Whisper of Magic by Patricia Rice Page A

the decision of judges often depended on what they ate for breakfast that
day.
    He’d almost unleashed his unholy Courtroom Voice this
morning and was regretting that he had not. How much longer could he resist the
temptation to make grown men weep?
    He’d like to blame last night’s episode on the very tempting
Miss Rochester, but he couldn’t lie to himself. He was irritated that her
charms seemed to work better than his commands. And still, he’d taken her in
his arms and might have done more if his over-developed conscience hadn’t
intruded.
    How long could he hold out against Miss Rochester’s charms and the infuriating urge to demand
justice? Something had to give or he would explode.
    He arrived in St. James just as his cousin was dismounting
from his horse. Zack was one of the rare light-haired Ives, lighter than even
Theo’s brown. Wide of shoulder but not as broad in chest as Erran, Zack dressed
in tradesman’s tweed and a countryman’s knee boots, without regard to fashion.
    “So that’s where our ancestors sank all their money,” Zack
said in greeting, studying the stone façade. “And we proceeded to let it run to
rack and ruin.”
    “Not entirely, but close enough. The tenants have kept it up
better than we would have, I suspect. Homemaking has never been an Ives’
trait.” Erran flipped a coin to a street boy who ran up to watch the horses.
“But Ashford means to move into the ground floor, so we need to adapt it for
him.”
    Zack made sympathetic noises as he examined the front walk and
step. “I’ve never attempted to construct an apartment for someone who can’t
see. We’ll probably need his instructions, although a railing from gate to door
might be beneficial.”
    “He’ll tell us all to go to hell and he doesn’t need
anything special,” Erran said in resignation, rapping the knocker. At least
they’d made enough progress that the Rochesters trusted leaving a knocker on
the door to let people know they were in town. And the front draperies were
partially open.
    Erran stifled his disappointment that the lad opened the
door and not Miss Rochester. On a day as rotten as this one, he shouldn’t
expect the brief pleasure of her reluctant smile. “This is my cousin Zack Ives.
He’s an architect and can help us determine what changes need to be made in the
house. Zack, this is Trevor, Lord Rochester, a distant branch of the family.”
    Jamar joined them in the narrow foyer. Erran knew he could
explain the result of his courthouse search to the Rochester’s imposing man of
business, but he wanted the lady to hear what he had to say as well.
    She wouldn’t be happy, but he needed to see her reaction. Or
so he told himself.
    He’d spent the night in the downstairs office he thought
would suit Duncan for a bedchamber. It was windowless, but Duncan would
scarcely notice. As they tramped through the back corridor, Erran pointed out
the need for a chamber for a valet adjoining the study, and Zack measured the
rooms behind the stairs to draw up plans.
    “I would like to see stronger bars on the entrances,” Jamar
suggested. “We cannot have guards sitting at all the doors, all the night. And
if the ladies are to take the next floor, there should be a wall down this back
hall so they might enter and leave without disturbing the marquess.”
    “Perhaps we should discuss this with Miss Rochester?” Erran
suggested, while pretending interest in testing the lock mechanism on the study
door. “We do not wish to make the ladies feel uncomfortable.”
    He could hear the rhythmic thumping of the sewing mechanism
and assumed they were sewing to make their daily quota, which irritated him
beyond all reason. He had no way of subverting their ambition and no funds to
replace the tailor’s trade.
    Before Jamar could reply, the knocker rapped. Erran glanced
questioningly at the majordomo. “Has Lady Aster sent over the footmen yet?
Could that be them?” Even as he asked, he knew the footmen