Sprawled across her bed, sobbing, Celeste ignored the timid knocks at her chamber door. Fire bombers, runaway carriages, nasty lawyers, and bastardy had shattered her too-brief joy at walking about shops as the lady she’d once been. While indulging in fabulous fabrics, she’d even allowed herself hope that she might have some small part of her life back.
But the reality was that she would never be her father’s pampered daughter again. Her world had irrevocably changed to one of chaos and anarchy. And even though she knew she was engaging in self-pity, she couldn’t control her tears of pure terror and loss.
Burying her head in the pillow to hide her weeping, she scarcely heard Lady Aster’s worried call through the locked door.
If only she could just shrivel up and blow away! Or go home. She so very much wanted the comforting familiarity of blue skies and warm breezes and the soft murmurs of patois . . . .
But that seemed long ago and far away, in a time when her father had handled all difficult matters and all she had to do was choose menus and gowns. Those days were gone. She cried harder, burying all her bottled up grief and despair into her pillow, where she hoped she couldn’t hurt anyone or anything.
She’d shattered glass. She had never, ever used her voice as a weapon of destruction. What had she become?
What was this house doing to her?
She didn’t hear the key in the lock but was instantly aware the moment Lord Erran’s imposing presence crossed the threshold. She couldn’t look up. Her face would be all blotchy and wet from crying. “You don’t belong here. Go away,” she said, using her most compelling voice.
He ignored her command, as usual. Why was she cursed with the company of a man who couldn’t be seduced by her voice?
“You’ve missed dinner,” he said. “The entire household is on edge because of you. I’ve sent your sister off with Aster and have your brother patrolling taverns. Jamar wanted to break down the door, but I said I’d try civilized methods first.”
Celeste scrubbed guiltily at her damp cheek, realizing how she’d let everyone down to indulge in selfish megrims. She refused to look at him, even though it was difficult to keep her head averted when she so much wanted him to do something, to make things better— as her father had once done.
That realization struck her painfully. She could not, would not sink down that hole again. She must stand strong and on her own—in the morning, after her tears had dried. “Where did you find a key?” she muttered into her pillow.
“I didn’t. I made one. Hundred-year-old locks are very crude. I’ve been unlocking them since childhood.”
Of course he had. This man knew no boundaries, as evidenced by his appearance in her room. It wasn’t as if anyone, anywhere, cared if she lost her reputation! Instead of causing another bout of weeping, that made her angry.
The bed sagged from his weight. She was painfully aware of the incongruence of his masculine size in her dainty surroundings. She’d chosen this room for the rose-printed calicoes and spring green walls. She’d decorated with the gauzy summer bed hangings from home. It wasn’t a room meant for men. He would be wearing the black coat that reminded her of mourning, and she couldn’t bear the dark cloud of gloom.
“Breaking and entering is more civilized?” she asked with a sniff, forcing herself to focus on his imposition instead of her terror at what she’d done. “Go away. You don’t belong in here. I just need to be alone for awhile.”
“I understand, and I’m sorry,” he said, without really sounding sorry.
He rested his hand near her hip and leaned closer, giving her far more to think about than self-pity.
“I wish I could create a magic bubble that would shut out reality,” he continued, “and surround you in sunshine and roses, but I can’t. You’re the one with the magic to create change, not me.”
“Me?” she asked in incredulity, wiping at her face and inching away from his encroaching presence. “ Change is the very last thing I want. I want everything to go back to the way it was.” His assertion terrified her.
“If you can’t accept change, you might as well be dead,” he countered with scorn. “Being able to wrap everyone around your little finger has made you weak.”
“Weak!” Outraged, she wiped at her eyes and dragged herself up to sit against her pillows. He was every bit the black thundercloud she feared, but she had to admit that Lord Erran’s chiseled features were magnificently handsome wearing a frown of concern. “I am not weak!”
“You are,” he asserted. “You’ve never had to fight for what you want.”
That was true. She glared. “Preferring peace is not a weakness!” He was sitting on her bed—as if he had every right to do so. Nervously, she scooted a little farther, but the bed was not large—and he was.
“I heard you the night of the riot,” she said, trying to steady her breathing but still nervous at his proximity. “Do not pretend I am the only one with magic. You could have ordered that dreadful mob to go soak their heads, and they would have rushed off in search of a horse trough.”
“ I wanted to talk to them. You drove them off so I couldn’t,” he retorted. “Whatever I did that night is not something I’m proud of, but you did not help.” Beneath lashes too long for a man, his dark eyes smoldered, igniting fires she preferred to deny.
Crossing her arms in a protective gesture against his too-masculine proximity, Celeste studied this lordly English aristocrat. His attire was spotless. No wrinkle marred his linen. Every polished silver button was in place. He hadn’t shaved, and his stern jaw was dark with stubble, but that didn’t detract from his mien of competence and assertiveness—characteristics she found all too attractive and ought to avoid if she meant to stand up for herself from now on.
Weak—he thought her weak. And pathetic, and a weepy clinging vine, she supposed. Worse, he was right in too many ways she didn’t want to consider.
“I don’t believe you,” she said frankly, refusing to back off any further, although the delicious scent of his shaving soap had her wanting to taste him. Perhaps she should have eaten dinner. She took a deep breath and concentrated on his infuriating argument. “You have the ability to command armies with a voice like yours, and you’re not proud of it?”
“Women need mystical crutches because they’re weak,” he said with an expression of disdain. “Men command through respect and intelligence and strength. Not that I’m convinced I’ve done anything except assert authority, I still maintain that manipulation by . . . weirdness . . . isn’t fair play or good for character.”
Astonishingly, Celeste punched his muscular arm. She had never done such a thing before. She stared at her fist in disbelief, but the act felt good enough to repeat. That she refrained made her feel even better.
Unharmed, his elegant lordship merely raised his black eyebrows in question.
“If you really believe in fair play, then you’re already living in a fantasy world,” she said witheringly. “Fair play only exists for the privileged few with the wealth and power to be noble. ‘Nice try, little girl,’” she mimicked. “‘Let me pat your little head so I can walk all over you again using my rules because it’s my game.’ Balderdash.”
He studied her as if she’d just emerged from a wall painting. She nearly leapt off the bed when he brushed her hair behind her ear. Lust as a distraction from weeping worked well, although she thought it might be dangerous.
“So you think I should confront Lansdowne and bellow at him to jump off a high cliff?” he asked without rancor. “Wouldn’t that be akin to murder—except no court could convict me?”
She shrugged. “I’ve found that people do not respond well if it goes against their beliefs. You will notice that the earl’s solicitor worked past my charm within minutes. He truly believes I’m a worthless bastard! Unless the earl is already suicidal, I doubt that jumping off a cliff would appeal to him.”
She was coming out of her despair despite herself, fascinated by discussing the forbidden topic with someone who understood—and even more fascinated with the man nearly leaning over her. Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his beard shadow and longed to stroke his jaw—if only he would give her some excuse.
“There are unanticipated casualties, though,” he argued, properly keeping his hands to himself. “If I believed in your weird theory and shouted at the earl where others could hear, we might have an entire rash of suicides. Or today, I could have had carriages colliding as pedestrians ran into the street to snuff the wick. Or had it been evening, they might have attempted to snuff gas lights by smashing them. Even if I should be superstitious enough to believe I wield that kind of unreliable power, I wouldn’t use it.”
She glared at him. “You halted a riot and stopped a terrorist and still you do not believe you have an . . . ability . . . greater than most? No wonder it’s only the Malcolm ladies who talk about oddities, gifts, and talents. Men are too thickheaded to accept what they don’t understand—which includes pretty much the entire universe.”
“Men like scientific evidence before they believe the ridiculous,” he countered.
“Artists are not called weird because scientists haven’t proved they paint better than anyone else! Priests aren’t called weird because they have faith without science. It does not seem extraordinary to me that some people can speak well and influence others. You have surely seen eloquent orators who can sway crowds—are they witches employing magic?”
“That was not your erudition seducing hardheaded lawyers,” he exclaimed, leaning closer with the intensity of his argument. “As much as I want to believe it’s my authority to which people respond, I simply cannot take a chance on such unfair use of my ability. It would be akin to practicing Mesmerism.”
“Mesmerism! Is that how you explain what we do?” she asked in amazement, admiring the flash of his dark eyes as he spoke of this interesting new theory.
“It’s the only scientific explanation I can determine,” he said, almost angrily, although his hand brushed hers on top of the covers as if seeking reassurance. “I mesmerized an entire courtroom once.” He dismissed the discussion with a complete change of subject. “Would you like to come down and have a bite to eat so the household knows you’re alive?”
Fascinated despite their disagreement, Celeste didn’t ever want to end this moment, but he was right to cut it off. She feared her entire family would be here if they lingered longer. “I don’t think I can. I’m not hungry.” Not for food, at least. “It’s been a horrible day. And I broke an oil lamp. I do not want to consider what that means. I think it best if I rest so I have better control.”
As if they hadn’t just been quarreling, his lordship offered one of his rare smiles—more heart-stoppingly effective because of their rarity. His fingers enclosed hers, offering the reassurance she craved, and she would have swooned, had he not continued with his usual pragmatism. “I had wondered if that was intentional. I’ve heard of opera singers who can shatter glass. I’ll have the maid carry up some hot tea. Perhaps that will help you relax.”
Opera singers—she’d like to believe that, but she was a contralto, not a soprano. But if that’s what he wished to believe . . . She was done arguing.
“You are upsetting me as much as the lawyers,” she admitted, although not clarifying in how many ways he disturbed her. “I wish I could tell you to go away and let me return to my sewing. It’s safer.”
His expression darkened, and he withdrew his hand. “When this is all over, I promise to leave you in peace. But it’s far from over.”
She lowered her gaze in acceptance and disappointment that someday, he would no longer be part of her life. Maybe then she could seek normality again. No, normal was being weak. He was right. She must learn independence. “I cannot promise to contain myself if faced with any more days like this one. I’m worn thin as it is.”
“I can respect that, although I will not lie to you. Given the circumstances, I cannot promise to bring you peace, but I will work toward that goal.” He patted the hand he’d just released. A frisson of electricity passed between them. She froze, and he hastily stood up, as if he’d felt it too. “Good-night, Miss Rochester.”
She fell asleep wondering what it would be like if his lordship didn’t have to leave her room—if she could have his comforting size and security all night long.
That was the old Celeste speaking. In the morning, the new independent and strong Celeste would scorn him.
***
Wishing he could simply wrap the glass-breaking, manipulative, fragile Miss Rochester in cotton batting and ship her somewhere safe until this was all over, Erran sought activity to distract him from the woman upstairs. Her beautiful, tear-streaked face had nearly broken his heart. Her refusal to believe that charm and bullying were unfair and a dangerous path to perdition made him want to bang his head against a wall.
So he spent the evening digging through the rest of her father’s document trunk. The man collected papers the way squirrels gathered nuts. Why the devil hadn’t he included his will?
Because a reasonably young man of strength and good health does not expect to die. And a man of integrity does not expect his relations to be treacherous frauds.
Erran compared the letter purloined from Lansdowne’s solicitor with a few of the Jamaican solicitor’s letters in the trunk. The handwriting was different, but there could have been a new clerk.
None of the documents in the trunk had the same signature as the letter stating there was no will, however. How many partners were in the firm? Who was authorized to speak for the Rochester estate? Or had Lansdowne simply made up the entire letter?
Finding answers meant sending more letters to the governor’s office and court clerks, asking about the discrepancy—months more time lost. Erran’s suspicion was that someone in the Jamaican office had been bribed to keep the will hidden and was receiving a commission on assets sold. Preying on the weak was a game to the bullies of the world, morality and legality be damned.
Ashford was depending on Lansdowne’s support in the Whig campaign for the prime minister. Without proof, Erran hated to accuse the earl of lies, theft, and fraud, but he was furious enough to confront the man. Better he do so with evidence in hand.
He dug deeper and scanned more papers. Invoices for shipments, journals of daily thoughts and appointments, lists of household items Rochester wished to buy—the trunk was bottomless. And useless.
Beneath all the papers and books was a small package wrapped in brown paper with a note attached— For the Malcolm library.
Suddenly wide awake, Erran tore off the wrapper and scanned the contents—more slender journals similar to the one he’d already perused. No wonder the siblings hadn’t bothered opening it. They must have seen packages like this regularly, and in their grief, probably respected their father’s privacy.
He scanned the dates of these tomes—all from the last few years. There were entries on weather, crops, experiments on the sewing mechanism and other equipment. He noted the sketches of the design, but he’d already drawn similar ones.
Disappointed, Erran looked at the brown paper again— the Malcolm library. Aster only kept genealogical records. She had no room in her small townhouse for a library.
The earl of Lochmas, Aster’s father, had spoken of his castle full of moldering old medieval Malcolm volumes from distant, prolific ancestors. But the wrapping paper hadn’t specified Edinburgh or even Scotland.
The current Malcolm library was in Wystan—one of Ashford’s holdings in Northumberland.
Was it possible . . . ?
He would never know without trying. Wystan was much closer than Jamaica.