The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

chat and know all about each other.”

Beth opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again.  The Mackenzies had stirred her curiosity, and what better way to learn about Lord Ian than from his own sister-in-law?  “Certainly,” she amended. “I shall be delighted.”

 “So, Ian, who is this Mrs. Ackerley?”

Mac leaned across the table and spoke over the strains of the orchestra scraping out a raucous tune. On the stage above Ian and Mac, two women in corsets and petticoats showed their knickers and patted each other’s bottoms to the lively music.

Ian drew a long drag of his cigar and followed it with a sip of brandy, enjoying the acrid bite of smoke and the smoothness of the liquor. Mac had a brandy as well, but he only pretended to drink it. Since the day Isabella had left him, Mac hadn’t touched a drop of spirits.

“Widow of an East End parish vicar,” Ian answered.  Mac stared at him, his copper-colored eyes still. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

Mac watched him a moment longer before he shook his head and took a pull of his cigar. “She certainly seems interested in you. I’m giving her drawing lessons—or I will be once I finish with this damned painting. My model finally turned up out of the blue this morning, gushing about some artist she’s been holed up with. I’d use someone eke, but Cybele is perfect.”

Ian didn’t answer. He could easily contrive to be in the studio when Bern’s drawing lessons commenced. He would sit next to her and breathe her scent, watch the pulse flutter in her throat and perspiration dampen her skin.  “I asked her to marry me,” he said.

Mac choked on cigar smoke. He pulled the cheroot out of his mouth. “Damn it, Ian.”

“She refused.”

“Good Lord.” Mac blinked. “Hart would have apoplexy.” Ian thought of Beth’s quick smile and bright way of speaking. Her voice was like music. “Hart will like her.”

Mac gave him a dark look. “You recall what happened when I married without Hart’s royal blessing? He’d thrash you within an inch of your life.”

Ian took another sip of brandy. “Why should he care if I marry?”

“How can you ask that? Thank God he’s in Italy.” Mac’s eyes narrowed. “I am surprised he didn’t take you with him.” “He didn’t need me.”

Hart often took Ian on his expeditions to Rome or Spain, because Ian was not only a genius at languages, but he could remember every single word of every single conversation that went on during negotiations. If there were any dispute, Ian could recall the transaction word for word.  “That means he’s gone to see a woman,” Mac predicted.  “Or on some political venture he doesn’t want the rest of us to know about.”

“Possibly.” Ian never pried too closely into Hart’s affairs, knowing he might not be comfortable with what he found.  Ian’s thoughts strayed to Lily lying dead in her sitting room, her scissors through her heart. Curry had remained in London at Ian’s request, and Ian expected his report any moment.

“You get yourself to Paris, guv,” Curry had said as he’d shoved Ian’s valise onto the seat of the first-class carriage.  “Anyone asks, you left by an earlier train.”

Ian had looked away, and Curry slammed the door, exasperated.  “Damn it, me lord, one of these days you’re going to have to learn to lie.”

Mac broke into Ian’s thoughts. “So, you followed Mrs. Ackerley to Paris? That speaks of a man who won’t take no for an answer.”

The words of the letter Beth had sent him ran through his brain once more, overlaid with the taste of her lips. “I intend to use persuasion.”

Mac burst out laughing. Heads craned at the noise, but the girls danced on, oblivious, palms firmly on each other’s backside.

“Damn it all, Ian, I must know this woman. I’ll have her start her lessons—you wouldn’t know where I can send word to her, do you?”

“Bellamy says she’s staying with Isabella.”

Mac sat upright, dropping his cigar. Ian rescued it before it could catch the tablecloth on fire and dropped it into a bowl.

“She’s in Paris?”

For the last three years, since Isabella had departed Mac’s house while he lay in a drunken stupor, Mac had not spoken Isabella’s name. Nor had he used the words my wife.  “Isabella came to Paris four weeks ago,” Ian said. “Or so your valet says.”

“Hell. Bellamy never told me. I’ll wring his neck.” Mac looked off into the distance, planning his valet’s execution.  Bellamy was a former pugilist, so it was doubtful Mac’s rage would have any impact. “Damnation,” Mac said, very softly.  Ian left him alone and watched the dancers. The women had progressed to prancing around without corsets, their breasts small, their nipples the size of pennies. Gentlemen around Ian laughed and applauded.

Ian wondered what Beth’s breasts looked like. He remembered the rather plain opera gown she’d worn, dark gray taffeta that covered her to her shoulders.

She’d worn a corset, because all respectable women did, but Ian imagined what a pleasure it would be to unlace it with slow hands. Her corset would be a functional garment, plain linen over whalebone, and she’d blush as it fell away to bare her natural beauty.

Ian felt himself harden, and he lounged back in his seat and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to sully the image of Beth with the half-naked dancers, but his thoughts did not allow his erection to go down for quite some time.

 “The things I do for you, guv.” Curry dropped his valise on the floor of Ian’s hotel bedroom the next morning and collapsed in a chair.

Ian stared into the fire, a cigar in his sweating fingers.  He’d had a bad night after he’d left Mac, the nightmares returning to pull at his brain until he awoke, screaming in the dark.

The French servants had tumbled in, clutching candles and babbling in fear as Ian rocked on the bed, his head in his hands as it throbbed with hideous pain. The pinpoints of light had stabbed in through his eyes, and he’d shouted at them to take the candles away.

He needed Curry and the concoctions he mixed to soothe the headaches and let Ian drift back to sleep. But Curry had been on a train heading through the night toward Paris, and Ian had lain back, sweating and nauseous and alone.

He’d heard what the French servants whispered about him: Sweet Mary, help us, he’s a madman. What if he murders us in our beds?

He’d got through the rest of last night by thinking erotic thoughts about Beth Ackerley. He thought some now as he closed his eyes and waited for Curry to recover himself. Beth at the opera, her lips under his. The flick of her tongue in his mouth, the press of her fingers against his cheek. The curve of her sweet bottom swaying as he’d helped her into Cameron’s coach.

Ian looked up at Curry, whose face was gray with exhaustion.

“Well? Did you find out who killed Lily?” “Oh, certainly, guv. The culprit gave himself up to me, and I dragged him off to the magistrate. And daisies arc growing in the streets and London will never see fog again.” Ian let Curry’s words go by, not bothering to understand them. “What did you find out?”

Curry heaved a sigh and hoisted himself out of the chair.

“You expect miracles, you know that? So do your bleeding brothers, begging your pardon. I know that when Lord Cameron sent me off to tend you in that joke of an asylum, he expected me to cure you and bring you home.” Ian waited, aware that Curry liked to run on before he got to the point.

Curry snatched up Ian’s frock coat from the back of a chair and started brushing it off. “Gawd, what will you have done to your suits while I was gone?”

“The hotel man looked after them,” Ian said, knowing Curry could wail about Ian’s clothes for hours. For a man born in the gutters of the East End, Curry was extremely snobbish about Ian’s state of dress.

“Well, I hope he hasn’t had you wandering the streets in lavender with spotted waistcoats. These frogs have no sense of taste.”