The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (15 page)

“Who the devil is this woman?” Hart growled. He’d never heard of her, never seen her before. “Lord Ian is quite rich, Your Grace,” Wilfred said in his creaking voice. “Perhaps she seeks to double her investment.”

“I find no humor in it, Wilfred.” Hart bent the pen in his hand until the slender instrument snapped. Ink splattered across the newspaper.

“Of course not, Your Grace.”

“Damn it all, what is Isabella playing at?”

“You think she has a hand in it, Your Grace?”

“Both hands. Damnation.”

“Is it such a danger?” When Hart glared up at Wilfred, the man flushed. “I mean, sir, that if her ladyship likes this Mrs. Ackerley, approves of her, perhaps all is well? If your brother, his lordship, enjoys her company… well, he is getting to be of an age where he should think about settling down.” Hart watched him steadily until Wilfred trailed off.

“You’ve been in my employ ten years, Wilfred. You know Ian, and you know what he’s capable of.”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“Isabella isn’t aware of certain facts. Neither are you.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Trust me when I say Ian must be kept away from this woman, whoever she is.” Hart studied the drawing, the woman’s round, pretty face and dark curls on top of her head. She looked innocent and harmless, but Hart knew better than anyone how much looks could deceive. This was the fifth time a Parisian newspaper had chosen to print such a tidbit about Ian and this Mrs. Ackerley. “Whatever her motives are. they can’t be good.”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Have a packed valise standing by for me at all times, Wilfred. I want to be able to leave at a moment’s notice.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Shall I dispose of the newspaper?”

“Not yet.” Hart put his hand on it. “Not yet.” Wilfred bowed and left him. Hart studied the picture again, noting the way Ian was half turned to look at Mrs. Ackerley. An artist’s interpretation, yes, but it likely wasn’t far off the mark. Mrs. Ackerley must know Ian’s history by now, his eccentricities, his headaches, his nightmares. The latter depended on whether she’d yet wormed her way into his bed. Hart clenched his fists and rested them on the newspaper. Ian wasn’t even supposed to be in Paris. Ian was to stay in London, returning to Scotland when Hart finished his business on the Continent. There had been no mention of Ian visiting Mac or Isabella in Paris.

“I don’t know who you are,” Hart said, tracing the outline of the laughing Mrs. Ackerley.

“But you have taken one step too far.”

Hart slowly crumpled the page in his hands, then tore it apart in long, ragged strips.

In the week between Ian’s interesting carriage ride with Beth and his next planned encounter with her, he saw nothing of Inspector Fellows. He had Curry watch out for the man, but Curry couldn’t find him either. “ ‘E must ‘ave run off ‘ome,” Curry declared, “ ‘is tail between ‘is legs.”

Ian didn’t think so. Inspector Fellows was canny and smart, and he wouldn’t run because Ian threatened him. If he’d returned to London in truth, it would be for a very good reason. Ian wished he knew what the man was planning. Isabella asked Ian to accompany her and Beth to an outing on Wednesday, and though another summer storm had come up to drench Paris, Isabella still insisted on going. “It’s a den of iniquity, darling,” Isabella said to Beth as the three of them descended in front of an ordinary looking house on the edge of Montmartre. “You’ll love it.” Ian had been here before with Mac, but entering the house was much more satisfying with Beth on his arm. She was dressed in dark red taffeta tonight, rosettes at her bosom. Everything she wore shimmered and whispered in some way. He kept her hand tight in the crook of his arm, not letting go when she tried to pull away. He was glad Isabella had been wise enough to ask Ian to escort them, because he’d be damned if he’d let Beth into this place alone.

“Den of iniquity?” Beth asked, peering around the dim, dusty shop they entered. “I believe someone’s having you on.”

Isabella laughed. “This way, darling. It’s a dead secret.” She led the way through the shop to an unmarked door at the back. Light and noise and the stench of cigar smoke and perfume poured up a carpeted staircase. Not so secret, Ian thought as he let Beth precede him down the stairs. The Parisian police were aware of this illegal gambling den, but took money to look the other way. The wealthy Parisians thought they were getting away with something, excited like mischievous children. The staircase spilled them into a glittering palace. The room ran the length of several houses upstairs, and crystal chandeliers marched across the ceiling. A rich red carpet covered the floor, and the walls were lined with walnut.

People hovered around tables, talking, laughing, shouting, groaning. The click of dice, the slapping of cards, and the whir of a roulette wheel floated above it all. Too many people pressed around Ian. He didn’t like it. They crushed him, stared at him, talked all at the same time until he couldn’t hear what they were saying. He felt the need to flee winding like an insidious vine, and he looked around for the nearest retreat.

“Ian?” Beth glanced up at him, faint perfume clinging to her. Her curls on top of her head were level with his nose. He could bury his face in her hair, kiss her. He didn’t have to run.

His hand tightened on hers. “I don’t like crowds,” he said.

“I know. Should we go?”

“Not yet,” Isabella said. She looked back at them with shining eyes and stopped in front of a roulette table. The wheel’s brass finial gleamed as it spun, the wooden slats of the base beautifully inlaid. Piles of counters rested on numbers on the green baize tabletop. Ian watched the ball whizzing around the wheel, in the opposite direction the wheel spun. Roulette wheels were precisely balanced, floating on their bases, the nearest thing to a perpetual-motion machine. Ian wanted to snatch up the ball and start the wheel again, to count how many times the ball could glide around the circumference before friction had its way.

The wheel slowed. Ian stared closely, predicting how many turns were left before the ball dropped. Fifteen, he predicted, or twenty.

The ball danced across the double row of slots before finally coming to rest.
“Rouge quinze”
the partially dressed lady behind it announced. Red fifteen. There were groans and sighs. The croupier raked counters toward herself, and hands reached for winnings or left them to ride.

“I love roulette.” Isabella sighed. “It’s banned in France, but you can find it if you know where to look. Saves the bother of traveling all the way to Monte Carlo. Give me your money, and I’ll change it to markers for you.” Beth looked questioning at Ian. He nodded. The tightness had eased from his throat, and he breathed more easily. Isabella handed Beth markers, and Beth reached to put a stack on one of the numbers.

“Not there,” Ian said quickly.

“Does it matter?” Diamonds glittered on Beth’s gloved wrist as her hand stilled. Ian took the markers from her and placed one on the lines between four numbers. “Odds are better here.” Beth looked doubtful, but she withdrew her hand to the edge of the table. The croupier spun the wheel, muscles in her bare shoulders working. The wheel whirred, all eyes fastened on it. The ball spun in its enticing motion until it clicked softly into its slot.

“Noir dix-neuf.”
Black nineteen.

Beth rapped the table in frustration as the croupier scraped away her counters.

“The same again,” Ian said.

“But I lost.”

“The same again.”

“I do hope you know what you’re doing, Ian.” She obediently put her marker in the same place. The wheel spun, the ball dropped.
“Rouge vingt et un.”
Red twenty-one. Beth squealed and did a little victory hop. The croupier shoved a pile of counters onto Beth’s number. “I won. Gracious, shall I do it again?”

Ian’s large hand shot out and he scraped Beth’s winnings to her. “Roulette is a fool’s game. Come with me.”

Isabella grinned at them, reaching to put her marker where Beth’s had been. “It’s all rather fun, isn’t it? You’re so lucky, darling. I knew you would be.”

She laughed and spun back to the table.

Ian kept Beth’s hand in his as they moved to a long table where a portly man shook a cup of dice. Bettors up and down the table shouted encouragement, and the gentleman’s face shone with sweat. The lavishly dressed lady next to him hung on his arm and bounced excitedly. “She’ll ruin his throw,” Beth hissed.

“She might, if she is employed by the house,” Ian murmured back.

“Isn’t that cheating?”

He shrugged. “It’s the risk of coming into such places as this.”

“Isabella seemed so keen.”

“She likes danger.” After all, she’d married Mac.

“Shall I place a bet?” Beth asked.

Hazard had so many odds, so many different combinations that the dice could produce. Predicting which would come up or waiting for a precise throw seemed futile to Ian. People found that risk exciting, which baffled him. Beth’s eyes sparkled as she watched the gentleman nerve himself to throw. “What bet shall I place?” Ian rubbed his thumb over his forehead, numbers flowing through his brain in mathematical precision. “Here, and here,” he said, pointing to squares on the table. The man finally threw the dice, establishing the number he had to match, a ten. Then he threw again. Everyone groaned when the dice read twelve.

“I lost,” Beth said, disappointed.

“You won.” Ian retrieved the counters. “You bet that he would overreach on an early throw.”

“Did I?” Beth looked at the counters, then back at the table. Her cheeks were pink, lips shining red. “I think I shouldn’t wager if I have no idea what I’m betting on.”

“You’re a rich woman.” Ian placed the counters in her hands. “You have the money to lose.”

“I won’t be rich for long if I wager on hazard and roulette. What would have happened if you hadn’t been here?”

“If I’d not been here, you wouldn’t have come.”

“No?”

She raised her brows at him, dove’s wings across her face. Ian wanted to lean down and kiss them, here in the middle of the crowd. Beth, his lover, his mistress. He wanted everyone to know she belonged to him.

“Ian?”

She’d asked him a question. “Mmm?”

“I said, how do you know I wouldn’t have come without you?”

Ian took her elbow and steered her to a less crowded part of the room. “I wouldn’t have let you.”

“Really? Would you follow me about, like Inspector Fellows?”

“This is a dangerous place,” he said grimly. “Isabella understands. You don’t.”

Beth’s bosom rose. “You’re very protective.” She leaned in to whisper to him. “I thought we agreed that our
relations
were between two people who enjoyed that side of life. Nothing more.”

Ian didn’t remember agreeing to that. She’d said,
We like each other well enough, and I don’t foresee that I will marry again.

Ian hadn’t responded, and he didn’t respond now. Having the affair with her would never be enough. He wanted more than playing with her in Mac’s studio, the bliss of having her go down on him in the carriage. He wanted it again and again, the joy of her forever. Not Beth as his courtesan, not a love affair that ended when he left Paris. He wanted Beth for always.

The problem was how to do it. Beth didn’t wish to marry, she said. Her engagement to the snake Mather had left her shy, and she’d already turned Ian down once. He would have to think of a way, but the task didn’t bother him. Ian was good at focusing his attention on a problem until he solved it, to the exclusion of everything else. A slender young man with thick blond hair stepped out in front of him, and Ian’s thoughts fell in shards. “I thought that was you.” The man’s eyes lit up, and he stuck out his hand. “Ian Mackenzie, as I live and breathe. How are you, old man? I haven’t seen you since they sprang you from prison.”

Ian studied the young man with interest. About thirty, well-bred voice, slim hands, manicured nails. The man continued to hold out his hand, his smile wide. “Well met.” Ian hesitated, then took the proffered hand as though reminding himself of the appropriate response.

A darker man loomed behind the first and looked at Ian with dislike. “Who is this, Arden?”

The slender man laughed. “This is Lord Ian Mackenzie. Be nice to him, old chap. He once saved my life.” The other man didn’t look mollified. Arden released Ian’s hand and clapped him on the arm. “You look uncommonly well, Mackenzie. What has it been, seven years?”

“Seven years,” Ian agreed. “And two months.”

Arden burst out laughing. “He always has to be precise. So very, very precise. They let me out, too. My father kicked off a few years after you left our happy home, and my foul brother went next. He got drunk as a lord and drowned in his bath, thank God. I wouldn’t blame his wife one whit if she’d held him under.”

Beth hid a gasp, but Ian nodded. “I am pleased.”

“Not as pleased as me, I’ll wager. So there I was, sole heir to the bulk of my father’s fortune. Good Dr. Edwards was rubbing his greedy hands, but my sister got my commission of lunacy reversed, bless her down to her rosette-laden slippers. She and I fled the morbid climes of England and now inhabit a rather drafty house in the French countryside. This is Graves. He lives there, too.”

The dark-haired Graves nodded tersely. Arden chuckled. “He’s jealous as a wet hen; don’t mind him. Is this your wife?”

“This is Mrs. Ackerley,” Ian corrected.

“A friend,” Beth said quickly, extending her hand. Arden looked as impressed as if he’d been introduced to the queen. “Well met, Mrs. Ackerley. Lord Ian is a fine man, and I’ll never forget him.” His words were glib, but his eyes shone with emotion. He glanced at his glowering friend and laughed. “Don’t worry, Graves. I’m all yours. Shall we?”

Graves turned away at once, but Arden lingered. “Excellent to have seen you again, Mackenzie. If you’re ever near Fontainebleau, look us up.” He waved, beamed a final smile, and turned away. “Yes, yes, I’m coming, Graves. Stop a moment, do.”

Ian watched them go without expression. “The card games are much more lucrative,” he said to Beth. “I will teach you how to play.”