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.
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.
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.
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?”
