The next morning, Celeste did her best to pretend it was a perfectly ordinary day, rather than consider herself evil as Lord Erran had suggested.
She had slapped a gentleman! She had never in her life been so . . . so rude.
Of course, no one had ever made her feel as furious, or as lonely.
She yanked her hair into a braid, pinned it at her nape, covered it with a dark bonnet, and picked up the satchel of newly-sewn shirts. Lady Azenor’s visit yesterday had interrupted their routine and put them behind schedule.
Trevor met her in the hall. “Did Lord Erran explain how he held off a mob?” he asked in wide-eyed anticipation. “He confronted a mob with nothing more than a sword and rapier!”
She had stayed awake all night fretting over Lord Erran’s behavior. Such bravery was beyond her experience. That somehow they’d managed to disperse a mob still caused her to shiver, but she refused to believe what they’d done was evil.
She had wanted to shower him with kisses of gratitude when he’d returned, whole and unharmed. There for a brief moment, he had held her against his big body and made her feel safe. And then he’d shattered her brief peace by calling her bad.
She sniffed in disdain. “I’d rather box Lord Erran’s ears for explaining nothing. For all I know, he instigated the attacks to scare us into accepting his aid.”
“He wouldn’t do that,” Trevor said in indignation. “You just don’t like anyone disturbing your boring routine.” He stalked off down the hall, leaving her to hurry down the stairs alone.
If she was to put food on the table, she must put one foot in front of the other and march onward, not fret over impossibilities.
At least Nana had said the machine was running more smoothly, and she should make better time now that she didn’t have to rip out bad stitches. Celeste need only convince the tailor that the rioters were at fault for their not finishing the order.
Wrapping her cloak around her, she entered the kitchen. She stumbled to a halt at finding Lord Erran ensconced at the table, sipping coffee and filling his plate with bacon and toast. He rose at her entrance and bowed as if they met at this hour every day. Her heart thumped so hard, she feared everyone heard it. He called her evil, then usurped her home!
He hadn’t shaved. His dark beard shadowed a square chin and the hollows beneath his strong cheek bones. His usually immaculate linen was rumpled and dusty, but he wore his frock coat buttoned and had made some effort to brush off the dirt. He’d slicked his unruly black curls with water, but they were springing back up as they dried. One fell over his sardonic eyebrow as he regarded her dreary attire.
“Good morning, Miss Rochester. Were you intending to go out without an escort at this hour? I don’t advise it.” He used a modulated baritone far different from last night’s that still managed to reflect his irritation.
Deciding it was easier to suspect his motives than accept his aid, she tightened her bonnet strings and crossed the kitchen to the door. “I am capable of walking around the block without guard dogs. I have been doing so for a considerable amount of time without incident.”
“She bites anyone who approaches,” Jamar added with humor, setting down his coffee. “Do not underestimate her.”
“This is London. A lady does not go about unescorted, especially after last night’s events. Jamar hasn’t finished his breakfast, so I’ll be happy to attend you.” Lord Erran removed his high-crowned hat from a hook and opened the door for her.
When Jamar didn’t object, Celeste pressed her lips tight in disapproval and hurried out. They had been imposing on Jamar’s good nature by requiring that he behave as a menial instead of the educated businessman that he was.
It was Lord Erran to whom she objected, but he seemed immune to her persuasion. She wouldn’t waste energy arguing with the deaf. She stayed silent when he took the satchel and opened the back gate. She lifted her skirts from the muck and hurried faster.
She should never have allowed this man into their lives.
They could have been burned out of their home if they hadn’t.
She gritted her teeth against her own inadequacy.
“I will insist that the solicitors release funds for your family’s support,” he said as they walked through the morning fog. “It is unconscionable that Lansdowne should leave you sewing shirts for a living—although the pleats are a nice touch. I mean to buy one of those when my allowance permits.”
He was fishing. He could not possibly know what was in the satchel or that she was the one who sewed the pleats. She had spent these last months doing her best to hide the fact from their aristocratic neighbors that they were in filthy trade. And now their landlord was about to find out. She continued her silence.
She shivered in unease when he opened the tailor’s door before she could do so.
Looking like a disreputable rake in his expensive clothes and beard shadow, Lord Erran arrogantly set the box of shirts on the counter, looming over the small man behind it. The tailor looked nervous and reached for his coin pouch without counting and examining the detail of every single shirt, as he’d done in the past.
Her landlord gazed in noble disdain at the amount the shopkeeper held out. “You’ll have to find another source. That’s scarcely sufficient for the quality of these shirts, and you know it. You’ve been charging your customers four times that amount.”
Celeste’s eyes widened, and she just barely kept her mouth from dropping open. How did he know that? Or did he? Here she’d been horrified at revealing their occupation, and instead, his noble lordship took them one step better by negotiating as if he were a shopkeeper!
Head bent, she watched him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes. Lord Erran seemed perfectly comfortable with whatever tale he was spinning.
The tailor hastily doubled the amount of coin on the counter, even though she’d brought him fewer shirts. “I had no idea . . . . Certainly. Of course. For the exclusive sale of these shirts, we can pay a trifle more.”
The tailor wasn’t demanding that she double her supply as he had last time. He was simply ingratiating himself with a gentleman. That grated even worse. She’d been using her most persuasive charm to wheedle a higher price, but his lordship simply waltzed in and got what he wanted by demanding it. And she was fairly certain he wasn’t even using that dreadful voice he’d used to terrify rioters. That was so unfair!
Lord Erran took the coins, handed them to her, and held the door open without a word to her. Celeste wanted to stomp his boot as she passed all that big male body . . . but he’d more than doubled their earnings! That would halve the time it would take to earn funds for a solicitor.
“How did you know how much he was selling those shirts for?” she asked, finally gaining sufficient control of her tongue to speak.
“My uncle wears them. I wanted one. Every bachelor I know covets them, but his prices are beyond our means. You could set up your own shop and make a fortune,” he replied curtly, placing her hand on his arm and striding down the street.
“We’ve considered it,” she admitted, finally opening up in the astonishment of knowing her work was valued. “We had ordered fine linen for delivery to Jamaica so we might teach some of our people to sew as Nana does. We thought we could set up a shop on the island where they could sell the shirts to other planters. But after Papa died . . .” She fought to keep the grief from her voice for fear she would make everyone within hearing weep. “We didn’t pay attention to the return cargo manifests. The ship sailed without the linen, so we had it sent here.”
“Another triumph over the estate executors,” he said in approval.
Approval. He wasn’t about to scold her for ruining the family reputation by engaging in mercenary commerce! Or tell her she was ruining her siblings’ chances of making their way in society. Celeste didn’t know how to respond.
“The executors may have tied up your bank accounts,” Lord Erran continued, “but they cannot lay hands on what’s in your possession. It must be driving them mad, although I suppose the solicitors have little inkling about linen shipments.”
Celeste allowed herself to relax into a small smile. “Now that I understand what type of man the earl is, I am not sorry that we’ve stolen from the estate.”
“I should think not. It’s pure genius. But from now on, you’ll send a footman to the tailor. Lady Azenor will be sending two over today, along with a butler, I hope.” He stopped at the back gate and bowed over her hand. “I will leave you here. I’ll be visiting the city today, and we’ll see what comes of it. I’ll try to be back in time to introduce my Cousin Zack, who will be overseeing the repairs.”
How did he do that? She wanted to box his ears all over again for taking charge of her entire life . . . and hug him for calling her a genius and sending her footmen and looking after her family. While she was still feeling the glow of flattery, she placed a hand on his arm to prevent his departure. “Tell me about your voice. I have never met another who possessed such a gift.”
He made a noise deep in this throat and glanced up and down the mews, but it was early, and no one lingered. Looking uncomfortable, he clenched his gloved fingers. “The first time I used it was shock enough. I’d rather not discuss last night. It’s not the act of a gentleman to use a weird aberration to influence others.”
“It’s the act of a lady?” she asked with sarcasm. “Am I beneath you now?”
“That’s different,” he argued. “Women have no other defense. I should be able to use my fists and weapons and logic without resorting to mumbo-jumbo.”
If she said what she thought now, she would inflict harm. She didn’t wish to hurt a man who had offered his aid. Biting her tongue, she merely made a polite curtsy and allowed him to go.
How did one argue with a force of nature who did not respond to even her most convincing voice?
Sadly realizing a plain beanpole like herself could never make a man like Lord Erran listen to her when he was appalled by her one gift, she trailed back to her sewing. She would simply try to be grateful that he was condescending enough to notice their plight.