The Untamed Mackenzie

Chapter Seven

Louisa got to her feet. Fellows couldn’t force his gaze from her, even though Eleanor was also rising, coming toward him, a smile on her face. Louisa wore cream and peach like the colors in the room, a fall of soft lace at the neckline of her bodice. Red ringlets of hair straggled against her throat, making him want to lift them and lick the soft skin beneath.

“So kind of you to call, dearest Lloyd,” Eleanor said. She walked past Louisa, who stood unmoving, and reached out for him.

Eleanor took Fellows’ hands, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. The Mackenzie women were impulsively affectionate, and Fellows had learned to tolerate them. Cameron advised him to take it like a man, though Hart seemed to understand Fellows’ discomfiture.

Louisa was in no way inclined to come forward and join the welcoming kisses. She barely gave Fellows a civil nod.

“Sit down and have coffee,” Eleanor said, still holding his hands. “I know you loathe tea.”

She half dragged Fellows toward the sofa where Louisa had sunk down again. Fellows broke away from Eleanor and moved to a balloon-backed chair at the writing table. The fact that it had been turned around to face the ladies meant someone else had been using it and recently departed.

Eleanor saw his assessment. “You’ve missed Hart. He’s off to tell the House of Lords what to do. He so enjoys it.”

Hart Mackenzie at one time had departed the House of Lords in a quest to become prime minister. He’d backed away from that for Eleanor, for his family, for his life. But he still enjoyed politics, and according to the newspapers, was a force to be reckoned with.

Fellows waited for both ladies to sit down again before he took his seat. His mother had taught Fellows that much—no, had shouted manners into him. No one was going to say her son had the manners of gutter trash, she’d declare. He was going to rise above himself, he was. Didn’t he have a duke’s blood in his veins?

“Now, then,” Eleanor said. She poured coffee from a pot, handed the cup to Louisa, who had been sitting in stiff silence, and indicated she should take it to Fellows.

Louisa had to rise to do it, and Fellows sprang to his feet. They met halfway across the carpet, Louisa holding out the cup and saucer, Fellows reaching for it politely.

The look Louisa gave him was anything but polite. She was enraged, her eyes smoldering with it. She was angry at Eleanor, and she was angry at Fellows.

Fellows closed his hands around the cup. Louisa quickly let it go, making certain their fingers didn’t touch. She turned from him and sought the sofa before Fellows had the chance to say a word.

“You’ve come to tell us about the investigation,” Eleanor said once Louisa had resumed her seat.

Fellows sank to the chair again, balancing the coffee. He hadn’t come here for that, but he didn’t argue. “My sergeant and I have interviewed everyone who was at the garden party, some of them twice. I looked over Hargate’s flat in Piccadilly, but found nothing to suggest he’d angered someone enough for them to poison him. I will speak again to those who were closest to the tea tent. Unfortunately, no one saw anything. They were too busy talking, drinking, and wagering on the upcoming croquet match.”

“That sounds typical,” Eleanor said. “High society takes its croquet seriously.”

Fellows thought he heard Louisa make a small noise in her throat, but he couldn’t be certain. “No one claims to have seen anything, at least not what they’d say to the police. But the person Louisa glimpsed made certain to escape on the side of the tent facing the empty meadow, so we’re not surprised no one saw him.”

He said the lie without a flinch. Louisa didn’t flinch either but focused rigidly on her teacup.

“What about the poison?” Eleanor went on. “How was it administered? In the tea?” She waved her own teacup fearlessly.

“Traces of prussic acid were found on the broken pieces of teacup the bishop held. None in Louisa’s.” That had been a great relief. Even if she’d drunk from her cup, Louisa would have been safe.

On the other hand, the fact that she’d by chance chosen the innocent cup woke Fellows up at night cold with fear. What was to say the poison hadn’t been meant for Louisa in truth? Perhaps Hargate had poisoned the cup himself then drunk the wrong one by accident. Or had there been no target—only a madman waiting to see which guest dropped dead?

Either way, Louisa had survived a close call. Fellows, who hadn’t prayed since he’d been a boy and forced to church on occasion, had sent up true thanks to God for that.

“No poison in the teapot, then?” Eleanor asked.

“None. In the bishop’s teacup only.” Fellows took a sip of coffee, which was rich and full, the best in the world. Of course it was. “Lady Louisa, since you are here, I’d like you to tell me—think carefully—why you picked up that particular cup to hand to the bishop.”

Louisa lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “It was the easiest to reach.” Her voice was tight, as though she hadn’t used it for some time and hoped she wouldn’t have to. “A clean one, placed on a tray. I had to reach all the way across the table for one for me. I poured Hargate’s first, to be polite.”

“So, if Hargate had gone into the tea tent alone, or someone else had, and wanted tea, they’d have reached first for that cup?”

“Yes. It would have been natural.” Louisa paled a little. “How horrible.”

“Deliberately killing another person so cold-bloodedly and letting an innocent receive the blame, that is horrible, yes.” And too close to home. Fellows wanted the man—or woman—who’d done this. He’d explain to them, slowly and thoroughly, how they’d enraged him, and what that would mean for them.

He turned to Eleanor, who’d listened to all this with interest in her blue eyes. “I’ve come to ask you, Eleanor, to tell me about Hargate. I want to know who were his friends, his enemies, and why someone would want to poison him.”

“So you are taking the assumption that he was indeed the target?” Eleanor asked.

“In a murder like this, even if it seems arbitrary, malice is usually directed at one person in particular,” Fellows said. “If the killer wanted to cause chaos and much harm, he’d have poisoned the entire pot, or all the cups. Not just one, for one person alone.”

Louisa shivered. “Gruesome.”

“The world is a gruesome place,” Fellows said to her. He wanted to shove aside his coffee, go to Louisa, sit next to her, put his arms around her, and hold her until her shaking stopped. “It never will be safe, as much as we tell ourselves we can control danger or even hide from it.”

Louisa looked back at him, her green eyes holding an equal mixture of fear and anger. He liked seeing the anger, which meant she hadn’t yet been broken by this ordeal. But there would be much more to come. Fellows longed to comfort her, to shield her from the horrors, to kiss her hair and tell her he’d make everything all right for her. But at the moment, he was trapped into being the good policeman, with no business wanting to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

He made himself drag his gaze from Louisa and continue. “Now, Eleanor, tell me about Hargate.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “What information can I give you? Louisa knew him much better than I did. She’ll have to answer.”

Louisa shot her a look that would have burned a lesser woman. Eleanor sipped tea and paid no attention.

“I didn’t know him all that well,” Louisa said, when it was clear Eleanor would say nothing more. “He was ambitious and became a bishop rather young, and he had family connections that helped him. But everyone knows this.”

“He was charming too,” Eleanor said. “At least, some people thought so. I never found him to be, but I’m told he had a persuasive way about him. He charmed his way into every living he held, apparently. The only person who ever blocked him was Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, and he and Hargate had words over it.”

So had every single person Fellows interviewed told him; they’d told him as well that Earl Scranton had later taken much of Hargate’s money in fraudulent schemes.

“Why did your father cause problems for him over the living?” Fellows asked Louisa.

Louisa shrugged, looking past him and out the window. “Father didn’t approve of young men getting above themselves. The living at Scranton is quite prosperous, and Hargate wanted it. He was the Honorable Frederick Lane then. My father didn’t like him and didn’t want him to be the local vicar. He found Hargate foppish, and said he preferred an older clergyman.”

“Simple as that?” Fellows asked.

“As simple as that.” Louisa looked at him again, her eyes green like polished jade. “Hargate was angry, of course, but once he began his rise to power, he forgave my father. Well, he said, rather deprecatingly, that taking my father’s church would have held him back, so it was all for the best.”

“Forgave him enough to let your father invest money for him?” Fellows asked.

Louisa’s smile was thin and forced. “Investing with my father became the fashionable thing to do. Everyone wanted to say they’d of course entrusted their money to Earl Scranton.”

All the worse when the scheme came tumbling down. “And Hargate was angry when everything fell apart?”

Eleanor broke in. “Of course he was. So many were, unfortunately. But when I spoke to Hargate earlier this Season, he seemed unconcerned about it. No grudges there. But Hargate’s family have always given him piles of money, even though he was the second son, and he never had to worry much about the ready. Seems to me Hargate led a charmed life. He would have found a seat in the House of Lords soon and lived happily ever after. Well, happy except for being a bit bullied by Hart. But then his luck ran out, poor man.”

“And I need to find out who killed him, and quickly. That’s why I’ve come to you for help,” Fellows said, looking at Eleanor.

Eleanor contrived to look surprised again. “I don’t know what I can do.”

She did know, but she was making Fellows spell it out. “You know everyone. When I talk to them, they see a policeman prying into their affairs. No, don’t bother telling me I’m one of the family and they should treat me as though I’m a true Mackenzie. I’m the illegitimate son and always will be. When you talk to them, they see their friend Lady Eleanor Ramsay. They’ll tell you things they’d never dream of telling me.”

“And then I report it all to you.” Eleanor gave him a severe look. “You are asking me to spy on my friends.”

“I am, yes.”

Eleanor’s severe look vanished, and she beamed a smile. “Sounds delightful. When do I begin?”

“As soon as you can.”

“Hmm, Isabella’s supper ball would be a good place to start. Absolutely everyone will be there. She’s hired assembly rooms for it, because her house is far too small for such a grand event—even this house isn’t large enough to hold the entire upper echelon of English society. Besides, Hart has become quite tedious about having any large affairs here now that there’s a baby in the house, although I—”

Eleanor broke off when a small cry—more of a grunt—invaded the silence, even over Old Ben’s snores. Fellows saw now what he’d missed by focusing all his attention on Louisa—a bassinet hidden behind the sofa, its interior shielded from the sunshine by a light cloth.

Eleanor rose immediately, went to the bassinet, and lifted out a small body in a long nightgown. “Here’s my little man,” she cooed, her voice filling with vast fondness. “Forgive my abruptness, dear friends, but I wanted to pick up my son before he started howling. He can shatter the windows, can little Alec.”

Fellows had risen automatically as soon as Eleanor left her seat. Eleanor lifted the boy high, gazing at him in pure rapture. “Did you have a good nap, Alec? Look, Uncle Lloyd has come to see you.” Eleanor turned the baby and held him out to Fellows.

Fellows looked at a sleep-flushed face, tousled red-gold hair, and the eyes of Hart Mackenzie. At the age of four months, Alec—Lord Hart Alec Mackenzie, Eleanor and Hart’s firstborn—already had the hazel-golden Mackenzie eyes and the look of arrogant command of every Mackenzie male.

As Fellows stood still, unwilling to reach for this little bundle he might drop, Alec’s face scrunched into a fierce scowl. Then he opened his mouth, and roared.

Fellows had heard plenty of children cry in hunger, in fear, or in want of simple attention. Alec’s bellowing possessed the strength of his Highland ancestors, calling out for blood.

Old Ben woke up with a snort, looking around in concern. Eleanor laughed, turned Alec, and cuddled him close. “There, now, Alec. The inspector can’t help looking at you like that. He scrutinizes everyone so.” Alec’s cries quieted as he snuggled into his mother’s shoulder. Ben huffed again then laid his large head back down.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Eleanor said. “I must return this lad to the nursery for his afternoon feeding. Tell Louisa what you wish me to do, and thank you for keeping us up on the matter.”

So saying, she gathered Alec tighter and breezed out of the room before Fellows could say a word.

The closing door left him alone with Louisa. She looked up from her place on the sofa to where Fellows stood, awkwardly holding his coffee cup.

“You may leave if you wish,” Louisa said. She wanted him to, that was plain.

Fellows remained standing but set down the coffee. “I’m glad to report I was able to make the investigation turn its focus from you,” he said, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. “You’re not to be arrested unless there’s evidence solid enough to bring you before the magistrate. The coroner and my chief super don’t want to risk putting an earl’s daughter in jail unless the chance of making the charges stick is very high. I’ve convinced my sergeant and my guv that the story of the man escaping from under the tent wall is true.”

“It’s very good of you.”

Such a stiff and formal response from the woman he wanted to gaze at him in soft delight. His heart burned. “No, it’s very bad of me to lie to my own men, but I am trying to keep you out of Newgate.”

“And I am grateful to you, make no mistake.”

“But angry you have to be grateful to me,” Fellows said, his words brittle.

“No, not angry. It’s just . . .” Louisa heaved a sigh, pushed herself to her feet, and paced the sunny room. Ben watched her without raising his head. “I’m confused. I don’t know what to do, or how to think or feel. How I should think or feel. Or how to behave.”

“It’s a bad business,” Fellows said tightly.

“And now you’re trying to help me, and I’m being horribly rude. I . . .” Louisa swung around, her peach and cream skirts swishing. “Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. Even Papa defrauding all his friends was not as difficult to understand—you’d be appalled how many wealthy gentlemen are bad at simple business matters. But watching a man die and then being accused of killing him—that I have no idea how to parry.”

“Being accused?” Fellows asked sharply. “Has someone said that to you?”

“No, but they are all thinking it. I can feel them thinking it. Out there.” She waved her hand at the windows. “Even you think it.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m trying to find the culprit.”

“If you didn’t have a doubt, you wouldn’t go to such pains to keep me from being arrested.”

Fellows stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “Let me make this clear to you, Louisa. You’re right that everything at this moment points to you. But if you believe our system of justice will prove your innocence, only because you’re innocent, you are wrong. If a judge gets it into his head that you’re a giddy young woman who goes around poisoning potential suitors, nothing will change his mind, not the best barrister, not the jury. Most of the judges at the Old Bailey are about a hundred years old and regard young women as either temptresses or fools. Would you like to face one of them? Or a gallery of eager people off the streets, coming to mock you? Journalists writing about what you look like standing in the dock? Every expression, every gesture you make?”

Louisa’s face lost color. “No, of course not.”

“Then let me do my job and keep you out of court. I wish you didn’t hate me for it, but if the price of keeping you free is your hatred, so be it.” And a hard price to pay it was.

Louisa’s eyes glittered with tears. “No, I don’t hate you. You must know that. I never could.”

She was too beautiful. Her hair was coming down in soft little ringlets, the red shining in the April sunshine. Many English aristocratic families had Anglo-Saxon ancestry, and it was evident in Louisa—pale skin, bright hair, eyes of brilliant green. Fellows could drown himself in her beauty and never want to come up for air.

He caught her hands. The touch of her warm flesh sent his heart pounding and swept away the last fragment of his self-discipline.

He pulled her by her fisted hands against him, her soft body becoming the focus of his world. Fellows heard nothing, saw nothing but her beautiful face and eyes, her lips parting as he came down to her.

The first taste was intoxicating. Sweetness clung to Louisa’s lips from the tea she’d drunk, laced with sugar and cream.

He needed more. Fellows opened her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue inside. Louisa made a noise in her throat, and clutched the lapels on his coat. She kissed him clumsily, unpracticed, but eager.

She smelled of lilacs and dusty silk, and a warmth that was all Louisa. They were alone in silence and sunshine. Fellows slid his arms around her, finding the curve of her waist. Her bodice’s smooth fabric was thin, the bones of her corset the only barrier between him and her soft skin.

If he could strip away the layers of her—satin, lawn, lace—and touch her, he knew he’d fill the gaping hole in his life.

She was against him now, her breasts to his chest, her fingers tightening on his coat. Fellows tasted more of her. Her lips were soft, hot, but seeking, learning . . . wanting. He was hard for her, growing harder by the second.

I need her. I would do anything . . .

A sound outside the door made Fellows break the kiss. Louisa backed away, her eyes wide, breath coming fast. Fellows let her go, finding his fists clenched, his heart pounding, raw emotion tearing at his control.

But he needed control. They were in the Duke of Kilmorgan’s London house, with servants moving to and fro outside the door, the lady of the house likely to enter at any moment. Eleanor had slyly left them alone, but if she opened the door and found virginal Louisa in Fellows’ arms, he ravishing her mouth, even Eleanor wouldn’t be able to look the other way.

Louisa’s fingers went to her lips. The first time she’d kissed him, she’d smiled warmly at him. The second time, Fellows had left her abruptly and hadn’t seen her reaction. Now Louisa looked stunned, even ashamed.

Fellows made himself move around her to the door. He knew he should say something, a polite good-bye, but he couldn’t. Politeness had gone to hell and didn’t matter.

He found his hand shaking as he reached for the door handle, then he was in the hall, and going down the stairs, the encounter over.

No, not over. Fellows might have left Louisa behind, but he felt her hot kiss linger on his lips for the rest of the day and on into the night.

“Why aren’t you coming, exactly?” Louisa asked Eleanor six hours later.

“Because I am quite unwell.” Eleanor lounged on a sofa in her bedchamber, looking perfectly healthy as she bounced Alec on her knees. She wore a dressing gown instead of a ball gown, and was nowhere near ready to leave for Isabella’s supper ball.

Louisa in her finery had arrived at Eleanor and Hart’s, having agreed that Hart and Eleanor would escort her tonight. A young, unmarried lady did not go to a ball alone. When Louisa had argued that she could simply ride over to the assembly rooms with Isabella, Eleanor had negated the idea. If Louisa went with Isabella, she would be the sister working behind the scenes, not the young, eligible earl’s daughter announced to the crowd arriving with the Duke and Duchess of Kilmorgan.

Louisa had also questioned the need for them all to leave from the Grosvenor Square house—Hart and Eleanor could collect her from Isabella’s on their way. But no, Eleanor wanted them all to be seen leaving from the ducal mansion. She seemed adamant.

Usually it was easier to simply agree with Eleanor when she was determined, because she could talk any argument to death—Eleanor would go off onto many and varied tangents until everyone forgot what the original disagreement had been. What Eleanor wanted wasn’t unreasonable, so Louisa had given in before Eleanor had time to launch into one of her impossible speeches.

But now it seemed that Louisa was to go to the ball escorted by Hart, Beth, and Ian, while Eleanor remained at home to nurse a cold.

Cold, my foot.

Louisa said, “You do remember that Mr. Fellows asked you to converse tonight with the guests from the garden party?”

“Oh, you can do that, dear. And Beth can help you. She’s very good at making others open up.”

That, at least was true. Beth, married to the elusive Ian Mackenzie, was good at winning people over. But the thought of approaching the garden party guests unnerved Louisa a bit.

“Hart will be annoyed,” Louisa tried.

“Hart prefers I stay indoors and make my apologies if I don’t feel well. He never dances at balls anyway, and if he does not have to worry about me there, he’s free to spend the time coercing gentlemen into doing things for him. He so enjoys that. And he does not mind in the slightest escorting you. He calls you the only sensible woman in the family.”

Flattering from Hart, who tolerated so very few. “Hardly kind to you or the other Mackenzie ladies,” Louisa said.

“Hart also enjoys being rude. But in this case, I agree with him. Run along, dear.” Eleanor blew her a kiss. “You look absolutely beautiful in that gown. Isabella has wonderful taste, does she not? And it strikes just the right note.”

The gown was indeed beautiful. Isabella had taken Louisa to her modiste at the beginning of the Season to have Louisa fitted with an entire wardrobe, and had insisted on paying for the lot. Louisa had kept her protests to a minimum. She didn’t want to be ungrateful for her sister’s kindness, she did need the clothes, and also, it was true, Isabella had exquisite taste.

The ball gown for tonight was a cream and light sage green confection, the décolletage baring Louisa’s shoulders, the satin of the bodice hugging her waist. The underskirt was draped with cream lace, with a shimmering sage moiré overskirt pulled back and puffed over a bustle. The gown spoke of spring and light breezes, and set off Louisa’s red hair and green eyes to perfection.

Louisa crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed Eleanor’s cheek. She had no worry about catching Eleanor’s cold—she had as much chance of flying out the window.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll go,” Louisa said. She pressed a kiss to Alec’s forehead. The lad clutched at her hair, but Louisa gently untangled his tiny fingers, kissed him again, and left them.

Hart waited outside the front door at the carriage, stepping back so Louisa could be handed in first. He did not look pleased, but he greeted Louisa civilly enough and handed her into the landau himself.

Louisa understood now why Eleanor had asked her to come to the house tonight—with Louisa here, Hart would not steadfastly refuse to go without Eleanor. Eleanor apparently counted on his sympathy and liking for Louisa to override his annoyance, an event that would be more certain if he had Louisa standing before him.

Beth and Ian were already in the coach, sitting opposite each other. Beth gave Louisa a warm hello and squeezed her hand as Louisa sat down beside her. Beth was with child again, already about four months gone, though her gown had been made to not show it yet. Louisa was surprised she’d wanted to come tonight, but Beth was a strong and resilient woman who loved soaking up enjoyment from Isabella’s parties.

Ian had his head turned, gazing out the window at passing traffic, and said nothing at all. Louisa knew him well enough not to be offended—Ian might be thinking deeply about some mathematical conundrum and not even realize she’d entered the carriage.

Hart swung in next to his youngest brother, a footman shut the door, and the carriage lurched into traffic.

The two gentlemen rode in the rear-facing seat, leaving the front-facing one for the ladies. Louisa put aside her mixed feelings about the ball and studied the two Mackenzie men. Both wore formal frock coats and waistcoats, wool kilts of Mackenzie blue and green plaid, thick socks, and finely crafted leather shoes. The landau was generously sized, plenty of room for all, but was still crowded by the two large Scotsmen.

The brothers were much alike and yet entirely different. Hart was the most reminiscent of their Highland ancestors, with his hard face and arrogance—an arrogance Louisa had seen soften a long way since he’d married Eleanor. Now behind the imperious glint in Hart’s eyes was the look of a man who’d found happiness. Rest. Peace. Love.

Ian too had found peace. He still possessed a restless energy, one that could focus with amazing precision on whatever task he wanted to undertake. Ian could dive into a complex, impossible mathematical problem, close his eyes, and find the solution in his head. He’d become so famous for this that mathematicians, physicists, and astronomers throughout Europe wrote to him for advice.

Ian had come to love with great difficulty, but once he’d found Beth, his life had blossomed. He was still shy, preferring to spend time home alone with Beth and his children, or at most, with his extended family. He didn’t like crowds, and he had the unnerving tendency to spring into a conversation with a non sequitur—though his declarations made perfect sense once Louisa worked out how he’d arrived at that particular statement.

Louisa liked Ian, finding him a unique man in the midst of a society that strove for perfect sameness. She thought him refreshing.

Perhaps the same sort of interest in the unique was what drew her to Inspector Fellows. She didn’t want to think of him at the moment, but she hadn’t been able to think about much except him after the searing kiss in Eleanor’s sitting room this afternoon. This kiss he had instigated, though Louisa had instantly and readily succumbed. She could still feel the press of his lips, his hard muscles under his coat, the strength of his hands as he held her.

Fellows had broken the kiss and abruptly walked away, and Louisa couldn’t blame him for that. He was trying to investigate a murder, and she should let him get on with his job. Their mouths falling together every time they were alone had to cease. They needed to be comfortable with each other, friends.

Friends. The word sounded so empty.

The landau halted in the street, a little way from the assembly rooms, inching forward with the line of carriages depositing guests at the door. So many carriages, so many people.

As they at last reached the entrance, and a footman snapped open the door, realization struck Louisa with an ice-cold slap. Eleanor had sent Louisa to go among those from the garden party and ask questions because she wanted Louisa to report directly to Fellows herself. It would stand to reason, El would explain in all innocence. Louisa had asked the questions; she would best know how to relate the answers.

The glint in Eleanor’s eye, her secret smile, her decision to leave Louisa and Fellows alone in the sitting room this afternoon . . . Louisa wanted to groan with dismay. Eleanor was a romantic—the only explanation for how she’d remained in love with Hart all these years. Now she was inventing a romance for Louisa.

Louisa hid her disquiet under a sunny smile for Hart, who held out his arm to her. Hart shot her a look of grave suspicion then schooled his expression to a neutral one and led her inside.