The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (28 page)

Beth’s palms touched his face. “Ian?”

“He killed her,” Ian said. “He didn’t mean to. But he had the rages, like I do.”

“You mean Hart?”

Ian shook his head. “My father. He killed my mother, broke her neck with his own two hands. He told everyone she’d slipped on the rug, fell, died. My brothers didn’t believe it, but they couldn’t ask me, could they? I was declared mad, shut away, so no one would believe me if I told what I saw my father do.”

Beth laced her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. “Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry.” Ian held her there a moment, taking comfort from her warmth. He had a fear inside him that one day he’d lose his mind like his father had, put his hands around the neck of the woman he loved, and kill her before he could stop himself. Beth trusted him, and Ian would die if he hurt her. Beth lifted her head, tears wetting her lashes, and he kissed her forehead. “Hart is as ruthless as my father ever was. He doesn’t rage, but he is so cold.”

“I still think you’re wrong. Hart sent you to Scotland after Sally’s death to protect you, not keep you quiet.”

Ian gave the ceiling a brief exasperated glance before he took Beth by the shoulders and pushed her against the high bed “I can protect you from Hart, but only if you
stop.
Forget about High Holborn, and never speak to Inspector Fellows again. He’ll crush you to get what he wants, and so will Hart.”

She looked at him in anguish. “You want me to go the rest of my life watching you in so much pain? Believing your brother murdered a woman? Isn’t it better to find out what really happened?”

“No.”

Tears swam in her eyes, and she turned her head to avoid his gaze. “I want to help you.”

“You can help best by never speaking to Fellows again. And stop trying to find out what happened. Promise me.” She went silent a moment, then sighed. “Mrs. Barrington always told me curiosity was my besetting sin.”

“I’ll keep you safe, I promise you, my Beth.”

“Very well,” she whispered. “I’ll stop.”

Relief relaxed his body. He pulled Beth into his arms, held her tight against him. “Thank you.” He kissed her hair. “Thank you.”

She reached up to kiss him. As he slid his lips over hers it didn’t occur to him that she’d given up a shade too easily.

When Beth woke much later, Ian slept next to her, his naked body touched by lamplight, his muscles gleaming with sweat from their passion. When he’d climaxed inside her, he’d almost, almost looked at her fully again, but he’d closed his eyes at the last minute. Now he slept, and Beth lay against his warmth, her thoughts troubled. Ian might not want to know the truth, but the truth was that Sally Tate and Lily Martin had died, lost their lives. Beth knew enough of game girls to know that unless they found a long-term relationship with a wealthy protector, their lives could be short and brutal. The wrong client could beat them senseless, even kill them, and no one would care. They were just whores. Even if the girls managed to find a place in an elegant brothel, when they grew older and lost their looks they could be turned out, sent to live on the streets again. Those with protectors fared better, but only if the protector was kind to them. Beth knew full well that but for the grace of God and the kindness of Thomas Ackerley and Mrs. Barrington, she could have become one of them.

Fellows didn’t care that the women had died; he wanted only to destroy the Mackenzies. Ian cared—she could see his sorrow for Sally and Lily and his own mother—but what he cared most about was sparing his brother. The brother who had delivered Ian from hell. Beth ground her teeth. Damn the dead duke for locking Ian away because Ian had seen what he wasn’t supposed to see. Damn Hart Mackenzie for enmeshing Ian in his games of power. And damn Ian for his undying gratitude to Hart. Beth hadn’t understood at first why Isabella had walked away from Mac when she obviously still loved him. She understood better now. Beth wasn’t certain what Mac had done to upset Isabella so much, but then he was a thickskulled, stubborn Mackenzie. Wasn’t that enough? A sweet debutante like Isabella hadn’t stood a chance. Beth rose and dressed herself. She’d learned to dress simply and hastily when she’d worked for Mrs. Barrington, having to tend the old lady any time of the day or night. Ian didn’t wake. He lay facedown, his body relaxed, eyes closed. Lamplight brushed the firm mound of his backside, the small of his back, the tight muscles of his shoulders. He was a large and beautiful man, so strong, and so very vulnerable. Hart had called him that. And yet, Hart had backed down from him.

I love you, Ian Mackenzie. Beth’s heart ached.

She silently left the room and went downstairs. Glancing about to make sure she was not seen, she made for the door in the back of the main hall that led to the servants’ staircase. The cook worked busily in the kitchen, cleaning up the supper she’d just cooked for Cameron and Daniel. She beamed at Beth as Beth entered the warm kitchen, just like old times.

“It’s good to see ones eat so heartily,” the cook said. “They et it all straightaway and asked for more. A cook can’t ask for better. Not like yourself, who didn’t even come down. Can I warm something on a plate for you?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Donnelly. I’m looking for Katie.”

“You’re the lady of the house now. You should ‘ave rung.”

“Have you seen her?” Beth asked impatiently.

“She’s on the scullery stairs.” The cook looked disapproving. “With one who’s no better than she ought to be. I wouldn’t let the likes of her in.”

Beth’s heart leapt. “It’s all right. She’s one of my charity cases.”

“You’re too softhearted, you are. Katie’s all right, but that one she’s brought is hard as nails,
and
her nose is stuck in the air. She don’t need your charity.”

Beth ignored Mrs. Donnelly and left through the scullery and to the stairs that ran to the street above. Katie waited on the steps, her face clouded in Irish fury. “Well, she’s here, as you can see.”

“Thank you, Katie. You may go in now.”

“Not bloody likely. I don’t trust her an inch, and I ain’t leaving her alone with you.”

The lady in question really did have her nose in the air, a slim, well-powdered nose. The rest of her face was well powdered, too, and rouged Diamonds glittered on her neck and in her ears. The young woman wasn’t beautiful, but she was attractive in a sensual way, and she knew it. Her red lips curved into a superior smile as she gave Beth’s simple gown a once-over.

“Molly said you was a duchess,” she said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“You mind your manners,” Katie snapped. “She’s a lady.”

“Hush, Katie. Your name is?”

“Sylvia… That’s all you need to know.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Sylvia. I’m sorry to bother you, but I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Out here on the back stairs? That bitch of a cook wouldn’t let me in the kitchen. I want to be sat in the parlor, and your slaveys waiting on me, or I won’t talk.”

“Mind your tongue,” Katie snapped. “You’re not fit to sit in m’lady’s parlor. We stay in the shadows so no one knows she’s talking to you.”

Beth raised her hands. “Peace, both of you. It will only take a few minutes, Sylvia, and I know you are the right one to speak to. I imagine you know so much.”

Sylvia preened under the base flattery. “You was asking about the house in High Holborn. I know all about it, and about the right old bitch who runs the place. What do you need to know?”

“Everything.”

In answer to her questions, Sylvia confirmed what Fellows had said: that Mrs. Palmer had been Hart’s mistress and he’d bought her the house in High Holborn. “She met him when he was still at university, and her already long in the tooth,” Sylvia said. “Didn’t no one love a young man like Angelina Palmer loved
him.
She’d do anything for him, piss in her own shoes if he asked her to.”

“But he sold her the house later,” Beth said. “I had the idea she was no longer his mistress after that.”

“Oh, he gave her the push, all right, and she turned her hand to being a businesswoman, if you take my meaning. It weren’t a bad place when I was there, but me and Mrs. Palmer never rubbed on well. I left as soon as I found better prospects.” She glanced fondly at her diamond rings.

“Then it truly is over between them,” Beth said.

“It might have been for his part, but never hers. The duke started being high-and-mighty, hobnobbing with the queen. He’d need a young and beautiful lady, not some old biddy he had since he were twenty. I’d have been angry as anything, but Ma Palmer was most understanding. Went on loving him to pieces, though her heart was broke. If we ever said a word against the duke, we got our ears boxed.”

Beth stared thoughtfully at the iron railings of the staircase.

“You say she’d do anything for the duke?”

“Course she would. She’s like a dewy-eyed schoolgirl with him, for all she’s fifty if she’s a day.”

Beth’s thoughts whirled. Could Mrs. Palmer have discovered that Sally wanted to blackmail Hart? Had the madam decided to shut Sally’s mouth permanently? But in that case, why not wait until Ian had gone home and no Mackenzie could be implicated? Or did she not care who swung for the crime, as long as it wasn’t Hart? She itched to find the woman and question her.

“When did you work in the house, Sylvia?”

“Oh, ‘bout six, maybe seven years ago.”

“Did you know Sally Tate?”

“That bitch? Not surprised she got herself murdered.”

“You were there at the time of the murder?”

“No, I’d moved on by then. But I heard all about it. Sally had it coming, missus. She strung men along right enough, but she hated ‘em. She could charm all kinds of money out of ‘em. She and Ma Palmer had dustups all the time because Sally didn’t want to share the takings. She had her own lady love, kept talking about the two of ‘em taking a castle in the sky together and living happily ever after.”

Katie glared in outrage. “That’s disgusting. M’lady, you shouldn’t be out here listening to such talk.”

Sylvia shrugged. “Well, they get tired of men pawing at ‘em, don’t they? Some do, anyway. Not me, I like a handsome gentleman.”

“Never mind that,” Beth said impatiently. “Who was Sally Tate’s lady love? Did you know her?”

“It was one of the other girls what lived there. They used to lock themselves in an upstairs bedroom and bill and coo. Sally always vowed she’d take the girl to a cottage somewhere and they’d raise roses and some nonsense. Not bloody likely, was it? Catch any respectable folk in a village letting a house to a couple of hermaphrodites what used to be whores.” Sylvia tapped her lip. “Now, what was her name? Oh, I’ve got it. Lily. ‘Cause Sally was always saying they’d have lilies in the pond on account of her. They were both daft.”

“Lily Martin?” Beth asked, her voice sharp.

“That were it. Lily Martin. Now, what about me money, m’lady? I come a long way, it’s damp out here, and this silk will be all ruined.”

Ian woke when the little clock on the dresser struck ten. He stretched, his body warm and pliant, and he rolled over to wrap his arms around Beth.

He found an empty bed.’

He opened his eyes in disappointment. But perhaps she’d gone down for something to eat. She’d be hungry. Ian rubbed his hand over his face, trying to stave off the memories of their argument. He’d told her things he’d never meant to tell her, things he hadn’t wanted her to know about himself and his monstrous family. But he’d at least made her understand.

Ian swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He didn’t want to wait for her to return; he needed her now. He’d find her and get Curry to bring some supper to them. He wouldn’t mind seating Beth on his lap and feeding her from her plate. They’d enjoyed that at Kilmorgan, and he saw no reason not to enjoy it now. He pulled on his trousers and shirt, remembering how Beth had helped undress him a few hours ago. Her touch had been gentle and his had been impatient; he wanted her with fierce intensity.

Ian pulled on his ankle boots and ran fingers through his mussed hair before turning to the door. He caught the china doorknob and turned it.

The door didn’t budge.

He rattled the knob and pushed at the door, but nothing happened. Heart thumping, Ian crouched and put his eye to the keyhole.

No key on the other side. Someone had locked the door and taken the key away with them.

Blind panic flooded him.
Locked in, no escape, trapped, open it, please, please, please, I’ll be good…

He took deep breaths, trying to banish the freezing terror. He thought of warmth, of Beth, of the taste of her mouth, of sliding into her depths, feeling her squeeze… Beth. He crouched down and put his mouth to the keyhole.

“Beth?”

Silence. He heard noises from the street but none from the house. He yanked the bell-pull beside the bed, then went back to the door.

“Curry,” he shouted. He pounded on the heavy wood.

“Curry, damn you.”

No answer.

Ian went to the window and flung back the drapes. Mist swirled around the street lamps below. Carriages went back and forth in the square, fog enhancing the sound of hooves and rumbling wheels.

He heard footsteps in the hall and then Curry’s voice at the keyhole. “M’lord? Are you in there?”

“Of course I’m in here. She’s locked the door. Find a key.”

Curry’s voice took on a note of alarm. “Are you all right?”

“Find the blasted key.”

“You’re all right then.” Footsteps moved away.

New fears rushed at Ian, none that had to do with being confined in a small room. Beth had gone somewhere, and she hadn’t wanted him to stop her. Damn her, why couldn’t
she listen?

She’d have gone to Fellows, or to interview the men who’d been at the house five years ago, or worse, to the High Holborn house itself to talk to Mrs. Palmer.
Son of a bitch.

“Curry!” He pounded on the door.

“Keep your shirt on. We’re hunting for a key.”

It took too long. Ian chafed, his temper rising. On the other side of the door, Curry swore and growled. At last Ian heard a key in the lock, heard it turn. He yanked open the door. Curry, Cameron, and Daniel were grouped outside with the shaky butler, the plump cook, and two wide-eyed maids. “Where is Beth?” he demanded, striding past them.