Their sailing return to London was uneventful. Even Mrs. Lorna managed to knit and chatter through their journey. Erran spent most of his time in the engine room, discussing machinery, Celeste assumed. He’d returned to his tight-lipped, grim state, and she had to admit, he had reason to do so.
He thought he had to marry her. She supposed she ought to agree. But she was just discovering who she could be on her own. She didn’t really want a man shutting the door on her world again, especially if she would soon have the means of supporting herself.
But the child deserved a father—if it survived. Celeste was well aware that many babes were lost in the first few months. Her own mother had lost several. And she could have just been dreaming that strange night when the spirits had walked the halls. She shouldn’t act in haste.
She tried to smile normally when the ship docked and Erran came to fetch her—she needed to remember to call him Lord Erran now that they were back in society. His frown as he assisted her and Mrs. Lorna into a coach helped her keep her equilibrium.
It was dark already, and the docks were unlighted except for the lanterns hanging outside taverns. She swallowed her fear when Erran held his pistol in his hand as the coach traversed back alleys on the way to the main thoroughfare. Even her companion sat silently until they reached the better lighted districts.
She’d been attacked on these streets in broad daylight, so she wouldn’t feel safe day or night. But surely no one knew of her return. Did she want to live in a city where people threw stones at her because she looked different? In a country where she was incensed into causing riots? There were so many things she needed to consider before she took any action.
When the coach rolled into their street, she could see lights in all the townhouse’s windows. Celeste clasped her hands nervously, and Erran dropped the pistol back in his pocket.
“I doubt the reception committee is for us,” he said dryly. “Mrs. Lorna, would you like the coach to carry you home or would you prefer to stay here tonight and wait until daylight?”
“I’d like to be in my own bed tonight, if you do not mind, my lord. It looks as if the lady has family waiting up for her, so my job is done. It’s been a pleasure traveling with you, but it’s always lovely to be home again.”
The front door swung open as the driver unloaded their boxes.
“Celeste, hurry! I think he is having a fit!” Sylvia cried from the doorway.
Erran muttered a few curses and shoved coins at the driver. Startled, Celeste picked up her skirts and hurried up the short walk.
Erran grabbed her arm before she could reach the step. “I doubt she’s referring to Jamar or Trevor. Wait. I would introduce you properly.” He gestured at the driver to carry the boxes to the front door.
Tired and bewildered, assuming he knew what was happening even if she didn’t, Celeste waited for Erran to sort out the harassed-looking footmen who belatedly appeared.
Sylvia ran down the steps to hug her. “Did you find the journals? Can we go home now? The marquess is quite, quite mad.”
That was the meaning of the uproar? Shocked, Celeste cast her escort a look of pure fear. “The marquess has arrived? I cannot think the construction is done! Where will we put him?”
Erran hefted his valise to his shoulder and gestured for her to precede him. “It would be exactly like Dunc to do whatever created the most havoc. We will leave him to camp in the parlor, if so.”
“He is . . . very large,” Sylvia said, following them inside. “Even Jamar will not go near him.”
Her words were abruptly punctuated by a roar from the rear of the house. “Don’t give me that twaddle, you sorry jackanapes! Bugger it!” A large object hit a wall with a resounding crack.
“I assume that’s his valet with him?” Erran asked, setting down his burden and proceeding down the corridor as if violent curses normally permeated the air.
“I don’t know, my lord,” Sylvia whispered, hanging back. “We’ve stayed upstairs, out of his way.”
“That won’t do, you know,” Celeste informed them. “We have paid for the exclusive use of this house. A guest is one thing. A berserk marquess is another.”
More pounding and glass shattering accentuated her words.
“You slubber-degullion, not there!” the lion roared.
“Miss Sylvia, if you will direct the servants to carry up your sister’s trunk, please. We’ll see what we can do to quiet the Cyclops.” Holding Celeste’s hand on his coat sleeve, Erran dragged her toward the room at the rear.
“Leading the lamb to the lion?” she asked with a pinch of irony.
“More like the witch to the dragon. I expect fireworks,” he retorted. “Keep in mind Duncan was an all-powerful marquess who commanded armies of men before his fall. Now, he can’t even read the estate books or race his horse. I would probably have slit my throat. He prefers verbally slitting the throats of others.”
“A subtle difference,” she said as he rapped on the panel behind the stairs.
“No more swag-bellied hedge pigs,” roared the beast. “Begone, the lot of ye.”
“Shakespeare?” Celeste asked with interest.
“Is that where he gets it?”
“That last part. I’m not sure about the slubber-degullion.”
“That’s cant. I don’t spend much time in the theater and didn’t recognize the rest.” Erran cracked open the door without permission and called around it. “If anyone is a hedge pig, it’s you, oh brother mine. There is a lady present, so stow it until I can present her.”
A shoe flew past his nose and hit the wall. An elegant but harassed looking servant appeared in the narrow aperture between door and frame. “His lordship has only just arrived and is not prepared for company.”
“His lordship is never prepared for company,” Erran said as if asking for a neckcloth. “Is he dressed? That’s all I need to know.”
“Erran, get your sorry arse in here, now!” the marquess shouted.
“Why, so you can fling a shoe at me? Or at our hostess? You do remember that you are here at the indulgence of the Rochesters? She will turn you out if you behave like an ogre to her and her family.”
“If you will excuse me, I am not suitable company this evening, Miss Rochester,” the marquess boomed from the darkened room. “Just send in my brother so I can remove his head.”
“It is very good meeting you, my lord,” Celeste called sweetly through the opening. “I do hope you are settling in nicely.”
Silence.
Beside her, Erran winked and waited. He’d heard her calming charm.
“Another devious, manipulative Malcolm witch, I believe you said?” Ashford said without bellowing. “Come in.”
Erran had called her a witch to his brother? With surprise as well as trepidation, Celeste cast Erran a quizzical glance. He nodded, offered his arm, and pushed the door open. She was relying on his strength again, but life kept heaving surprises at her, and she felt unbalanced.
“Ashford, may I present Miss Celeste Malcolm Rochester, part owner of a very large property in Jamaica. Miss Rochester, my hedge-pig brother, Duncan, Marquess of Ashford, Earl of Ives and Wystan, et cetera, et cetera. Dunc, she is making a very pretty curtsy even though she’s been tossed about on a steamship these last twelve hours and more.”
His lordship was an exceedingly large man, as Sylvia had noted. The marquess was not, however, taller than Jamar. He simply exuded an air of command and authority in just the way he stood—in shirtsleeves with hands on narrow hips, towering above the room’s occupants. He still wore his knee-high boots and riding trousers, although Celeste assumed he had not ridden his horse to town. He stared blindly over her head, but he knew her direction.
“A curtsy is wasted on me, Miss Rochester, but the perfumed soap isn’t. Nor the voice. Let me hear you speak again.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, shocked enough by his bluntness to respond in kind. “You call me a devious, manipulative Malcolm witch and then order me around as if I’m a pot boy?” She used her best welcoming voice.
The red raw scar of Ashford’s brow rose and his lips quirked in a manner reminiscent of Erran’s—when he bothered to smile.
“By the devil, you’ve found another one, Erran, old boy. Does she collect orphans too? I heard something of the sort.” Ashford stuck out his hand to his side in a demanding gesture.
The beleaguered valet hastened to place a walking stick in it. Ashford swung it about, apparently looking for a piece of furniture, Celeste hoped. At least he was not swinging it at them.
“We will discuss orphans at a later time. For now, we’re weary,” Erran said with annoyance. “What the devil are you doing here before the construction is complete?”
Celeste wanted to hear more about being a witch who collected orphans, but she supposed it was not smart to argue with the marquess who defended her family. Besides, Erran was right. She was too tired to think.
“Lansdowne is attempting to turn the party against me. I need to be here to take him down a notch or five. If you’ve found the documents the Rochesters need, we’re taking him to court.” Complacently, he took a seat in a large upholstered chair. “You will pardon my behavior, Miss Rochester. My leg still aches abominably.”
“Of course, my lord,” she almost whispered before she found her tongue again. “To court, my lord?”
“Yes. It has come to my attention that the earl is a thief and a liar and quite possibly a potential employer of murderous rogues. Erran, you will file the papers in the morning. I can’t prove any of the other, but we can remove the Rochesters as a source of funds and show him to the world as the hog-grubber he is.”
Hog-grubber? She would have smiled, but Erran looked decidedly grim. She thought perhaps this had not been his plan.
“We will discuss it in the morning,” was all he said however. “I’m escorting Miss Rochester to her family. I will be back after we’ve had time to rest.”
Celeste bobbed a half curtsy before she remembered the marquess couldn’t see her. His presence was so striking, she’d almost forgotten his blindness. “Good-night, my lord. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
He snorted rudely.
“You’re in danger of becoming a curmudgeon, Dunc,” Erran warned. Guiding Celeste from the room, he slammed the door so his brother would know they were gone.
“Court?” she whispered. “Why? I thought we only need present the will to the solicitors.”
“Lansdowne has evidently thrown down some personal gauntlet to which Dunc objects. We’ll find out in the morning. He’ll have servants posted at the doors, so you should be safe now. I’ll leave you to your family and see you in the morning.”
He held her hand as if he didn’t wish to let go. Breathless with the agony of releasing him, Celeste merely nodded. Their shared interlude had ended. Reality had returned far too rudely.
Checking the corridor to be certain no one lurked, he bent and placed a kiss on her cheek. Celeste almost begged him to stay—but she could not. Tears forming, she watched him stride toward the back door, evidently to check their security.
He was a good man. And she was in grave danger of loving him and ruining his life.