“Pascoe and Lochmas have discovered Lansdowne has sold his vote and his pocket boroughs to a group of investors willing to loan him enough to cover part of his more pressing debts,” Ashford said bitingly.
Workmen hammered and nailed next to the downstairs study, creating new chambers in the back of the house. Sitting at the ancient desk in his appropriated office, the marquess almost looked like his old self. Almost. The scar on his brow, Erran observed, had lost some of its raw redness, and the blind eyes didn’t focus with the intensity they once had. But his oldest brother could snarl with the best of them.
How could he explain why he didn’t wish to take Lansdowne to court? He couldn’t tell Duncan that he would inevitably lose his temper, bellow his fury, and be thrown from every courtroom in the kingdom. With a little time, however, the Rochester issue could be resolved with appropriate threats and posturing without need of a courtroom.
Erran stretched out his legs and glared at his boots. “Still no proof that Lansdowne is behind the thugs who have been harassing the Rochesters? Or that he’s working with your not-so-charming neighbors causing rural riots? I’d like to keep this civil and settle out of court, if at all possible.” Dunc would laugh himself into a fit if he knew Erran feared turning a staid courtroom into a riot. Or worse.
“I have no proof other than that Montfort and Caldwell are siding with Lansdowne and the Tories. The hands of time can’t be turned back, industry can’t be halted, but they’re fighting anything that resembles change.” Ashford bounced a ball between his hands, successfully catching it despite being unable to see it. “If Montfort had his way, steam engines would be banned as the work of the devil, and we should go back to knights in shining armor—the good old days when the peasants knew their place.”
“Lansdowne is more progressive than that. Politics makes strange bedfellows. That still doesn’t persuade me,” Erran argued.
“Lansdowne is a bully. He is too deeply in debt to settle for anything less than complete control of a very valuable asset when he sees the Rochesters as weak and unable to put up a fight,” Ashford continued. “He is currently smearing Miss Rochester’s name across town and is hinting that Lord Rochester is too dark to be English. That won’t stop the court from deciding on the basis of the will, but it will influence solicitors. Try to settle, if you want, but proceed as if it won’t happen.”
Erran ground his molars. “Then we need to trot the Rochesters around town, introduce them as your wards, let Aster’s family dote on them, and snub our noses at the old hedge pig.”
Duncan snorted in amusement. “Or paint hedge pig on his door. The ladies will sort all that out, but they cannot fight the legalities. If there is any chance that Lansdowne can sell the plantation and its inhabitants, he will. I will not have people sold into slavery on my watch.”
And there was the greatest fear—the Rochesters’ servants could be sold and gone by the time Erran attempted settlements and moved on to courtrooms. Jamar had said the tenants and servants had gone into hiding, but that couldn’t last forever. They needed food and housing, and they were deep into hurricane season. Anything could be happening to them right now. Any delay would worsen the odds.
“I’ll get it done,” Erran said heavily, pushing out of his chair. “We haven’t had time to refurbish the house for entertaining. How will Zack work around you if you set up court in here?”
“Aster is working her magic in the front room. I can dictate letters anywhere I can sit. Not your concern. Take those documents and file them and start establishing the Rochesters’ authority over their own damned property. If Lansdowne won’t work for us, we’ll leave him juggling so many debts that he won’t have the ability to work against us.” Duncan waved a dismissive hand in the direction of the door.
“The late baron’s will left Miss Celeste as the guardian of her siblings until they come of age,” Erran warned. “An English court isn’t likely to accept that. Lansdowne will claim guardianship. I’ll prepare documents for you to sign accepting them as your wards.”
“At least I’m good for something,” the marquess said bleakly. “Go, do what you must.”
What he must and what he wanted were rapidly diverging. With a black cloud of doom hanging over his head, Erran headed for the front parlor, hoping for a glimpse of Celeste before he rode into the city. Should he woo her or leave her alone?
A woman wanted to be wooed, he thought. But what did he have to offer? He knew he was smart and could eventually earn his way in the patent business, if not as a barrister. But he was years from offering her the kind of wealth she deserved. She really needed an opportunity to meet men with titles and land before he tried to tie her down. That she hadn’t responded to his proposal said she felt the same.
She wanted to return to Jamaica.
He was normally a cautious man. Erran didn’t know how he’d plunged into this predicament. He’d like to believe in magic just to excuse his inexcusable behavior.
Celeste and Lady Aster had their heads together over a selection of fabrics in the salon. They looked up at his entrance, and his sister-in-law spoke to him, but all he saw was the worry in Celeste’s eyes.
“I am going to file your documents with the court,” he said after Aster’s nattering quieted. “Don’t go anywhere without strong servants. Better yet, don’t go anywhere.”
“If you were paying any attention at all,” Aster scolded, “you would know I am having a dinner tonight to introduce Celeste to a few friends. We have invitations to my Aunt Daphne’s soiree tomorrow. Celeste cannot stay home. You will simply have to come with her.”
Go with them and act the part of polite but distant escort and pretend he hadn’t spent the best nights of his life in her bed . . . Why didn’t he just strangle himself?
He bowed. “Your wish is my command. I shall see you this evening, then.”
“Please be careful, my lord,” Celeste said, as if her voice could wrap him in a protective bubble.
He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had expressed concern for his safety. Her casual comment struck a chord deep inside him.
He was about to file the papers that would give her the freedom to marry anyone in the kingdom or to return her to the other side of the world. That had been his goal from the start—remove her from the Ives townhouse so his family could return.
And he didn’t want to do it.
He’d always been the peacemaking brother. But right now, he wanted to sling arrows and have fits of fury like Duncan, then get down on his knees and plead for Celeste to wait until he’d made his fortune.
Stiffening his spine, he marched out to the combat zone.
***
“You look beautiful, Cee,” Sylvia said wistfully, straightening a sash on Celeste’s new dinner gown. “Everyone will love you.”
Celeste frowned at the looking glass, studying the effect of expensive fabric, excellent dressmaking, and a coiffure arranged by one of Lady Aster’s maid trainees. Out of respect for her father, she hadn’t wanted to wear bright colors, but those were the only ones she liked. It hadn’t taken much persuasion for Aster to convince her that a simple cream and gold silk was sufficiently respectful.
She wouldn’t know how she looked until Erran saw her. She was no judge of London tastes. She saw a tall, thin woman with boring brown hair, un-English tanned skin, a too-long neck, and a nose a trifle too prominent. She’d seldom wasted time over her looks before, but now they seemed crucial to making a positive appearance in aristocratic English society.
“You will sweep all the gentlemen off their feet when you make your come-out, Syllie, and you know it. So give me a chance first.” Using the childhood nickname to reassure her sister, Celeste pressed a kiss on her cheek.
“If only I could believe it will happen,” Sylvia said with a sigh. “The world may blow away before next year.”
“Well, in that case, it will hardly matter if you meet gentlemen, for they will all be dead,” Celeste countered pragmatically. “Matters are out of our hands now. All we can do is enjoy each day as it comes and hope for the best. What was Iveston like? Did you have a chance to wear your new gowns?”
Apparently accompanying her family to London had given the marquess incentive to leave the protective walls of his manor, from what she’d been able to determine. If a carriage was required for Sylvia and Nana, then Ashford could escort them in the carriage and salvage his masculine pride. His custom previously had been to gallop into town on his stallion, which he could no longer do.
It was good that they could be of assistance, she thought. She’d reserve her opinion until she learned how obnoxious the marquess intended to be now that he was installed downstairs.
Celeste studied her meager jewelry box and decided on her childhood pearls. She fastened the earrings while watching her sister in the glass.
Sylvia laughed. “Iveston was like living in a zoo with horses and dogs and sheep and goats. Trev rode out with a group of boys every day, so he was happy. But there are no women there, except a few maids and Lady Aster. We scoured the library for Malcolm journals and measured windows for new draperies. It was interesting, but I expected the home of a marquess to be more elegant.”
“Well, you saw this place, so you shouldn’t have expected better. Men take little interest in their surroundings, and it does seem to be an all-male household.” Although Erran had been quick to note improvements needed here, but as a younger son, he didn’t have the authority to change his brothers’ careless ways. She thought he might be different from his brothers, given the chance.
That gave her something pleasant to think about when the carriage arrived. She was relieved to see that Erran accompanied it.
The marquess had retreated to his own quarters after the carpenters left for the day, leaving Jamar guarding the front door. Entering through the foyer, Erran doffed his hat and watched her descend the stairs, but he revealed nothing of his thoughts. Celeste was left hoping that was admiration in his eyes when he offered his gloved hand to assist her on the last step.
“I knew that gown would look excellent on you,” he murmured as he lifted her hand to his lips. In front of Jamar, he could scarcely do more.
He stirred everything in her that was female. With Erran’s approving gaze on her, she felt as if her breasts might actually be the perfect size, and that her height was ideal. None of that ought to matter, but somehow, it did. She lowered her lashes so he couldn’t see the longing there, but her gown was so revealing, she feared he could see her breath catch.
“The gown does what it must,” she admitted, trying to sound as casual as he. “The problem is in knowing what I must be to achieve the approval we seek.”
He quirked his dark eyebrows, showing he understood. “Aster and Theo will only invite sympathetic guests. Their friends are scientists and intellectuals who will be intensely curious about your home, the charities you mean to support, and your politics. Try being yourself and see if I am not right.”
“If only I could believe it so,” she murmured. But so much rode on her making an impression that she didn’t think she could do it, even if she knew who she was, which she didn’t, really. It had been so long since she’d not had to disguise herself!
Erran knew the real her. He appeared to like her without need of her charm—which enthralled her far more than it should. She had little hope that he would follow her to Jamaica.
“Do you have additional footmen to send with us?” Erran turned to Jamar, obviously more interested in practicalities than the state of her foolish heart.
“Two who claim they can use pistols,” Jamar replied. “Or I can ride on the outside.”
“No, you need to be here with the others. The driver has pistols. We’ll station one with him and the other in back. I don’t expect trouble tonight. It’s too soon. I just prefer to be cautious.” Erran placed Celeste’s hand on his arm. “I apologize for such harsh talk, but I wish you to be prepared as well. I don’t think you will become missish on me, will you?”
“I think I shall,” she said vaguely, producing a fan and flapping it to conceal her expression. “It is the only way to go about in society, isn’t it?”
“Not in Malcolm society,” he said with a laugh.
She swallowed, wondering if she could believe that, if she dared drop her deceptive charm and be herself.
Her maid brought her pelisse and Erran helped her don it. Then they were on their way to Celeste’s first formal London event. She took comfort in Erran’s assurance that her hostess would not invite anyone who would scorn her—unless one counted Celeste’s own half-sister. The Guilfords had been invited.
Erran’s prediction proved correct. Lady Aster and Lord Theo’s guests asked politely after the marquess, then proceeded to quiz her on her own interests. Her half-sister Charlotte and her husband looked a little rural and out of place, but they were treated with the same respect as Celeste. In return, they barely said a word.
Celeste answered questions as honestly as she could, refraining from using her Other Voice, and no one appeared to object to her sometimes sharp observations.
“I feel horribly uneducated,” she whispered to Erran as the evening progressed. “Everyone here has such fascinating interests! I sew and cook and keep house. I take it those are not done here?”
“You need only look beautiful and nod intelligently and they will be thrilled to make your acquaintance. You are doing just fine.” He squeezed her hand beneath the table
After dinner, Celeste listened to the other ladies, spoke of her interest in Aster’s charities, and did her best to blend in with the beautifully exotic withdrawing room. Lady Aster’s tastes in decor reflected her eccentric interests, resulting in a London room that resembled an Indian jungle dotted with stars and moons and cats.
When the men joined the women later, the conversation took a more treacherous turn.
“The reports make preposterous claims that some female demon lured the mill workers out, then entranced them into making impossible demands,” Celeste heard one of the political types say. “Superstitious rural sorts don’t look for logical explanations, of course, but it is unusual for women to stand up for themselves.”
Several of the lady guests raised objections to that assessment. Clenching her teeth in fear as well as in angry protest, Celeste let them speak for her. She really had not thought of repercussions when she’d demanded that poor mother be taken home. Although she would probably have done the same, even if she’d known the gossip would run straight to London.
Erran strolled over to stand behind her chair. She was grateful for his presence, but she had to learn to do this on her own—if only she knew what “this” was.
“The workers can’t possibly win against the mill owners,” one of the men argued. “They will all starve.”
“Or start a revolution,” another man warned.
“What do you think, Miss Rochester?” one of the women asked. “You are familiar with slavery. Would you say that the mill conditions are any different?”
“I have only ever seen one mill,” she said, choosing her words with care. Erran had said to be herself with these people. That meant not sweet talking them into hearing what she wanted them to hear, or relaxing into the comfortable mood she might weave around them. “But if all mills are similar, then I would have to say that many slaves are treated better, though not all, certainly. Slaves are valuable property, so working them to death or deformity is a foolish waste. Whereas the mill workers are apparently expendable. That, alone, makes a difference, although not a moral one. People are people and all should be treated with respect.”
She held her breath, waiting for tempers to explode and people to turn their backs on her. Instead, they dived into a much deeper discussion about the ills of slavery, the need for labor reform, and the economic advantages of income equality. Her head swam with the topics springing up around her.
Erran squeezed her shoulder and moved into the crowd.
“That was very nicely said,” one intimidating lady said. “I wonder if you might speak at my salon someday? There is a bill being prepared to abolish all slavery on British soil, and you might sway a few influential people.”
“I . . . Yes, of course,” Celeste said, wondering if these people had heard the rumors the earl was spreading about her and didn’t care, or if they hadn’t heard.
“You will be attending the McDowell soiree tomorrow night, won’t you?” a young gentleman asked. “I look forward to introducing you to a few people who will be delighted to meet a new face in town. We can look forward to a number of balls once the rest of Parliament returns for the vote. I will score a feather in my cap for knowing you first.”
“Yes, I’m looking forward to meeting new people,” Celeste agreed faintly.
She glanced at her half-sister and waited for Charlotte to repeat the earl’s rumor about her being a bastard, but the Guilfords had cornered a gentleman who might press their ambitions in government and scarcely acknowledged her existence.
She’d survived her entrance into London society—but she had still done it with Erran’s aid. Somehow, she had to learn to do it on her own. If she had learned nothing else this past year, it was that she could not always rely on others.
She needed to be in full control of her fate before she made any decisions.