The Untamed MacKenzie

by Jennifer Ashley

  “God save me,” Mac muttered, and went to find his palette again.

  Louisa squeezed Aimee’s hands. “What they said is untrue as well. The bishop and I were acquaintances only, and I was not angry with him. I did nothing to hurt him.”

  Aimee nodded, her eyes round. “I know you didn’t.”

  Relief touched her. Louisa knew Aimee didn’t entirely understand the implications of the situation, but the girl trusted her, and Louisa wanted to do nothing to violate that trust.

  “And Aimee, lass, you’re not to talk of it anymore, with anyone,” Mac said sternly. “Not even within the family.”

  Eileen, who was nearly three, watched them, her fingers in her mouth. Her little brother Robert slept on a pile of clean drop cloths, on his tummy, his fists curled beside him. His hair stuck up in little spikes, his Scots fair skin a stark contrast to the brilliant red of his hair. The boy could sleep anywhere, at any time, no matter what fireworks were going off around him. Louisa found that adorable; Mac only growled that he was another stubborn Mackenzie.

  “Don’t scold her, Mac,” Louisa said. “She wasn’t to know. You may talk of it with me all you like, Aimee.” She smoothed the girl’s wiry red hair. “No secrets inside the family. Those outside might not understand, which is why we’re not speaking of it to them.”

  Aimee nodded. “All right, Aunt Louisa. Why do people think you poisoned him?”

  “Because I was nearest him at the time. But I give you my word, I did not.”

  “I believe you.” Aimee climbed up onto Louisa’s lap and gave her a warm kiss and a hug. “Don’t be afraid, Aunt Louisa. You’re safe here.”

  Louisa felt anything but safe, but her eyes grew moist at the sentiment. Now, if only Lloyd Fellows would believe her. Not to mention put his arms around her and reassure her that she was all right.

  Mac turned back to his canvas. He was working on a picture of a group of horses. He’d done the preliminary drawings in Berkshire at Cameron Mackenzie’s training stables, and was now painting it. The horses galloped across a pasture, manes and tails flying, muscles gleaming. Because Mac painted in the new style, the lines weren’t solid, but the wildness of the beasts came through—even more than if he’d made every line exact. Louisa could almost hear the hooves pounding, the snorts and whinnies, and smell the grass, dust, and sweat.

  “Tell Isabella to take you out,” Mac repeated. He yanked his brush from the jar and rubbed it clean on a rag. “A good ride in the park or something. Our grooms don’t need to be hanging about like loose ends. Give them something to do.”

  In other words, go away and let me work.

  “Isabella is busy,” Louisa said. “She’s frantically finishing preparations for the supper ball, as you know. I ought to be helping her.” She fixed Mac a look. “So should you.”

  “I am helping her. I’m minding the children. A good husband knows when to stay out of the way of the whirling household.”

  “A fine excuse,” Louisa said, feeling the first amusement she’d had in days.

  “Papa likes to hide up here,” Aimee said. “Morton and Mama bully him if he goes downstairs.”

  Mac grinned. “She’s not wrong. Driven away by my wife and my butler. What is a man to do?”

  Enjoy himself with his art and his children. Louisa envied him, and Isabella. They were so happy together, exactly matching each other in spirit, love, and vigor. Louisa knew Isabella would prefer to be up here with him, watching her handsome husband paint, playing with the children she loved so well.

  But Isabella was a hostess at heart as well, leading the ladies of the Season. She was also keeping up her social schedule, Louisa knew, to dare anyone to say that anything was wrong. Louisa would be at the supper ball tonight, by Isabella’s side, helping to greet guests, engage shy young ladies in conversation, or smooth ruffled feathers of older ladies. This gathering would be utterly respectable, for debutantes up to the most redoubtable matrons, and Louisa would be in the middle of it.

  She’d go mad. Louisa gently set Aimee on her feet and sprang up. “You’re right, Mac. Staying in will only make me more irritable.” She went to him, lightly kissed his paint-streaked cheek, and left the room, not missing Mac’s grin or his look of relief.

  It also did not help her that Mac looked much like the man she could not banish from her thoughts. The near-kiss she’d shared with Fellows in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ drawing room burned her almost as much as the true kisses had. She kept feeling the heat of his body against her, his hard fingers on her cheek.

  Out.

  A young lady couldn’t simply walk outside in London and charge alone down the street. It wasn’t done. Louisa had to play by every rule she possibly could until the true culprit was found. All eyes were on her, she knew.

  She asked Morton to fetch Isabella’s carriage, convinced the housekeeper to release a maid to accompany her, and made her way to visit Eleanor, the Duchess of Kilmorgan.

  ***

  Fellows’ investigations didn’t take him often to Mayfair. Murders in London were most likely to happen at the docks or in slums where gin and desperation overrode sense, and knives came out. Mayfair was for the polite crimes of embezzlement and fraud and, long ago now, dueling.

  The death of the Bishop of Hargate was a crime of Mayfair. Though the event itself had taken place in Richmond, every single person at that garden party had a London residence for the Season, all of them in Mayfair.

  Fellows knew Mayfair as well as he did the rest of London, because he was thorough. The people who walked these streets, though, were not the ladies and gentlemen who lived there, but the tradesmen and domestics who worked it. Those who reposed in the houses wouldn’t consider strolling more than three doors down without a carriage.

  For the past three and a half years, Fellows had made use of a new base of operation in Mayfair, the Duke of Kilmorgan’s mansion on Grosvenor Square. Once Hart, the duke in question, had officially acknowledged Fellows as part of the family, he’d made it known that Fellows could walk into and out of the Grosvenor Square house anytime he chose.

  Fellows mostly didn’t choose, but he’d relaxed enough in the last few years to realize that taking Hart up on his hospitality could be convenient. Since Hart’s marriage to Lady Eleanor Ramsay last April, it had become even more convenient.

  Eleanor knew everyone. She not only knew them but knew everything about them. If anyone could tell Fellows about the people at the Richmond party, it was Eleanor.

  Fellows took an omnibus to Hyde Park, then walked through the park to Park Lane and north. This took time, but Fellows liked to think as he walked, and he enjoyed the open green spaces of the park. For Fellows the boy, London’s city parks had been his idea of pristine countryside. He’d sneak away from home and play in Hyde Park, St. James’s Park, Green Park, or Holland Park, until someone reported an urchin in their garden spaces, and a constable chased him away.

  On Park Lane, whose giant houses grew more ostentatious by the year, he noted a moving van outside the mansion formerly belonging to Sir Lyndon Mather. It must have been sold yet again—that made three times in the last three years. Unlucky, that house must be. Fellows had never liked Mather, though Mather had inadvertently guided Fellows to the right path to solving the High Holborn murders. Nothing about that case had ended up as Fellows had ever dreamed it would. It had led, indirectly, to him meeting Lady Louisa Scranton.

  Fellows turned onto Upper Brook Street and walked to Grosvenor Square and Hart’s house. Hart’s first footman had the door open for Fellows before he reached it.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” the footman said, reaching to relieve Fellows of his coat and hat as Fellows stepped into the wide front hall. A staircase wound up through the middle of the house, spring sunshine lighting it from windows at each landing. The balustrade was elegance itself, the airy space quiet, beautiful, and at peace.

  Fellows’ father had lived here. The old duke had walked up and down these stairs, no doubt growling a
t his footmen and butler to jump to do whatever he commanded. Hart had traversed the stairs as well, as the boy Fellows remembered from that day on the street when Fellows had pummeled the duke, the duke had beaten him, and Hart had given Fellows a coin. Hart didn’t remember the encounter—at least he’d never mentioned it. Fellows had never mentioned it either.

  Fellows wondered briefly if the stern-faced Hart had ever slid down the banisters as a boy. Hart had been wild in his youth, so perhaps he had. Then again, he’d always maintained strict control over himself, so maybe he’d forgone the pleasure.

  “Her Grace is in the morning room upstairs,” the stately butler who stood at the bottom of the stairs said.

  Fellows shook himself out of his woolgathering and returned to the task at hand. He thanked the butler, mounted two flights of stairs, and made for the sunny sitting room at the rear of the house.

  He knew the way, because whenever Fellows visited, Eleanor insisted they have tea in her sitting room. Eleanor had redecorated this room after she’d married Hart, filling it with peach and cream colors, comfortable furniture, soft carpets, and Mac’s paintings. A cozy retreat, filled with feminine grace. One of the Mackenzie dogs, Old Ben, was generally in residence. The hound liked to curl up near the fire in the winter, or lie on his back in a sunbeam in the warmer months.

  Old Ben was there now, his soft doggy snore sounding between the words of the women sitting together, April sunshine touching them both. One lady was the duchess—Eleanor. The other was Louisa.

  Chapter Seven

  Louisa got to her feet. Fellows couldn’t force his gaze from her, even though Eleanor was also rising, coming toward him, a smile on her face. Louisa wore cream and peach like the colors in the room, a fall of soft lace at the neckline of her bodice. Red ringlets of hair straggled against her throat, making him want to lift them and lick the soft skin beneath.

  “So kind of you to call, dearest Lloyd,” Eleanor said. She walked past Louisa, who stood unmoving, and reached out for him.

  Eleanor took Fellows’ hands, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. The Mackenzie women were impulsively affectionate, and Fellows had learned to tolerate them. Cameron advised him to take it like a man, though Hart seemed to understand Fellows’ discomfiture.

  Louisa was in no way inclined to come forward and join the welcoming kisses. She barely gave Fellows a civil nod.

  “Sit down and have coffee,” Eleanor said, still holding his hands. “I know you loathe tea.”

  She half dragged Fellows toward the sofa where Louisa had sunk down again. Fellows broke away from Eleanor and moved to a balloon-backed chair at the writing table. The fact that it had been turned around to face the ladies meant someone else had been using it and recently departed.

  Eleanor saw his assessment. “You’ve missed Hart. He’s off to tell the House of Lords what to do. He so enjoys it.”

  Hart Mackenzie at one time had departed the House of Lords in a quest to become prime minister. He’d backed away from that for Eleanor, for his family, for his life. But he still enjoyed politics, and according to the newspapers, was a force to be reckoned with.

  Fellows waited for both ladies to sit down again before he took his seat. His mother had taught Fellows that much—no, had shouted manners into him. No one was going to say her son had the manners of gutter trash, she’d declare. He was going to rise above himself, he was. Didn’t he have a duke’s blood in his veins?

  “Now, then,” Eleanor said. She poured coffee from a pot, handed the cup to Louisa, who had been sitting in stiff silence, and indicated she should take it to Fellows.

  Louisa had to rise to do it, and Fellows sprang to his feet. They met halfway across the carpet, Louisa holding out the cup and saucer, Fellows reaching for it politely.

  The look Louisa gave him was anything but polite. She was enraged, her eyes smoldering with it. She was angry at Eleanor, and she was angry at Fellows.

  Fellows closed his hands around the cup. Louisa quickly let it go, making certain their fingers didn’t touch. She turned from him and sought the sofa before Fellows had the chance to say a word.

  “You’ve come to tell us about the investigation,” Eleanor said once Louisa had resumed her seat.

  Fellows sank to the chair again, balancing the coffee. He hadn’t come here for that, but he didn’t argue. “My sergeant and I have interviewed everyone who was at the garden party, some of them twice. I looked over Hargate’s flat in Piccadilly, but found nothing to suggest he’d angered someone enough for them to poison him. I will speak again to those who were closest to the tea tent. Unfortunately, no one saw anything. They were too busy talking, drinking, and wagering on the upcoming croquet match.”

  “That sounds typical,” Eleanor said. “High society takes its croquet seriously.”

  Fellows thought he heard Louisa make a small noise in her throat, but he couldn’t be certain. “No one claims to have seen anything, at least not what they’d say to the police. But the person Louisa glimpsed made certain to escape on the side of the tent facing the empty meadow, so we’re not surprised no one saw him.”

  He said the lie without a flinch. Louisa didn’t flinch either but focused rigidly on her teacup.

  “What about the poison?” Eleanor went on. “How was it administered? In the tea?” She waved her own teacup fearlessly.

  “Traces of prussic acid were found on the broken pieces of teacup the bishop held. None in Louisa’s.” That had been a great relief. Even if she’d drunk from her cup, Louisa would have been safe.

  On the other hand, the fact that she’d by chance chosen the innocent cup woke Fellows up at night cold with fear. What was to say the poison hadn’t been meant for Louisa in truth? Perhaps Hargate had poisoned the cup himself then drunk the wrong one by accident. Or had there been no target—only a madman waiting to see which guest dropped dead?

  Either way, Louisa had survived a close call. Fellows, who hadn’t prayed since he’d been a boy and forced to church on occasion, had sent up true thanks to God for that.

  “No poison in the teapot, then?” Eleanor asked.

  “None. In the bishop’s teacup only.” Fellows took a sip of coffee, which was rich and full, the best in the world. Of course it was. “Lady Louisa, since you are here, I’d like you to tell me—think carefully—why you picked up that particular cup to hand to the bishop.”

  Louisa lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “It was the easiest to reach.” Her voice was tight, as though she hadn’t used it for some time and hoped she wouldn’t have to. “A clean one, placed on a tray. I had to reach all the way across the table for one for me. I poured Hargate’s first, to be polite.”

  “So, if Hargate had gone into the tea tent alone, or someone else had, and wanted tea, they’d have reached first for that cup?”

  “Yes. It would have been natural.” Louisa paled a little. “How horrible.”

  “Deliberately killing another person so cold-bloodedly and letting an innocent receive the blame, that is horrible, yes.” And too close to home. Fellows wanted the man—or woman—who’d done this. He’d explain to them, slowly and thoroughly, how they’d enraged him, and what that would mean for them.

  He turned to Eleanor, who’d listened to all this with interest in her blue eyes. “I’ve come to ask you, Eleanor, to tell me about Hargate. I want to know who were his friends, his enemies, and why someone would want to poison him.”

  “So you are taking the assumption that he was indeed the target?” Eleanor asked.

  “In a murder like this, even if it seems arbitrary, malice is usually directed at one person in particular,” Fellows said. “If the killer wanted to cause chaos and much harm, he’d have poisoned the entire pot, or all the cups. Not just one, for one person alone.”

  Louisa shivered. “Gruesome.”

  “The world is a gruesome place,” Fellows said to her. He wanted to shove aside his coffee, go to Louisa, sit next to her, put his arms around her, and hold her until
her shaking stopped. “It never will be safe, as much as we tell ourselves we can control danger or even hide from it.”

  Louisa looked back at him, her green eyes holding an equal mixture of fear and anger. He liked seeing the anger, which meant she hadn’t yet been broken by this ordeal. But there would be much more to come. Fellows longed to comfort her, to shield her from the horrors, to kiss her hair and tell her he’d make everything all right for her. But at the moment, he was trapped into being the good policeman, with no business wanting to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

  He made himself drag his gaze from Louisa and continue. “Now, Eleanor, tell me about Hargate.”

  Eleanor’s eyes widened. “What information can I give you? Louisa knew him much better than I did. She’ll have to answer.”

  Louisa shot her a look that would have burned a lesser woman. Eleanor sipped tea and paid no attention.

  “I didn’t know him all that well,” Louisa said, when it was clear Eleanor would say nothing more. “He was ambitious and became a bishop rather young, and he had family connections that helped him. But everyone knows this.”

  “He was charming too,” Eleanor said. “At least, some people thought so. I never found him to be, but I’m told he had a persuasive way about him. He charmed his way into every living he held, apparently. The only person who ever blocked him was Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, and he and Hargate had words over it.”

  So had every single person Fellows interviewed told him; they’d told him as well that Earl Scranton had later taken much of Hargate’s money in fraudulent schemes.

  “Why did your father cause problems for him over the living?” Fellows asked Louisa.

  Louisa shrugged, looking past him and out the window. “Father didn’t approve of young men getting above themselves. The living at Scranton is quite prosperous, and Hargate wanted it. He was the Honorable Frederick Lane then. My father didn’t like him and didn’t want him to be the local vicar. He found Hargate foppish, and said he preferred an older clergyman.”