Chapter 2

“I trust you sent a servant for those books,” Bridey said in disapproval, eyeing her very-pregnant cousin’s stack of ancient tomes. “You know you are not to take the stairs at this late stage.”

Lady Aster patted the books on the table beside her charts. Short and already well-rounded, she carried her babe well. “Servants cannot find what I need. But I do send them up the ladders for me.”

Aster’s sister-in-law, Celeste Ives, laughed musically. Still remarkably slender for being in her eighth month, she worked on stitching baby clothes. “While Aster is training servants, she should train librarians,” she suggested.

“First, we would have to teach her workhouse castoffs to read,” Bridey corrected in frustration. “And then, we would have to teach them Latin because most of the earlier volumes were written by true scholars. Better that we simply hire a real librarian.”

“How many female librarians do you know?” Aster asked, consulting one of her books before sketching on her current work. “Inviting men here is asking for disaster.”

“Well, I would not exactly say disaster,” Celeste said, touching her belly. “I rather enjoyed having Erran here, and I cannot complain of the result.”

“This tower is teeming with old souls waiting for conception,” Bridey admonished, pouring tea and settling into a chair to keep an eye on her patients. She enjoyed these odd cozes with women who understood her abilities. “Bringing unmarried men here is dangerous. I hope our latest arrival brought his wife.”

“Pascoe?” Aster looked up from her work with a gleam in her eye. “I am working on his chart now. His stars are unbelievably focused, but he hides behind many disguises. Fascinating man. He was widowed a few years back, so no, he isn’t married. But he hasn’t been able to keep a nanny, and he’s hoping to dump the twins on us.”

Widowed. Bridey fought a shiver of apprehension. They needed to remove him from the household at the earliest possible moment. Not that she had to worry about conception, but the tower castle also teemed with young female servants.

“He’s still carrying Ashford’s sword stick,” Celeste said with amusement. “They bicker over it every time I see them together. What is the story behind that?”

Aster shrugged. “Typical Ives behavior. I believe the stick originally belonged to the first marquess, Pascoe’s father. There is a difference of opinion as to which son he gave it to, the eldest or youngest. And of course, since Pascoe is illegitimate, there is a question as to whether he should have it at all, or if it should have stayed with the estate. Ives bicker, antagonize, and annoy just because they’re men. There is no real rancor because they’re all too busy to be bothered over inconsequential details.”

“A sword stick would be a very convenient weapon,” Bridey said, pondering this overflow of information. Since she no longer had any interest in men or their foibles, she shouldn’t care who the bastard was, but his children worried her. “What does he do that requires a sword?”

“Theoretically, Pascoe works in transporting goods, but mostly, that means he acts as the king’s envoy in difficult domestic situations. I shouldn’t think in this day and age there would be any need for concealed weapons like the sword stick. It is just an affectation, like his monocle.” Aster finally put her pen down and sipped her tea. “Which leads one to wonder why he is here. He did not say.”

“I assumed Pascoe was simply passing through. Erran is due to arrive any day and would carry any message from the marquess.” Celeste looked up with sudden concern. “Surely, if my husband is to be delayed, Ashford wouldn’t need to send his uncle to tell us.”

“Nothing would delay Erran from seeing his son arrive,” Aster said reassuringly. “But Pascoe may be carrying messages about this summer’s election to my father in Scotland.”

Bridey was fascinated by her London relations and their city lives, but their politics caused her to yawn. She was more disturbed at the thought of a roving king’s envoy when her brother was on the brink of leading rebellion. Even if Pascoe was heading to Scotland, Northbridge would be not far out of his way.

“Why can he not keep a nanny?” she asked out of curiosity. “Surely you have access to women eager for employment?”

Aster and her aunts saved women and children from workhouses and trained them as household help, but they also had access to lists of more educated, impoverished women needing employment as governesses and companions.

Her cousin wrinkled her nose in puzzlement. “I’ve never been sure. The twins are active, of course, but they’ve always seemed charming and well-behaved to me. Pascoe keeps his Scorpio intensity well controlled, so I cannot imagine he mistreats his servants, even on those few instances when he’s actually home.”

“And the servants do tend to leave while he’s away,” Celeste pointed out. “Perhaps the twins misbehave when they know he’s not home.”

“His aura is unusual,” Bridey offered with a moment’s hesitation. She could not talk of her gift with the villagers—or even with her late husband. But if witches existed, her cousins were far more witchy than she. “He possesses all the brilliant and intense shades of red with very little of the murky ones. There are hints of anger and dishonesty, but no more than I’ve seen in a child having a tantrum or stealing a cookie. I’d say he has a hint of clairaudience or some other perception most people do not display.”

Aster beamed and pointed at a place on her chart. “I thought so! He’s a more direct descendant of Lady Ninian than Theo and his brothers. They were not brought up to appreciate their Malcolm intuitions.”

“What do your charts say of the twins?” Bridey asked. “Their auras are also unusual. Many children are surrounded by white light because their aura energies are not fully formed, but the twins show a thin streak of violet. I would say they’re much too young to be displaying a spiritual nature. The only explanation I know would be clairvoyance.”

Aster’s eyes widened with interest. “I had not thought to do much with their charts since they are so young. But clairvoyance. . .”

She started to rise. Bridey pointed her back to her seat. “Tell me which books you need and I will fetch them.”

Aster frowned. “I do not know exactly. I sense which ones I need. I’m new to the Ives family. I know nothing of Pascoe’s late wife. I hadn’t heard that she was a Malcolm, but others besides us have intuitive talents. They just haven’t been trained to use them as we have and seldom keep journals, so I can’t expect to find anything about his marriage. And if his wife wasn’t Malcolm. . . There may be nothing to look up.”

“Someone needs to learn more about the children,” Celeste said, frowning with concern. “If they are true sensitives, they need aid in understanding their abilities so they do not feel like oddities when they grow up.”

Both Celeste and Aster turned to Bridey. Almost panicking at the idea of accepting the responsibility for children, she held up her hands in refusal. “It is not my place to determine their gifts. I’ve told you all I know. Read your charts and find him a suitable wife or listen to their voices or whatever it is you do.”

“They hardly ever speak that I’ve heard,” Celeste said, wrinkling up her nose in thought. “But I’ve not seen them often, admittedly.”

“They spoke clearly to me,” Bridey said without thinking, then mentally slapped herself when both women studied her with interest. She was living her own life from henceforth, not taking on the burdens of others. “They ran away from their father and were looking for someone. I didn’t see or hear anything unusual except their auras, which as I said, aren’t fully formed. How old are they?”

“Three, maybe four now. I’ll have the dates at home but I need the library—”

On familiar ground now, Bridey responded firmly. “Absolutely not. And from what you say, it seems unlikely that the library has much from the Ives branch of the family. After I dress for dinner, I will find some of your family’s journals from three or four years ago to see if the twins are mentioned.” Finishing her tea, Bridey rose, glad of a task to keep her occupied.

She was accustomed to being busy all day and half the night. She didn’t know what to do with herself while waiting for her cousins to give birth.

Unless she wished to return to her grandfather’s cottage with her brother and the elderly servants who had been pensioned there, she must find a place in this household. She could afford nothing better of her own. She had hoped Aster would permit her to start her midwifery school here, but until she had the funding. . .

Perhaps she could learn to be a librarian for a family of witches.

After what she’d been through, the notion gave her a wicked thrill.

“Sir.” The little nursemaid hurried toward Pascoe.

On his way to change clothes before dinner, Pascoe grimaced and waited. He knew precisely what the maid had to say, and prepared his customary response.

“The children,” she said nervously, “they have vanished. They were napping, and I stepped out for just a moment. . . .”

“Yes, they do that,” he said with studied boredom. Nursemaids tended to panic and weep, and he’d prefer not to lose any more of them. “They’ll turn up sooner or later, when they are hungry. See that they are not annoying anyone else, please.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment, but a quick student, she bobbed a curtsy and hurried off.

Pascoe glanced toward the Frost Queen’s door. He heard no childish laughter or voices from that direction. The brats might possibly have done something normal like annoying Theo in the tower or hiding under beds. He knew they had not.

Perhaps he should find them a noisy dog that would bark wherever they were. Putting bells on their clothing had not worked. They simply removed their clothes.

They were completely fearless, needing no one but each other. And since infantine minds knew no restrictions, their explorations were often hair-raisingly perilous.

With a sense of foreboding, he continued down the stairs toward his room, hoping they’d gone in search of him as usual, although how they’d know where he’d be was a mystery.

His quarters were in a series of small chambers across from the billiard room on the ground floor. Apparently unattached males were not allowed to stay in the upper stories. The billiard room was one of the few male retreats in the entire accursed castle, Theo had informed him. Built in simpler times, the Wystan tower was easy to navigate, if one did not mind walking through one chamber to the next. He had to pass through the immense library to access the billiard room.

If he had his preference, he’d be on his horse and headed out tonight, but the knowledge that the Carstairs countess was under this roof held him back. And think of the devil. . .

A regal female voice spoke from the library. “Yes, if you will climb up one more rung to reach the next shelf and fetch down the last two books on the right. . .”

Pascoe grimaced. Of course the children hadn’t sought him. They’d sought the countess.

Wishing he had his walking stick to keep his hands occupied, he shoved one fist in his pocket, sloped his shoulders into a less intimidating stance, and sauntered in as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Sturdy Edward was perched precariously at the top of a long ladder, counting books and removing them per instructions. Delicate, like her mother, Emma flipped the pages of books scattered about the table with small fingers that could barely hold the heavy tomes.

Pascoe’s heart lodged in his throat as he watched his only son scramble down the ladder with books under his short arms. He knew in his head that the child was a little monkey and was as safe as he’d ever be, but every protective instinct in his body screamed in fury.

While he bit his tongue until it should have bled, he absorbed the puzzlement of not quite four-year olds performing any of these feats. Four years old! They should not even read yet.

He dragged his gaze to the thoughtless female perpetrating this outrage.

The countess sat in all her royal glory—purple satin billowing sleeves and gold waist sash and a gold filigree collar that did not completely conceal the plump mounds of her breasts. She was dressed for dinner but perusing dusty tomes with a lace handkerchief in hand.

She had to know he was standing there. She deliberately ignored him.

The children did not. They looked up with bright, eager eyes the instant he stepped into the room. “Edward, Emma, you have worried your nursemaid. You should tell her where you are going.” If the countess could be rude, so could he. He’d been on the receiving end of rude the better part of his life.

The twins’ dark curls bobbed obligingly. They continued their tasks.

“If you wish your supper, you will go upstairs right now and apologize to Miss Mary,” he insisted. They were generally obedient. His temper was for the woman encouraging them to disobey.

Emma wrinkled her little brow and tilted her head as if listening to angelic voices from on high. Edward deposited his books on the table and scampered back up the ladder.

“Mama says books are important,” Emma finally said, concentrating on finding the page she was looking for.

Mama says? What the devil did that mean? Could they remember what Lily had told them as babes? Impossible. But his daughter had spoken to him—again, in the presence of the countess.

“Edward, Emma,” the lady said with quiet warning, “your mama doesn’t mean for you to be disobedient. Books are important, but it is also important to be respectful of others.”

Beneath identical dark curls, both angelic faces puckered in identical frowns.

Pascoe loved and adored his children, but they were a complete puzzlement to him. He’d once thought children were simple creatures to be trained like dogs or ponies until they were sufficiently civilized to be let out of the nursery.

That they were not simple was just becoming clear to him.

“You shouldn’t encourage their nonsense,” he insisted.

The countess ignored his reprimand but watched the children with expectation.

They finally set down their tasks, made a polite curtsy and bow, and trotted past him to run up the stairs like the pair of scamps he knew them to be.

That left him stranded with the angry widow, who would not even acknowledge his presence. Although he often strove to hide the fact, he was an Ives. He enjoyed a good challenge as much as the rest of his obstreperous family.

The countess was part of the key to unlocking the difficult situation he’d been handed. Many women worked at being useless trivialities, but he was fairly certain this one had live matter inside her brain pan. Chilly live matter, perhaps, but he would try to be open-minded.

“My children have an odd affinity for you,” he said, leaning his shoulder against the door jamb. It wasn’t as if they’d been introduced. “I don’t suppose you would be a governess, would you?”

“Do I look like a governess?” she asked, not looking up from the tome she was poring over.

“I try to keep an open mind,” he said with wicked delight, recalling his resolve to do so. “I’m Aaron Pascoe-Ives, commonly referred to as Pascoe to avoid confusing me with the more legitimate branch of the family.” And because Mr. Ives was too confusing and tedious and the reason he wished a Sir added to the name. Pascoe was his mother’s surname and what his family called him.

“I am working on a task for Lady Aster. Is there something you need?”

“Need?” he asked with deviltry, raising his monocle. If she did not introduce herself, he did not have to acknowledge her with the respect due a peer of the realm. “I need a woman, a mother for my children. I need wealth and title. I need land. I need the answer to the mysteries of the universe. If you’d like to take on any of those tasks. . .”

“No, thank you,” she said coolly. “I believe God is to be found inside the chapel at the front of the house. I bid you good luck in finding Him.”

Did he have time to crack her hard shell? Or should he forget her and ride on to Northbridge? Dealing with a half-wit earl might be simpler, despite Pascoe’s fascination with the countess. “Ah well, I prefer to leave larger matters in the hands of providence and take on smaller ones on my own. Shall I see you at dinner?”

“Not completely,” was her enigmatic reply.