Beth knew she’d lost him. She’d made her speech too long, and somewhere in the middle, Ian had drifted away to one of the hundreds of thoughts that spun constantly in his head.
“Ian—”
“You jilted him.” Ian kept his gaze on the wall. “Threw him over.”
“I’ve just said. Gladly. You will also remember that he recovered and married another heiress, and they are both living with his mother somewhere in Kent.”
Ian wasn’t listening to a word. He’d gone off somewhere in that brain of his, thinking, thinking, thinking.
Ian put his hands on Beth’s shoulders, moved her aside, and walked out of the room past her, ignoring her reaching fingers. “Curry!”
Beth rushed after him, but Ian had started for the main staircase, his loose kilt swirling around his bare legs. “Ian?”
She reached the staircase as Curry came out of a back passage. “Ye bellowed, me lord?” the small man asked. “Can ye not yank on a bell, like the rest of your family?”
“Find me clothes,” Ian growled at him as he started up the stairs.
“Oh yes?” Curry asked, watching him. “And where am I to put them on you? In the attics, is it?”
“Aye!” Ian called down as he quickened his stride. The kilt moved to show Beth his strong thighs and a glimpse of firm backside, and then he was gone.
Chapter Fourteen
Some part of Ian’s mind told him the household was upset at him again, but that part was a dim, flickering voice. The foremost part of his mind told him that the answer to the mystery lay in Fellows’s old case and in the attics.
Curry carried up an armful of garments as Ian started through the stacks of journals he sought. Curry muttered and grumbled as he always did, but that was Curry. Ian shrugged on his shirt and pulled on socks and shoes against the cold then pointedly ignored Curry and his questions until the man snarled and went away.
No one came to disturb Ian after that, so Beth must have been making certain they left him alone. He loved her for that—he loved her for so many things.
He knew she would not rush in panic to Hart or Fellows to pry Ian from his endeavors. She’d learned that when Ian fixated on a task, that task was of great importance. Though others might not be able to discern its importance at first, Ian’s instincts were usually correct.
He loved Beth for that understanding as well.
An hour later, Ian did hear a step, and lifted his head, irritated, to see John Ackerley emerging into the attic.
“Lord Ian,” Ackerley said, giving him a nod.
Ian returned his attention to the words in his hands. He would have ignored Ackerley entirely, but he remembered Beth’s painstaking instructions to be courteous to guests.
“I’ll be down later,” Ian said to him. “We’ll continue then.”
Ackerley cleared his throat. “Beth has made it clear she disapproves. And I must apologize. I grew excited at the prospect of helping you. When I became acquainted with the society of philosophers in Austria who are trying so many new methods, I was haughty enough to believe I could replicate their experiments. I am guilty of the greatest of the seven deadly sins, I’m afraid. My wife, bless her, was quite good at sticking a pin into my pride and deflating it. I was ever out to save the world.”
Ian heard Ackerley’s words, registered every single one of them, and stored them for later.
“Can you read old handwriting?” Ian held out a leather-bound journal to him, the cover worn and flexible with time.
“Pardon? Oh . . . I suppose so. How old?”
“Seventeen hundreds. Her script is fairly clear.”
“Yes, I find that our grandfathers wrote in better hands than we do now.” Ackerley took the journal with a look of curiosity. “Why?”
Ian told him what name to look for as Ackerley settled himself on an armchair that came from the time of the last Stuart queen. The pages of the journals were fragile, but Lady Mary’s writing rang clearly from the past.
“It’s important, is it?” Ackerley asked.
“Aye,” Ian said, returning his gaze to the page he’d been reading. “It will tell me who stole Hart’s paintings.”
“Ah.” Ackerley’s voice lost its morose note and became brisk and interested again. “Well, of course. I am happy to help, my lord.”
* * *
For the next hours, silence reigned in the attic as the two men read. The peace was occasionally broken by Ackerley leaning excitedly to Ian and saying in a hushed voice, “Is this anything?”
Ian would read what he pointed out and either note it or shake his head.
The journals had always fascinated Ian. Lady Mary Lennox, who became Lady Malcolm Mackenzie, and later, the Duchess of Kilmorgan, wrote in a straightforward and breezy style, without the forced witticisms or ponderous explanations of others of her generation.
Alec paid us a visit with his daughter in tow. How changed Alec is, but only for the better. Of Will, of course, he could say nothing. Dear Will. I am certain stories of his secretive life are many times more interesting than our domestic tales.
In later years, Mary wrote, Our Angus is home, with Willie Ian, my favorite grandson. What a charmer he is! At ten years old he has made the household fall in love with him, and he gets away with anything he pleases. Mal, the wretch, sees himself in the lad and indulges him something terrible.
Mary continued with an account of her travels with her son and grandson from Kilmorgan to London, praising the comfortable modern coach and the quickness of the journey along the new roads. In 1790, a journey of a number of days seemed swift to her, while now, a hundred years later, the same journey happened in less than a day and a night on the train.
I took Willie Ian for a walk in Hyde Park, and to my great astonishment, spied a familiar face. Well, I should not say “familiar” as such, because I have not seen him for many a year, and he is quite in his dotage, not the rather good-looking man he’d been in his younger days. I speak of none other than the Earl of Halsey—the man must be approaching eighty.
He was in a two-wheeled conveyance, driven by what looked like a manservant who was a bit nervous at the reins. And no wonder. The lad could not move the carriage in any direction or slow down or speed up without Halsey snarling invective at him.
I, being a polite woman, bowed and bid Lord Halsey good day.
“Stop!” Halsey bellowed at his man, who pulled the carriage up so short the horse began to rear. The driver calmed him with expertise, but Halsey scowled at him for that as well. “Good Lord, it’s the Duchess of Muck,” he said to me, and then laughed at his pretense of cleverness. “How are things in your Scottish pigsty?”
“Dear Halsey,” said I. “You remain as courteous as ever. My husband would send his regards if he had any for you, which he does not. Of course, I do not think he gives one thought for you from one day to the next. Much water has passed under the bridge since the Jacobite days, and yes, we do have bridges at Kilmorgan.”
“None but a duke would do for you, eh?” Halsey proceeded to say. “I’m sure you have paid the price, living in the wilderness with your mad whisky-brewing husband. English earls ride in carriages inlaid with precious stones while Scottish dukes go barefoot.”
I knew quite well that if Halsey drove around in carriages encrusted with diamonds or some such nonsense, it was because he’d wed a very rich woman indeed. “When I married Malcolm I had no idea he would ever become duke; therefore your postulation does not signify,” I replied. “And Malcolm does wear shoes—when he remembers to.”
Halsey spat a laugh, but not at my little joke. “He wronged me, and I have not forgotten. I shall never forget. He owes me a debt I shall not forgive even when I am in the grave.”
“Then I pity you, sir,” I said. “The past is gone. To hold such old hurts close is foolish. You have had a fine life, and I have a fine husband.”
“A Scottish pig in his own muck,” Halsey said, returning to his earlier theme.
“It is a bit mucky when it rains, I grant you. But I will take Kilmorgan over all the mansions in London, thank you very much. I learned very quickly that family is what’s important, not riches or gold-leafed drawing rooms. Good day to you, sir. My family awaits me at home.”
Halsey, true to his nature—which has not changed one whit—could not leave well enough alone. “He should never have been duke. He should have been hanged or shot, like the rest of them.”
At that, my rage got the better of me. All I could think of was poor Duncan, poor Angus, men a hundred times better than Halsey ever was, and the dead and dying at Culloden.
“That they are gone and you have lived to a somewhat overripe age is a crime,” I snapped. “You are a bad-tempered, high-handed, rather disgusting, arrogant ass, and always have been. I thank the Lord every day for my lucky escape. Again, I say, good day to you.”
I doubt anyone, especially not a woman, had ever dared speak to Halsey thus, because he only gaped at me. I saw he’d lost most of his teeth, the old coot. His driver, who had his back to Halsey, wanted to laugh and laugh—I imagine the tales in the servants’ hall this evening will be lively.
Halsey spluttered as I walked away, back to where Willie Ian waited with his nanny. “One day I will ruin the Mackenzies,” he called after me. “I swear that with my last breath. I will task my heirs to ruin them and on through the generations. The Mackenzies shall never be out of reach of my wrath.”
I ignored him utterly. Cards and castles, what a vindictive old git! His mind must be starting to go. One should pity him, I suppose—he is only a horrible, sad man drowning in his own bitterness.
“Who was that awful old man, Grandmama?” Willie Ian asked as I joined him. “He looks like a wet goat.”
With his shaggy hair and glittering eyes under slammed-together brows, Halsey did rather resemble a goat. I laughed and tousled the lad’s hair. “Believe it or not, I was betrothed to the man, once upon a time,” I confessed. “Until I came to my senses and ran away with your grandfather.”
Willie Ian, who, in his kilt and boots, his red hair and golden eyes, was the perfect likeness of his father at that age, and I imagine Malcolm as well, looked after the two-wheeled conveyance with interest. “Why didn’t Granda’ shoot the Sassenach?”
“We were far too busy to pay him any mind.” I took Willie Ian’s hand. “To be honest, I have not thought about Halsey in many years. Our circles rarely cross, thank heavens. Now, let us return home and have many good things to eat. I will kiss your father, whom I love very much, and then I’ll go back to Kilmorgan and kiss and kiss your grandfather.”
Willie Ian gave me a dubious look. “You and Granda’ like to kiss.”
“Indeed, we do. ’Tis a wonderful thing, is kissing. We’ll be doing it until we fall into our graves, then we will continue it in heaven, where there will be plenty of whisky and bannocks.”
Willie Ian gave me another glance, which the young reserve for the foolishness of the old. “When I grow up, I shall be verra kind to the ladies. Not like that old goat.” He gave the slowly retreating cart a look of approbation. “Verra kind indeed. They’ll love me.”
I hugged him close, which he put up with, with good grace. “I’m sure they will, my gallant little lad.”
With that, we turned our steps back to Grosvenor Square and so home—at least our London home. Home for me will ever be the wild lands of Kilmorgan, with Mal.
* * *
Ackerley read over the passages after Ian shoved the journal at him and pointed at the pages. Ackerley gave Ian a bewildered look when he finished.
“What are you implying? This was written a hundred years ago. Do you mean that Lord Halsey’s heirs have a long enough memory to want to carry out their great-great-grandfather’s vengeance?”
“Aye,” Ian said. “’Tis a possibility.”
This was Beth’s fault. When she’d reminded Ian of Lyndon Mather’s vindictiveness when she’d jilted him, Ian had remembered Lady Mary’s stories of Lord Halsey.
“Mind you, some of these old families have long memories,” Ackerley admitted. “In some places on the Continent families can carry on feuds for generations.”
Ian took the journal back from him, carefully marked the passage with a scrap of paper, and closed the book. He stood up. “We will make inquiries.”
Ackerley’s brows rose as he climbed to his feet. “We?”
“The current Lord Halsey inherited the title two years ago. He is a direct descendant of the earl Lady Mary threw over. He has opposed every one of Hart’s proposals in the Lords, and his father worked against Hart back when Hart wanted to be prime minister and free Scotland. Halsey is English to the bone, from an old family, and hates anything Scottish. We are still Jacobites to him.”
Ackerley held up his hand to stem Ian’s flow of words. “You said we would make inquiries. Do you include me in that pronoun?”
Ian gave him a nod, impatient. “Aye. Halsey will admit you, an English missionary looking for funds, but not me, brother of Hart Mackenzie. You will find out all you can and report to me. Do not tell him of your connection to Beth.”
Ackerley thought it over, his lips parted. Then he popped his mouth closed, looking interested and determined at the same time. “You can count on me. But . . . it is far-fetched, isn’t it, old chap? What if you’re wrong?”
“Then we look elsewhere. We keep looking, until we find the right person.”
Ackerley gave him an approving nod. “A sound method.”
Ian knew that. Finished with his exploration, he walked past Ackerley and down the stairs to the main floors, calling for Curry on the way.
The sooner Ackerley visited Halsey and determined whether Ian was correct or off the mark, the sooner Ian could return to peaceful fishing with his children and long nights touching the satin warmth of Beth’s skin.
* * *
Beth, thrown into preparations for the arrival of the rest of the family, noted with relief that John and Ian seemed to be getting along quite well today. John had followed Ian up into the attics at Beth’s suggestion—to report to Beth if anything were wrong—and Ian hadn’t sent him running down again.
The fact that Ian hadn’t minded John staying with him assured Beth that Ian was simply in pursuit of one of his ideas. Ian didn’t always mind others with him when he was focused on a task, as long as they let him be.
A few hours later, Ian and John came down, John with an eager expression, Ian with brows drawn. Ian ordered Curry to fetch the coach, and strode out with John to meet it, John speaking rapidly to Ian as they went. Ian kissed Beth without a word, then the two got into the coach when it appeared, and the conveyance sped off.
Ian hadn’t said good-bye, or explained where he was going, or what he was up to. But that too was typical when he had his mind on something important. Beth knew that Ian would reveal all later.
“I shouldn’t worry,” Eleanor said to Beth as Beth stood in the front drive, watching the carriage go. “Our coachman is a tough old soldier—he won’t let Ian murder Mr. Ackerley and push him into a ditch. Though Mr. Ackerley can talk, can he not? I shouldn’t wonder that he converted many a native to a Christian life in his missionary days. I imagine they agreed to anything to make him be quiet.”
Beth shook her head. “He is a good man, Eleanor.”
Eleanor tucked her arm through Beth’s and the two went back into the house. “Oh, I can see that. Goodness oozes from John Ackerley. One can simply have too much of it. Give me a little badness, and I am happy. That is why I fell in love with Hart, you know. He was as bad as bad could be. He looked at me, and I wanted to touch his fire, no matter how much it might burn. I knew I was a wicked woman then. No virtuous gentleman for me. I wanted Hart and everything that went with him.”
Her eyes shone as she spoke. Eleanor had loved Hart for years, and Beth had seen his love for her long to come out. Beth was happy that they’d finally found each other again.
Eleanor continued her
stream of talk. “Virtuous gentlemen are often hypocrites, in my experience, do you not think? They profess they’d never dream of offending a lady with harsh language or anything so base as holding her hand or kissing her cheek. The next moment, they rush off to their mistresses and do as they please, or they marry the lady and immediately become parsimonious and persnickety. When Hart kissed me the first time and didn’t give a damn whether he offended my sensibilities, I knew the truth about myself. I wanted all the wickedness he could dish out to me. He was a high-handed, arrogant wretch, that is true, but life hadn’t yet played its cruel tricks on him, poor man. Hart is a bit tamer now, but not too tame, if you know what I mean. I certainly wouldn’t want that.”
“No,” Beth agreed, keeping her face straight. “We wouldn’t want to tame them entirely.”
“But never tell them,” Eleanor said. “They believe they’ve reformed. As though a Mackenzie ever could. Oh.” She broke off as one of the untamable Mackenzies strode down the long gallery toward them. “Good afternoon, Lloyd. You look grim. What news?”
Fellows, ever correct, stopped and gave both ladies a polite nod. “I can find no one in the house—not Hart, not Ian.”
“Ian ran off with Mr. Ackerley,” Eleanor said. “And Hart is visiting the farms. You may deliver your grim news to us, Chief Inspector. We are resilient.”
Fellows studied them both a moment, his brows drawn over eyes that were a match for Hart’s. “We’ve gone over all the artwork Ian found in the castle,” Fellows said. “Most of it is there, but five paintings and several bronzes are unaccounted for. Also, Hart’s majordomo, Wilfred, says that men from the firm that insures Hart’s artwork have been sniffing around, investigating a rumor that Hart instigated the theft himself. I’ve sent them away, but I know they’ll be back.”
“Oh dear,” Beth said. Hart would be furious—she rather pitied the hapless insurance clerks. “Have you had any progress in finding the culprits?”
“Not as yet.” Fellows’s mouth hardened. “And I might not have the chance to. I have more or less been told by my superintendent at the Yard that I’m under suspicion for helping Hart perpetrate a fraud, and I have been ordered off the case.”
A Mackenzie Clan Christmas Page 21
