The Duke's Perfect Wife

  He walked his horse along the dark towpath, heading west along the canal. Blast you, Ian. Why did you choose now to go roaming?

  It was too dark to go very fast, and a misstep could send Hart or his horse or the men following him into the canal. He tried to take care, but everything in him was urging, hurry, hurry, hurry.

  They clopped down through Little Bedwyn, then Great Bedwyn and on toward Wilton and Crofton. No Ian Mackenzie. No tall Scotsman staring at water moving through the locks, or idly fishing, or walking restlessly up and down the banks.

  Ian could be anywhere. Holed up in a barn to sleep or climbing aboard a train to who-knew-where. Ian followed no rules but his own, and he might not bother to buy a ticket for the train until he was on it. He would eventually wire Beth to tell her where he was, but it might be some time before he did. Ian would know he was all right, but he did not always remember to reassure others or even understand why he should. Ian was better about all this now that he was with Beth, but he still liked to sometimes disappear on his own.

  As a child, Ian had bolted from crowds that frightened him or even from the supper table at Kilmorgan, running, running to rid himself of terrors he didn’t understand. Hart would follow him, find him, and sit with him in silence until Ian calmed down. Only Hart had been able to stop Ian’s frightened tears and intense rages. Only Hart had been able to put a comforting arm around Ian’s shoulders—for the brief moment Ian allowed it—to reassure him that he was not alone.

  When Ian had first come home from the asylum, he often would walk away from the house and stay away for days. Hart had gone insane with worry, but Ian always returned, in his own time. Hart would shout at Ian and command him not to do it again. Ian would listen in silence, gaze averted, but when Ian decided he needed to be on his own again, he simply went. All the shouting in the world could not change his mind.

  Things were different now. Ian had Beth, and his need to withdraw had dwindled. Ian did not like to spend too much time away from Beth and his children, in any case, and he mostly stayed home, drawing comfort from them.

  So, why had he gone this time?

  I will never let anything happen to you, Ian Mackenzie, Hart vowed as he rode through yet another village. I promised you that, and I’ll keep the promise until I die.

  Hart became separated from his men. He wasn’t certain when it happened, but in the dark, with Hart well in the lead, he must have ridden over a canal bridge they hadn’t seen him take, or perhaps they’d ridden over one, assuming Hart had crossed it.

  Hart debated doubling back but decided against it. He’d not seen anything today to indicate assassins lurking behind every bush, and no one he’d spoken to had noticed strangers in the area. His men would catch up to him when they could.

  The lack of obviously dangerous people did not alleviate Hart’s anxiousness for Ian. He kept searching.

  He clattered into quiet villages, inquired in the local pubs, asked at farms if a gentleman had put up with them for the night. Most of the people around here knew Ian or had at least heard of him, but none could help.

  A church clock was striking four when Hart rode over yet another canal bridge. He was exhausted, and his men were long gone, probably returned to Waterbury by now. Hart’s muscles ached from the long day in the saddle, and his eyes kept drooping in spite of his efforts to keep them open.

  He should stop and rest, then resume looking again at sunup. His worry wanted him to keep going, but his reason told him he’d be sharper if he broke for a few hours and waited for daylight.

  Hart unsaddled his horse, pulled off the bridle, and slid the halter he’d brought with him over the horse’s head. He tied the horse to a sturdy sapling, giving the beast enough rope so it could graze, then Hart lay down with his head on the saddle, his cloak wrapped tightly around him.

  He woke on a sudden to the same church clock striking eight, the sun in his eyes, and the bulk of Ian Mackenzie looming over him.

  Chapter 13

  “Damn you, Ian,” Hart said.

  He sat up, rubbing his neck, stiff from lying against the saddle. The horse had broken free and now wandered a little way from them, head down, cropping grass.

  Ian said nothing. He didn’t ask what Hart was doing here or why he’d been sleeping on the ground in the middle of nowhere beside the canal. In continued silence, Ian turned away and caught the horse.

  The horse shoved his face against Ian’s side as Ian removed the halter and buckled on the bridle. Animals liked Ian—Cameron’s horses and the Mackenzie dogs followed him about with affection.

  Hart rubbed his jaw, feeling the scratch of whiskers as he climbed painfully to his feet. He lifted the saddle that had served as his pillow and carried it to the horse. “What are you doing out here, Ian?”

  Ian took the saddle from Hart and set it on the horse’s back, then reached beneath the horse and caught the girth, tightening it with the expertise of a long-experienced rider.

  “Looking for you,” Ian said.

  “I thought I was looking for you.”

  Ian gave Hart a you-are-hopelessly-behind-in-this-con-versation look. “They said you were trying to find me.”

  “Who did?” Hart scanned the empty countryside beyond the line of trees that bordered the canal. “Did you find my bodyguards? How did you even know I was back here?”

  Ian took up the horse’s reins, then he stopped and looked at Hart, straight into his eyes. “I can always find you.”

  They stood like that for the barest moment, brother staring at brother, until Ian broke the contact and turned away, leading the horse back to the towpath.

  I can always find you.

  The words echoed in Hart’s head as he watched his brother walk away, kilt stirring in the wind. No boats moved on the quiet canal in the dawn, and mist curled under the overhanging trees and the bridges.

  I can always find you. Knowing Ian, he’d simply been stating a fact and not implying that he had a special connection to Hart.

  But Hart felt the connection to Ian, the tether that had stretched between himself and his brother from the moment Hart had realized that Ian was different, special, and that Hart had to protect him. He’d sensed the connection through the years Ian had spent at the asylum and every year since Ian’s release. Hart felt it so strongly that when Ian had been accused of harming someone eight years ago, Hart had done everything in his power to shield Ian from the consequences and had been prepared to take the blame on himself.

  Not that Ian would bother talking such matters through. He continued leading the horse westward along the path without waiting to see whether Hart followed.

  Hart caught up to him. “Cameron’s house is the other direction.”

  Ian kept walking. He did not look at Hart, only watched the canal or nudged stray branches out of the way so the horse would not trip on them. Hart gave up and walked in silence beside him.

  Ian’s destination became clear when, after about a mile, he led the horse over a narrow bridge and down to a long canal boat moored on the far bank. The boat’s foredeck contained several children, two goats, three dogs, and a man dangling his feet over the bow and smoking a pipe. The large horse that pulled the boat grazed, untethered, along the side of the canal.

  Without a word, Ian dropped the reins of Hart’s horse and stepped onto the deck of the boat. One of the children, a girl, climbed off at the same time to catch Hart’s horse. She stroked the horse and crooned to it, and the horse seemed happy to let her.

  Hart went on board after Ian, because Ian clearly expected him to. The pipe-smoking man nodded once at Hart but didn’t bother to get up. The children stared, as did the dogs. The goats didn’t care one way or the other.

  An older woman came out of the cabin. She was shrunken to almost the size of the children, and she was dressed all in black with a black scarf over her hair. Her eyes were as black as her clothes and alert and sparkling.

  She pointed at a wooden crate next to the rail. “You,” she
said to Hart. “Sit there.”

  London society might be surprised to see His Grace of Kilmorgan quietly and obediently take the seat. Ian sat down next to Hart, still without speaking.

  The girl on the bank fixed Hart’s horse with the halter, took off its saddle and bridle, and piled the tack on the deck. She walked to the tow horse, who looked up patiently, and put a halter on it as well.

  All unhurried. No one on the boat got off to help the little girl, who didn’t wait for them to. The older woman, once she’d seen Hart and Ian sit, disappeared below.

  Hart had met these Romany before, although he’d never been on their boat. He’d stood on a bank of the canal near Cameron’s estate fifteen years ago, while the same woman in black had told Hart in heavily accented English that because Cameron had saved her son Angelo from arrest and death, her family would look after Cameron now. Angelo had become Cameron’s servant, assistant trainer, and close friend.

  The girl got the tow horse harnessed and its ropes attached to the boat. She clucked to the large horse and guided it forward, leading Hart’s horse on her other side. Hart’s well-trained and spirited stallion quieted under the girl’s touch, content to follow her and the tow horse like a docile pony.

  The pipe smoker went back to studying the water ahead of them, and Angelo’s mother returned with two chipped mugs filled with coffee. Hart thanked her and drank deeply. The coffee was rich and dark, no cream or sugar to cut the thick taste.

  The boat headed into the rising sun. The Romany were the only ones moving on the canal so far. Thick mist floated under the trees along the towpath, and beyond the trees, fields opened out. Lambs followed their mothers on the damp green, the lambs and ewes looking like mobile clumps of mist in the gloom.

  There was silence here, and peace. Hart closed his eyes.

  He awoke to find the day brightening and that Ian now leaned on the bow. The pipe-smoking man had taken over steering the horse, while the little girl and the other children had gone inside. The goats and dogs remained on deck.

  Hart moved to stand next to Ian. “You still haven’t told me why you came out here.”

  Ian gazed down at the water, watching the boat’s bow breaking the glasslike canal. It wasn’t unusual for Ian not to respond to a question, or to wait until a day or two after a question was put to him before he answered. Sometimes he never answered at all.

  “I told Angelo’s people about the shooting,” Ian said. He closed his mouth after he spoke the words, and Hart knew nothing more would be forthcoming.

  He filled in the rest himself. The Romany roamed up and down these canals and across the fields, despite the farmers’ and villagers’ attempts to keep them out. The Romany would know the instant someone out of the ordinary appeared in the area, and they would keep a sharp eye out for danger. Angelo was much beloved by his family and so, by extension, were Angelo’s friends. When Ian had learned of the assassination attempt, he’d decided it was a good idea to find and inform the Romany.

  “Wise of you,” Hart said. “But you didn’t bother to tell Beth where you were going, or Curry. We have the entire estate out searching for you. Can’t you learn to leave a note?”

  Ian didn’t react to Hart’s anger. “Beth knows where I go.”

  “Well, she didn’t this time. And I sure as hell didn’t.”

  Ian rested his arm on the railing and looked at Hart, sweeping his gaze over Hart’s open greatcoat, mussed hair, unshaven jaw. Whatever Ian was thinking or feeling, Hart didn’t know. He never knew.

  “Ian,” he said, exasperated.

  Ian still didn’t answer. Hart heaved a sigh and rubbed his bristly face again. “Fine, have it your way.”

  Ian went back to studying the water.

  Hart used to believe himself the only person who truly understood Ian, but he’d learned, painfully, that despite the connection he felt with him, he’d barely penetrated his brother’s shell. The moment Ian had met Beth, however, Ian had responded to her, emerging from his private place of silence and rage. Ian had started engaging with the world through the conduit of Beth.

  What Hart had tried, and failed, to do for years, Beth Ackerley, widow of a poor parish vicar, had done in a matter of days.

  Hart at first had been angry with Beth, envious of her bond with Ian, fearful that she would exploit him for her own ends. But Beth had proved her deep devotion to Ian, and Hart now loved her for what she’d done.

  Hart leaned on the railing and let out a heavy breath. “How do you do it, Ian? How do you deal with the madness?”

  He’d been speaking generally, thinking of his own struggles. He didn’t expect Ian to respond, but Ian said, “I have Beth.”

  I have no one.

  The words came out of nowhere. They were not true. Hart had his brothers, his interfering sisters-in-law, Daniel, and now his small nieces and nephews, who could be adorable—especially when they wanted something. He had Wilfred and his handpicked staff who were loyal to him to a fault. He even had David Fleming, a friend he’d been with through thick and thin over many years.

  But no one gets close to Hart Mackenzie the man.

  Hart had given up mistresses after Angelina Palmer’s death, forgoing even casual encounters for satiation. He’d been living like a monk. No wonder the merest whisper of Eleanor’s scent made him as randy as an eighteen-year-old. Eleanor had laughed at him, but her laughter hadn’t stopped Hart from wanting her touch.

  “How do I deal with my madness?” Hart’s words sounded hollow against the water.

  This time, Ian didn’t look at him and didn’t answer.

  “You once said that we were all mad,” Hart said after a time. “Remember? On the day we found out about Inspector Fellows, you said that Mac was a genius with painting, Cameron with horses, me with money and politics, and Fellows with solving crimes. You were right. And Father, of course, had the same madness. I think he saw much of himself in you, and that scared him.”

  “Father is dead. And I said Mac painted like a god.”

  Hart gave him a wry smile. “Sorry, I don’t have your gift for precise memory. But I think my madness is growing. What do I do if I can’t stop it?”

  Ian didn’t look at him. “You will.”

  “Thank you for your confidence.”

  “You need to show Eleanor the house,” Ian said after another silence.

  Hart started. “House? What house?”

  “In High Holborn. Mrs. Palmer’s house.”

  Hart gripped the boat’s rail. “The devil I do. I never want Eleanor in there again. I’m still angry at you for taking her there. Why did you?”

  “Because Eleanor needs to know all about it,” Ian said.

  “Bloody hell, Ian. Why?”

  “The house is you.”

  What on earth did he mean by that? “No, Ian. No. The house might have been a large part of my life once, but that era is over.”

  Ian shook his head and kept shaking it. “You need to show Eleanor the house. Once you tell her everything about it, you will know.”

  “I will know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will know what?” Hart’s exasperation grew. “Whether Eleanor can run at double speed to get away from me again? Whether she’ll stop to kick me in the backside before she goes?”

  “Yes.”

  Hart let out his breath again. It didn’t steam as much, the morning having grown warmer. “I can’t take her there. There are things I still don’t want her to know.”

  “You have to. Eleanor needs to understand you, as Beth understands me.”

  Ian’s jaw tightened as he spoke, his hand as tight on the railing. At least he’d stopped shaking his head like a stubborn mule.

  “You’re a hard man, Ian Mackenzie.”

  Ian did not answer.

  Tell Eleanor everything.

  Angelina Palmer had taken it upon herself to visit Eleanor Ramsay in Scotland a few months into their engagement and tell her about Hart. That he owned the High H
olborn house, that he entertained ladies there, that he’d pleasured them in ways well-bred young women could not imagine. Angelina hadn’t described things in detail to Eleanor, thank God; but the hinting had been enough.

  Hart had deliberately not visited the house and Angelina while he was courting Eleanor, not wanting to be that sort of liar. Feeling virtuous because of this, he’d coaxed Eleanor to surrender her virginity to him.

  But Eleanor had awakened something inside Hart, an excitement he’d not felt before or since. He’d wanted to explore it, had explored it as much as he possibly could.

  Angelina’s motives for revealing her existence had not been to make Eleanor jealous or to convince Hart to return to her. No. Angelina had known as soon as she’d made the decision that her actions would lose her Hart forever. The marriage to Eleanor had been important to Hart, and Hart was not the forgiving sort. But Angelina had done it anyway.