Eleanor came to the desk, rested her hands on it, and looked across it at Hart. “Because I thought she might have something to do with the photographs, of course. I thought you might be paying her blackmail money—a thousand is a fortune. I had to find out why.”
Hart saw nothing but inquisitiveness in Eleanor’s eyes. No anger, no jealousy. But then, the greatest part of Eleanor’s anger when she’d learned about Mrs. Palmer had not come from jealousy.
“I sent Neely to Mrs. Whitaker, because I knew she could manage someone like him.”
Her brow puckered. “What do you mean someone like him? Like him in what way?”
“I mean an unworldly man pretending to be worldly. They are the most unruly when they finally let themselves off the lead.”
“And apparently he had to be carried out again by Mr. Fleming. Mrs. Whitaker did not mind doing you this favor?”
“I paid her a thousand guineas. Of course she did not mind.”
“Was Mrs. Whitaker educated? Finished, I mean?”
Hart’s patience thinned. “I have no bloody idea.”
“I ask because the notes are badly spelled, which points more to a servant. However, if Mrs. Whitaker came from a poor background, she might still not write well, despite her big house and her furs. Have you asked her about them?”
“No!”
“Goodness, you do like to shout. I am trying to solve your problem, Hart, but a little assistance would be welcome. Mrs. Whitaker might have known Mrs. Palmer—Mrs. Palmer might have given her some of the photographs. Were Mrs. Whitaker and Mrs. Palmer friends?”
“Friends? God, no. Angelina had no friends.”
“That sounds lonely. You should ask Mrs. Whitaker anyway, though if she truly has no knowledge of the photographs, you will have to ask discreetly so she does not find out about them. Difficult, but I think you can do it.”
Eleanor’s eyes narrowed in thought, and she touched her finger to her lip, unconsciously rubbing it over the little bruise Hart had made. His entire body went hot and hard.
It would be so easy to go around the desk to her, to unbutton the ugly gown she wore, to strip her to her corset. He’d nip her neck as he unfastened her, leaving a love bite while he drank her in.
Eleanor drew a breath, her breasts lifting under her primly buttoned bodice. “Perhaps if I…”
“No,” Hart said abruptly.
Eleanor’s eyes widened. “You do not even know what I was about to suggest.”
“No, you will not go back to Mrs. Whitaker’s or try to speak to her yourself. And you will not return to the house in High Holborn.”
She gave him a look of exasperation, which told him he’d guessed correctly about the last part. “Be reasonable, Hart. I never finished searching the house, because, as you recall, you removed me—forcibly. I do not expect to find the photographs there, but there might be some clue as to where they’ve gone. If you are worried for my safety, I’ll have one of your pugilists accompany me.”
His impatience became full-blown anger. “No. And don’t you dare cajole Ian into taking you back there.” Hart thought of Ian standing in the room in which the woman had been killed, gaze fixed on the ceiling, and he let out his breath. “It upsets him.”
“I know. He told me, but he also said he ought to see the place once more himself. To allay the ghosts, as it were.”
Ghosts. That whole house was full of ghosts. Hart wanted to burn the place to the ground.
“Ian can’t take me anyway,” Eleanor tripped on. “He’s not here. He left this morning.”
Hart stopped. “Left? What do you mean, he left? Where the devil did he go?”
“To Berkshire. He was missing Beth, and I told him to go to her. She’s already on her way to Berkshire, to help Ainsley prepare, so off he went. They won’t mind Ian arriving early.”
“When did this happen? He never said a word to me.” Not a word. Not a good-bye. But that wasn’t unusual for Ian. When Ian decided to do a thing, there was no stopping him.
“You were off playing your political games,” Eleanor said. “Ian said good-bye to me, but he did not want to wait about for your return.”
When had Hart lost control in his own house? The last time he’d seen Ian, his brother had been quietly reading the paper in the dining room at breakfast. As far as Hart knew, Ian hadn’t had any plans to rush off to Berkshire within the hour.
Hart thought of the congealing eggs and greasy sausage on his plate this morning, and his fists tightened. “Eleanor, what did you do with my cook?”
“Hmm?” Her brows rose. “Oh, Mrs. Thomas. She got word that her sister was ill, and I told her she should take a week and visit her. She’s in Kent. The sister, I mean, although by now, Mrs. Thomas will be there too, of course. There wasn’t time to find a replacement before this morning, but I imagine one will be here by tonight. Mrs. Mayhew is seeing to it.”
When had he lost control? The day Eleanor Ramsay had lurked in a crowd of journalists in St. James’s and Hart had been foolish enough to scoop her up and bring her home.
Only this morning he’d thought himself clever for keeping her close, drawing her into his life, netting her until she would think that staying was her own idea.
He had to be insane. Not only was Eleanor turning his house upside down, he couldn’t stop his visions of her, ones that continued what he’d started with her last night. He looked across the desk and wanted her—now. He could unwind his cravat and use it to gently tie her wrists. Or maybe to blindfold her so that she wouldn’t know where he was, or what pleasure he intended for her, until he touched her skin, kissed her neck, nipped the skin of her shoulder…
He wanted to strip everything from her—gown, corset, combinations, lift her to the desk, spread her across it, and lick from her throat to the glory between her legs. Her hair was golden red there, he remembered.
He wanted to wrap her hands, perhaps in a pair of soft, silk stockings, to hold her thus while he feasted on her. She’d wriggle in joy, and he’d murmur, Eleanor, do you trust me?
Yes, she’d whisper.
He’d bring her to pleasure again and again, and when she was warm and smiling, he’d climb onto her and inside her. He’d have her in this room, and banish his ghosts.
The vision gave him hard, aching pleasure. Hart knew he was standing in the study, the desk between himself and Eleanor, she fully dressed, but he could feel every touch, every kiss, every breath.
“Hart?” she asked. “Are you all right?”
The tug of concern in her voice undid him. Hart stood up and removed his fists from the desk. It hurt, his whole body hurt to leave while Eleanor watched with worry in her blue eyes, but he knew he had to get out of this room.
Hart made himself go to the door, open it, and walk out, without stopping to look back at her. He walked around the landing, sidestepping Ben in the middle of it. He continued to his own bedroom, entering it by nearly ripping open the door.
Marcel, who was brushing one of Hart’s coats, looked up in surprise.
“Draw me a bath, Marcel,” Hart growled as he tore off his cravat and opened his shirt. “Make it a cold one.”
Hart managed to keep himself away from Eleanor for three days. He rose and left the house before she awakened and returned when he was certain she’d be in bed.
Hart filled his days with meetings and debates, arguments and committees. He tried to plunge himself into the troubles of the country and the empire, to wipe away any thought of his domestic life. It worked when he was in a shouting match with his opposition, when he tried to persuade yet another MP to lean to his side, and when he adjourned with Fleming to their club or a gaming hell to continue the battle for political domination there.
But as soon as Hart descended at his doorstep in Grosvenor Square, knowing Eleanor was in the room above, her body damp with sleep, the visions of her returned and would not be banished.
He spent more and more time away from home, staying very late at meetings and
creating meetings so that he could stay late. It was after one very late evening that the assassination attempt was made.
Chapter 10
It was inky dark, Hart emerging from the Parliament buildings in the wee hours, still arguing with David Fleming about some point.
Hart heard a loud bang, then shards of stone flew from the wall beside him. Instinct made him drop and pull David down with him. Hart heard the bull-voiced shouting of his coachman and the running footsteps of his large footmen.
David got to his hands and knees, eyes wide. “Hart! Are you all right?”
Hart felt a sting on his face from the stone and tasted blood. “I’m fine. Who fired that shot? Did you grab him?”
One of Hart’s former prizefighters panted up to him. “Got away in the dark, sir. You’re bleeding, Your Grace. Were you hit?”
“No, the wall was hit and the stone lashed out at me,” Hart said with grim humor. “You all right, Fleming?”
Fleming ran his hand through his hair and reached for his flask. “Fine. Fine. What the devil? I told you the Fenians would be hot to kill you.”
Hart dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief, heart hammering in reaction, and didn’t answer.
Fenians were Irish who’d emigrated to America, formed the group dedicated to freeing the Irish from the English, and sent the members off to do their worst. A newspaper had proclaimed this morning that Hart would try to defeat the Irish Home Rule bill in order to push out Gladstone, and the Fenians had reacted strongly.
Hart’s action did not mean he was against Irish independence—in fact, he wanted Ireland completely free of the English yoke, because this would pave the way for Scottish independence. He simply thought Gladstone’s version of the bill was ineffectual. Under Gladstone’s bill, Ireland’s independence would be marginal—they’d be allowed to form a parliament to settle Irish matters but it would still be answerable to the English government.
Hart knew that if he forced Gladstone to call a vote on the bill, the man would not have enough support to pass it, which would then lead to a vote of no confidence, and Gladstone’s resignation.
Once Hart was in power, he’d put forth ideas to free Ireland completely. He would do all it took to shove Irish Home Rule down Englishmen’s throats and then shove Scottish independence—his true goal—down their gullets as well.
But the newspapers printed what they wanted, and angry Irishmen, not knowing what was in Hart’s head, had started making threats.
Hart sent his footmen to search the area and round up any passing policeman, then got into his coach with David, David imbibing heavily from his flask.
When Hart reached the house after depositing David at his flat, he told his footmen and coachman not to gossip about the shooting and upset Eleanor and her father with it. Hart had experienced assassination attempts several times in his career, with the same lack of marksmanship—someone was always angry at him. He’d have policemen try to find the shooter and watch the house, but the routine wasn’t to be disrupted. However, if his household guests went anywhere, they were never to be without at least two bodyguards to protect them, and never without the carriage. His men agreed, shaken themselves.
Irish separatists were not the only possible assassins. Hart wondered, as he entered his quiet house, whether the person sending Eleanor the photographs had any connection with this shooting. The letters hadn’t seemed threatening, and there might be no connection at all. However, Hart had a renewed desire to look at the photographs and letters Eleanor had collected.
The thought of leaning over the evidence side by side with Eleanor, her sweet breath touching his skin, made his heart pump faster than it had when the bullet had sailed past him. Best not to risk it.
Hart could demand that Eleanor bring him the photographs so he could look at them alone, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Eleanor would never agree. She’d become extremely proprietary about the photographs—why, Hart couldn’t imagine. But, no matter; he’d acquire them by stealth.
The next day, Hart waited until Eleanor and Isabella were ensconced in the downstairs drawing room, planning Hart’s next lavish entertainment, Mac safely in his studio, and the earl writing in the small study, before he quietly mounted the stairs to the floor above his study and entered Eleanor’s room.
Eleanor’s bedchamber was empty, as Hart knew it would be, the maids already finished there. Hart strode to Eleanor’s small writing table and began opening drawers.
He did not find the photographs. He found that Eleanor kept writing paper neatly in one drawer, envelopes in another, pens and pencils, separate from each other, in yet another. Letters she’d received from friends—Eleanor had many friends—were bundled in the fourth drawer. Hart leafed quickly through the letters, but none contained the photographs.
Where had she put the bloody things? He knew he had only a few minutes before Eleanor or Isabella would want to dash up here for something or other.
With mounting frustration, Hart searched the tables on either side of the bed, but she hadn’t tucked the pictures into either of them. Her armoire revealed garments neatly hung or folded—plain gowns in drab colors, and not many of them. The deep drawer beneath held a bustle encased in tissue and that was all.
The chest of drawers on the other side of the room was more of a lingerie chest—the top drawers held stockings and garters; the next, camisoles and knickers; then came a drawer with a corset made of plain lawn, well mended.
Hart made himself cease lingering to imagine Eleanor in the underwear and concentrate on searching. He was rewarded when, under the corset, he found a book.
The book was large and long, the kind in which ladies pasted mementos of special occasions or memorable outings. This particular book was fat, plumped out with whatever Eleanor had thought worth preserving. Hart pulled it out of the drawer, set it on her writing table, and opened it.
The book was all about him.
Every page had been covered with a chronology of Hart Mackenzie. Newspaper and magazine articles provided the text and photographs of Hart the businessman, Hart the politician, Hart the duke’s son, and then Hart the duke. Society pages showed Hart at gatherings hosted by the Prince of Wales, at charity banquets, at clan gatherings where he reproclaimed his loyalty to the leader of clan Mackenzie.
She’d pasted in newspaper photographs of Hart speaking with the queen, with various prime ministers, and with dignitaries from around the world. The story about Hart becoming Duke of Kilmorgan and taking his seat in the House of Lords was here, including a history of the dukes of Kilmorgan back to the 1300s.
Eleanor Ramsay had collected Hart Mackenzie’s entire life and pasted it into a memory book. She’d carried the book down here from Scotland and kept it hidden like a treasure.
The announcement of Hart’s marriage to Lady Sarah Graham in 1875 occupied its own page. Eleanor had written in colored pencil next to a newspaper drawing of Hart and Sarah in their wedding finery: It is done.
The rest of that page was blank, as though Eleanor had meant to stop the book there. But Hart turned the page and found more articles about his burgeoning political career, about the festivities he and his new wife hosted both in London and at Kilmorgan.
The announcement of Sarah’s death and the death of baby Hart Graham Mackenzie was surrounded by a wreath of flowers cut from a card. Eleanor had written next to it: My heart is heavy for him.
More articles followed about Hart coming out of mourning to pursue his career even more obsessively than before. He means to be prime minister, one journalist wrote. England will tremble under this Scottish invasion.
On the page after the last article, Hart found his photographs.
Eleanor had collected fifteen so far. She’d pasted each carefully into the book and outlined them in colored pencil—red, blue, green, yellow—she’d chosen arbitrarily. Notes appeared under each: Received by hand February 1, 1884, or Found in Strand shop, February 18, 1884.
There were photos o
f Hart facing the camera, or with his back to the camera, or in profile; Hart in only a kilt, Hart naked, Hart smiling, Hart trying to give the camera an arrogant Highland sneer. The one of Hart in his kilt, laughing, telling Angelina not to close the shutter, had been surrounded by curlicues. The best, Eleanor had written.
Hart turned the last few pages, which were blank, ready for more photographs. He started to close the book but noticed that the back cover itself bulged. Investigating, he found that something had been slid behind the endpaper and the cover, the endpaper carefully pasted back into place. It did not take Hart long to peel the black paper down, and behind it, he found the letters.
There weren’t many, perhaps a dozen in all, but when Hart unfolded one, his own handwriting stared back up at him.
Eleanor had kept every letter Hart had ever written to her.