The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie hp-1

by Jennifer Ashley

  Mather managed to stay still for five minutes, then rose again. “Must pay my respects to Lord and Lady Beresford. You don’t mind, do you, m’dear?”

  “Of course not,” Beth said automatically.

  “You are a treasure, my darling. I always told dear Mrs. Barrington how sweet and polite you were.” Mather kissed Beth’s hand, then left the box.

  The soprano began an aria, the notes filling every space of the opera house. Behind her, Mather’s aunt and her companion put their heads together behind fans, whispering, whispering. Beth worked her fingers under the edge of her long glove and pulled out the piece of paper. She put her back squarely to the elderly ladies and quietly unfolded the note. Mrs. Ackerley, it began in a careful, neat hand.

  I make bold to warn you of the true character of Sir Lyndon Mather, with whom my brother the Duke of Kilmorgan is well acquainted. I wish to tell you that Mather keeps a house just off the Strand near Temple Bar, where he has women meet him, several at a time. He calls the women his “sweeties” and begs them to use him as their slave. They are not regular courtesans but women who need the money enough to put up with him. I have listed five of the women he regularly meets, should you wish to have them questioned, or I can arrange for you to speak to the duke.

  I remain,

  Yours faithfully,

  Ian Mackenzie

  The soprano flung open her arms, building the last note of the aria to a wild crescendo, until it was lost in a burst of applause.

  Beth stared at the letter, the noise in the opera house smothering. The words on the page didn’t change, remaining painfully black against stark white.

  Her breath poured back into her lungs, sharp and hot. She glanced quickly at Mather’s aunt, but the old lady and her companion were applauding and shouting, “Brava! Brava!” Beth rose, shoving the paper back into her glove. The small box with its cushioned chairs and tea tables seemed to tilt as she groped her way to the door.

  Mather’s aunt glanced at her in surprise. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “I just need some air. It’s close in here.”

  Mather’s aunt began to fumble among her things. “Do you need smelling salts? Alice, do help me.” “No, no.” Beth opened the door and hurried out as Mather’s aunt began to chastise her companion. “I shall be quite all right.”

  The gallery outside was deserted, thank heavens. The soprano was a popular one, and most of the attendees were fixed to their chairs, avidly watching her. Beth hurried along the gallery, hearing the singer start up again. Her vision blurred, and the paper in her glove burned her arm.

  What did Lord Ian mean by writing her such a letter? He was an eccentric, Mather had said—was that the explanation? But if the accusations in the letter were the ravings of a madman, why would Lord Ian offer to arrange for Beth to meet with his brother? The Duke of Kilmorgan was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Britain—he was the Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of Scotland, which went back to 1300-something, and his father had been made Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of England by Queen Victoria herself.

  Why should such a lofty man care about nobodies like Beth Ackerley and Lyndon Mather? Surely both she and Mather were far beneath a duke’s notice.

  No, the letter was too bizarre. It had to be a lie, an invention. And yet . . . Beth thought of times she’d caught Mather looking at her as though he’d done something clever. Growing up in the East End, having the father she’d had, had given Beth the ability to spot a confidence trickster at ten paces. Had the signs been there with Sir Lyndon Mather, and she’d simply chosen to ignore them?

  But, no, it couldn’t be true. She’d come to know Mather well when she’d been companion to elderly Mrs. Barrington. She and Mrs. Barrington had ridden with Mather in his carriage, visited him and his aunt at his Park Lane house, had him escort them to musicales. He’d never behaved toward Beth with anything but politeness due a rich old lady’s companion, and after Mrs. Barrington’s death, he’d proposed to Beth.

  After I inherited Mrs. Barrington’s fortune, a cynical voice reminded her.

  What did Lord Ian mean by sweeties? He begs them to use him as their slave.

  Beth’s whalebone corset was too right, cutting off the breath she sorely needed. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she put her hand out to steady herself. A strong grip closed around her elbow. “Careful,” a Scottish voice grated in her ear. “Come with me.”

  Chapter Two

  Before Beth could choke out a refusal, Lord Ian propelled her along the gallery, half lifting, half pulling her. He yanked open a velvet-draped door and all but shoved her inside. Beth found herself in another box, this one large, heavily carpeted, and filled with cigar smoke. She coughed. “I need a drink of water.”

  Lord Ian pushed her down into an armchair, which welcomed her into its plush depths. She clasped the cold crystal glass he thrust at her and drank deeply of its contents. She gasped when she tasted whiskey instead of water, but the liquid burned a fiery trail to her stomach, and her vision began to clear.

  Once she could see again Beth realized she sat in a box that looked directly onto the stage below. From its prime position she judged that it must be the Duke of Kilmorgan’s box. It was very posh indeed, with comfortable furniture, gaslights turned low, and polished inlaid tables. But apart from herself and Lord Ian, the box was empty.

  Ian took the glass from her and seated himself on the chair next to hers, far too close. He put his lips to the glass where Beth had just drunk from it and finished off the contents. A stray droplet lingered on his lower lip, and Beth suddenly wanted to lick it clean.

  To drag her mind from such thoughts, she slid the paper from her glove. “What did you mean by this, my lord?” Ian didn’t even look at the letter. “Exactly what it said.”

  “These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”

  Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.

  “I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.

  “Mather isn’t a collector.”

  “Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”

  “His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”

  Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.

  She shifted uncomfortably.

  “My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”

  “Mather keeps his perversions to himself.” “But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”

  “He thought it would impress my brother.”

  “Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”

  Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.

  “Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked.

  His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”

  “Should I be flattered?”

  “Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.” Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”

  “He is riddled with debt. That’
s why he sold me the bowl.”

  She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.

  “I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”

  “Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.

  Married women were supposed to look the other way at their husbands’ affairs. Thomas had said this was balderdash, rules thought up by gentlemen so that they could do as they liked. But then, Thomas had been a good man. The man sitting next to her couldn’t be called good by any stretch of the imagination. He and his brothers had terrible reputations. Even Beth, sheltered by Mrs. Barrington for the last nine years, knew that. There were whispers of sordid affairs and stories of the scandalous separation of Lord Mac Mackenzie from his wife, Lady Isabella. There had also been rumors five years ago about the Mackenzies’ involvement in the death of a courtesan, but Beth couldn’t remember the details. The case had gained the attention of Scotland Yard, and all four brothers had removed themselves from the country for a time.

  No, the Mackenzies were by no means considered “good” men. Then why should a man like Lord Ian Mackenzie bother to warn nobody Beth Ackerley that she was about to marry an adulterer?

  “You could always marry me,” Lord Ian said abruptly.

  Beth blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, you could marry me. I don’t give a damn about your fortune.”

  “My lord, why on earth should you ask me to marry you?”

  “Because you have beautiful eyes.”

  “How do you know? You’ve not once looked at them.”

  “I know.”

  Her breath hurt, and she wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Do you do this often? Warn a young lady about her fiance, then turn about and offer to marry her yourself? Obviously the tactic hasn’t worked, or you’d have a string of wives dogging your footsteps.”

  Ian looked away slightly, his hand coming up to massage his temple, as though he had a headache coming on. He was a madman, she reminded herself. Or at least, he’d grown up in an asylum for madmen. So why did she not fear to sit here alone with him, when no one in the world knew where she was?

  Perhaps because she’d seen lunatics in Thomas’s charity work in the East End, kept by families who could barely manage them. Poor souls, they’d been, some of them kept roped to their beds. Lord Ian was a long way from being a poor soul.

  She cleared her throat. “It is very kind of you, my lord.”

  Ian’s hand closed to a tight fist on the arm of his chair.

  “If I marry you, Mather can’t touch you.”

  “If I married you it would be the scandal of the century.”

  “You would survive it.”

  Beth stared at the soprano on the stage, suddenly remembering that gossip painted the large-bosomed lady as a paramour of Lord Cameron Mackenzie, another of Ian’s older brothers. “If anyone has seen me dive in here with you, my reputation is already ruined.”

  “Then you will have nothing to lose.”

  Beth could stand up in a huff, point her nose in the air as Mrs. Barrington had taught her, and march out. Mrs. Barrington had said she’d slapped a good many would-be suitors in her time, though Beth would leave off the slap. She couldn’t imagine Lord Ian being fazed by any blow she could land, anyway.

  “If I said yes, what would you do?” she asked in true curiosity. “Balk and try to talk your way out of it?”

  “I would find a bishop, pry a license out of him, and make him marry us tonight.”

  She widened her eyes in mock horror. “What, no wedding gown, no bridesmaids? What about all the flowers?” “You were married once before.”

  “So that ought to have satisfied my need for white gowns and lilies of the valley? I must warn you that ladies are quite particular about their weddings, my lord. You might want to know that in case you decide to propose to another lady in the next half hour.”

  Ian closed hard fingers around her hand. “I am asking you. Yes or no?”

  “You don’t know anything about me. I might have a sordid past.”

  “I know everything about you.” His gaze went remote, and his hand closed more tightly on hers. “Your maiden name is Villiers. Your father was a Frenchman who appeared in England thirty years ago. Your mother was the daughter of an English squire, and he disowned her when she married your father. Your father died a pauper and left you destitute. You and your mother were forced into a workhouse when you were ten years old.”

  Beth listened in astonishment. She’d made no secret of her past to Mrs. Barrington or Thomas, but to hear it come out of the mouth of a lofty lord like Ian Mackenzie was unnerving.

  “Goodness, is this common knowledge?” “I told Curry to find out about you. Your mother died when you were fifteen. You were eventually employed by the workhouse as a teacher. When you were nineteen the vicar newly in charge of the workhouse, Thomas Ackerley, met you and married you. He died of fever a year later. Mrs. Barrington of Belgrave Square hired you as her companion.” Beth blinked as the drama of her life unfolded in the brief sentences. “Is this Curry a Scotland Yard detective?” “He is my valet.”

  “Oh, of course. A valet.” She fanned herself vigorously. “He looks after your clothes, shaves you, and investigates the pasts of obscure young women. Perhaps you should be warning Sir Lyndon about me instead of the other way around.”

  “I wanted to discover whether you were genuine or false.”

  She had no idea what that meant. “You have your answer, then. I’m certainly no diamond in the rough. More like a pebble that’s been polished a little.”

  Ian touched a lock of hair that had drifted to her forehead.

  “You are real.”

  The touch had her heart pounding and heat washing to every limb. He sat too close, his fingertips so warm through his gloves. It would be a simple thing to tilt her head back and kiss him.

  “You are ten times higher than I am, my lord. If I married you it would be a misalliance never to be forgotten.” “Your father was a viscount.”

  “Oh, yes. I had forgotten about dear, dear Father.” Beth knew exactly how real her father’s claim to be a viscount had been, exactly how well her father had acted the part.

  Lord Ian drew a thin curl between his fingers, straightening it. He let it go, his eyes flickering as it bounced against her forehead. He drew the curl out again, watching it bounce back, and again. His concentration unnerved her; the closeness of his body unnerved her still more. At the same time, her own wanton body was responding.

  “You shall take all the spring out of it,” she said. “My maid will be so disappointed.”

  Ian blinked, then returned his hand to the arm of his chair as though having to force it.

  “Did you love your husband?”

  This bizarre encounter with Lord Ian was the sort of thing she would have had a good laugh over with Thomas. But Thomas was gone, years ago, and she was alone.

  “With all my heart.”

  “I wouldn’t expect love from you. I can’t lo
ve you back.” Beth plied her fan to her hot face, her heart stumbling.

  “Hardly flattering, my lord, for a woman to hear a man won’t fall in love with her. She likes to believe she will be the center of his abject devotion.”

  Mather had said he’d be devoted. The crumpled letter burned her again.

  “Not won’t. I can’t love you.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She’d been using the phrase so often tonight.

  “I am incapable of love. I will not offer it to you.” Beth wondered what was more heartbreaking, the words themselves or the flat tone of voice with which he delivered them. “Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right lady, my lord. Everyone falls in love sooner or later.” “I have taken women as lovers, but never loved them.” Beth’s face heated. “You make no sense, my lord. If you don’t care about my fortune or whether I love you, why on earth do you wish to marry me?”

  Ian reached for the curl again as though he couldn’t stop himself. “Because I want to bed you.”

  Beth knew in that instant that she was not a true lady, and never would be. A true lady would have fallen out of her chair in a gentle swoon or screamed down the opera house. Instead, Beth leaned into Ian’s touch, liking it. “Do you?” His hand loosened more curls, rendering the maid’s work useless. “You were a vicar’s wife, respectable, the sort to be married. Otherwise, I would offer a liaison.” Beth resisted rubbing her face against his glove. “Have I got this right? You want me to come to your bed, but because I was once a respectable married lady, you must marry me in order to get me there?”

  “Yes.”

  She gave a half-hysterical laugh. “My dear Lord Ian, don’t you think that a bit extreme? Once you’d had me in your bed, you’d still be married to me.”