As had become his custom, Erran entered the town house through the kitchen door early the next morning. The cooks ignored him. Usually Nana or Jamar was around to acknowledge him, but not this time. The one-armed potboy gave him a gap-toothed grin, and the lame little girl looked up from her seat at the table where she peeled potatoes. They looked healthier and better dressed than when they’d first arrived. That was how a fair world should work, and no magic had been involved.
Aster had apparently been by to check on them. The children now had kittens—in their laps and in a basket by the hearth. One tumbled out to investigate his boots before he could reach the stairs. Erran bent to rub the little fellow’s head before preventing it from escaping up the stairs with him.
Pondering the best way of convincing Celeste to the insanity of marrying him to live in poverty in chilly England instead of returning to a plantation in sunny Jamaica, he strode upstairs to enter the chaos only his brothers could create.
Except, this time, Celeste’s family and servants seemed to have joined with Aster’s, and his brothers were more or less sidelined in confusion. Interesting.
Standing in the back of the hallway, Erran crossed his arms, leaned a shoulder against the wall, and simply observed the sublime folly. Aster’s Aunt Daphne stood in the foyer, chanting and waving a lit candle as if directing an orchestra. Aster was reading from what appeared to be one of her family journals, sing-songing her aunt’s chant and sprinkling dried herbs along the newly-built walls enlarging Duncan’s chamber.
He could hear Celeste and her sister in the parlor. He couldn’t detect the words but he could feel . . . prayer . . . in them. That was the only description he could apply. Such celestial voices had the power to make him feel as if he were in church.
He could use a little prayer to help him push the Rochester documents through the medieval maze of Chancery before Lansdowne caught wind of them. Once the papers were filed, the old goat would have to sue Dunc to get his hands on the estate funds.
But even Erran had to admit that ramming the documents through the kingdom’s slowest, most corrupt, court probably wouldn’t happen without supernatural aid. Apparently Celeste and her family had concluded they needed the help of ghosts or the devil. He couldn’t tell. His wearing a fashionable new coat and pleated shirt were as much superstition as chanting, he supposed. They wouldn’t impress the court or sway a judge who already held him in contempt, but they gave him confidence.
Theo and Trevor weren’t looking prayerful. They were wearing disgruntled expressions and waving flaming candles at the ceiling as they roamed from room to room. Erran couldn’t see Jamar or Nana, but he could hear their mellifluous accents intoning along with the others from rooms along the corridor.
He could swear he heard his half-brother Jacques in Duncan’s room, although it was hard to tell over Duncan’s roars. Jacques had been more-or-less squatting in Aster’s London home while hunting for directors for his plays. He would do anything Aster ordered him to do, and Jacques loved a good drama.
All the scene needed was their half-brother William’s dogs and a sacrificial goat.
It wasn’t Iveston or this house that was crazed—it was the whole damned family.
Erran waited until Aster had vanished into the parlor. Hoping Lady McDowell wouldn’t notice him in the shadows, he steeled himself and strode down the hall. In the study he could hear Jamar intone a chant in a language that wasn’t English. The ladies probably couldn’t tell the manservant wasn’t following the program, but Jamar seemed enthusiastically involved in whatever in hell was happening. Erran pushed open the door to Duncan’s bedchamber.
“You’ve brought me to a nest of Bedlamites,” Ashford shouted at the sound of the opening door.
“I didn’t bring you here,” Erran retorted, studying the situation.
Jacques was seated cross-legged in the center of the massive bed, presumably where Duncan couldn’t whack him with his walking stick. His blond half-brother held a candle and read incantations from a script, ignoring Ashford’s ire.
“I was the one who recommended that you wait until I had removed the Rochesters to better accommodations,” Erran reminded him.
Ashford was pacing the room, using his stick to fend off objects in his way. “If you’re coming in here with more prattle about protective charms and enhancing the power of the ley lines, you can walk right out again.”
“Do you happen to know what set them off?” Erran removed a tea tray before it fell victim to Ashford’s counting of steps—his means of determining his location.
“Damned if I know,” the irritable marquess growled. “No one tells me anything. I thought something must have happened at Theo’s dinner last evening.”
Erran thought about it. “I can’t recall anything that would require protective charms. I told Theo I was taking the Rochester documents into the city today. Miss Rochester’s half-sister was present, but I don’t think they exchanged half a dozen words. Perhaps the spirits spoke to them,” he said jestingly, although unease crept down his spine recalling the odd atmosphere of Wystan. Could he dismiss the possibility of spirits without scientific investigation?
Duncan waved a cantankerous dismissal. “Where are those contractors? Shouldn’t they be finishing that wall?”
“It’s early yet. They should be here shortly. Does Jones approve of his new chamber?” Erran looked for the valet but the man had apparently gone into hiding.
“He’s out choosing wallpapers,” Duncan complained. “He’ll be gilding the ceiling if you don’t take him in hand. Jacques, will you shut up the infernal incantations so we can hear ourselves think!”
As if the spirits had spoken, the entire household grew silent. Jacques crumpled up the paper he’d been reading from and grinned. “Oh, yes, my lord and master. I can feel the power now. I shall sell this play and make my fortune!”
“Balderdash. You’d sell it faster if you were actually talking to people who could buy it and not witches who think they can pull power from the earth. Go find out if anyone is fixing my coffee.” Duncan smacked his stick against a bedpost.
“Aster says we’re witches too,” Jacques chortled as he sprang from the bed. “Or maybe sorcerers. I could use a little magic power. So could both of you.” He strode off, whistling.
“The hell of it is, I think she may be right,” Erran muttered, straddling a chair and prying out that admission for public humiliation. “And I think your Wystan property is haunted.”
Ashford waved a dismissive hand. “Unless we can summon demons or angels to win this vote, I don’t care if we’re Merlin’s descendants. Just get the Bedlamites out of sight before my guests start arriving. I’m holding a party meeting this afternoon.”
Erran grimaced at Ashford’s complete dismissal of his deepest, darkest secret. So much for thinking he had any importance. “ There’s the key to their ritual, lunkhead,” he retorted. “The women have a lot riding on the election, and they’re no doubt hoping to cast a spell of good fortune on you. You brought the fol-de-rol on yourself.”
Duncan glared sightlessly at Erran. “Take your damned papers to court. Crucify Lansdowne and his cronies. That will help more than singing hymns.”
“If you think they’re singing hymns, you either need a physician to check your ears or you need a woman of your own to remind you of what they’re like, old boy. I recommend the latter. You don’t need eyes to bed them,” Erran suggested cynically. “But I’d wait until we’ve moved out the Rochesters before you start trotting light-skirts through here.”
He escaped before the book Duncan threw slammed into the door. The blind man was getting too damned accurate in his aim.
Erran wasn’t entirely certain why he’d stopped by. He should have gone straight from Pascoe’s house to the city, but he’d been up early and had the time and . . . he wanted to start his day by seeing Celeste. He found her in the front room with her family, all of them talking at once.
“I’ll have Emilia look at the garden once the workmen are gone,” Lady McDowell was saying as Erran entered. “The rowan bush is still alive, at least. I think if you place a few twigs in the corners of the house, you’ve done all you can. Your servants have a very powerful magic. I could feel the difference.”
“I should speak to them before they return to their duties,” Celeste said, catching Erran’s eye and crossing the room toward him.
“Yes, of course,” Aster said, although she smiled knowingly. “And be sure to tell Lord Erran that his mission has been enhanced to the best of our abilities.”
He bowed silently, refusing to rise to her bait. “Good morning, ladies. I believe I saw Jamar in the study. I need a word with him also. Shall we greet him together?” He offered his arm and was rewarded with Celeste’s ungloved hand on his sleeve and her floral scent easing his confusion.
He wanted her with every ounce of his body. He seldom craved anything the way he craved Celeste. He would concentrate on how to have her—except he was still uncertain that she wanted him. Not in the way he needed her—permanently.
He terrified himself thinking like that. Maybe he’d been infected by Wystan’s spirits.
“Has there been more trouble?” he asked, rather than make a declaration he had no right to make.
“Nothing new. I have been recruited as hostess for your brother’s meeting this afternoon, but that apparently means no more than greeting and offering refreshments and disappearing.” She didn’t sound worried by the task.
“Use your calming influence when Dunc starts bellowing,” Erran suggested with a smile. “I think it works on him.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “You don’t think that’s unfair of me?”
“I think creating calm is a good thing. It’s riot that I worry about.” At least Celeste would listen to his weird concerns, even if no one else believed him.
“I promise to create no riots,” she agreed, looking relieved. “But your brother does need a calming influence. I shall see what I can do, now that I understand the importance of the legislation he wishes to pass.”
“Keep that in mind when he roars the plaster off the ceiling. I expect to spend most of the day in the city, so I cannot come to the rescue. For that, I apologize.” He bowed over her hand and left her in Jamar’s capable care.
There were far too many people around to even dare a kiss.
***
As the day progressed, Celeste thought of a dozen different things she should have said to Erran when she’d had him so briefly alone. She should have wished him safety, above all. He held papers the earl might kill him for. But with luck, their father’s cousin did not know they’d found the will. The troubles would come once Erran filed the papers and reclaimed their inheritance. How long would that take? And in what form would it come? Lansdowne had shown a nasty predilection for sneakiness.
She couldn’t settle down while considering what might happen. She’d all but given up sewing. Nana and Sylvia turned out several shirts a day, just to keep occupied. Still, they were living off the marquess’s largesse—or his rent, as his family called it. She didn’t know how long that would continue.
They could scrape by on the shirt income should the inheritance case last for years, but she could not bear worrying about the servants at home living in danger. And scraping by wouldn’t put Trevor through school or bring out Sylvia. She had to pray Erran could overcome the powerful earl’s objections and put an end to this purgatory.
So she helped the Malcolm ladies rejuvenate the front parlor where the marquess would entertain his guests. She descended to the kitchen to ask for special treats for the company—and to hug the youngest members of the staff and play with the kittens.
Just thinking of what those children had been through put Ashford’s irascible demands in perspective. She thought he needed to physically vent his frustration over his limitations, so she tried not to take his curses too seriously. If he could improve the working conditions of laborers and give slaves their freedom, then she needed to support him and his family in any way she could.
She rather liked the idea of being useful.
The first of Ashford’s invited guests had been led to the front parlor when the potboy came racing up the backstairs shouting in distress.
“Jamar! They have taken Mr. Jamar!”