Jennifer Ashley: The Madness Of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Ian shifted his gaze over the three of them and returned it to the muscular calf he’d rested on the side of the tub. The footmen released Mather but hovered warily beside him.

“You cheated me out of that bowl, but it wasn’t enough for you, was it, Mackenzie? Beth Ackerley is worth a hundred thousand guineas, man. One hundred thousand” Ian studied the twisting dark hairs that wound down his leg. “She’s worth a damned sight more than that.” “You mean she has more?” the idiot Mather asked. “I’ll sue you. I’ll have you for cheating me out of all that money.” Ian closed his eyes, seeking his visions of Beth. “Write to Hart’s solicitor.”

“Don’t hide behind your brother, you coward. I’ll ruin you. London will be too hot to hold you. You’ll be running back to Inverness with your tail between your legs, you dungeating, sheep-buggering, Scots pig.”

The footmen growled in unison. Mather yanked a small object out of his pocket and hurled it at the bathtub. Something plopped into the water and sank to the bottom with a soft clink.

“I’ll sue you for the price of that, too.”

Ian flicked his fingers at the footmen, sending droplets of water over the marble floor. “Throw him out.” The lads whirled on Mather, but he turned on his heel and stomped away. The two footmen followed, and when they’d gone, Curry slunk into the bathroom and closed the door.

“Whew,” the valet said, wiping his brow. “Thought ‘e would shoot you for certain.”

“Not here. He’d do it in a dark alley, in my back.”

“Maybe you should leave town for a spell then, guv.” Ian didn’t answer. He thought of the short letter from Mrs. Ackerley he’d received this afternoon.

My lord, I thank you for your kind intervention that saved me from a step that would have caused me great regret. As you may no doubt soon read in the newspapers, the betrothal between myself and the other party concerned is at an end.

I also wish to thank you for condescending to propose marriage to me, which I now realize was to keep my reputation from ruin. I know you will understand and not be offended when I say I must I decline your generous offer. I have decided to use the fortune that fate bestowed upon me to travel. By the time you receive this letter, I will have departed for Paris with a companion, where I intend to make a study of painting, a skill I have always wished to leant. Thank you again for your kindness to me and for your advice.

I remain yours sincerely,

Beth Ackerley

“We’re going to Paris,” Ian said to Curry.

Curry blinked. “Are we, guv?”

Ian fished out what Mather had thrown into the bathtub, a narrow gold band with tiny diamonds on it. “Mather is cheap. She should have a wide band filled with sapphires, blue like her eyes.”

He felt the pressure of Curry’s stare. “I’ll take your word, me lord. Shall I pack?”

“We won’t leave for a few days. I have some business to attend to first.”

Curry waited for Ian to indicate what business, but Ian returned to studying the ring in silence. He lost himself contemplating the sparkle of every facet on each tiny diamond until the water turned cold, and Curry worriedly pulled the plug on the drain.

Detective Inspector Lloyd Fellows paused before he rang the bell of the Park Lane home of Sir Lyndon Mather. Detective Inspector, Fellows reminded himself, recently risen from the subordinate gloom of sergeant despite the last chief’s determination to keep Fellows humble. But all good chief inspectors were called to peaceful retirement, and the incoming chief had found it incredible that Fellows had languished so long as a mere sergeant.

So why had Fellows risked all by rushing to Park Lane to Mather’s summons? He’d read the note in rising excitement, burned it, then left the office. He’d grated his teeth at the slowness of hansom cabs until he stood on the doorstep of the palatial house.

Fellows hadn’t bothered to mention the journey to his chief. Anything to do with the Mackenzies was verboten to Detective Fellows, but Fellows reasoned that what his chief didn’t know would not hurt him.

A stiff butler with his nose in the air answered the door and directed Fellows into an equally stiff reception room. Someone had crammed the room with draped tables and costly objects d’art, including photographs in silver frames of stiff people.

The reception room said, We have money, as though living in Park Lane hadn’t already conveyed the same. Fellows knew, however, that Sir Lyndon Mather was a bit up against it. Mather’s investments had been volatile, and he needed a large infusion of cash to help him out. He’d been about to marry a widow of means, which ought to have kept him from bankruptcy. But a couple of days ago, a notice had appeared in the newspaper that the wedding was off. Mather must be feeling the pinch of that.

The butler returned after Fellows had paced for half an hour, and led him to a lavish sitting room across the hall. More draped tables, gilded knickknacks, and people in silver frames.

Mather, a blond and handsome man that the French might call debonair, came forward and stuck out his hand. “Well met, Inspector. I won’t invite you to sit down. I imagine that when you hear what I’ve got to say, you’ll want to hurry out and make arrests.”

Fellows hid his annoyance, hating when other people told him his job. The average man obtained his knowledge of Scotland Yard from fiction or the newspapers, neither of which was very accurate.

“Whatever you say, sir,” Fellows said.

“Lord Ian Mackenzie’s gone to Paris. Early this morning. My butler had it from my footman, who walks out with a girl who worked in Lord Ian’s kitchen. What do you make of that?”

Fellows tried to conceal his impatience. He knew Ian Mackenzie had gone to Paris, because he made it his business to know exactly what Lord Ian Mackenzie was doing at all times. He had no interest in servants’ gossip, but he answered, “Has he indeed?”

“You know about the murder in Covent Garden last night?” Mather watched him carefully.

Of course Fellows knew about the murder. It wasn’t his case, but he’d been briefed on it early this morning. Body of a woman found in her room at a boardinghouse near the church, stabbed to death with her own sewing scissors. “Yes, I heard of it.”

“Do you know who went to that house last night?”

Mather smiled triumphantly. “Ian Mackenzie, that’s who.” Fellows’s heart started to race, his blood tingling as body as when he made love to a woman. “How do you know that, sir?”

“I followed him, didn’t I? Bloody Mackenzies think they can have everything their own way.”

“You were following him? Why was that, sir?” Fellows kept his tone calm, but he found breathing difficult. At last, at long last.

“Why isn’t important. Are you interested in the details?” Fellows removed a small notebook from his coat pocket, opened it, and retrieved a pencil from the same pocket. “Go on.”

“He got into his coach in the wee hours of the morning and went to Covent Garden. He stopped at the corner of a tiny lane, coach too big to go into it. He went down the lane on foot, entered a house, stayed maybe ten minutes, then hurried out again. Then he goes to Victoria Station and takes the first train out. I returned home to hear my butler say that Mackenzie had gone to France, and then I opened my morning paper and read about the murder. I put two and two together, and decided that rather than tell a journalist, I should consult the police.”

Mather beamed like a schoolboy proud to tattle on another schoolboy. Fellows digested the information and put it with what he already knew.