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
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 lan’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.
The sneer left Bellamy’s thug like face when Beth said who she was. Looking almost polite, he directed her up three flights of stairs to the door at the top.
The studio covered the entire floor, with two huge skylights letting in the gray Paris sky. The view, on the other hand, was breathtaking. Beth saw across rooftops down the steep hill to the flat plain of Paris and cloud- bedecked hills in the distance.
Mac was perched on a ladder in front of an enormous canvas, his hair covered by a red kerchief that made him look like a Gypsy. He held a long paintbrush in his hand and scowled bleakly at his canvas. Paint splattered his hands, face, painter’s smock, and the floor around him.
On the eight-foot canvas that reared in front of him, the figures of a pillar and a plump naked woman had been roughed in. Mac was concentrating on the folds of a drape that just missed the woman’s intimate parts, but the model kept twitching.
“Stay still, can’t you?”
The model saw Beth and stopped wriggling. Mac glanced over his shoulder and also went still.
Ian moved out of the shadows. His hair was rumpled, as though he’d been scraping his hands through it, perhaps massaging one of his temples, as he often did. His gold gaze darted over Beth, and then he deliberately turned to look out the window.
Beth cleared her throat. “The porter at your hotel said you’d come here,” she told Ian’s back.
Ian didn’t turn.
“Cybele,” Mac snapped, “go downstairs and tell Bellamy to give you tea.”
Cybele squeaked, then spoke in a heavy accent. “I’ll not go near Bellamy. He frightens me so much. He looks at me like he wishes to lock his hands around my throat.” “Can’t imagine why,” Mac muttered, but Beth broke in.
“It’s all right. It doesn’t matter. I only came here to apologize. To both of you.”
“What the devil do you have to apologize for?” Mac said. “Fellows is to blame, blast the man. He was told to stay away from us.”
Beth walked to the window, her gloved fingers closing tightly on the handle of her satchel. She looked up at Ian reflected in the glass, his face utterly still.
“You were quite right, Ian,” she said softly. “I should have sent the inspector away with a flea in his ear. I didn’t because I was curious about things that were none of my business. Mrs. Barrington always said curiosity was my besetting sin, and she was right. I had no call to pry into your family’s history, and for that I soundly apologize.”
“Very pretty,” Cybele sneered.
Mac leapt from his stepladder, threw a dressing gown at Cybele, took her by the ear, and pulled her with him out of the room. Cybele shrieked and swore in French. The slam of the door shook the walls, and then everything went silent Beth studied the unfinished painting as she gathered her wits. The painted woman gazed at the bowl of water at her feet. Patches of wetness suggested she’d just stepped out of it. She held a thin scarf across her back as though she’d been drying off.
It was a sensual painting, like the one Isabella had shown her, but Beth understood the difference right away. The woman in this picture was a thing, a curve of colored flesh. She was no more a person than was the bath at her feet or the pillar behind her.
The woman in Isabella’s picture had been Isabella. Mac had painted his
Beth turned from the easel and faced the solid upright that was Ian. “I bought you a present” He still didn’t move. Beth unlocked her satchel and pulled out a small box.
“I saw it while I was shopping with Isabella. I wanted you to have it.”
Ian continued to stare sightlessly away from her, the shape of his broad shoulders reflected in the grimy window. Beth laid the box on the windowsill and turned away. If he didn’t want to speak to her, there was nothing she could do.
Ian pressed his hand flat against the windowpane, still not looking at her. “How can you be to blame?” Beth dropped the skirt she’d caught up in preparation for leaving. “Because if I’d refused to speak to Inspector Fellows yesterday in the park, you’d never have seen him. I should have had him thrown out when he came to Isabella’s house and began those awful accusations, but I’m too curious for my own good. Both times, I wanted to hear what he had to say.”
Ian finally turned his face to her, keeping his hand on the window. “Don’t protect me. They all try to protect me.” Beth went to him. “How can I possibly protect you? It was wrong of me to poke and pry, but I fully admit I wanted to speak to Fellows to find out all about you. Even his lies.” “They aren’t lies. We were there.”
“Fellows’s interpretation of the truth, then.” One hand fisted on the windowsill. “Tell me what he said to you. Everything.” His gaze rested on her mouth as he waited for her words.
She told him what Fellows had told her, including the man’s abrupt proposal of marriage. She did keep Fellows’s speculations about her father to herself, something she’d have to explain to Ian someday, but not now.
When Beth got to the proposal, Ian pivoted to the window again. “Did you accept?”
