The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Chapter Seventeen

Being alone no longer soothed him.

Ian watched the water run along the bottom of the gorge, his boots muddy, the hem of his kilt wet from the splashing stream.

At one time in his life, fishing in Abernathy’s Gorge with nothing but the wind, sky, and water would have seemed like perfection to him. Today he felt drained and empty.

He wasn’t strictly alone. Old Geordie fished on a rock not far from him, his pole silently dangling from his weathered hand. Long ago, Geordie had been a stable hand for lan’s father, but he’d retired and lived a reclusive existence up on the mountain, miles from anywhere. His cottage was tiny and run-down, Geordie too unsocial even to hire someone to help him keep up the place.

Not long after lan’s release from the asylum, he’d stumbled upon Geordie’s retreat. Back then, Ian had been volatile and restless, easily unnerved by the scrutiny of his family and servants. He’d slipped away and wandered the wilds alone, ending up thirsty and footsore on the doorstep of a gray stone cottage. Geordie had silently opened the door, eased lan’s thirst with water and whiskey, and let him stay.

Geordie, the taciturn man who’d once taught the boy Ian to fish, had not asked any questions. Ian had helped Geordie repair a part of the roof that had peeled off, and Geordie had fed him and given him a corner to sleep in. Ian had stayed until he felt more able to cope with the world, then returned home.

It had become habit for Ian to come up here when events became too much for him. He’d help Geordie with what repairs needed to be done, and Geordie would comfort Ian with silence.

Ian had arrived early this morning. He’d stripped off his shirt and gone to work plastering the inside of Geordie’s cottage to keep the wind out during the coming winter. Geordie, too feeble now to do much work, sat and smoked his pipe, saying nothing, as usual.

After Ian had finished, he and Geordie shouldered fishing poles and silently made their way to Abernathy’s Gorge.

Beth would like it there.

The thought struck Ian from nowhere, but it was true. She’d like the rush of the stream, the beauty of the heather among the rocks, the sweet smell of the air. She’d smile and say she understood why Ian came here, and then she’d likely make a jest that Ian didn’t understand.

Ian glanced at Geordie. The old man sat on a rock in a threadbare kilt. He held a fishing pole negligently in one hand, and had the inevitable pipe stuck between his teeth. “I’m married,” Ian told him.

Geordie’s expression didn’t change. He removed the pipe, said, “Oh, aye?” and shoved it back into his mouth. “Aye.” Ian fished in silence a moment. “She’s a beautiful lass.”

Geordie grunted. He returned his attention to his line, the conversation finished. Ian could tell that Geordie was interested, however. He’d actually spoken.

Ian fished awhile longer, but he found that the sounds of the gorge and the calm of fishing didn’t still his mind as usual. He kept replaying his scene with Beth, which had ended in his muddle with the pistols. He’d bedded her into sweet oblivion after that, but woke still troubled.

She knew the stains on his soul, the darkness in his eyes. Ian remembered how she’d gazed at him in interested innocence the night he’d met her at the opera, and knew she’d never do so again. Everything had changed. Damn Fellows. The afternoon turned to evening, though the Highland summer sun was still high. Beth would be readying herself for supper, though if she were sensible, she’d take it alone in her chamber. Hart’s glare at the dining table could ruin an appetite.

Ian pictured her sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long, sleek hair. He loved the satiny slide of it, like warm silk on his hands.

He wanted to sleep with her against him, feel the damp warmth of her body along his. Summer air would pour through the window, and he’d breathe in its scent and hers. Ian drew in his fishing line. “I’ll be off home, then.” Geordie’s head barely moved in a nod. “Goin’ back t’ the missus,” he said around the pipe.

“Aye.” Ian sent him a grin, gathered up his gear, and strode off down the gorge.

“He’s here,” Katie whispered. “In the drawing room.” Beth rose, peered into the mirror, smoothed a strand of hair, and left her bedroom. “Don’t come with me.” “Catch me going anywhere near the man.” Katie plopped down on the one chair in Beth’s bedroom in the Belgrave Square house. “I’ll wait.”

Beth hastened out, her hands pressed to her skirts to keep them from rustling. The staircase and hall blazed with light, Beth having firmly told Mrs. Barrington’s servants that she wanted to be able to see when she went up and down the stairs. The old butler had chuckled, then wheezed, but saw that it was done.

Inspector Fellows turned when she entered the drawing room. Beth thought of how she’d first met him in Isabella’s drawing room in Paris, her agitation and amazement as Fellows had told her all about Ian Mackenzie. She determined to conduct this interview with a little more composure. Fellows looked much the same as he had in their first encounter. His suit was made of cheap dark material but well-kept, his thick hair brushed back from his forehead, his mustache trimmed. Hazel eyes regarded Beth with an intensity comparable to Hart’s.

“Mrs. Ackerley.”

“My marriage is legal,” Beth said crisply, pulling the doors shut. “So I am no longer Mrs. Ackerley. Lady Ian Mackenzie sounds strange to me, but you can address me as ‘your ladyship,’ if you wish.”

Fellows gave her a wry smile. “Still the ferocious guardian. Why did you send for me?”

Beth raised her brows. “I might have grown up in the gutter, but I apparently learned better manners than you, Mr. Fellows. Shall we sit down?”

Fellows made a show of waiting for her to sit before he lowered himself, ill at ease, to the edge of a Belter armchair. Mrs. Barrington’s horsehair furniture was hideously uncomfortable, and Beth felt a moment’s glee watching Fellows shift against the chair’s unyielding surface. “Give up, Inspector; the chairs are impossible. If you don’t want me to ring for tea, then I shall simply begin.” She leaned forward. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the murder at the High Holborn house five years ago. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.” Fellows looked surprised. “You are supposed to be telling me what happened.”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? If you explain it to me, perhaps I can share what I’ve learned. But you must go first.” He stared at her a moment, and then one side of his mouth turned up. “You are a harsh negotiator, Mrs. Ackerley—forgive me—Lady Ian. Do the decadent Mackenzies know what has descended among them?”

“I find the decadent Mackenzies quite gentlemanly. They care deeply about one another, have been kind to me, and love their dogs.”

Fellows looked unimpressed. “Are you certain you wish to hear the story? Some bits are gruesome.” “Be remorseless, Inspector.”

He had remorseless eyes, did Inspector Fellows. “Very well. Five years ago, almost to the day, 1 was called to investigate a crime in a private house in High Holborn. A young woman, Sally Tate, had been stabbed five times through the heart with a knife, according to the coroner. She bled some, and her blood had been smeared on the walls around her.”

I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. . . . Beth shut her eyes, trying to forget the harsh sound of Ian’s voice as the words tumbled out.

Fellows continued “It took some time to pry out of Mrs. Palmer, the owner of the house, the names of the gentlemen who’d visited there the night before. You do know that the place was once owned by Hart Mackenzie? He bought it to keep Mrs. Palmer, a famous courtesan he’d taken as his mistress. He sold her the house when his political career began to rise.”

“I presume you did discover who was there?”

“Oh, yes. Five gentlemen attended Mrs. Palmer’s salon the night before. Hart Mackenzie and Ian. A gentleman called Mr. Stephenson—Hart had brought him to win him to his side in some financial game. A Colonel Harrison, who was a regular guest of Mrs. Palmer and her young ladies, and his friend Major Thompkins. They apparently all managed to leave well before the murder occurred, very convenient for them. I was able to interview each man the next morning, but not Ian Mackenzie, who had been bundled off to Scotland by his brother Hart.”

Beth smoothed her skirt. “You speak of them familiarly, Inspector. You say Ian and Hart, instead of ‘his lordship’ and ‘His Grace.’”

Fellows gave her a deprecating look. “I think about the Mackenzies more often than I do my own family.” “Why, I wonder?”

His color rose. “Because they are blights on society, that’s why. Rich men who spend money on women, clothes, and horses and don’t do an honest day’s work. They’re useless. I’m surprised you take to them, you who know all about an honest day’s work. They’re nothing.”

Bitterness rang in his words. Beth stared at him, and Fellows flushed and tried to compose himself.

“Very well,” she said. “You interviewed all the gentlemen but Ian. Why don’t you suspect them?”

“They were respectable,” Fellows said.

“Visiting a brothel is respectable, the vicar’s widow asks with her brows raised?”

“They were all bachelors. No wives breaking their hearts at home. Mr. Stephenson and the two military officers were astonished by the news of the murder and were able to account satisfactorily for their movements. None of them had gone near Sally Tate, and they’d departed the house just after midnight. Sally Tate was killed near five in-the morning, according to the doctor. They left Hart and Ian Mackenzie behind. Ah, I mean, His Grace and his lordship.” “And Ian’s servants swear Ian had returned home by two,” Beth said, remembering what Fellows had told her before.

“But they’re lying.” Fellows sat forward. “What I’ve pieced together from their stories is this: Hart Mackenzie brings his friend Stephenson and his brother Ian to enjoy an evening with high-class courtesans. At about ten, in the parlor, the four men—Hart, Stephenson, Thompkins, and Harrison—begin a game of whist. Ian declines the invitation to play cards and reads a newspaper. According to Major Thompkins, Sally Tate sat down near Ian and started talking to him. They had a good chin-wag for about a quarter of an hour, and then she convinced him to go upstairs with her.”

“Ian talked for a quarter of an hour?”

Fellows smiled faintly. “I imagine Sally did most of the talking.”

Beth fell silent. She burned up inside, thinking of Ian leading a woman to bed, though she reminded herself that she hadn’t known Ian then. He’d had no obligation to her at the time. Jealousy wasn’t rational, however. She forced herself to think over what Fellows had told her. Sally had talked to Ian for a quarter of an hour, but she couldn’t have been trying to entice him upstairs all that rime. Beth knew from experience that persuading Ian Mackenzie to do anything he didn’t want to was an impossible task. He would have made up his mind at the start whether he wanted to bed Sally, and either gone upstairs with the woman right away or never. So, if Sally hadn’t been trying to persuade him, what had they talked about?

Beth took a breath. “And then?”

“The other four gentlemen remained downstairs playing cards. None of them went upstairs, according to the ladies, the gentlemen, and the servants. Only Ian and Sally Tate.” “And everyone departed after midnight?” “Stephenson, Harrison, and Thompkins enjoyed talking together so much that they decided to adjourn to Harrison’s home. According to their statement, Hart went with them but turned back almost immediately, saying he wanted to wait for his brother.”

“And did he?”

“According to Mrs. Palmer, Hart returned at about one, waited for Ian, who came down at two, and the brothers departed together.” Fellows smiled. “But here we reach a snag. One of the maids declared that Hart had gone upstairs at some point, then rushed out later on his own. When pressed the maid got confused and couldn’t swear to anything. But later, after Mrs. Palmer managed to get the girl alone, the maid changed her story and said that Hart and Ian had definitely left together at two.”

Beth bit her lip. Fellows wasn’t stupid, and the maid’s waffling was suspicious. “What did Ian say?” “I did not get the chance to interview your good husband until two weeks later. By that time, he couldn’t remember.” A small pain began in Beth’s heart. Ian remembered everything.

“Exactly,” Fellows said. “I thought I had enough to pursue him, but suddenly, my chief inspector pulled me off the case and took away my notes. My chief declared that a passing tramp killed Sally, and he faked the evidence to prove it. Case swept under the rug and closed.”

Beth pulled her thoughts together with effort. “What happened when Sally was found?”

Fellows sat back in the chair, his expression one of frustration. “What I was told happened was that a maid found her and screamed. The others came running, and Mrs. Palmer sent for the constable.” Fellows paused, giving Beth a keen stare. “What I believe happened is that Ian was found in the room with Sally, Sally dead. But the ladies of that house are all loyal to the bone to Hart Mackenzie, so they sent for Hart, who cleaned Ian up and got him out of there. Then they shouted for the police. By the time the constable arrived, Ian was on a train to Scotland, and his servants instructed to swear up and down that he’d slept at home.” Bloody hell. Beth knew it had happened just as Fellows said. Ian had to be taken away, because he wouldn’t know how to lie. He’d have told Fellows the literal truth and been arrested, perhaps hanged for a murder he didn’t commit.

Then Beth might never have met Ian, never seen his golden eyes warm with his fleeting glance, never kissed his lips, never heard his voice whisper her name in the night. Her life would have been empty and shallow, and she wouldn’t have known why.

“You’re a pillock, Inspector,” she said vehemently. He scowled. “Respectable ladies don’t use those words, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“Botheration about respectable ladies. You’ve rubbed my background in my face, so you will receive the brunt of it. You are a pillock. You have been so fixed on Ian that you’ve let the real murderer—probably one of the other three gentlemen or Mrs. Palmer—get clean away. Hart might have told Ian to lie, but Ian can’t. He doesn’t see the world like the rest of us, doesn’t know that people never tell the truth if they can help it. He thinks we’re all mad, and he’s right” Fellows snorted. “Ian Mackenzie will say anything His bloody Grace tells him to, and you know it. Lies or no lies.” “You don’t know the Mackenzies very well at all if you believe that. Ian doesn’t obey Hart. He does as he pleases.” She understood that now. “Ian helps Hart because he’s grateful to Hart for releasing him from that horrible asylum.” “And will lick Hart’s boots the rest of his life for it,” Fellows snapped. He stood. “You are the deluded one, my lady. They’re using you like they use everyone else. Why do you think the Mackenzie marriages fail? Because the wives in question finally realize they’re being chewed up and spat out by the uncaring machine that is Hart and his family.” “You told me Hart’s wife died bearing his child,” Beth said, getting to her feet to face him. “She hardly did that on purpose.”

“The woman was terrified of him, and the two barely spoke to each other, according to all gossip. His Grace was most relieved when she died.”

“That’s cruel, Inspector.”

“But true. Hart needed a good wife for his political career. He didn’t care if he never had a conversation with her, as long as she hosted his social events and gave him an heir. Which she proved she couldn’t. She was better off dead.”

“That’s a monstrous thing to say.”

“Spare me the ‘oh, they are so misunderstood’ speech. The Mackenzies are cold-blooded, heartless bastards, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.” Beth quivered with rage. “I think you are finished here. Please leave.”

“I tell you this for your own good, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“No, you tell me this so I will help you hurt them.” Fellows stopped. “You’re right They should be more than hurt. They should be destroyed.”

Beth met his furious gaze. After verbally fencing with Hart Mackenzie, Inspector Fellows didn’t frighten her anymore. “Why?”

Fellows opened his mouth to reply, then abruptly closed it. His face was red, the mustache quivering. “You’re not a lady who frightens easily,” he said. “And I can see you won’t take my word for it. But they’ll be the death of you. You mark my words.” He gazed at her a moment longer, then turned away. “Good day, Mrs. Ackerley.” He marched to the door and yanked it open, and then Beth heard the front door bang behind him. She sank into a chair by the front windows, watching through swirling London fog as the inspector strode away. She sat nuhibly, letting all he’d said sink in.

“M’lady?” Katie stuck her head around the parlor door.

“Is it safe to come in now?”

“He’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Beth rose, feeling exhausted. “Fetch our wraps, Katie. We’re going out.” Katie sent a disparaging glance to the dark, foggy window.

“Now? To where?”

“The East End.”

Katie blinked. “What d’you want to go to that hellhole for? Old times’ sake?”

“No,” Beth answered. “To find some answers.” “Gone?” Ian raised his dripping head and stared at Curry in disbelief. “Gone where?”

“To London, m’lord.” Curry backed a step from Ian at the washbasin, knowing from experience how far to put his body from Ian’s whenever he had to relate bad news. Ian straightened up, water trickling from his wet hair down his bare chest. He’d been scrubbing off the plaster dust from Geordie’s cottage and mud from the subsequent fishing expedition when he’d asked Curry where Beth was.

He’d expected Curry to tell him she was walking in the garden, exploring the house, or continuing riding lessons with Cameron. Not, Well, here’s the thing, m’lord. She’s gone.

“London?” Ian demanded. “Why?”

Curry shrugged. “Dunno. Shopping?”

“Why the devil should she go all the way to London to go shopping? Why didn’t you stop her?”

“I couldn’t stop her, could I? She’s got a mind of ‘er own, ‘as ‘er ladyship.”

“Bloody idiot.”

“What’d ye expect me to do?” Curry shrilled as he slapped a dry towel to Ian’s chest. “Lock her in a dungeon?” “Yes.”

“She said she’d be back, guv—“

Ian cut him off. “She’s not coming back, you fool. She’s gone, and you let her go.”

“Now, m’lord . . .”

Ian wasn’t listening. Hollowness spread from his chest until it filled his body. Beth was gone, and the emptiness of that hurt like nothing else ever had.

Curry jumped away as Ian upended the entire dressing table, sending every knickknack and stupid toiletry to the floor. The pain in his chest was unbearable. It matched the pounding in his temple, the migraine that never went away. He struck the splintered table with his fists, the slivers of wood bloodying his hands. Beth had seen a glimpse of him at his worst—could he blame her for running away? Ian looked at the scarlet droplets on his fingers, remembering Sally Tate’s blood on them, remembering the horror of finding the ruin of her body. His mind swiftly inserted Beth in place of Sally, Beth’s beautiful eyes sightless, a blade buried in her chest.

It could happen. Ian dragged in a chill breath as panic replaced his rage. He’d dragged Beth into his life, had exposed her to Inspector Fellows, had made her as vulnerable as Lily Martin.

He threw off Curry’s well-meaning hands, stormed past Cameron, who’d come to see what was the matter, and raced out the door.

“Ian, where are you going?” Cameron demanded, catching up to him on the stairs.

“London. Don’t tell Hart or try to stop me, or I’ll thrash you.”

Cameron fell into step beside him. “I’ll come with you.” Yes. Ian knew that Cameron simply wanted to keep an eye on him, but Cameron would be handy. He knew how to fight and wasn’t afraid of anything. Ian gave him a curt nod. “Besides,” Cameron went on, “Curry says Daniel went with her. and I’m certain he’s making her life a misery.” Ian said nothing. He snatched the shirt Curry kept thrusting at him and banged out of the house for the stables, Cameron on his heels.