Magic in the stars, p.1

Magic in the Stars, page 1

 part  #1 of  Unexpected Magic Series


Magic in the Stars

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Magic in the Stars


  Unexpected Magic, Book 1

  Patricia Rice

  Book View Café Edition

  March 29, 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-61138-577-9

  Copyright © 2016 Patricia Rice

  Author’s Note

  Those of you familiar with my magical Malcolms and scientific Ives know that I’m playing with possibilities more than I’m using magic. Centuries ago, flying airplanes would have been magic and a scientific impossibility. Today, we know they aren’t magic at all.

  So in Theo and Aster’s book, I’m playing with the possibility of precognition or “second sight”—guided by astrology. Astrology was considered a science for thousands of years and is still used today. The records of second sight go back to the Dark Ages. The accuracy of either astrology or the Sight has never been proven, but no one is working to disprove it either. So why not throw a few new planets into the equation and see what happens?

  And just for the grammarians out there—as in the previous series, I know the plural of Ives is Iveses, and I don’t care. If my family refers to themselves as Ives in the plural, that’s how it comes out on the page. My characters are dictators!


  Early June 1830

  Lady Azenor Dougall—Aster, to her family—clutched the onyx brooch on her bodice, the one containing a lock of her much-mourned baby sister’s fair hair. Even after all this time, the sorrow was a reminder of what happened should she ever shirk her duty again.

  “I must not doubt my intuition,” she muttered as the carriage jounced in another muddy rut and rain blurred the windows. “I must believe in my gifts.”

  “An instinct that takes you out in this storm is not very trustworthy,” Aster’s companion intoned in her sepulchral voice. Clad in black, cloaked in gloom, Jennet loomed large against the opposite seat. “We should turn back.”

  Aster had chosen Jennet for her melancholy unlikableness. She wasn’t likely to become too attached to a physical representation of herself as a Prophetess of Doom. Or so she’d thought six months ago when she’d agreed to train Jennet as a lady’s companion. But desperately missing her faraway family, she’d even grown fond of Her Gloominess.

  “Turning back would constitute shirking my duty. The marquess could improve the future of thousands of poor children,” Aster said steadfastly. “Even if I must make a donkey’s behind of myself knocking on his door, he must be warned.”

  “He won’t believe you,” Jennet insisted.

  Few outside her family ever did, Aster knew, so Jennet was being realistic, not pessimistic.

  Unfortunately, because her family did have faith in her gifts, they’d been forced to cast her out of the nest and send her off on her own. Aster had proved all too painfully how correct her dire predictions could be. If only her gift would prove useful.

  It was beyond dreadful to know when something awful would happen, and not be able to stop it. There were days when she feared everyone was better off not knowing their fate.


  Lord Theophilus Ives, heir presumptive to the 3rd Marquess of Ashford, teetered dangerously on a once-elegant Louis XIV parlor chair to adjust the settings on his latest telescope. The chair rested on top of a table that slanted on uneven marble tiles, balanced by several volumes from the library. The leaning tower of pieces tilted as he leaned over to check the ocular.

  The downpour that had driven him out of his roof aerie also obscured any view through the three-story foyer dome.

  “I need a tower,” he complained to whichever of his layabout brothers followed the pack of spaniel puppies racing down the corridor.

  “If you want a tower, go to Wystan.” Erran stumbled over a puppy and grunted under the burden of the table he carried.

  A black-haired Ives two years younger than Theo, his barrister brother had the build of a young ox. This occasionally irritated Theo, who was taller but lankier and possessed mouse-brown hair instead of the distinctive Ives black. But Erran was the more social and civilized of his brothers, while Theo preferred his quiet library, so he supposed Erran needed his handsome looks.

  “Wystan is filled with expectant females,” Theo grumbled, “or I would.”

  The marquess of Ashford, holder of this damp estate in Surrey, was also the earl of Ives and Wystan. As earl, he owned land—and the infamous Wystan tower—in the wilds of Northumberland. Theo’s glass manufactory might have been suitable there, but all his allowance had gone into building it here, so Surrey had to be his home. Besides, he still needed the notice of the Astronomical Society to sell his highly-refined telescopes, and the Society was unfortunately located in London.

  “Make yourself useful for a change and stick another book under the table leg, will you?” Theo called over the yapping of the excited spaniels.

  “Get your own bloody book. Better yet, get the whole damned library before the roof falls in,” Erran griped, backing around Theo’s chair and dodging puppies to place a billiard table with the help of their half-brother Jacques.

  “The roof and the library are Duncan’s business,” Theo said with a dismissive gesture. “Or maybe his missing steward’s. As the heir and the spare, I needn’t bother with them.” Which had never been a sore point. Theo wouldn’t have his brother’s title and responsibilities for all the women in the world.

  “If he can’t even manage the library repair, we’ll never fix that leaky pipe over the billiard room—unless I tear off the ceiling,” Erran suggested.

  “Absolutely not!” Theo said. “Stick with the hay baler you left strewn in the great hall. Lawyers should stick to wire and string.”

  Finally giving up on the telescope, he frowned as his younger brothers settled the billiard table in front of the front doors. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “The plumbing was dripping on the felt. We figured if you could set up out here, so could we. It’s wasted space anyway.” From beneath a mop of dark blond hair, Jacques flashed an impish grin remarkably similar to his French mother’s. “And as one of the irresponsible bastards around here, I have no other duty but beast of burden. Shall I start moving the library next?”

  Knowing full well that Jacques was perfectly content with his side branch in the family tree, Theo ran his hand through his thick mop of hair. He winced, remembering he was supposed to have had it cut yesterday. Blast it.

  He glanced out the windows at sheets of rain and decided his hair wasn’t going anywhere soon. His valet had left to visit his family and never returned. Theo really hadn’t noticed his absence, except when it came time for a haircut.

  “It would be easier to repair the leaky roof than move the library. Didn’t Duncan hire someone to work on it?” Theo climbed from the chair and made a quick calculation in his notes. He shoved the stack of paper in his waistband so it didn’t end up as puppy litter.

  “The esteemed Marquess of Ashford claimed he did,” Jacques said. “But then his doting fiancée sent a note asking for his opinion on the summer fete, and he hasn’t been seen since.”

  Studying the curved glass dome overhead, Theo surrendered. Even his new telescope wouldn’t penetrate the thick clouds rolling in as they had for months. He needed a desert for testing his glass magnifications. He’d never persuade the Astronomical Society that there were many more moons around Saturn than the six they knew until he could actually show them with his new glass.

  “At least Margaret knows what she’s marrying into,” Theo said philosophically. “She’s not likely to run out on Dunc anytime soon.”

  Erran slapped Theo on the back, catching him by surprise and nearly bowling him over. “You should have taken your lady to Wystan instead of introducing her here, o
ld boy. We’re really sorry about that goat race.”

  Theo was really sorry about it, too. Celia had been tall, blond, and even-tempered—his perfect mate. It had taken him forever to woo her since they lived in different villages, and he wasn’t much inclined to social occasions. But once she’d accepted his suit, he’d even sworn off mistresses in anticipation of his nuptials, so he was just a bit testy these days.

  He hated hunting for another available female, but he supposed it was good to learn that Celia had been prone to hysteria before he married.

  Wystan, however, was not the answer to anything except Erran’s desire to shove Theo out of the house.

  In retaliation for the unexpected slap, Theo caught Erran’s muscled arm and twisted it behind his back, proving brains could beat brawn. “It was the nude swimming that had her fleeing for her life, sapskull, not just goats rampaging through the hall. You’re all a parcel of heathens.” He shoved his younger brother toward the back corridor. “Move the library or fix the roof. If you’re not in London studying, you have to earn your keep.”

  Under Theo’s careless shove, Erran stumbled against the billiard table, then tripped over Hog, his mangy bloodhound. He caught himself on a door jamb, leaned down to scratch Hog in apology, then grabbed a billiard cue.

  “Don’t you dare,” Theo warned. He was still hurting over the fiasco with Celia and wasn’t putting up with more of his brothers’ antics. “You’re five-and-twenty and should put that thick head of yours to better use than a battering ram. When do you finish up your term at Chancellery? You don’t want to arrive with a broken nose.”

  Erran rubbed his already misshapen proboscis. “I’m due in court next week. But I can’t afford lodging in London.”

  Jacques hooted. “He spends all his funds on tailors and can’t afford the women in London. Buy him a rich wife. She’ll settle him down.”

  Always ready for a brawl, Erran swung the cue at Jacques, who was inches shorter and a stone lighter and not an adequate partner for fisticuffs. Jacques retaliated by grabbing another cue, holding it like a rapier. Hog yawned in complaint and lumbered to the side of the room. The spaniels yipped in excitement and chased each other into the fray.

  Through the tumult, a door knocker rapped authoritatively. Startled, Theo dropped the puppy he’d been removing from under his telescope. Hog howled his intruder warning, and the puppies proceeded to yap in enthusiastic accompaniment.

  Jacques and Erran dropped their weapons to stare.

  “Who the devil would be out in this deluge?” Erran asked, grumpy at having his brawl disturbed.

  “Normal people open the door to find out.” Since he was as normal as any Ives got, Theo unbolted the massive carved door his great-grandparents had installed in recognition of their new marquisate.


  Moments earlier, Aster’s hired carriage had lurched up to the tall portico of this massive country manor. Sheets of rain beat down too hard to fully comprehend the size or state of Ashford’s gray stone fortress—but the lack of welcoming light was not auspicious.

  The driver had helped her over the river of mud running down the drive between the carriage and the step. Aster opened her umbrella against the drips through the portico roof and watched the driver pound the knocker a second time.

  Opening her own black umbrella, Jennet waited with her before the enormous carved doors of Iveston Hall. Inside, a racket of howling hounds, yipping puppies, and shouts of men rang over the rolls of thunder overhead.

  “At least someone is home,” Aster said with as much optimism as she could summon on this journey of doom.

  “Savages, from the sound of it,” Jennet said glumly.

  Aster had had all the miserable journey from London to consider the difficulties presented by this rampantly male, officiously obnoxious, and thankfully distant branch of her wide-spread family tree. She was well aware of the futility of the task ahead of her.

  And still, she could not back down. She nodded at the driver to knock again. He pounded with vigor.

  One panel creaked open. The light from the foyer illumined a shirt-sleeved, well-built, almost ascetic-looking man with a thick head of unruly brown hair. He loomed over Aster’s below-average height, which made him large enough to be a footman. But no footman—or gentleman—opened a door in such dishabille while wielding a billiard cue, with a giant basset hound on his heels.

  His hollowed, unshaven cheeks were softened by a curl of brownish hair across his wide brow. She had been led to believe that all Ives were black-haired, tall, and broad like oxen, so this must be a servant. She dipped her umbrella to cover her face.

  “I must speak with the Marquess of Ashford immediately,” she said in her coldest, most formal tones. “It is a matter of life and death.”


  Life and death? Theo shoved Hog aside and peered around the door.

  An enormous blue umbrella painted with—Egyptian hieroglyphs?—met his gaze. Umbrellas were generally waxed canvas, black, and weighed enough to make a grown man think twice about carrying them. Judging by height—or lack thereof—and the pair of small, feminine boots planted on the doorstep, he assumed the visitor to be female.

  What the devil would a lady be doing here? In a howling storm?

  Pushing back a yipping puppy, Theo lowered his eyes to peer below the canvas edge. A luscious bosom covered in a shimmering iridescent waterfall of silk rewarded his curiosity. He almost salivated like Hog over a sheep shank. He’d definitely been without a mistress too long.

  A damp draft wafted a light floral fragrance around him, stunning him into near paralysis. After the noxious odors of his brothers and the moldering manor, their mysterious visitor was literally like a breath of fresh spring air. Anxiously, he awaited the umbrella’s tilt to reveal its owner.

  She took her damned time.

  “May we come in?” a melodic voice inquired from behind the blasted canvas, revealing nothing. “We’ve come from London and must speak with the marquess on a matter of urgency,” she repeated more insistently over yapping dogs and his brothers’ attempts to hush them.

  Damn, another of Ashford’s mistresses? Or another desperate female determined to trick the dolt into marriage? Most generally, decent women did not show up on their doorstep without invitation and escorted by no more than a carriage driver.

  Intrigued despite his cynicism, Theo stepped aside and ushered the iridescent peacock into the war zone that he called home. “Ashford isn’t here, but come in and dry off, Miss . . .”

  “Lady Azenor Dougall.” Unfazed by the excited puppies rushing at her, she crossed the threshold, leaving the umbrella dripping on the covered porch.

  Azenor? Despite a tingling warning at the odd name, Theo was distracted by the petite female marching into the zoo he called home as if she owned it. Lighting the gray gloom more brightly than the foyer’s gas lamps, she glanced around at the billiard table, his precariously perched telescope, the romping spaniels, and his half-dressed and staring brothers as if she visited Bedlam on a regular basis.

  An enormous hat adorned in vibrantly-hued peacock feathers concealed her hair and her expression. Theo ached to sweep the eyesore away, but he couldn’t drag his gaze from the shimmering rainbow of fabric encasing a figure so curvaceous, he forgot to breathe.

  Damn Duncan for claiming all the good women.

  “When can we expect Ashford home?” she demanded, tilting her head just enough for him to see beneath the hideosity that concealed her hair.

  Huge, dark-lashed eyes shimmered with the beauty of midnight—he could almost see stars against a dark blue sky. Pert nose, plump rose lips, soft oval face—she was all curves everywhere he looked. He was having a hard time not looking. As were his brothers, their arms now full of wriggling puppies.

  If a heavenly body like this inhabited his home, he’d come down from the roof more often.

  “Lady Azenor.” He belatedly remembered to bow. “I’m Theophilus Ives, Ashford’s brother.”
He jerked his head inelegantly at his gawking siblings. “Erran Ives and Jacques Ives-Bellamy, who were just about to order tea, if you would like some.”

  Theo shot the dunces a telling look. Any tea in the kitchen would be stale, since they never drank it, but someone had to perform the niceties—and remove the damned yapping dogs.

  Theo hoped he’d phrased the introduction appropriately. His mother had died only a few years after Erran’s birth. His father had never remarried, and the social graces hadn’t been high on Theo’s list of lessons or interests. He preferred stars to people.

  A black-gowned scarecrow behind the shimmering angel grunted a warning, startling him into realizing the lady had accompaniment.

  In response to the grunt, Lady Azenor sparkled, even as she frowned. Theo couldn’t stop gawking like a looby.

  “Lord Theophilus,” the lady purred with satisfaction, apparently placing him on the family tree despite his incomplete introduction. “This affects you, also. I repeat, when do you expect the marquess?”

  “Not at all this evening, given the weather. And if his fiancée has anything to say about it, probably not the rest of the week.”

  Her plump lips pursed in what might have been displeasure on any other woman. On this one—she seemed posed for kissing. Theo couldn’t unscramble his addled brain from wanting to hustle her somewhere private, back to appropriate behavior.

  If she was Dunc’s mistress, could she be persuaded to desert his brother’s riches in favor of a man without wealth or title, a gentleman who wouldn’t let her travel the roads in a storm?

  “Is there a fire where my lady might warm her hands?” the black-garbed servant inquired with a hint of acidity.

  So much for impressing her with his nonexistent charm and thoughtfulness.

  “Of course, this way . . .” Theo finally tore his gaze from the angel to note that Jacques and Erran still stood there as frozen as he. “Tea!” he ordered, before offering his arm and wondering where in hell he might find a fire.

  A woman who didn’t run screaming from her first sight of the Hall was a treasure worth pursuing, even if it was his damned titled brother she wanted.

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