“Ian believes it.” Beth knew inside herself that John was not evil. He might act from ignorance but not malice. “Which is rather more worrying.”
Ackerley put his hand to his heart. “I give you my word that if I think my methods are injuring Lord Ian in any way, I will cease.”
“He might not let you cease,” Beth pointed out. “Ian can be quite persuasive.”
“Yes, I see that.” Ackerley’s expression softened. “He persuaded you to marry him when you had no intention of marrying again after your broken engagement, or so you claimed in your letters. You love Lord Ian very much, don’t you?”
“I do.” Beth felt a swell of affection. “Ian is . . . unlike any other man in the world. This is not to detract from Thomas at all—please understand. What I had with Thomas was special. Ian is different, but Thomas wasn’t lesser.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Ackerley’s sorrow showed in his eyes. “I still miss him, dash it all.”
Beth put her hand on his arm. “I know. Let us make a pact—after the chaos of Hart’s birthday ends, we will sit down and talk all about Thomas. Remember him properly, his good deeds, and when he made us laugh at him.”
“Excellent.” Ackerley gave her a nod. “You are a fine woman, dear Beth.”
“Thank you.” Beth patted him, then stepped away. “Just be careful with Ian. And make sure he is careful with you. If you need to break through that stubborn Mackenzie façade, you come to me. Promise?”
“I do, indeed,” Ackerley said.
Beth let him go then, and Ackerley turned away, looking vastly relieved the interview was over.
* * *
Beth was going to scold him. Ian knew that as they met in the nursery that evening to put the children to bed.
Jamie, along with Hart’s son and heir, Alec, had received permission to share a bedroom two doors down, older boys together—no girls. Ian said good night to Jamie and sent him and Alec off with Eleanor, then he and Beth turned to tucking in their daughters, and Hart’s very young son, Malcolm.
“Papa,” Belle said to Ian as Beth settled Megan. “Aunt Eleanor says you’ve asked Uncle John to cure you of your madness. But you’re not mad, Papa.” Her expressive face furrowed. “’Centric, certainly. Not mad. I’ve been reading about madness in my books. You don’t appear to have any of the symptoms the physicians write about. You don’t talk to people who aren’t there, or wear clothes wrong, or forget who you are and how to find your way home.”
Ian became aware that Beth, at Megan’s bed, had stilled to listen.
“’Tis not that sort of madness, love,” Ian said to Belle.
“There isn’t another sort,” Belle answered with conviction. “I’m going to be a doctor, you know. I’ve been studying.”
Ian had no idea how to reply. Beth always did, but Beth now seemed incapable of speech.
Ian had spent all afternoon with Ackerley, while Ackerley asked Ian more and more questions about his earliest memories. Ackerley had wanted to know about Ian’s need to run when faced with unpleasant situations, and delved into Ian’s hatred of his father, which had begun long before the awful day of his mother’s death. Ian had found himself pouring out the details of his life. It had been almost a relief to share the memories, even as they hurt.
Daughter Belle reached out and touched Ian’s hand. “You see? You are not mad, Papa. You may cease worrying about it.”
Ian studied her for a long time, Belle with her quick thoughts and love of books. She was smart and resourceful, and a quick learner, like Ian was. His pride in her ran deep.
He wasn’t certain how to answer Belle, so Ian pressed a kiss to her forehead. Belle, satisfied she’d solved all the problems, smiled and closed her eyes.
Ian went to Megan’s bed, stooping to kiss her as well. Megan said sleepily, “Love you, Papa,” and snuggled down with her velvet stuffed giraffe.
Beth took Ian’s hand and led him from the room, not letting go until they entered their own chamber downstairs.
Yes, Beth was going to scold. Ian watched her firm her shoulders, draw a breath, and harden her expression. Only one thing to do.
He reached to Beth’s bodice and started undoing her buttons. A row of them, black and shining, marched to her waistband, the placket parting to show Ian the silk and lace she wore underneath.
Beth’s undergarments were sleek and smooth—she did not like the excessive frills, ribbons, laces, and bows that other women did. Ian preferred Beth’s style, which allowed him to run his hand over silk and feel the warm woman beneath.
Styles of dress had changed in the ten years Ian and Beth had been married, and so had undergarments. Beth didn’t favor the full corset that covered her hips—hers stopped at her waist, its low décolletage cupping softness.
Beth’s body was a song to him. Music rippled through Ian when he touched her, growing fuller and more melodious the more his hands found. Her waistband opened under his fingers, and as her skirts and petticoats fell away, he slid his touch to the swell of her hips, the fullness of her buttocks.
Ian kissed Beth’s neck while he caressed her then drew his hands up her back to open the corset cover and pull loose the laces of her stays.
Beth hummed in her throat as she flowed to him. He heard her take another breath, steeling herself to continue her lecture, and Ian bit her now-bare shoulder.
“Ian.” The whisper floated around him. Ian closed his mouth on her skin and suckled.
Heat ran through him as he remembered the joy of teaching her about love bites, the remarkable day she’d approached him and asked him whether he would mind if they became lovers.
Ian still had not recovered from the stunning blow of that question. The beautiful woman who’d fallen into his life and left him dizzy had asked him to be her lover.
Ian, not being a fool, had immediately acquiesced.
“Ian, we must talk.” The words held no conviction, Beth’s resolve failing her as Ian tasted her warmth.
Ian finished the love bite and licked the reddening patch on her shoulder. He also kissed the darker red of the bite he’d left last night.
The corset came away, the laces fluttering as it fell to the carpet. Beneath was another thin garment, combinations that hugged Beth’s body from shoulders to knees.
She never believed Ian when he told her how beautiful she was in her combinations. The fabric outlined her breasts, waist, hips, legs, enhancing the plump softness of Beth’s body. Now that she’d borne three children, Beth thought herself too sagging, but Ian saw nothing wrong. She was his Beth, her body as enticing and beautiful as when he’d unwrapped her for the first time.
Ian kissed his way down her body, landing on his knees, which were cushioned by his kilt. He skimmed his hand over the abdomen that had cradled his children, the miracles that were Jamie, Belle, and Megan.
She’d given him life many times over.
“There’s no honey in the house,” Ian said, pressing a kiss to her stomach through the fabric.
“No? Oh.” Beth moved on restless feet. “That is a pity.”
“Only yours.” Ian reached up to peel the combinations down her body, taking her stockings as he went. The garments fell away, opening her to him like a gift.
Nothing was better than Beth’s own honey, welcoming his mouth. Ian drank her in dark enjoyment, while Beth’s bare toes curled on the carpet. Her fingers closed on his hair, the sounds coming from her throat making his already tight hardness tighter still.
Ian collapsed onto his back and lay full length on the floor. Beth remained above him, staring down at him. Ian enjoyed the view of her full breasts, curve of hip, curls of dark hair now damp where he’d licked her.
He looked his fill for a few moments, then Ian reached up, locked strong hands on her waist, and pulled his wife down to him. Beth came willingly, her smile widening. Ian fumbled his plaid aside and brought her to him, Beth’s body pliant and warm.
Soon Ian’s beautiful Beth was surrounding him as he
eased her to straddle him, and he slid deep inside her. Her eyes half closed as she rocked on him, her soft breasts swaying as Ian began to thrust.
No matter how mad Ian might be, this was never maddening. Sweet Beth made love to him without shyness, without shame. Her truest feelings showed on her face, sounded in her voice.
“Love you, my Beth,” Ian said as he came into her, faster, harder. Beth’s head went back as she gave herself to pure joy. “Love you, love you, love you.”
Ever since the day he’d learned to say it, Ian had formed those words in his mouth, savored them, understood them. Beth had given him this.
Beth’s cries rang out as she found her deepest pleasure. “I love you, Ian Mackenzie—I do love you so much.”
Yes, my Beth. This is love—and madness has no place here.
Beth collapsed on top of Ian, spent and breathless, at the same time his white-hot release flooded him, and he sent his seed hard into her. “Beth, m’Beth, love you.”
Ian fell back, gathering the woman he loved more than his own life into his arms, and everything went impossibly still.
Chapter Thirteen
Fellows returned from London by the overnight train, bringing with him his efficient former sergeant, Pierce, now an inspector in his own right.
Pierce had met the Mackenzie family before, but he’d never been to Kilmorgan. As the coach moved over the bridge and the enormous house spread before them, Pierce let out a whistle.
“Blimey, that’s a pile. Why don’t you quit policing and move in here, sir?” He looked around in wonderment. “His Grace the duke’s always eager to share with you, so you tell me. I say take him up on it.”
“You’ll understand in a day or two,” Fellows answered. “I like my job, Pierce.”
Pierce’s eyes glinted with humor. “Tell you what, sir. You keep on doing your job to please yourself, but hand over all your salary to me, seeing as you are so high-minded that you turn down riches and work for pleasure.”
Fellows sent him a quelling look, and Pierce answered with a delighted laugh. “You’re a snob, sir,” Pierce said. “You just don’t want to be posh.”
No, Fellows didn’t. For all his rage in his younger years that his mother wore herself out on the keeping of him while the Mackenzies lacked for nothing, Fellows now realized he didn’t resent them for the material goods they owned, or even for their money.
As a child Fellows hadn’t understood what made him so angry, but as an adult, he knew that he’d simply wanted to be acknowledged. Even if the old duke hadn’t given him a penny, Fellows had wanted the man to look at him and concede that Fellows was his son.
The duke never had. He’d died without admitting he’d fathered Lloyd, hadn’t recognized Lloyd when he’d seen him on the street. The bitterness of that rejection had run deep.
It still did, but Lloyd no longer blamed the Mackenzie brothers for it. They’d suffered at the hands of the old duke far more than Lloyd had. Fellows had come to find common ground with them, and even liking.
Cameron, for instance, had become a good friend. Cameron was largehearted and generous, and he and Fellows attended the races together, enjoying the finest whisky afterward. Cam was also at home in the pubs in Fellows’s neighborhood, easily lifting a pint in Fellows’s local and talking readily with his friends. Fellows didn’t understand Mac as much, but he appreciated the painting Mac had done of Louisa and their children, as a gift to Fellows. Mac too had a wide streak of generosity in him.
Hart and Ian were tougher nuts to crack. Ian possessed the same openheartedness as his brothers, though not as obviously. The amount of money Ian Mackenzie donated to the care and study of the infirm and the mad was incredible. At one time, a research hospital had wanted to name a wing after him, and Ian had refused. He hadn’t done it for the building, he’d said, but for the people inside it.
And then there was Hart, a man who’d had to hold himself distant for so long that he had no idea how to open to others. Eleanor had pried him loose, that was certain, and Hart was most loving to her and his children. Even so, for a man who was so eloquent in his speeches to Parliament, Hart had difficulty talking casually to others.
He’d softened a huge amount in the last ten years, Fellows had to admit, and the two of them had become much more comfortable with each other. Fellows now had no difficulty running lightly up the stairs to Hart’s study when he reached the house, without asking the majordomo to announce him.
Hart called, “Come,” when Fellows tapped on the door, and rose to cross the room and warmly shake Fellows’s hand when he entered. Fellows returned the grip then turned to present Inspector Pierce.
Hart nodded at the man and shook his hand in turn. “Pleased to see you again, Pierce.”
“I’ve come to tell you a story,” Fellows said, accepting the whisky Hart poured after they’d exchanged greetings and settled in. Though it was early, Fellows wasn’t fool enough to turn down the famous Mackenzie malt no matter what the hour.
“Once upon a time . . .” Fellows sat back in his chair, took a sip of whisky, and savored its smooth heat. “There was a man who collected art, though he was not particular how he came by it. He hired the best of thieves to bring him works of art he craved, and paid them thousands of pounds for it. I was a sergeant at the time this man ‘collected’, and worked with an inspector tasked to finding the thieves he used and bringing them in. We couldn’t touch the man; that had been made clear.”
“Who was it?” Hart asked.
He’d seated himself again, not at his desk, but on a wide chair, his kilt falling modestly over his knees. Hart had declared he’d never wear anything but a kilt in his family’s plaid until Scotland was free of England’s yoke.
“Lord Ethan Sedgwick,” Fellows said. “Now recently deceased.”
“Mm.” Hart didn’t look one bit surprised. “Sedgwick was always an arrogant bastard. Did you catch his pet thieves?”
“That we did,” Fellows said. “My inspector at the time, Radcliffe, left the details to me. I got a man inside Sedgwick’s house as a footman, and he obtained plenty of information. Sedgwick was one who didn’t believe servants could see or hear, so he wasn’t careful about closing doors when discussing business. After a few months of surveillance, we knew what artwork he wanted to obtain, where it was, and when the thieves were going to steal it. It was only a matter of getting policemen into place and nabbing the thieves when they came out with the goods.”
Hart shot him a narrow look. “Sounds ideal.”
Fellows paused to take a deep drink. The humiliation of the failure still bit.
“Wait ’til you hear the rest,” Pierce said to Hart. “Before my time, but I remember the air was pretty thick about it even when I was a young constable.”
“We caught the thieves,” Fellows said after letting a quantity of whisky float down his throat. “They had the painting they’d gone to nab all right, but in exchange for making sure they didn’t get the noose, the thieves talked. Told us all about Sedgwick and the things they’d stolen for him over the years and where he kept them. While I knew I could not arrest Sedgwick—or at least, I’d been told not to—I saw no reason I shouldn’t find the stolen artwork and return it to its rightful owners. So, I went to the place where Sedgwick kept his private collection—a sort of summerhouse on his grounds. Not well guarded, the idiot. I went inside and found a veritable museum. He’d stolen every old master he could put his hands on—Rembrandt, Rubens, Raphael, van Dyck, Holbein, Velázquez . . . more I didn’t know. A stockpile that would astonish you.”
“I am suitably astonished,” Hart said mildly. “Are you telling me these same thieves have done me over?”
“No.” Fellows shook his head. “Let me explain. I returned to London and reported to Inspector Radcliffe. I told him I’d secured the latest painting Sedgwick had caused to be stolen, though I’d leave to him the decision whether to arrest Sedgwick for receiving stolen goods and hiring the thieves for the rest of it.
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“Radcliffe was furious with me. Sedgwick and his father, a marquis, had a lot of pull in the Home Office and could make life difficult for those of us in Scotland Yard. Radcliffe told me that simply by investigating Sedgwick I’d forfeited my career, and his, and that of anyone who’d assisted me. I was to stand down, turn my back, pretend I’d never seen the paintings, get the thieves a conviction for what I’d actually caught them stealing, and that would be that.”
Hart’s eyes were alight with interest now. “But you, being you, could not do that.”
“Of course not. I returned to Sedgwick’s estate, intending to box up the art as evidence. The law was the law, even for the too-rich son of an English marquis.”
Hart grunted a laugh. “What happened? I see that you’re still alive.”
“The chief inspector—Radcliffe’s superior—surprisingly backed me. He was tired of aristocrats getting away with high crime and wanted to make an example of Sedgwick. He went with me to supervise shipping the artwork back to London. But when we got to Sedgwick’s home, the paintings were gone. Every single one. The frames of many were left, the paintings cut out. Sedgwick, smiling like a naughty schoolboy—he was fifty at the time—told us he’d been burgled.”
“Obnoxious bastard,” Hart rumbled. “Always was. His father with him.”
“Sedgwick’s father decided that the chief inspector who supported me was to blame for persecuting his son and had the man dismissed. Thirty years the DCI had given to policing, and he was turned out without a shilling. Radcliffe, who had tried to prevent the mess, was spared, as was I, but I received a severe reprimand, and I nearly lost my newly acquired rank of detective sergeant. The Home Office decided I’d acted from naivety, not malice, and let me remain, though I wouldn’t be allowed to work on any more sensitive cases.”
Hart pressed his fingertips together as Fellows spoke, a sparkle in his golden eyes. “I am going to wager that didn’t stop you either.”
Fellows took another sip of whisky. “I investigated the so-called burglary on the sly. I knew Sedgwick had hidden the paintings, waiting for the day we stopped paying attention. He’d restore them to his collection room, and no one would be the wiser. Except . . . I found them.”