“It’s his gift,” Ian said to Beth as they watched him one morning. “He can do anything with horses. They love him.” With people Cameron was harsh and often rude, and his language colored the air. At first he apologized to Beth, but after a while he forgot to. Beth remembered what Isabella had told her, that the Mackenzies had lived as bachelors for so long, they didn’t think to soften their manners around ladies. Beth, used to East End toughs, decided she could bear it. As she’d told Inspector Fellows, she was not a wilting weed.
She learned to treasure Ian’s conversations with her, like this one about Cameron, because she never saw him much outside of bed. Over the next two weeks, he closeted himself with Hart, or the two went riding alone, and neither would say where.
Cameron kept on with Beth’s lessons without indicating that anything was unusual. Beth tried to ask Ian once what he and Hart were doing, and Ian answered laconically, “Business,” before looking off into the distance. It maddened her to not understand, but she hated to poke and pry. Hart had been right; she barely knew Ian, and perhaps this was what they always did.
Things went on like this until one afternoon when Cameron took her riding beyond the park up into the hills.
It was a beautiful day, with a fine summer breeze dancing through the trees. Patches of snow lingered on the highest peaks of the mountains, the sun never quite warming it enough to melt it.
“There’s a folly in the woods out here,” Cameron said, riding beside her. His own horse was a glossy black stallion. The stable lads were afraid of the beast, but he obeyed Cam without fuss. “My father built it for my mother. There weren’t enough ruined castles in the Highlands for him, so he decided to build a fake one.”
The brothers never spoke much about their mother, or their father either, for that matter. The portrait of their much-bearded father glared at her every day from the top of the second-floor staircase, but she’d never seen a picture of their mother. She nudged Emmie to move faster, interested. Behind her Cameron’s horse stumbled. Beth turned in alarm to find Cameron already dismounted and anxiously examining the stallion’s hoof.
“Is he hurt?”
She spoke to Cameron’s broad back. “No, he’s all right. Threw a shoe, didn’t you, old lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “Go on up to the folly. Emmie knows the way.” Beth swallowed, never having ventured out by herself, but she decided she had to sometime. She nudged Emmie onward, and the old mare plodded up the path toward the higher hill.
The day had turned hot, the air close among the trees. Beth wiped her face as she rode, hoping the folly would hold a cooler breeze.
She saw it before long, a picturesque stone building with moss on it. The flat sides had tiny windows and artfully crumbling brick. She could see why the folly had been built in that particular place, however. The view was breathtaking. Fold after fold of land rolled away toward the flat gray sea far away. A creek gushed in a gorge that dropped from the folly’s front edge.
“You’re certain Fellows has nothing new?” Hart’s voice rolled out of the folly, and Beth froze.
“I’ve said,” Ian answered him.
“You haven’t said anything at all. We have to talk about this. Why didn’t you tell me about Lily Martin?” “I wanted to keep her safe.” There was a silence. “I didn’t help her at all.”
Lily Martin was the name of the woman killed in Coven Garden, Beth remembered, the night Ian had left for Paris. Fellows was convinced Ian killed her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Hart repeated.
“To keep her safe,” Ian answered with emphasis.
“From Fellows?”
“Partly.”
“From whoever killed Sally Tate?” Hart asked sharply. There was another silence, while the creek chuckled merrily away below.
“Ian, do you know?” Hart’s voice went quieter, flatter.
“I know what I saw.”
“Which was?” Hart asked impatiently.
“Blood. She was covered in blood; it was all over my hands. I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. It was like paint... .”
“Ian. Focus on me.”
Ian trailed off, the words dying away. “I know what I saw,” he said quietly.
“But does Fellows know?”
Ian paused again, and when he spoke, his voice was steadier. “No.”
“Then why does he want Beth?”
“I don’t know. But he does, and I won’t let him have her.”
“Very noble of you.” Hart’s voice was dry.
“If she’s married to me, your name protects her, too. The family of the Duke of Kilmorgan is not to be bothered by Lloyd Fellows.”
“I remember.”
“He tried to get her to spy against me,” Ian continued.
Hart’s voice turned sharp. “Did he?”
“Beth refused.” Ian sounded pleased. “She saw him off. My Beth’s not afraid of him.”
“Are you certain she refused him?”
“I was there. But just in case . . .” Another pause, and Beth held her breath.
“Just in case?” Hart prompted.
“A wife can’t go into the witness box against her husband, can she?”
Hart was silent a moment. “I apologize, Ian. Sometimes I forget how intelligent you are.”
Ian didn’t respond.
Hart continued. “You’re right, Ian. It’s best that she’s on our side. But the moment she makes you unhappy, the marriage is annulled. She can be made to keep quiet for a large enough sum of money. Everyone has their price.”
Beth’s breath hurt, and the world seemed to ripple around her. She turned and blindly nudged Emmie forward, thankful the mare’s hooves made little sound on the damp leaves. Nausea bit her stomach. She clung to Emmie’s red-brown mane, letting the mare find her way back home. Beth barely remembered the ride to Kilmorgan. She knew only that suddenly it was before her, the long mansion crouching in the valley, its windows glittering like watchful eyes. Cameron was nowhere in sight, likely engrossed with his stallion’s lost shoe, which was fine with Beth. A tall, redhaired groom appeared and took Emmie’s reins, and Beth heard herself thanking him politely. The dogs ran up for her attention, but she couldn’t see to pet them, and they turned and trotted back to the stables.
Somehow Beth made it into the house and up to the chamber she shared with Ian. She closed the door on the maid who’d hurried to assist her, and then she numbly undressed to her chemise and lay down on the bed.
It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the windows with all its strength. Beth lay still, her arm across her abdomen, the absence of the corset at last allowing her to breathe. A few tears trickled down her face, then dried, leaving her eyes burning. She thought she could hear the echo of Mrs. Barrington’s derisive cackle. Beth lay still until she heard Ian coming. Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to look at him.
Beth lay in the shadow of the canopy, her dark hair tangled across the pillow. Ian’s gaze traced the snakes of her hair, lines of brown silk across the linen. Six strands lay straight, seven intersecting them at odd angles, and three more lay across her pale chemise. He liked the pattern and studied it for a time. The skirt of Beth’s chemise had twisted to bare her calves, muscular now from her riding lessons. He reached down and touched her skin,
