to
distract. And his legal training had taught him a great deal about how people
reacted to fear.

Besides, thrashing a lackwit was
too easy and inspired only retaliation. He’d rather put fear in the lout and
any of his companions.

Swinging his tankard erratically, Erran faked a drunken
stagger and proceeded toward the shadow. He pretended to stumble and sloshed
ale on the spy. “Oops, sorry ol’ chap, tryin’ to steer clear of the lion,” he said in a loud
sing-song.

The smaller man shoved him away in disgust. “You’ve wits to
let. What lion?”

Erran flashed a white smile and didn’t keep his voice down.
He had a suspicion the light in the back yard was there for a reason. He wanted
to give them warning. “The lion them furriners keep
in the yard. Ain’t you heard it? Sounds like it’d bite a man’s head off.”

“I ain’t heard a thing.” But he inched away from the gate.

“Sometimes, they don’t feed it,” Erran said knowledgeably,
louder than necessary. He didn’t need his impassioned Courtroom Voice to fool a
fool. “That’s when it growls. But I ain’t goin’ near.
Don’t never know if the gate is barred or if it can leap over if it likes my
smell.”

As if on cue, a loud thump rattled the gate. Erran staggered
back, as if in fear. His companion took several more steps toward the end of
the mews. A low, almost realistic growl emanated from the yard. Erran had never
heard a lion and wouldn’t know what one would sound like, but he was pretty
certain the maggot in the alley hadn’t either.

Another harder thump and louder growl followed.

“It’s comin’ after us!” Erran
hollered, shoving the man between his shoulder blades. “Run!”

The spy didn’t need more encouragement. He sprinted down the
alley, leaving Erran in his dust—probably because Erran was leaning against the
building, downing his ale and chuckling.

“That you, Jamar?” he called quietly once the lurker was
gone.

The gate slid open and the towering African gestured for
Erran to enter. “He has been there for nearly an hour. The ladies were
frightened by the torches and shouts down the road, so I said I would watch.”

“Excellent thinking.” Before crossing the mews, Erran
scattered the pile of throwing-sized rocks where the lurker had stood. To his
horror, he found an unlit torch among them. Surely no one meant to torch the
house with people in it?

The day’s weariness escalated to fury—and he kicked the pile
of stones. They scattered with unusual velocity, as if shot from a cannon.
Levitation involved lifting objects, did it not? Not rolling them? He must have
hit them harder than he thought. Maybe the
power
points
added force to his swing, he thought sardonically.

More worried about arson than stones, Erran stalked through
the open gate with a sense of urgency. “Whoever is behind the alley scalawags
is not a gentleman if he’s capable of hiring thugs under cover of the rioters.
Does it sound as if the mob is coming closer?”

Jamar frowned worriedly and hastened his step. “They have
turned this way.”

Damnation
. He had
only the one pistol and a pouch of lead shot with him. Good for close range but
no more. “Don’t suppose you have a shotgun?” he asked, following the giant into
the back hall.

“We have swords.” Jamar confirmed their lack of modern weaponry.

“Keep the ladies upstairs or in the kitchen. Shattering
glass is a favorite pastime of mobs. Bring me a sword, if you can spare one. If
the ruffians are out there, they may attempt rushing the house.” Erran refused
to believe an earl would be behind these depredations, but if Duncan’s new
enemies, Montfort and Caldwell, were trying to curry favor—nameless rioters
were just their sort of tactic.

“If there are only a few of the ruffians, I can stop them,”
Erran added. Not if they came at the house with torches, but he’d have to hope
they wouldn’t be that daring. “Just in case, let’s bring some buckets of water
up here.”

Looking horrified as he caught the direction of Erran’s
fears, Jamar took the kitchen stairs two at a time, reappearing with buckets.

Trevor raced from the upper floor a little later carrying a
rapier and a short sword—the weapons of Georgian courtiers. Loading his pistol,
Erran counted the blades as one step better than nothing.

“I am a dead aim with a pistol but not good with a sword,”
Trevor said, eyeing the long barrel of the one Erran was loading.

“I’ve modified this one to hold more than one round.” Erran
sighted along the barrel. “I cannot verify its accuracy.”

Trevor waited silently for his decision. With resignation,
Erran handed it over, knowing he had more strength for sword wielding than the
lad.

The raucous shouts grew louder. It would be damned expensive
replacing the glass windows. They’d probably been there a century or more.

The boy expertly checked the loading and sight and nodded
his approval. “Thanks.” A man of few words.

Erran doubted a silver tongue could persuade a mob,
especially if he couldn’t be heard over the drunken shouts. But if he was to
test his theory and experiment, now was the time.

Before he could step outside, he winced at the sound of
shattering glass up the street. Women screamed in terror. He yanked back a
drapery panel, and in the torchlight, he saw the mob rocking a carriage. The
terrified horses reared while the mob jeered. He didn’t see a policeman
anywhere.

Rage filled him. Protesting was one thing. Harming the
innocent was quite another. And if this was the work of Lansdowne to drive his
relations out of their home . . . he would remove the man’s
head—slowly and with great relish.

“Stand here,” he told the boy, pointing at the front foyer.
“If anyone comes in through the windows or the door, you have only five shots.
Use them wisely.”

The boy nodded, looking more determined than fearful.

Erran clutched the hilt of the sword, knowing the folly of
going up against a drunken mob alone. But as an Ives, he never turned away from
a challenge. He couldn’t allow those innocent women in the carriage and their
horses to suffer.

Holding both sword and rapier upright like torches, he
marched down the steps and into the streets. He had no chance of being heard
without shouting. If ever there was a time to experiment, it was now.

“Cease and desist!”
He didn’t use his courtroom fury but his bellow reverberated loudly in his own
ears.

Only a few of the marchers even glanced in his direction.
The others continued shouting and rocking the carriage containing the shrieking
women.

Feeling like a right bloody fool marching on a mob with a
sword, Erran stalked down his street like an avenging warrior. His expertise
was in
building
mechanical weapons,
not wielding old-fashioned swords, but he knew the basics. Stick ’em and they bleed. Rather unsporting when it came right
down to it.

But he was furious enough to use the flat side of the sword
to swat aside a man who approached him with fists upraised.
“Cease and desist!”
he shouted again.
The man fell back, startled. That was satisfying, but not particularly unusual.
Erran knew he was big and dressed like a gentleman. Most working men followed
orders.

More of the cowards at the carriage turned in his direction.
The ones who were merely shouting slogans began to dart uneasy looks toward the
alleys. The rock-throwing lot reached for their pockets.

Erran smacked the sword against the ear of a drunk who dared
fling a handful of pebbles scooped from the street. The drunk stumbled and
fell, but more of the mob grew brave enough to heave their artillery at the
windows high above the streets. Glass broke.

The horses screamed as the traces tilted with the carriage.

Stopping a mob by himself was futile.

Erran’s sense of justice
required
that he test his damned stupid superstitious theory. Praying his fury wasn’t
getting the better of good sense—he lifted his sword and allowed his rage at
injustice to boil over into the full power of the terrifying voice he’d used to
command a courtroom.
“Drop that
carriage!”

This time, the villains halted and glanced around in panic.

The first time he’d released that peal of sound, he’d
shocked himself. This time, it felt devilishly good, which probably meant he
was going to hell. But the ladies and horses were still in danger.
Concentrating on the carriage, Erran aimed his anger and his sword at the men
with torches.
“Set the carriage down!”

The rioters abruptly dropped the carriage in mid-push. The
nearly-overturned vehicle rocked from its precarious position to miraculously
fall back on its wheels.

Could he possibly have levitated a carriage?

Before Erran could sort out his next action, a sweet voice
called from an upper story window in the house he’d just left. “Your families
need you. Go home before anyone is hurt!”

Beneath the sweetness, Erran heard bitter anger. He glanced
back to see the window open, and Miss Rochester’s slender form perched on the
sill. Her almond-shaped eyes had narrowed and her lips tightened in an
expression that reflected a fury as great as his own. But her voice was a
melodious siren call.

“Run, run before you’re caught,” she cried with deceptive
sweetness.

And they did. With guidance now, half the mob fled.
Stumbling drunkenly, they melted into the shadows. Whatever their voices were
doing, it seemed to be dissolving the riot. Erran was too enraged to be amazed.
Torches still advanced in this direction—the real ringleaders?

If so, he needed to know who’d hired them. Erran strode into
the street, rapier in one hand, sword in the other. “Halt!” he thundered, the
sound echoing off the walls.

There were more of them than him, and still they
hesitated—as if he were a conquering army loaded with weaponry. Fearing for his
own sanity, Erran had to force his feet to stay planted where they were. “Who
sent you?” he demanded.

Before his stunned audience could respond, Celeste’s
celestial voice called, “There’s a tankard waiting for you at the tavern!”

The torch-bearers rightfully looked confused. Was her voice
actually countermanding his? Erran glared up at her. “Go back inside,” he
ordered.

She didn’t. So much for his Courtroom Voice if it wouldn’t
command one damned female.

“Tell me who sent you!” Erran roared at the ringleaders
before they escaped.

“Go away, little boys,” Celeste sung from on high.

Erran clutched his sword, but he didn’t dare shout at her to
shut up. He had no notion of what in hell was happening here, but if there was
any chance he had tilted a carriage, he wasn’t risking her falling out of a
window because he was furious with her.

With Erran’s attention diverted, his audience chose to
follow Celeste’s siren call. They threw down their torches to smolder in the
gutter and sauntered off down alleys. The stragglers, without their leaders,
threw a few punches at each other and drunkenly marched off—theoretically in
the direction of a tavern.

Down the street, a servant raced out of a house to soothe
the frantic horses. Two uniformed policemen finally appeared to help the women
in the carriage. Only the stench of guttering torches and spilled ale remained
of the riot.

Furious, Erran stomped into the house, slammed and bolted
the door, and headed up the stairs, more out of instinct than logical decision.
When Trevor started to follow, Erran pointed at the foyer. “Stand guard until
the streets are quiet. We don’t know if they’ll be back.”

With the boy’s nod, Erran continued up the stairs. The
silent African housekeeper stood in front of a closed door, a fireplace poker
in hand and a fierce expression on her broad features. She searched his face a
moment, then relaxed and slipped back into the room she’d been guarding.

Erran knew for fact that he wouldn’t find the older Miss
Rochester sensibly behind closed doors. He stalked down the corridor to the
front salon—where he’d specifically told her
not
to go.

Miss Rochester was still seated in the window. At his
entrance, she watched him warily.

“What did you just do?” he demanded. He wanted to yell and
shout and call her three kinds of fool, but now that disaster had been averted,
he was too confused.

He’d stopped a mob? Or had she? And the carriage?

Abruptly drained of all his avenging need for justice, he
dropped on the bench beside her—a mistake. He inhaled her delicate fragrance
and had to fight the urge to take her into his arms and shake her. Or kiss her.
His rage had become a boiling stew of confusion. Lust was simple and easier to
act on.

The most logical conclusion was that he was losing his mind.

She wrapped her slender fingers around his hand, the one
holding the sword. He hadn’t even realized he still carried it. He released the
hilt, and the weapon dropped to the worn carpet. He tossed the rapier down
beside it. She didn’t release his hand. He didn’t know what that meant and was
too dazed to care.

“I’m not certain what happened,” she said softly. “All I’ve
ever done before is ask for pretty lace or scare bad little boys. Although once
I caused a minor riot when all the boys scrambled to fetch me the last orange
from a tree.”

Erran pondered a few swear words at that admission. She used
her siren call on little
boys
? And
they’d responded?

He was to believe she persuaded a mob to depart with her
voice
?