Jennifer Ashley - Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

“I didn’t paint that, Crane. Someone’s having you on.”

Mr. Crane pointed at the corner of the painting. “But you signed it.”

Mac leaned close to see the words Mac Mackenzie scrawled in the corner in his usual lazy style. “That does look like my signature.” He stepped back and regarded the picture fully. “Mind you, it isn’t bad.”

“Isn’t bad?” Isabella burst forth like a fury. “Mac, it’s a forgery.”

“Yes, and a damned good one. The fellow paints better than I do.”

Crane looked horrified. He glanced over his shoulder as though the police might come flooding in any moment to drag him away to a dank, dark dungeon. “But, your lordship, my assistant swore you brought it in yourself.”

“Mr. Crane,” Isabella began.

Mac cut her off. “Don’t blame him, love. If I didn’t know better, I couldn’t tell the difference myself.”

“Well, I could.”

“Because you have an eye for it. How many of these did you take, Crane?”

“Just the two,” Crane said in a small voice. “But I’m afraid I asked for more.”

Mac burst out laughing. Isabella looked indignant, but Mac couldn’t help himself. It was too idiotic. He hadn’t been able to paint anything decent in years, and this upstart not only painted better than Mac did, he gave Mac the credit for it.

“Out of curiosity, how much did Mrs. Leigh-Waters pay you?” Mac asked.

“A thousand guineas, my lord,” Crane whispered.

Mac whistled then laughed harder.

Isabella glared at him. “That’s criminal.”

Mac wiped his eyes. “Good Lord, Crane, I’m sure you were happy with that commission. What became of her payment, by the way? I’m sure this ‘Mac Mackenzie’ didn’t let go of his share.”

Crane looked troubled. “Funny thing, my lord. He’s never come for it. And he left no address or name of a bank where we could send it on. That was three months ago.”

“Hmm,” Mac said. “Well, if ever he does come ’round—”

“You must contact his lordship at once,” Isabella said.

“I was going to say, let the fellow have the cash. He’s obviously desperate for money.”

“Mac . . .”

“He did the work, after all.”

Mac wasn’t sure whether Isabella was more beautiful when she smiled or when she was bloody furious. Her cheeks were red, her eyes shone with green fire, and her breasts rose delightfully inside her tight bodice.

“What about Mrs. Leigh-Waters?” Crane’s face was ashen. “I should tell her what I’ve done.”

Mac shrugged. “Why? She likes the painting—praised it to the skies, my wife tells me. If Mrs. Leigh-Waters is happy, why spoil it for her?” He took up his stick and hat. “But if any more Mac Mackenzies turn up to sell you paintings, be warned. I never sell mine. I see no reason to charge people for my worthless drivel.”

“Drivel?” Crane cast him an indignant look. “Your lordship, they call you the English Manet.”

“Do they? Well, you know my opinion of ‘them.’ ”

“Yes, my lord, you’ve said.”

“Utter idiots, I believe is the term I prefer. Good morning to you, Crane. My dear?” Mac offered his arm to Isabella. “Shall we go?”

To his surprise, Isabella took his arm without rebuff and let him escort her out of the shop into the now-falling rain.

Isabella tried to remain angry as Mac assisted her into her landau, but the strength of his hands as he lifted her dissolved all thought.

She dropped into her seat and settled her skirts, expecting to hear the door shut and Mac say his farewells. Instead, the carriage listed as Mac climbed in and sat down beside her.

Isabella tried not to shrink away. “Do you not have your own coach?”

“Yours will suit my needs for now.”

Isabella started to give him a heated answer, but just then droplets poured from her hat brim to stain her tight jacket. “Oh bother, the rain. My new hat will be ruined.”

“Take it off.”

Mac flipped his own hat to the opposite seat as the landau jerked forward. Rain drummed on the canvas roof, a hurried thrumming that matched the beating of Isabella’s heart.

She snatched out hat pins, removed the hat, and dabbed at the straw with her handkerchief. The ostrich feathers were already soaked, but perhaps Evans could save them. She leaned forward to drop the hat on the seat next to Mac’s, and when she sat back again, Mac had extended his arm across the seatback behind her.

Isabella stilled. Being a large man, Mac liked to spread out, usually crowding Isabella to do it. She used to love to snuggle into him when they rode in a carriage, as though he were a great bear rug. She’d felt so protected and warm.

Mac regarded her with a lazy smile, knowing damn well why she remained upright on the seat, back rigid.

“What about your coachman?” she asked stiffly.

“He knows his way home. He’s lived there for years.”

“Very amusing.” Isabella tried a different tack. “Why on earth did you spew that nonsense to Mr. Crane about letting this other man keep the money? He is forging your paintings and selling them. Why should he profit?”

Mac’s arm brushed her as he shrugged. “But he hasn’t returned for the money, has he? Perhaps his game is different. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t sell his things under his own name, so he used mine.”

“Your name, your style, and your colors. How do you suppose he came up with the formula for your yellow? You keep it a secret.”

Mac shrugged again, his body moving in a most distracting manner. “Trial and error? And you’re rather assuming the forger is a man. It could be a woman.”

“Crane said a man calling himself Mac left the paintings.”

“The woman could have a male accomplice, someone who resembles me.”

He sprawled so comfortably, as though there were no tension at all between them. Mac wore trousers instead of a kilt today, a trifle disappointing.

“You are being most maddening about this,” she said.

“I told you, I don’t care.”

“Whyever not?”

Mac sighed and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “Must we go over it again, sweeting? That part of my life is in the past.”

“Which is absolute nonsense.”

“Perhaps we should change the subject.” Mac’s face settled into firm lines. “How are you this morning, love? Had any interesting correspondence?”

He wore that stubborn Mackenzie look, which said if he didn’t want to talk about a thing, an iron bar couldn’t pry his mouth open to do it. Well, she could pretend as well.

“I had a letter from Beth, as a matter of fact. She and Ian are settling in nicely. I miss her.”

Isabella couldn’t keep the sigh from her voice. Beth was a delightful young woman, and Isabella was excited that she had a new sister. Isabella hadn’t seen her own younger sister, Louisa, since the night she’d married Mac. Isabella’s family had disowned her, the upright Earl Scranton appalled that his daughter had eloped with a Mackenzie. The Mackenzies might be rich and powerful, but they were also decadent, immodest, profligate, promiscuous, and worst of all, Scots. Louisa was seventeen now, nearing her own come-out. The thought made Isabella’s heart ache.

“You’ll see Beth in Doncaster,” Mac was saying. “That is, if you can tear yourself away from London to go.”

“Of course I will be at the St. Leger. I haven’t missed it in years. Do you think Beth will come? I mean, with the baby.”

“Since the baby isn’t born yet, I imagine it will accompany her.”

“Very droll. I meant, do you think Beth will want to travel? Even on a train? She needs to be careful, you know.”

“Ian will keep an eagle eye on her, my love. I have every confidence in him.”