The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (12 page)

Fog was gathering as Beth and Isabella left the house much later. As they crossed the small space of pavement to Isabella’s waiting carriage, Beth saw a man in the shadow between lampposts. He moved away when he caught her gaze, and the lamplight briefly shone on his thick, luxuriant mustache.

“Mrs. Ackerley.”

Beth turned sharply the next morning on her walk through the Tuileries Gardens. The burned-out remains of the Tuileries Palace loomed across the park, a reminder of violence in this beautiful place.

Katie walked next to her, surly because Beth had insisted on coming out early after such a late night. Isabella remained in bed, fast asleep, but Beth felt energetic and restless.

“Fashionable
ladies never rise before noon,” Katie growled under her breath. “I thought now we were fashionable, too.”

“Hush, Katie,” Beth said. She bade Katie walk ahead and waited for the tall man in black to catch up to her. “Well?” she asked when Katie was out of earshot “I know you’ve been following me about, Inspector. Please tell me why.”

“Just doing my duty.”

The wind blew in from the river, bringing with it the musty stench of water and the sound of bells from Notre Dame.

“Does Scotland Yard know you’re in Paris?” she asked. “Looking into murders that you’ve been forbidden to investigate?”

“I took a leave of absence. I’m in Paris on holiday.”

“Then I take it you will not be making any arrests.”

Fellows shook his head, his hazel eyes hard. “If I feel there’s reason to arrest anyone, I’ll go through the proper channels. I’ll inform the Surete and assist them any way” I can.”

Beth gave him a cold look. “I’ve already told you that I’ll not spy on my friends.”

“I’ve not come to renew that suggestion.”

“Because you know it is useless?”

“Because I realize you have integrity, Mrs. Ackerley. Surprising, considering your background.”

“You’ve made your point. My mother was gently bred, despite her unfortunate marriage, please remember.”

“Yes, I’ve made inquiries and found one country squire from Surrey called Hilton Yardley. Very respectable, very English. Died of grief when his daughter married a frog of dubious origins.”

“No, he died of a liver complaint four years later,” Beth said. “You will no doubt say it was brought on by the shock of his daughter marrying my father.”

“No doubt,” Fellows answered dryly.

Beth turned and walked away at a pointedly brisk stride, but Fellows easily kept pace with her. “I approached you about a different matter, Mrs. Ackerley.”

“I have no interest, Inspector.”

“You will.”

Beth halted so abruptly that her skirts swung. She held her parasol firmly and bathed him in a glare. “Very well, what is it?”

He looked her up and down, his hazel gaze raking her in a most insulting manner. His mustache twitched. “Mrs. Ackerley, I want you to marry me.”

Beth stared at Inspector Fellows until she realized this wasn’t a joke. “I beg your pardon?”

“Marry me, Mrs. Ackerley,” Fellows repeated. “I am a respectable man with a job and income, although I know you no longer need to worry about money. But you’re in deep waters, too deep for your own good.”

“And you fear that I’ll drown?”

Fellows grasped her elbow. His fingers were strong, like Ian’s. “The Mackenzies will pull you under. Look what they did to Lady Isabella. She was an innocent debutante, and now she’s not received by her own family. You have even less social position than she does, and once you’ve lost public regard, you will have nothing. Doesn’t matter about all your money.” Fellows’s words rang with sincerity. But there was something behind the sincerity, a watchfulness that she couldn’t quite place.

“It is the best offer you’ll have,” he said. “I’ve seen the gigolos here running after you, panting after your fortune. They’ll ruin you. I care nothing for your money—I am happy being a detective, and I will continue to forge ahead at Scotland Yard.”

Beth clutched her parasol’s handle until her knuckles hurt. “You amaze me. Why should you worry so much about my reputation?”

True anger blazed from his hazel eyes. “Because the Mackenzies destroy everything they touch. Any lady who goes nigh that family comes to grief. I’d like to save one, at least.”

“One?” she asked sharply. “There have been others?”

“Do you not know the stories?”

Fellows’s eyes glittered. It was obvious he wanted to tell her, and Beth was cursed with wanting to know. She studied the sad ruin of-the palace, which the Parisians had already started to knock down. Clearing out the past, ridding itself of its ghosts.

“Please tell me, Inspector,” she said. “You are going to anyway.”

“I am talking about the wives of Hart and Cameron Mackenzie. Hart married a slip of a girl, a marquess’s daughter. This was after another young woman jilted him—came to her senses in time, most like. But the poor thing His Grace married was terrified of him by all accounts. He shut her up in that great house in Scotland and never let her out. She died trying to give him the heir he wanted. It’s said he took five minutes out to bury her in the family mausoleum, then went back to his houseful of fancy women.”

“You’re very certain of this information.”

“I have my sources. The duke now won’t talk about his wife and refuses to have her name mentioned.”

“Perhaps he is grief-stricken.”

Fellows snorted. “Unlikely. Did you forbid all and sundry to speak your husband’s name when he passed, Mrs. Ackerley?”

“No.” She remembered the emptiness of her life after Thomas had gone. “You’re right. I didn’t want people to forget him. I wanted his name mentioned everywhere. Thomas Ackerley was a good man.”

“You see? Lord Cameron’s wife died equally as tragically, though she was a much more spirited woman. She was a firebrand her own family couldn’t handle. Then after she had her son, she went crazy with a knife, tried to kill the baby and Lord Cameron both. No one knows quite what happened in that room, but when Lord Cameron came out, his face was cut up, and his wife lay dead on the floor.”

Beth blenched. “How dreadful.” She’d seen the scar on Cameron’s face, a deep gash on his cheekbone. “Yes,” Fellows agreed. “If they’d left those ladies alone, they’d be alive today.”

“Were either of them friends of yours?” Beth asked him.

“Are you persecuting the family to avenge their deaths?” Fellows looked surprised. “No, I never knew them. The ladies in question were well above my class.”

“But someone you cared about was hurt by the Mackenzies.” His look told her she was right. “They’ve hurt so many, I doubt they’d even remember.”

“And because of this slight, whatever it is, you want to blame Ian for the High Holborn murder.”

Fellows reached out and clutched Beth’s elbow. “Ian killed her, Mrs. Ackerley. You mark my words. He never should have been let out into the worlds—he’s completely mad, and I intend to prove it. I will do anything to prove he murdered Sally Tate and Lily Martin, and I’ll lock him away forever. He deserves it.”

His face was red with fury, his mouth shaking. The anger went deep, nursed for years, and Beth was suddenly consumed with curiosity. What on earth could the Mackenzie family have done to a police inspector to make him so determined to destroy them?

She heard shouting and looked behind her to see the tall bulk of Ian Mackenzie running toward them. He had a walking stick in his hands and rage in every step. The wind carried Ian’s hat to the ground at the same time he dropped the stick and jerked Fellows away from Beth.

“I told you to stay away from her.”

“Ian, no.”

Last time, Ian had shaken the man and pushed him off. This time, Ian’s strong hands closed on his throat and didn’t let go. “Leave her alone, or I’ll kill you.”

“I’m trying to save her from you, you filth.”

Ian roared, his rage so bright that Beth backed up a step.

“Ian.”
Mac Mackenzie sprinted across the grass and grabbed his brother’s arms. “Curry, help me, damn you.” A lean, wiry man wrapped his hands around Ian’s huge arm, but it was like a small dog trying to drag down a tree. Mac was shouting in Ian’s ear, but Ian ignored him. A crowd began to gather. Upper-class Parisians out for their morning stroll, nannies with their children, and beggars alike moved closer to get a look at the mad Englishmen brawling in the middle of the park.

Mac spewed foul language as he pried Ian’s hands from Fellows’s neck. Released, Fellows fell to his knees, then hauled himself up again, trousers stained with wet grass. His throat was red, his collar ripped.

“I’ll have you,” Fellows snarled. “By God, I’ll have you swinging for the hangman before you know where you are.” Foam flecked his lips. “I’ll destroy you, and I’ll put my heel in your brother’s face when he begs me for mercy.”

“Fuck you,” Ian screamed.

Beth pressed her hands to her face. Katie stared, openmouthed, as Curry and Mac laced their arms around Ian’s middle and dragged him away from Fellows. Ian’s face was purple, tears tracking his cheeks. He coughed as Curry jerked a fist against his breastbone. “You have to stop, guv,” Curry said rapidly. “You have to stop or you won’t breathe sweet air anymore. You’ll be back in that hellhole, and you’ll never see your brothers again. What’s worse is I’ll be stuck in there with you.”

Ian coughed again, but still fought, like an animal not understanding it had been caught. Mac stepped in front of Ian and grabbed his face.

“Ian, look at me.”

Ian tried to pull away, to do anything but look his brother directly in the eye.

“Look at me, damn you.”

He swiveled Ian’s head, forcing Ian’s eyelids open until finally, Mac’s eyes and Ian’s met.

Ian stopped. He gasped for breath, tears shining on his face, but he stilled, staring, mesmerized, into Mac’s eyes. Mac’s hold on him softened, and Beth saw that Mac’s own eyes were wet. “That’s it. You’re all right.” His grip on Ian’s cheek turned to a caress, and then Mac leaned forward and kissed Ian on the forehead.

Ian’s breath was hoarse and audible. He dropped his gaze and looked away across the park, seeing no one. Curry still had hold of his arms. Ian shook him off, then turned his back and started toward the carriage that had stopped in the lane. Its coachman was standing on the ground, holding the horses and looking agitated. Beth guessed that Ian and Mac had been riding by, and Ian had leapt from the coach when he’d seen Beth with Fellows.

She realized then that Mac and Ian both wore rumpled evening dress, Ian in the same suit he’d worn the night before. They weren’t up early; they were still returning from the night’s revelries.

Ian never looked at Beth. Curry retrieved Ian’s hat from the ground, dusted it off, and strode after him. Mac turned to Fellows, his eyes like cold copper. “Go back to London. If I see you again, I’ll thrash you until you can’t stand.”

Fellows was breathing hard, rubbing his throat, but he wasn’t cowed. “You can hide Lord Ian behind the duke as much as you want, but in the end, I’ll get him. That terrifies you, doesn’t it?”

Mac growled. Beth pictured another outburst of violence in this quiet, sunny park, and she stepped between them. “Do as Mac says,” she begged Fellows. “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

Fellows turned hard hazel eyes to her. “One last warning, Mrs. Ackerley. Don’t throw in your lot with them. You do, and I won’t be merciful.”

“Didn’t you hear her?” Katie said, planting her hands on her hips. “Be off or I’ll call the police on you. Wouldn’t that be a laugh? A Scotland Yard ‘tec arrested by the French coppers?” Mac put his hand on Katie’s shoulder and pushed her toward Beth. “Get your mistress home and make her stay there. Tell my… Tell
her
she needs to look after Mrs. Ackerley better.”

Katie opened her mouth to snap at him, but she took one look into Mac’s eyes and quieted. “He’s right, Mrs. A,” she said meekly. “Best we go home.”

Beth gave Ian’s retreating back one last look, and then gazed up at Mac. “I’m sorry,” she said, her throat tight. Mac said nothing. Beth ignored Fellows and let Katie turn her toward the lane that led to the Rue de Rivoli. She felt Mac’s eyes on her all the way, but when she glanced back, Ian had entered the coach and was sitting with his head turned from her. He never once looked out at her, and she walked away with Katie, the garden’s brilliance blurred by her tears.

“I’ve lost her, haven’t I?” Ian grated.

Mac landed next to him in the carriage with a thump, and slammed the door himself.

“You never had her, Ian.”

Ian let familiar numbness flow over him as the coach started. He rubbed his temple, the rage having brought on his headache.

Damn the demon inside him. Seeing Fellows reach out and touch Beth—and worse, Beth do nothing to stop him—had unleashed the beast. All he’d wanted was to wrap his hands around Fellows’s throat and shake him. Just like Father—

Mac sighed, cutting through the memory. “We’re Mackenzies. We don’t get happy endings.” Ian wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and didn’t answer. Mac watched him a moment. “I’m sorry. I should have sent the bastard packing the minute you told me he was in Paris.”

Ian sat back, unable to speak, but his thoughts spun, words tumbling over words until he had to keep mute. He looked out the window, but instead of the passing streets, he saw Beth reflected in the glass, her hands white lines on her beautiful face.

“I’m sorry,” Mac repeated wearily. “Damn it all, Ian, I am so sorry.”

Still gripping Ian’s arm, Mac rested his forehead on Ian’s broad shoulder. Ian felt Mac’s distress, but he couldn’t move or say a word that could offer any comfort.

Mac’s studio was not what Beth expected. He’d rented a shabby apartment in the Montmartre area, two rooms to live in on the first floor and a studio at the top of the house. A far cry from what she pictured a wealthy English aristocrat would live in.

A man built like a pugilist with iron gray hair and hard brown eyes opened the door. Beth stepped back in alarm, clutching her satchel to her bosom. This was a man one would find in a wrestling match or a brawl in a pub, not answering doors in Paris. But no, he seemed to be Mac’s valet. Isabella had told her that the four brothers picked up their unconventional valets off the streets, thus saving them time and expense at the agencies. Curry had been a pickpocket, Bellamy a pugilist, Cameron’s valet a Roma, and Hart’s a disgraced clerk to a London financier.