Whisper of Magic (33 page)

“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!”

Stretching the limits of his patience, Erran reached into
his purse of coins and produced a silver one to wave below the clerk’s nose. “I
have told you, this matter is of great urgency to the marquess. It is a matter
of life and death and could affect the entire ministry! I must have the judge’s
signature
now
.”

He had known he’d set himself an impossible task—but he
couldn’t bear the idea of dragging Celeste into a courtroom setting where
Lansdowne’s lawyers would smear her name. Such a case could drag on for years.

He had this one chance, and this one chance only, to drive
the baron’s will through Chancery before Lansdowne heard about it. Once the
will and the guardianship papers were filed—the banks would accept them.
Lansdowne would have to be the one to file suit.

Today wouldn’t end the conflict. It would just turn the
tables. Establishing an executorship should be a simple thing—but not in this
pathetic excuse for a court.

Erran kept his voice regulated, but he could feel his fury
boiling—which only served to increase his frustration. All his life he’d done
his absolute damned best to play the part of noble, responsible gentleman—and
no one noticed or even cared.

While Lansdowne lied, cheated, and stole with impunity and
no one stopped him. Justice was a damned elusive concept.

“His Honor is otherwise engaged, my lord,” the obsequious
clerk responded, managing to palm the silver despite his refusal to expedite
matters. “I will see that he knows you are waiting.”

“I have
been
waiting these last three hours. You are the fourth clerk whose palm I’ve
greased, and I’ll not be pawned off on another. All I need is a bloody
signature
.” He’d drawn up all the papers
necessary for Celeste to control her portion and be appointed executor for the
estate. He had Ashford’s signature agreeing to take her siblings as his wards
because a judge would never deem a woman capable of caring for her own damned
family.

All he needed was a signature from the court approving the
documents so they might be filed with the will. And the bloody damned judge
he’d bribed his way in to see had wandered off to tup
his mistress. So now Erran was on a mission to corner another judge.

“His Honor is in court, my lord,” the clerk said
apologetically, nearly cringing from Erran’s suppressed fury. “I will send you
to him as soon as—”

“My lord, my lord! Over here, my lord!” a boy’s voice cried.
“It’s Jamar. They’ve taken Jamar!”

What?

Erran whirled around to gaze over the sea of faces in the
crowded waiting room. In the doorway, a bailiff held a small boy by the back of
his coat. The boy kicked and screamed and increased his cries when Erran looked
his way—
a one-armed
boy.

“Sir, please! Miss Celeste says help!”

“Put that boy down,” Erran thundered in his Courtroom Voice,
not giving it a second thought.

The guard dropped the boy. Every parent with a son in the
room did the same, although more gently. An infant began wailing.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Erran muttered. He needed to phrase
his bellows better. “Tommy, make your way here, if you please,” he said in a
more moderate tone. “Explain yourself.”

Although the boy’s terrified cry had been explanatory
enough. Erran simply needed a moment to cool his fury and panic.

“The lads from the tavern, sir . . .” the
potboy said, gasping for breath. “They came to the kitchen looking for Mr.
Trevor, said three big sailors carried off Mr. Jamar when he went to the
market. Miss Celeste is crying. Mr. Trevor has gone off to find him.”

Erran put a steadying hand on the weeping boy’s shoulder,
trying to calm himself as much as the boy. “You did brilliantly, Tommy, thank
you. Are any of the lads out there now?”

Tommy hiccuped and nodded. “They showed me where to go.”

Aware that the entire room was following this drama with
fascination, Erran shoved his fury deep inside and feigned a composed demeanor.
Thank goodness the boy hadn’t used Trevor’s correct title or the fascination
factor would escalate given what he was here to do. “Wait for me on the steps.
I’ll be right out.”

Sniffing, wiping his nose on his sleeve, Tommy nodded in
relief and hurried out, past the bailiffs who had stopped him earlier.

“I have told you the matter was urgent,” Erran said to the
clerk in his most patient voice. “And now a respectable gentleman has been
kidnapped and abused by a gang of thugs under the pretense of legality. These
papers will end that pretense.” Erran slapped the documents against the desk,
his voice deliberately rising as he carefully framed the words. “I will see the
judge, and I
will
see him now!”

Erran’s forceful tone carried only as far as the clerk—who
went wide-eyed as the papers
rose off the
desk.

He’d
levitated
papers—probably out of suppressed frustration. He’d probably be burned at the
stake if anyone believed it, but they wouldn’t. Even
he
didn’t believe the evidence literally right beneath his nose.

“Poltergeists,” Erran said curtly. “Don’t anger them.”

“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. If you will come this way . . .”
Looking even more terrified, the clerk leapt from his chair, not touching the
documents that flopped back to the desk.

The clerk actually
obeyed
his command! The floating debacle had horrified Erran as much as it had the
clerk, but his appalled shock transformed to wicked elation as he grabbed the
documents and followed the clerk’s flight. Nothing like terrorizing clerks into
doing their duty. He’d be following Cousin Sylvester to the Americas before
long.

Hurriedly, the clerk led him down a corridor and opened a
door to a chamber filled with dark-coated gentlemen. Inside, the judge was
wearing his wig and robes but was obviously presiding over a meeting and not a
courtroom.

Erran had no compunction about striding through their midst
to lay his papers on a table in front of the judge. The last time he’d raised
his voice to a judge, he’d been banned from the courtroom. He was likely to be
banned from the bar now, but he no longer had time for noble patience. If he
had the power to save a man’s life, he had to conclude morality belonged to his
side and not that of the errant court.

“A man has just been kidnapped because I cannot have these
filed without your signature,” Erran said in a reasonable tone, despite his
fury. “If you wish to save a lady’s family and fortune, you need only press
your seal here, and here, Your Honor. If you want the entire story, I’ll be
happy to relate it. You will not be happy for these good fellows to hear it.”

This time, he took no chances by following his noble
conscience. Despite his calmness, Erran let his fury flow into his voice. If
the clerk was any example, it was his anger that fed the compulsion. If this
worked, he was being a bully, but he could hope the judge wouldn’t know what
hit him.

“Ives? Is that you? What is this about?” a querulous voice
called from the gathering as the judge took the papers and affixed his seal
without reading or even questioning.

His vocal coercion was actually working with an experienced
man of the law! It certainly hadn’t been his eloquent speech. Erran would
examine his astonishment later. Right now, he needed to run before the judge
regained his senses.

He turned to find the questioner. “Lord Montfort.” Erran
bowed while tucking the signed documents into his coat. “You may wish to
reconsider which side your bread is buttered on. Lansdowne has committed the
unpardonable this time. I will personally see him dragged through the streets.”

Without lingering to see the effect of his declaration,
Erran shoved back to the terrified clerk’s desk in the front room and slapped
down one of the signed copies. “Take care of this with your life. Have it filed
as if the king commands it.”

He added a gold coin as atonement for using intimidation.
What purpose was Ashford’s wealth if not to be used for the greater good?

As he walked out, Erran felt no jubilation at achieving what
should have been—in a just world—accomplished months ago, when the Rochesters
had first arrived and the head of their damned family should have taken them
in.

He had stayed within the boundaries of the law. He refused
to feel guilty for expediting what had been left unattended too long.

But if he couldn’t save Jamar . . . There was
no justice anywhere. What did he do then?

Tommy ran up the moment Erran stepped outside. “The docks,
sir. One of the lads will show you.”

The docks, of course. They’d drag dignified Jamar down in
chains and be waiting for the next tide out.
Filth and damnation
.

Erran filled the boy’s meager pocket with silver. “Pass this
on to your friends. Have them keep me and Miss Celeste informed, if they can.
We will find Jamar, lad, with your fine help.”

The boy’s eyes widened so far, Erran feared they’d fall off
of his face. Then Tommy nodded and pointed out a grubby urchin kicking at dried
horse dung on the corner. “That’s William. He’s the one what came calling for
Mr. Trevor, says he knows which dock they’re at.”

“Can you return to the house on your own?” Erran asked. The
court was closer to the docks than the house. He didn’t want to go out of his
way, but the boy was small and a stranger to the city.

“Trevor’s lads will take me in their skiff,” Tommy said
proudly. “I’ll give them your coins like you said.”

Erran hoped Trevor had chosen his urchins well. He sent
Tommy off and faced the older lad watching him warily. “To the docks, William.”