The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

  Ian ran him off with threats of violence.

  By the sixth day, the fever still had not come down. Ian sat by Beth’s side, his hand loosely clasping hers, and tasted fear. He was going to lose her.

  “Is this what love feels like?” he whispered to her. “I don’t like it, my Beth. It hurts too much.”

  Beth didn’t respond. Her eyes were cracked open under swollen lids, a blue glitter that saw nothing. He hadn’t been able to feed her today.

  Ian felt sick, his stomach roiling, and he had to leave the room to vomit bile. When he returned, there was no change. Her breathing was hoarse and a struggle, her skin painfully hot.

  She’d come into his life so suddenly, only a few short weeks ago, and just as suddenly, she was departing it. The sense of loss terrified him. He’d never felt it before, not even with all the loneliness and fear he’d experienced at the asylum. That fear had been self-preservation; this was an emptiness that hollowed him out from the inside. Sitting in this dark room facing the worst brought memories back to him. Ian’s perfect recall played them all clearly, little dimmed by the seven years between now and his years at the asylum. He remembered early morning baths in cold water, taking supervised walks in the garden, where a man with a long walking stick followed him about. The sheepherder, Ian had always called him, ready to beat patients back indoors if necessary. When other physicians or distinguished guests visited, Dr. Edwards would give grand lectures, while Ian was made to sit on a chair next to the podium. Dr. Edwards would have Ian learn the name of every member of the audience and recite them back, have him listen to a conversation between two volunteers and repeat it perfectly. A blackboard would be brought out, and Ian would solve complex mathematical problems in seconds. Doctor Edwards’s trained seal, Ian called himself.

  His is a typical case of haughty resentment which is festering his brain. Notice how he avoids your eyes, which shows declined trust and lack of truthfulness. Note how his attention wanders when he is spoken to, how he interrupts with an inappropriate comment or question that has nothing to do with the topic at It and. This is arrogance taken to the point of hysteria—the patient can no longer connect with people he deems beneath him. Treatment: austere surroundings, cold baths, exercise, electric shock to stimulate healing. Regular beatings to suppress his rages. The treatment is effective, gentlemen. He has calmed considerably since he first came to me.

  If Ian had “calmed,” it was because he’d realized that if he suppressed his rages and abrupt speeches, he’d be left alone. He’d learned to become an automaton, a clockwork boy that moved and talked in a certain way. To violate the pattern meant hours locked in a small room, electric shocks through the body, beatings every night. When Ian became the clockwork young man again, his tormentors left him alone. They at least let him read books and take lessons with a tutor. Ian’s mind was restless, absorbing everything put in front of it. He mastered languages in a matter of days. He progressed from simple arithmetic to higher calculus within a year. He read a book every day and could recite huge passages from each one. He found some refuge in music and learned pieces he heard played, but never how to read music. The notes and staffs were so much blackand-white mess to him. Ian also couldn’t master subjects like logic, ethics, and philosophy. He could mouth the phrases from Aristode, Socrates, Plato, but not understand or interpret them.

  The arrogance of his class coupled with his resentment toward his family has created a blockage in his brain, Dr. Edwards would explain to his enthusiastic audiences. He can read and remember but not understand. He also shows no interest in his father, never asks after him or writes to him even when it is suggested to him. He also makes no sign that he misses his dear, departed mother.

  Dr. Edwards never saw the boy Ian sob into his pillow at night, alone, afraid, hating the dark. Knowing that if his father came for him, it would be to kill him for what Ian had seen.

  Ian’s only friends were the asylum’s servants, maids who smuggled him sweetmeats from the kitchen and wine from the servants’ hall. They helped him hide the cheroots Mac brought him and the naughty books Cameron gave him when he came to call. You read these, Cameron would whisper, with a wink. You need to know which end of a woman is what, and what each is for.

  Ian had learned that at seventeen at the hands of the plump, golden-haired maid who cleaned his hearth every morning. She’d kept their secret liaison for two years, then married the coachman and moved off to a better life. Ian told Hart to make her a wedding present of several hundred guineas, but would never say why. That was a long time ago. Ian swam back to the present, but the present was stark and terrifying. He sat in darkness, curtains cloaking the windows, while Beth struggled to live. If she died, he might as well take himself back to the asylum and lock himself in, because he’d go mad if he had to live without her.

  Isabella arrived not long later. She entered the room in a faint rustle of silk, her eyes filling as she took in Beth on the bed.

  “Ian, I’m so sorry.”

  Ian couldn’t answer. Isabella looked exhausted. She caressed Beth’s hand and lifted it to her lips.

  “I saw the doctor downstairs,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “He told me there wasn’t much hope.”

  “The doctor is an idiot.”

  “She’s burning up.”

  “I won’t let her die.”

  Isabella sank down on the bed, still holding Beth’s hand. “It happens, usually to the best people. They’re taken away to teach us humility.” Tears streaked down her cheeks.

  “Balls.”

  Isabella looked up at him, her smile wan. “You’re stubborn, like a Mackenzie.”

  “I am a Mackenzie.” What a damn fool thing to say. “I won’t let her die. I can’t.” Beth moved listlessly on the bed, soft sounds coming from her mouth.

  “She’s delirious,” Isabella whispered.

  Ian wet a cloth and dabbed it to Beth’s tongue as she tried to talk, her voice a croak. She lapped the droplets that fell from it, whimpering.

  Isabella wiped away tears as she rose from the bed and blindly made her way out. Mac came in not long later, his face haggard.

  “Any change?” he asked.

  “No.” Ian didn’t look up from pressing a cloth filled with ice to Beth’s forehead. “Did you come with Isabella?”

  Mac gave a soft snort. “Hardly. Different trains, different boats, and she changed her hotel as soon as she found out I’d booked in there, too.”

  ’You’re both fools. You can’t let her go.”

  Mac raised his brows. “It’s been three years, and she isn’t exactly racing back to me.”

  “You aren’t trying hard enough to get her back,” Ian said, angry. “I never thought you were this bloody stupid.”

  Mac looked surprised, then thoughtful. “You might have a point.”

  Ian returned his attention to Beth. How anyone could find love and throw it away so carelessly was beyond him.

  Mac rubbed his forehead. “Speaking of bloody fools, Hart sacked that quack of a doctor. Good thing, too. I was ready to throttle him.”

  “Good.”

  Mac put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, fingers squeezing. “I’m sorry. This isn’t right. You of all of us deserve to be happy.”

  Ian didn’t answer. It had nothing to do with being happy.

  It had everything to do with saving Beth.

  Mac remained for a while, watching Beth moodily, then drifted away. He was replaced by other visitors throughout the day and into the night: Cameron, Daniel, Katie. Curry, Isabella again. They all asked the same question. “Is there any change?” Ian had to shake his head, and they went away. In the small hours of the morning, when the house was deathly still, the gilt clock on the mantelpiece apologetically chimed twice. Beth sat straight up in bed.

  “Ian!”

  Her skin was bright red, her eyes glittering, pupils wide.

  Ian came to the bed. “I’m here.”

  “Ian, I’m going to die.”


  Ian wrapped his arms around her, held her close. “I won’t let you.”

  She pulled away. “Ian, tell me you forgive me.” She caught Ian’s gaze, and he couldn’t turn away.

  Beth’s eyes were hot blue, swimming with tears. He could look at them for hours, mesmerized by the color. He’d read that eyes were the windows to the soul, and Beth’s soul was pure and sweet.

  She was safe, but a monster lurked inside Ian, the same one that had lurked inside his father. He could so easily hurt her, forget himself in a rage. He couldn’t let that happen—ever.

  “There is nothing to forgive, love.”

  “For going to Inspector Fellows. For raking it all up again. For killing Mrs. Palmer. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “But if I hadn’t come back to London, she’d still be alive.”

  “And Fellows would still believe me guilty. Or Hart. There’s no forgiveness needed for finding out the truth, my Beth.”

  She didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed, her voice tight with fever. She put her hand on his chest and buried her face in his shoulder. Ian held her close, his heart thumping. When he lifted her gently to kiss her, he saw that her eyes had closed again and she’d fallen back into her stupor. Ian laid her down on the pillows, tears sliding from his eyes to scatter across her hot skin.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Beth swam to wakefulness. She was soaked in sweat and sore all over, but she somehow felt, deep down inside, that the worst was over.

  And she was so hungry.

  She turned her head to see Ian in the chair beside the bed, his head back, his eyes closed. He was in shirtsleeves and trousers, his shirt open to his navel. He held her hand firmly in his, but a gentle snore issued from his mouth. Beth squeezed Ian’s hand, ready to tease him for the rumpled sprawl of his big body. Oh, for the energy to climb out of bed and curl up in his lap, letting those strong arms hold her again.

  “Ian,” she whispered.

  At the small sound, he snapped open his eyes. The golden gaze raked over her, and then he was on the bed, a cup of water sloshing in his hand.

  “Drink.”

  “I’d love something to eat.”

  “Drink the damn water.”

  “Yes, husband.”

  Beth drank slowly, liking the wetness on her parched tongue. Ian glared at her mouth the entire time. She wondered whether, if she didn’t swallow fast enough for him, he’d hold her nose and dump the liquid down her throat. “Now bread,” Ian said. He broke off a tiny piece and held it to her lips.

  Beth took it, unable to stop her smile. “This reminds me of when we were at Kilmorgan. You fed me breakfast.” Ian broke off more bread without answering, watching as she chewed and swallowed.

  “I feel better,” she said when she’d eaten several pieces for him. “Though very tired.”

  Ian felt her forehead and face. “The fever’s broken.”

  “Thank heavens—“

  She broke off with a squeak when his arms went hard around her. His shirt fell open, the warmth of his bare chest like a blanket.

  He tried to slant a kiss across her dry lips, but she pulled back. “No, Ian, I must be disgusting. I need a bath.” Ian smoothed her hair from her forehead, his own eyes wet.

  “You rest first. Sleep.”

  “You, too.”

  “I was asleep,” he argued.

  “I mean proper sleep, in a bed. Have a maid come and change the sheets, and you can sleep in here with me.” She brushed a tear from his cheek, treasuring the rare sign of his emotion. “I want you to.”

  “I’ll change the sheets,” he said. “I’ve been doing it.”

  “The upstairs maids will not be happy if you take over their job. They’ll consider it not your place. Very snobbish are upstairs maids.”

  He shook his head. “I never understand anything you say.”

  “Then I must truly be better.”

  Ian snatched folded linens from a cupboard. In silence he began stripping the sheets from one side of the bed. Beth tried to help, but gave up as soon as she realized she could not even pull up one corner.

  Ian deftly unmade one part of the bed and tucked new sheets over it. Then he gently lifted her and laid her on the clean sheets before he repeated his actions with the other side.

  “You are quite practiced at this,” she observed as he tucked quilts around her. “Perhaps you could open a school of instruction for upstairs maids.”

  “Books.”

  She waited, but he only tossed the wadded-up bedding in the hall and closed the door again.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Books on how to care for the sick.”

  “You read them, did you?”

  “I read everything.” He pulled off his boots and stretched out beside her, his warmth so welcome.

  Beth’s thoughts went to when she’d wakened in the night, when Ian had looked straight down into her eyes. His golden gaze had been so anguished, so filled with pain. Now his gaze was evasive again, not letting her catch it. “It’s not fair that you look at me only when I’m extremely ill,” Beth said. “Now that I am fully awake and feeling better, you turn away.”

  “Because when I look at you, I forget everything. I lose all track of what I’m saying or doing. I can see only your eyes.” He laid his head on her pillow and rested his hand on her chest. “You have such beautiful eyes.”

  Her heart beat faster. “And then you flatter me so that I’ll feel awful that I chided you.”

  “I’ve never flattered you.”

  Beth traced his cheek. “You do know that you are the finest man in the world, don’t you?”

  He didn’t answer. His breath was hot on her skin. She was tired, but not so tired that she couldn’t feel an agreeable tightening in the space between her legs. More memories of the church came back to her, the awful pain and Mrs. Palmer’s desperation, overlaid with the scents of her old life. “She’s dead, isn’t she? Mrs. Palmer, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “She loved him so much, poor woman.”

  “She was a murderess and nearly killed you.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly happy about that. She didn’t kill Sally, you know. Lily did.”

  Ian’s gaze flickered. “Don’t talk. You’re too weak.”

  “I’m right, Ian Mackenzie. Sally threw Lily over and was going to keep all the blackmail money for herself. Lily must have been furious. You said she was hanging about outside the bedroom. While you were off in the parlor, and after Hart left the room, she nipped in, quarreled with Sally, and stabbed her. No wonder Lily agreed to go to that house in Covent Garden and not come out.”

  Ian leaned over her. “Right now, I don’t give a damn who killed Sally.”

  Beth looked hurt. “But I solved the mystery. Tell Inspector Fellows.”

  “Inspector Fellows can rot in hell.”

  “Ian.”

  “He thinks he’s a bloody good detective. He can find out for himself. You rest.”

  “But I feel better.”

  Ian glared at her, his eyes still not meeting hers. “I don’t care.”

  Beth obediently settled back into the pillows, but she couldn’t resist tracing his cheek. His jaw was dark and sandpaper rough, showing he hadn’t shaved in a while. “How did you find me at the church?” Beth asked. “How did you know?”

  “Fellows found someone who heard Mrs. Palmer tell a cabbie to take them to Bethnal Green. Hart knew Mrs. Palmer’s sister lived there. When you weren’t at her house, I decided you’d try to get away from Mrs. Palmer and back to the church that had been your husband’s.” He looked away. “I knew you’d been happy there.”

  “How did you even know where it was?”

  “I’ve explored all parts of London. I remembered.”

  Beth leaned into his chest, loving the clean scent of his lawn shirt. “Bless you and your memory, Ian. I’ll never stand amazed at it again.”

&
nbsp; “Does it amaze you?”

  “Yes, but I’ve been viewing it rather like a circus trick. Dear heavens, like you’re a trained monkey.”

  “Monkey…”

  “Never mind. Thank you for finding me, Ian Mackenzie. Thank you for not killing Sally Tate. Thank you for being so damned noble and conscientious.”

  “I worried sometimes.” Ian rubbed his forehead in the gesture that indicated one of his troubling headaches. “Sometimes I convinced myself that it wasn’t Hart; it was me in one of my rages, blocked out so I don’t remember.”

  Beth closed her hand over his. “But you didn’t. Both killers are dead, and it’s over.”

  “You saw me try to choke the life out of Fellows. It took Curry and Mac to pull me off him.”

  “You must admit Inspector Fellows can be provoking,” Beth said, trying to make her tone light.

  “In the asylum I fought my handlers at first. I hurt more than one of them. They had to strap me down to give me my treatments “

  “Handlers?” Beth started to sit up, but the pain pulled her back down. “You weren’t an animal.”

  “Wasn’t I?”

  “No one should be tied down and beaten and given electric shocks.”

  “The headaches would come, and I’d lash out at them.” His gaze slid away. “I can’t always stop the rages. What if I hurt you?”

  Beth’s heart squeezed at the fear in his eyes. “You’re not your father.”

  “Aren’t I? He locked me away because I’d witnessed him killing my mother, but that wasn’t the only reason. I couldn’t convince a commission I was sane—I grew so angry I could only recite one line of poetry over and over, trying to contain myself.” He caught one of her hands, brought it to his mouth.

  “Beth, what if I rage at you? What if I hurt you? What if I open my eyes and your body is under my hands—“

  He broke off, his eyes closing tight, tight.

  “No, Ian, don’t leave me.”