The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie (2 page)

Beth’s tongue tripped along. “Sir Lyndon has lovely things. When I touch a piece that an emperor held hundreds of years ago, I feel… I’m not sure.
Close
to him, I think. Quite privileged.”

Sparks of gold flashed as Ian looked at her a bare instant. “You must come view my collection.” He had a slight Scots accent, his voice low and gravel-rough.

“Love to, old chap,” Mather said. “I’ll see when we are free.”

Mather lifted his opera glasses to study the large-bosomed soprano, and Lord Ian’s gaze moved to him. The disgust and intense dislike in Lord Ian’s unguarded expression startled Beth. Before she could speak, Lord Ian leaned to her. The heat of his body touched her like a sharp wave, bringing with it the scent of shaving soap and male spice. She’d forgotten how heady was the scent of a man. Mather always covered himself with cologne.

“Read it out of his sight.”

Lord Ian’s breath grazed Beth’s ear, warming things inside her that hadn’t been touched in nine long years. His fingers slid beneath the opening of her glove above her elbow, and she felt the folded edge of paper scrape her bare arm. She stared at Lord Ian’s golden eyes so near hers, watching his pupils widen before he flicked his gaze away again. He sat up, his face smooth and expressionless. Mather turned to Ian with a comment about the singer, noticing nothing.

Lord Ian abruptly rose. The warm pressure left Beth’s hand, and she realized he’d been holding it the entire time. “Going already, old chap?” Mather asked in surprise.

“My brother is waiting.”

Mather’s eyes gleamed. “The duke?”

“My brother Cameron and his son.”

“Oh.” Mather looked disappointed, but he stood and renewed the promise to bring Beth to see Ian’s collection. Without saying good night, Ian moved past the empty chairs and out of the box. Beth’s gaze wouldn’t leave Lord Ian’s back until the blank door closed behind him. She was very aware of the folded paper pressing the inside of her arm and the trickle of sweat forming under it. Mather sat down next to Beth and blew out his breath.

“There, my dear, goes an eccentric.”

Beth curled her fingers in her gray taffeta skirt, her hand cold without Lord Ian’s around it. “An eccentric?”

“Mad as a hatter. Poor chap lived in a private asylum most of his life, and he runs free now only because his brother the duke let him out again. But don’t worry.” Mather took Beth’s hand. “You won’t have to see him without me present. The entire family is scandalous. Never speak to any of them without me, my dear, all right?”

Beth murmured something noncommittal. She had at least heard of the Mackenzie family, the hereditary Dukes of Kilmorgan, because old Mrs. Barrington had adored gossip about the aristocracy. The Mackenzies had featured in many of the scandal sheets that Beth read out to Mrs. Barrington on rainy nights.

Lord Ian hadn’t seemed entirely mad to her, although he certainly was like no man she’d ever met. Mather’s hand in hers felt limp and cool, while the hard pressure of Lord Ian’s had heated her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. Beth missed the intimacy she’d felt with Thomas, the long, warm nights in bed with him. She knew she’d share a bed with Mather, but the thought had never stirred her blood. She reasoned that what she’d had with Thomas was special and magical, and she couldn’t expect to feel it with any other man. So why had her breath quickened when Lord Ian’s lilting whisper had touched her ear; why had her heart beat faster when he’d moved his thumb over the back of her hand?

No. Lord Ian was drama, Mather, safety. She would choose safety. She had to. Mather managed to stay still for five minutes, then rose again. “Must pay my respects to Lord and Lady Beresford. You don’t mind, do you, m’dear?”

“Of course not,” Beth said automatically.

“You are a treasure, my darling. I always told dear Mrs. Barrington how sweet and polite you were.” Mather kissed Beth’s hand, then left the box.

The soprano began an aria, the notes filling every space of the opera house. Behind her, Mather’s aunt and her companion put their heads together behind fans, whispering, whispering. Beth worked her fingers under the edge of her long glove and pulled out the piece of paper. She put her back squarely to the elderly ladies and quietly unfolded the note.
Mrs. Ackerley,
it began in a careful, neat hand.

I make bold to warn you of the true character of Sir Lyndon Mather, with whom my brother the Duke of Kilmorgan is well acquainted. I wish to tell you that Mather keeps a house just off the Strand near Temple Bar, where he has women meet him, several at a time. He calls the women his “sweeties” and begs them to use him as their slave. They are not regular courtesans but women who need the money enough to put up with him. I have listed five of the women he regularly meets, should you wish to have them questioned, or I can arrange for you to speak to the duke. I remain,

Yours faithfully,

Ian Mackenzie

The soprano flung open her arms, building the last note of the aria to a wild crescendo, until it was lost in a burst of applause.

Beth stared at the letter, the noise in the opera house smothering. The words on the page didn’t change, remaining painfully black against stark white. Her breath poured back into her lungs, sharp and hot. She glanced quickly at Mather’s aunt, but the old lady and her companion were applauding and shouting, “Brava! Brava!”

Beth rose, shoving the paper back into her glove. The small box with its cushioned chairs and tea tables seemed to tilt as she groped her way to the door. Mather’s aunt glanced at her in surprise. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“I just need some air. It’s close in here.”

Mather’s aunt began to fumble among her things. “Do you need smelling salts? Alice, do help me.”

“No, no.” Beth opened the door and hurried out as Mather’s aunt began to chastise her companion. “I shall be quite all right.”

The gallery outside was deserted, thank heavens. The soprano was a popular one, and most of the attendees were fixed to their chairs, avidly watching her. Beth hurried along the gallery, hearing the singer start up again. Her vision blurred, and the paper in her glove burned her arm.

What did Lord Ian mean by writing her such a letter? He was an eccentric, Mather had said—was that the explanation? But if the accusations in the letter were the ravings of a madman, why would Lord Ian offer to arrange for Beth to meet with his brother? The Duke of Kilmorgan was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Britain—he was the Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of Scotland, which went back to 1300-something, and his father had been made Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of England by Queen Victoria herself.

Why should such a lofty man care about nobodies like Beth Ackerley and Lyndon Mather? Surely both she and Mather were far beneath a duke’s notice. No, the letter was too bizarre. It had to be a lie, an invention. And yet… Beth thought of times she’d caught Mather looking at her as though he’d done something clever. Growing up in the East End, having the father she’d had, had given Beth the ability to spot a confidence trickster at ten paces. Had the signs been there with Sir Lyndon Mather, and she’d simply chosen to ignore them?

But, no, it couldn’t be true. She’d come to know Mather well when she’d been companion to elderly Mrs. Barrington. She and Mrs. Barrington had ridden with Mather in his carriage, visited him and his aunt at his Park Lane house, had him escort them to musicales. He’d never behaved toward Beth with anything but politeness due a rich old lady’s companion, and after Mrs. Barrington’s death, he’d proposed to Beth.
After I inherited Mrs. Barrington’s fortune,
a cynical voice reminded her. What did Lord Ian mean by
sweeties? He begs them to use him as their slave.

Beth’s whalebone corset was too right, cutting off the breath she sorely needed. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she put her hand out to steady herself. A strong grip closed around her elbow. “Careful,” a Scottish voice grated in her ear. “Come with me.”

Before Beth could choke out a refusal, Lord Ian propelled her along the gallery, half lifting, half pulling her. He yanked open a velvet-draped door and all but shoved her inside. Beth found herself in another box, this one large, heavily carpeted, and filled with cigar smoke. She coughed. “I need a drink of water.”

Lord Ian pushed her down into an armchair, which welcomed her into its plush depths. She clasped the cold crystal glass he thrust at her and drank deeply of its contents. She gasped when she tasted whiskey instead of water, but the liquid burned a fiery trail to her stomach, and her vision began to clear.

Once she could see again Beth realized she sat in a box that looked directly onto the stage below. From its prime position she judged that it must be the Duke of Kilmorgan’s box. It was very posh indeed, with comfortable furniture, gaslights turned low, and polished inlaid tables. But apart from herself and Lord Ian, the box was empty. Ian took the glass from her and seated himself on the chair next to hers, far too close. He put his lips to the glass where Beth had just drunk from it and finished off the contents. A stray droplet lingered on his lower lip, and Beth suddenly wanted to lick it clean. To drag her mind from such thoughts, she slid the paper from her glove. “What did you mean by this, my lord?” Ian didn’t even look at the letter. “Exactly what it said.”

“These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”

Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.

“I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.

“Mather isn’t a collector.”

“Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”

“His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”

Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.

She shifted uncomfortably.

“My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”

“Mather keeps his perversions to himself.”

“But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”

“He thought it would impress my brother.”

“Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”

Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.

“Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked. His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.”

Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”

“He is riddled with debt. That’s why he sold me the bowl.”

She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.

“I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.

“No, it doesn’t.”

The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”

“Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.

Married women were supposed to look the other way at their husbands’ affairs. Thomas had said this was balderdash, rules thought up by gentlemen so that they could do as they liked. But then, Thomas had been a good man. The man sitting next to her couldn’t be called good by any stretch of the imagination. He and his brothers had terrible reputations. Even Beth, sheltered by Mrs. Barrington for the last nine years, knew that. There were whispers of sordid affairs and stories of the scandalous separation of Lord Mac Mackenzie from his wife, Lady Isabella. There had also been rumors five years ago about the Mackenzies’ involvement in the death of a courtesan, but Beth couldn’t remember the details. The case had gained the attention of Scotland Yard, and all four brothers had removed themselves from the country for a time. No, the Mackenzies were by no means considered “good” men. Then why should a man like Lord Ian Mackenzie bother to warn nobody Beth Ackerley that she was about to marry an adulterer?

“You could always marry me,” Lord Ian said abruptly.

Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you could marry me. I don’t give a damn about your fortune.”

“My lord, why on earth should you ask me to marry you?”

“Because you have beautiful eyes.”

“How do you know? You’ve not once looked at them.”

“I know.”

Her breath hurt, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you do this often? Warn a young lady about her fiance, then turn about and offer to marry her yourself? Obviously the tactic hasn’t worked, or you’d have a string of wives dogging your footsteps.”