“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.
“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 dete
ctive 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.”
Hart gave him a frown. “I know you’re not suggesting that Sedgwick hired a set of thieves to turn over Kilmorgan. Sedgwick is dead, and his father. Sedgwick had no heirs, and the marquisate reverted to the Crown. Or is it some beloved retainer of his waiting this long to gain Sedgwick’s revenge on you—using me to do it?”
Hart didn’t believe any of this, Fellows knew. He was outlining possibilities, as he liked to do. Hart was always thorough.
“Sedgwick had nothing to do with your theft,” Fellows continued. “The similarity lies in the state in which I found the art stolen for him. There was a deep pit on Sedgwick’s estate, an old pond that had been drained at some point in the past. The art was buried there—and not very well. Rolled up and dumped, covered with a tarp to keep out the weather. Pictures still in frames stacked up, much of it ruined.
“Sedgwick was outraged when I found it, of course. He didn’t care that many of the paintings had been destroyed by his act—if he couldn’t have the art, he said, then no one could. I believe he was a bit disturbed in the mind.”
“A bit,” Hart said, his tone drier still.
“Even when I presented the evidence to the highest authority, little was done. At the time, Sedgwick’s father had too much influence. The artwork that wasn’t destroyed was quietly restored to the original owners, and nothing was ever said. Sedgwick went on collecting art, though never again through theft. His father had a talk with him about that, from what I understand.”
“The old marquis was a hard man,” Hart said. “If it makes you feel better, I imagine his chat with Sedgwick was more effective than imprisonment or transportation.” He paused. “You found the art in the same condition you found mine, thrown away to rot. Whoever did that knew the story of what had happened with Sedgwick. Or, it’s an amazing coincidence—and I don’t believe in those.”
“Nor do I,” Fellows said. “Back then I still could not drop the matter. I kept digging until I found out who had warned Sedgwick that I was retuning for the art, who had helped him with the fake burglary, who had suggested the removal of the chief inspector, leaving the way open for a promotion. I had suspected, but became certain when I was invited to Inspector Radcliffe’s home, and his wife served me tea under the very Raphael that eventually made its way to your house. I had seen it among Sedgwick’s collection in his summerhouse, but it hadn’t been among the paintings he’d thrown away.”
Hart’s brows climbed high. “Inspector Radcliffe took a payoff?”
“He did indeed.” Fellows remembered the anger, the betrayal he’d felt. His own inspector, whose cleverness he’d admired, had been corrupt and a party to fraud. “Their plan was for Sedgwick to have himself robbed and claim insurance on the paintings he’d acquired legitimately. The stolen paintings would vanish—no proof he ever had them. Radcliffe was rewarded with one to make sure no one found out.” Fellows took a final sip whisky, letting the past fall away. “He received me in the room where he’d hung the Raphael, thinking me too stupid to know what it was. I went back to Scotland Yard and anonymously sent a report of Radcliffe’s involvement to the very top of the chain, to a trustworthy man who couldn’t be toppled. Anonymously, because I’d learned my lesson about announcing my findings. I sat back and waited for the music to play. Which it did, eventually. Radcliffe was arrested but the charges dismissed. He retained his job as a policeman but was sent to some backwater to rusticate the rest of his days.”
“Is he still living?” Hart asked. “Is this his revenge on you? Why wait twenty years for it?”
Fellows shook his head. “Radcliffe is dead. Everyone connected with the case has passed on, including my DCI and the man I informed of Radcliffe’s connection.”
Hart shot him an impatient look. “Then why tell me the story?”
“Ian suggested I dredge it up,” Fellows said. “And since Ian has an uncanny way of being right, I went back to London and went through my old case files. I kept notes at the time, and reread them all. I suggest that someone else knows the story and decided to make use of it. Perhaps they want to imply that you had the artwork stolen yourself for the insurance. The paintings were stashed where they’d eventually be found in order to embarrass you or ruin you.” Fellows shrugged. “Something.”
Hart went silent a moment, his hands stilling on the arms of his chair. “I have too many enemies,” he said after a time. “Any number of them could have decided to come after me. I am trying to think which of them would likely know of this story.”
“Very few do,” Fellows said. “Radcliffe’s role was hushed up, because the Yard didn’t need the scandal. Sedgwick’s father also made sure most of the details stayed hidden.”
“Did Radcliffe have sons?” Hart asked. “Sedgwick didn’t, we know. Did Sedgwick have daughters? Women can be as vengeful as men. More so, in my opinion.”
“Radcliffe’s children predeceased him, and Sedgwick had no issue at all,” Fellows said. “There was rumor Sedgwick was as impotent as a dead fish.”
Pierce snorted a laugh. “Never shirk at a bad word about your betters, do you, sir?”
Fellows gave him a chilly look. “Sedgwick might have been born to a higher station in life, but I wouldn’t consider him better for it.”
Pierce only grinned, undaunted. “It’s a pleasure to work for you, sir.”
“Fellows is refreshingly unbiased when it comes to the aristocracy,” Hart said, meeting his half brother’s gaze. “He has always been so.”
Fellows lifted his whisky glass to Hart, and they shared a look. The two had been through much, but it was a fine thing to have buried their enmity in the past. Fellows had found a like mind in Hart, and he was proud to call him brother.
* * *
Beth scrambled out of bed the next morning and hurried to insert herself in front of her husband, who was about to leave the room.
The scoundrel had loved her well into the night, effectively making sure she had no opportunity to speak with him. Every time she’d opened her mouth, she’d found it engaged with something interesting. Ian had kissed her gently as she’d fallen asleep, spooned against him, and she’d known nothing more until she felt Ian’s warmth leave the bed.
He’d pulled on a kilt, likely planning to slip into the dressing room to shrug on whatever clothes he found and be gone before Beth could catch him. It did not help Beth’s resolve that Ian, wearing nothing but a kilt around his hips, the sun catching the red of his hair, was a heart-stopping sight. Ten years had not diminished him—his habits of walking, riding, fishing, and tramping over the Highlands kept him fit and hard-muscled.
Thinking of those strong hands fitting themselves to her breasts, waist, hips, lifting her to him in the night didn’t help either. Beth wanted to kiss her way down his bare chest to his abdomen, follow the thin arrow of hair to the waistband of his kilt.
She forced her gaze from his delectable body and cleared her throat. “Ian, we need to talk.”
Ian gazed at the open hall beyond her, as though willing Curry to charge along and interrupt the scene. “I’m late.”
“Your own fault,” Beth said. “If you’d not kept us awake most of the night . . .” Ian’s eyes flicked back to her and filled with warmth, the corners of his lips curving.
Beth waved her hands at him. “Stop that. You know I want to scold you for letting John talk you into believing he can cure you. What on earth makes you think so? He is no physician or s
cientist—he’s a missionary who has too much curiosity than is good for him. Thomas was the same. Besides, Belle is right—there is nothing wrong with you.”
Beth let the words tumble out quickly, because she knew Ian could simply lift her aside and go if he wanted.
Ian lost his half smile. “You have always known that I am not . . . right.” He pressed his forefinger to his temple. “Not like my brothers.”
“Thank heavens for that,” Beth said fervently. “You recall I met Mac and Cameron before I married you. And then I met Hart, which clinched the matter. I definitely chose the right Mackenzie.”
Red crept into Ian’s cheeks. “They do things I can’t.”
“What of it? None of the rest of you can paint as Mac does—I don’t believe Cam knows which end of a brush is which, yet I do not see him yearning to be just like Mac.”
“Not what I meant.”
Ian’s golden eyes took on a slight look of distress, but there was something else in them today, some distraction she didn’t understand.
Beth pointed a stiff finger at his chest. “I know exactly what you mean, Ian Mackenzie. You are an arrogant Mackenzie male. You are brilliant and your family loves you, but that’s not enough for you. You want to waltz into a card room and be the life of the party. You want to have people fluttering over you, hoping to befriend you because you charm them.” Beth took a step closer to him. “Well, let me tell you, if I’d wanted a smarmy, unctuous husband, I’d have married Lyndon Mather and been done. I threw him over for you, if you recall. He was horrible, which you so bluntly pointed out to me, but that was not the only reason I jilted him. I’d met you, and knew I’d found the better man. I knew I’d never be pleased with anyone else. I do not want you or John upsetting that better man and taking him away from me—can you understand? Ian . . .”
Ian’s gaze had drifted from her again, his brows lowering as he studied a point on the wall behind her.
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 20
