Wearing his best black business coat, Erran rode back from the city in an ill temper. One of the less pecuniary reasons he had gone into law was that he’d admired the way the rules of law worked in the same way as the rules of physics—cause and consequence.
The Court of Chancery, on the other hand, followed no rhyme or reason much less anything resembling rules. The equity courts were so overburdened that only corruption produced results, and the decision of judges often depended on what they ate for breakfast that day.
He’d almost unleashed his unholy Courtroom Voice this morning and was regretting that he had not. How much longer could he resist the temptation to make grown men weep?
He’d like to blame last night’s episode on the very tempting Miss Rochester, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was irritated that her charms seemed to work better than his commands. And still, he’d taken her in his arms and might have done more if his over-developed conscience hadn’t intruded.
How long could he hold out against Miss Rochester’s charms and the infuriating urge to demand justice? Something had to give or he would explode.
He arrived in St. James just as his cousin was dismounting from his horse. Zack was one of the rare light-haired Ives, lighter than even Theo’s brown. Wide of shoulder but not as broad in chest as Erran, Zack dressed in tradesman’s tweed and a countryman’s knee boots, without regard to fashion.
“So that’s where our ancestors sank all their money,” Zack said in greeting, studying the stone façade. “And we proceeded to let it run to rack and ruin.”
“Not entirely, but close enough. The tenants have kept it up better than we would have, I suspect. Homemaking has never been an Ives’ trait.” Erran flipped a coin to a street boy who ran up to watch the horses. “But Ashford means to move into the ground floor, so we need to adapt it for him.”
Zack made sympathetic noises as he examined the front walk and step. “I’ve never attempted to construct an apartment for someone who can’t see. We’ll probably need his instructions, although a railing from gate to door might be beneficial.”
“He’ll tell us all to go to hell and he doesn’t need anything special,” Erran said in resignation, rapping the knocker. At least they’d made enough progress that the Rochesters trusted leaving a knocker on the door to let people know they were in town. And the front draperies were partially open.
Erran stifled his disappointment that the lad opened the door and not Miss Rochester. On a day as rotten as this one, he shouldn’t expect the brief pleasure of her reluctant smile. “This is my cousin Zack Ives. He’s an architect and can help us determine what changes need to be made in the house. Zack, this is Trevor, Lord Rochester, a distant branch of the family.”
Jamar joined them in the narrow foyer. Erran knew he could explain the result of his courthouse search to the Rochester’s imposing man of business, but he wanted the lady to hear what he had to say as well.
She wouldn’t be happy, but he needed to see her reaction. Or so he told himself.
He’d spent the night in the downstairs office he thought would suit Duncan for a bedchamber. It was windowless, but Duncan would scarcely notice. As they tramped through the back corridor, Erran pointed out the need for a chamber for a valet adjoining the study, and Zack measured the rooms behind the stairs to draw up plans.
“I would like to see stronger bars on the entrances,” Jamar suggested. “We cannot have guards sitting at all the doors, all the night. And if the ladies are to take the next floor, there should be a wall down this back hall so they might enter and leave without disturbing the marquess.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this with Miss Rochester?” Erran suggested, while pretending interest in testing the lock mechanism on the study door. “We do not wish to make the ladies feel uncomfortable.”
He could hear the rhythmic thumping of the sewing mechanism and assumed they were sewing to make their daily quota, which irritated him beyond all reason. He had no way of subverting their ambition and no funds to replace the tailor’s trade.
Before Jamar could reply, the knocker rapped. Erran glanced questioningly at the majordomo. “Has Lady Aster sent over the footmen yet? Could that be them?” Even as he asked, he knew the footmen would have gone to the back door.
“The lady sent a note saying they will arrive before evening. We have been arranging suitable accommodations,” Jamar said, striding toward the foyer.
Erran followed, interested in seeing who dared knock and how they would react to a black giant in gentleman’s clothes opening the door. A footstep from above caused him to glance up the stairs.
The lady was hesitating on the landing, frowning as she, too, waited. She’d most likely been watching from the front window and had seen their visitor arrive. Dressed in drab gray—although of excellent cut on her slim figure—she caught his eye and flattened her lips in disapproval again. His cheek stung in memory of last night. Would he ever land on her good side?
Jamar opened the door. A woman shrieked as if the house had fallen on her, and a man exclaimed in irritation. Erran stepped up, allowing Jamar to retreat into the foyer, out of the public eye.
On the doorstep, a footman in elegant livery cursed and attempted to hold up a beribboned and frilled lady of larger girth than himself—who had apparently fainted at sight of Jamar. Erran was reluctant to lay hands on a woman he didn’t know, but he felt sorry for the poor fellow dealing with foolish vapors.
“One would assume the populace of a city as large as London would be a little more sophisticated,” he muttered under his breath, taking the female’s other arm and lifting her upright. Aloud, he asked in annoyance, “Shall we escort her back to her carriage?”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. I just need to sit down.” The new arrival abruptly straightened, taking her weight off the young footman, much to his evident relief. She waved a lace handkerchief under her nose. “Where is Lily? My smelling salts, please.”
A tiny, terrified maid peered from behind the hedge. Apparently relieved that no foreign entities darkened the doorway, the maid scurried to help her mistress.
Feeling mean, Erran released the lady’s arm and blocked the doorway with his bulk. “Perhaps we could provide you with direction?” he inquired in his coldest, most aristocratic tones.
“I’m here to see my dear, dear sisters and little brother,” the lady protested. “Lily, give this person my card. I’m sure they will be eager to see me.”
“This is the home of the Marquess of Ashford,” Erran informed them with hauteur. “He has no sisters.” He took the card proffered and added with disdain, “Mrs. Guilford.”
At last, Miss Rochester joined him at the doorway and elbowed him to one side. Erran rather enjoyed the intimacy her touch produced—he thought she must be feeling more comfortable in his company to dare strike him again. He inhaled her delicate floral scent as a reward for his rotten day, and fought a proprietary urge to place his hand at the small of her back.
His hostess wasn’t smiling in welcome, however, as she snatched the card from his hand. “Come in, Charlotte,” she said curtly. “We may call you Charlotte, may we not, since we are sisters? I am Celeste. We have corresponded.”
The difference in the ladies was so striking that Erran had difficulty believing there could be any relation at all. Mrs. Guilford was obviously older, with the plumpness of childbirth and fine dining. But she was also built sturdier and closer to the ground than the taller, more willowy Miss Rochester. The older sister had frizzed her yellow hair to disguise the pasty roundness of her face. Whereas Miss Rochester’s sleek mahogany hair was drawn severely back, deliberately exposing sun-browned high cheekbones and those wicked, slanted, blue eyes.
Accepting the invitation, the newcomer deliberately ignored the amused Jamar in the hall and waddled in the direction of the front parlor.
“Oh, no, Charlotte, dear. We must go upstairs to the family parlor. The front is for the marquess’s distinguished guests,” Miss Rochester said in polite tones that Erran could swear hid a solid streak of derision.
“Shall I join you, Miss Rochester? I have news from the city that should be discussed. Perhaps Mr. Jamar could join us?” Erran couldn’t resist adding that, just to detect the direction of the social wind.
“I shall stay here and discuss renovations with the architect,” Jamar said in his dry Jamaican lilt. “Miss Rochester will catch me up later.”
Mrs. Guilford was too busy huffing and puffing and dragging herself up the stairs by the railing to take notice of the undercurrents. “A nice coze with family,” she gasped. “That’s just what we need.”
Miss Rochester, looking a trifle exasperated, met Erran’s gaze in a manner he could not quite interpret. “If you would not mind joining us, please, I would be appreciative.”
“I will happily tear her to shreds if you require,” he murmured, relishing the thought of taking apart a woman who would abandon her bereaved siblings without a single offer of aid.
Relief, delight, and a hint of mischief lit the lady’s lovely face. “Oh, you may simply witness that event. But detecting truth of matters we know nothing about may be needed.”
“Indeed.” Bowing his agreement, Erran carried his ruthless mood up the stairs, but this time it was in defense of a lady and not because the world did not comply to his sense of order.
***
Physically aware of Lord Erran’s sturdy frame brushing entirely too close on the way up the stairs, Celeste nervously put a distance between them on the way to the parlor.
Now that their long-lost half sibling had showed up on their doorstep well after they needed her help, Celeste wasn’t certain whether to rail at the fates or be wary of treacherous shoals. Since learning to survive in London had taught her suspicion, she was inclined toward the latter.
She watched with interest as Charlotte glanced around the shabby family parlor. After they’d seen this stranger alight from a carriage outside their door, Trevor and Sylvia had hidden the linen bolts and sewing baskets in spare bedrooms. Celeste deliberately opened the draperies enough to reveal the faded upholstery and threadbare carpet. She wanted to rub their sister’s face in the poverty they’d been left in.
“I would have thought a marquess’s establishment would be a little more . . . fashionable,” Charlotte mused in dismay, taking a sofa that had probably been new during the reign of the first King George in a prior century.
“Our father would have brought in new furnishings, had he survived,” Celeste said sweetly. Curious to know how much their half-sister knew about their circumstances, she didn’t expound further.
Lord Erran stood near the window behind Charlotte, apparently keeping an eye on the street while listening to their conversation. She liked that he’d accepted that she would lead the attack, if attack was necessary. But she dared not rely on him as she had relied so heavily on her father. She wasn’t about to be left helpless again.
But his lordship’s aristocratic hauteur and imposing physique lent an air of . . . security . . . that she would not have had otherwise. Every time she glanced at his glowering visage, her insides did a little dance of glee that so handsome and intelligent a gentleman was willing to linger in their company.
That was very definitely a rash and irrational reaction. He was still the enemy who would oust them from their home if he could.
“Of course,” Charlotte said with a bewildered note. “I had assumed the estate would be sufficient . . . Is that why I heard nothing from his executors? There was no estate left? I am so sorry that I did not come sooner . . .”
A year ago, Celeste would have believed her. These days, she believed few. Worse yet, she thought she detected a layer of artifice beneath the lady’s protestations. She’d never particularly noticed levels of emotion in other people’s voices . . .
She widened her eyes. Was her gift actually increasing with their residence in this house as Lady Azenor had suggested?
Celeste glanced around but no one else seemed to notice. Lord Erran merely lifted a sardonic dark eyebrow, uninfluenced by Charlotte’s sympathy. Of course, even Celeste’s own charm didn’t affect a man who responded only to logic, so he was not a reliable indicator.
“The solicitor says our father left no will, although we have witnesses who can attest otherwise.” Celeste used her best polite and helpless voice. “Until the document is located, our father’s cousin has taken charge of the estate. Do you know the Earl of Lansdowne?”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Charlotte said vaguely, waving a chubby hand. “My husband is an acquaintance. We are very rural, however, and don’t go about much in society. I’m sure Lansdowne will do everything that is proper. Perhaps my husband should apply to him to determine if we inherit anything of my precious Papa’s belongings. You say there was a witness? Could he say? I do so miss Papa’s letters.”
Or his money. He’d often sent her funds when she requested them. Celeste looked up to Lord Erran. Good thing he was standing behind Charlotte. The frown on his sun-browned visage was dark enough to scare crows. He didn’t trust their visitor either?
“I don’t believe I explained,” Celeste addressed his lordship sweetly, without answering Charlotte’s questions. “Papa married here in England when he was still at Oxford. He took Charlotte’s mother with him to Jamaica. She objected to the primitive society and returned to London when Charlotte was very young. Papa provided support until Charlotte married, but she has never visited with us.”
Their half-sister dabbed at her eyes with her lacy handkerchief. “Charles and I had hoped to visit this year, but the children were ill and with one thing or another, it just could not be helped. And now I’ll never see dear Papa again.”
“You cannot possibly remember seeing Papa at all,” Sylvia said with puzzlement. “You could not have been out of nappies when your mother took you back to England.”
“He will be very much missed,” Celeste said, covering Sylvia’s protest with a layer of honey. She needed as much information as she could obtain, and as lovely as it would be to shred deceptive Charlotte into snowflakes, she wasn’t in a position to burn bridges. “The Earl of Lansdowne has not been very forthcoming. Like you, he has ignored our pleas for advice.” She inserted the last malicious statement under the same tone of honey, wondering how Charlotte would react.
Interestingly, Charlotte heard only the honey. The lady continued dabbing at her eyes. Celeste sneaked another peek at Lord Erran. He was fighting a snicker. The man heard her meanness despite her charm!
If he could hear the truth behind her sweetness, that wasn’t just interesting, but frightening.
Charlotte finally looked up from her handkerchief-dabbing and widened her eyes. “Couldn’t Ashford speak with the earl? Surely his influence would persuade Lansdowne to release our funds?”
Our funds? Celeste hid a smirk of her own. Now she understood the sudden reason for a visit—the lady needed money.
“The marquess is more likely to shoot the earl than speak with him,” Lord Erran said in the same pleasant tones that she’d been using. His deep baritone, however, rumbled the walls and did not exude charm. “I’d suggest that you hire a solicitor if you think you were named in the will, but unless you think you’re due more than five-hundred pounds, the solicitor will cost more than you’ll gain.”
Five-hundred pounds! It would cost five-hundred pounds to fight for their inheritance and save Nana’s family? They could live for a lifetime on five-hundred pounds! It was Celeste’s turn to look wide-eyed, while Charlotte returned to sniffing.