Beth’s thoughts whirled. Could Mrs. Palmer have discovered that Sally wanted to blackmail Hart? Had the madam decided to shut Sally’s mouth permanently? But in that case, why not wait until Ian had gone home and no Mackenzie could be implicated? Or did she not care who swung for the crime, as long as it wasn’t Hart? She itched to find the woman and question her.
“When did you work in the house, Sylvia?”
“Oh, ‘bout six, maybe seven years ago.”
“Did you know Sally Tate?”
“That bitch? Not surprised she got herself murdered.”
“You were there at the time of the murder?”
“No, I’d moved on by then. But I heard all about it. Sally had it coming, missus. She strung men along right enough, but she hated ‘em. She could charm all kinds of money out of ‘em. She and Ma Palmer had dustups all the time because Sally didn’t want to share the takings. She had her own lady love, kept talking about the two of ‘em taking a castle in the sky together and living happily ever after.”
Katie glared in outrage. “That’s disgusting. M’lady, you shouldn’t be out here listening to such talk.”
Sylvia shrugged. “Well, they get tired of men pawing at ‘em, don’t they? Some do, anyway. Not me, I like a handsome gentleman.”
“Never mind that,” Beth said impatiently. “Who was Sally Tate’s lady love? Did you know her?”
“It was one of the other girls what lived there. They used to lock themselves in an upstairs bedroom and bill and coo. Sally always vowed she’d take the girl to a cottage somewhere and they’d raise roses and some nonsense. Not bloody likely, was it? Catch any respectable folk in a village letting a house to a couple of hermaphrodites what used to be whores.” Sylvia tapped her lip. “Now, what was her name? Oh, I’ve got it. Lily. ‘Cause Sally was always saying they’d have lilies in the pond on account of her. They were both daft.”
“Lily Martin?” Beth asked, her voice sharp.
“That were it. Lily Martin. Now, what about me money, m’lady? I come a long way, it’s damp out here, and this silk will be all ruined.”
Ian woke when the little clock on the dresser struck ten. He stretched, his body warm and pliant, and he rolled over to wrap his arms around Beth.
He found an empty bed.’
He opened his eyes in disappointment. But perhaps she’d gone down for something to eat. She’d be hungry. Ian rubbed his hand over his face, trying to stave off the memories of their argument. He’d told her things he’d never meant to tell her, things he hadn’t wanted her to know about himself and his monstrous family. But he’d at least made her understand.
Ian swung his legs out of the bed and stood up. He didn’t want to wait for her to return; he needed her now. He’d find her and get Curry to bring some supper to them. He wouldn’t mind seating Beth on his lap and feeding her from her plate. They’d enjoyed that at Kilmorgan, and he saw no reason not to enjoy it now. He pulled on his trousers and shirt, remembering how Beth had helped undress him a few hours ago. Her touch had been gentle and his had been impatient; he wanted her with fierce intensity.
Ian pulled on his ankle boots and ran fingers through his mussed hair before turning to the door. He caught the china doorknob and turned it.
The door didn’t budge.
He rattled the knob and pushed at the door, but nothing happened. Heart thumping, Ian crouched and put his eye to the keyhole.
No key on the other side. Someone had locked the door and taken the key away with them.
Blind panic flooded him. Locked in, no escape, trapped, open it, please, please, please, I’ll be good…
He took deep breaths, trying to banish the freezing terror. He thought of warmth, of Beth, of the taste of her mouth, of sliding into her depths, feeling her squeeze… Beth. He crouched down and put his mouth to the keyhole.
“Beth?”
Silence. He heard noises from the street but none from the house. He yanked the bell-pull beside the bed, then went back to the door.
“Curry,” he shouted. He pounded on the heavy wood.
“Curry, damn you.”
No answer.
Ian went to the window and flung back the drapes. Mist swirled around the street lamps below. Carriages went back and forth in the square, fog enhancing the sound of hooves and rumbling wheels.
He heard footsteps in the hall and then Curry’s voice at the keyhole. “M’lord? Are you in there?”
“Of course I’m in here. She’s locked the door. Find a key.”
Curry’s voice took on a note of alarm. “Are you all right?”
“Find the blasted key.”
“You’re all right then.” Footsteps moved away.
New fears rushed at Ian, none that had to do with being confined in a small room. Beth had gone somewhere, and she hadn’t wanted him to stop her. Damn her, why couldn’t she listen?
She’d have gone to Fellows, or to interview the men who’d been at the house five years ago, or worse, to the High Holborn house itself to talk to Mrs. Palmer. Son of a bitch.
“Curry!” He pounded on the door.
“Keep your shirt on. We’re hunting for a key.”
It took too long. Ian chafed, his temper rising. On the other side of the door, Curry swore and growled. At last Ian heard a key in the lock, heard it turn. He yanked open the door. Curry, Cameron, and Daniel were grouped outside with the shaky butler, the plump cook, and two wide-eyed maids. “Where is Beth?” he demanded, striding past them.
“I don’t like it, my lord.” The cook folded her arms over her ample bosom. “She will meet with the most unsavory people, always has felt too sorry for them. Why can’t they get a proper job? That’s what I want to know.”
Her words made no sense, but Ian had the feeling they were important. “What are you saying? What people?”
“Mrs. Ackerley’s charity projects. Painted tarts and whores of-Babylon. One came to the kitchen door, if you can imagine, and off goes her ladyship and Miss Katie with her. In a hansom cab.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
Ian swung a glare on her, and the woman deflated. “I’m sorry, your lordship. I truly don’t know.”
“Someone must have seen,” Cameron rumbled. “We’ll ask on the street if someone heard what direction she gave.”
“I know where she went,” Ian said grimly. Damnation. Damnation. “Curry, fetch me a coach. Now.”
He pushed past the crowd and started down the stairs. Curry scrambled behind him, bleating orders in his broad Cockney.
“I’m coming with you,” Cameron said.
“Me, too,” Daniel said, keeping up with them.
“Like hell you are,” Cameron told his son. “You’re staying here, and you’ll keep her here if she comes back.”
“But Dad—“
“Do what I say for once, you little hellion.”
Cameron snatched hat and gloves before the doddering butler could get to them. Ian didn’t even bother. Daniel followed them to the door, scowling, but he stayed inside.
“How do you know where she is?” Cameron clapped on his hat and strode for the hansom rolling toward them at Curry’s whistle.
Ian climbed inside, Cameron following. “High Holborn,” he said to the cabbie before the vehicle careened off into traffic.
“High Holborn?” Cameron asked in alarm.
“She’s gone to play detective.” Bloody little fool. If anything happened to her… Ian couldn’t finish the thought, couldn’t imagine how he’d feel if he found her dead, a knife in her chest, like Sally and Lily.
Cameron pressed a hand to Ian’s shoulder. “We’ll find her.”
“Why is she so stubborn? And disobedient?”
Cameron barked a laugh. “Because Mackenzies always choose headstrong women. You didn’t really expect her to obey you, did you? No matter what the marriage vows say?”
“I expected to keep her safe.”
“She stood up to Hart.
It’s a rare woman who can do that.”
Which showed just how foolish Beth was. Ian fell silent, willing the coach to go faster. They rolled through thick traffic, the residents of London for some reason out in droves tonight. The cab inched up Park Lane past the house of the blasted Lyndon Mather. Ian hoped briefly that the twelve hundred pounds he’d given him for the bowl would keep the man subdued. Beth didn’t need any more trouble from him.
The coach finally turned east on Oxford Street to traverse its length to High Holborn. Ian hadn’t seen the house that sat innocently on High Holborn near Chancery Lane for five years. But stark memories stabbed at him as he and Cameron entered without knocking. Nothing inside had changed. Ian walked through the same vestibule with dark wood wainscoting, opened the same stained-glass door that led to the inner hall and polished walnut staircase. The maid who admitted them was new and obviously thought Ian and Cameron were expected clients. Ian wanted to push past her and run up the stairs, but Cameron put his hand on Ian’s shoulder and shook his head.
“We’ll go carefully,” he said into Ian’s ear. “Then if they don’t help us, we’ll take the place apart.”
Ian nodded, sweat trickling down his spine. He’d had a strange feeling of being watched as soon as he entered the house, which only grew as the maid led them up the stairs. The maid swung the parlor door inward, and Ian walked in. He stopped so abruptly that Cameron ran into the back of him.
Hart Mackenzie sat in a plush armchair with a cheroot in one hand and a cut-crystal glass of whiskey in the other. Angelina Palmer, Hart’s mistress, a dark-haired woman still beautiful in her late forties, perched on the arm of Hart’s chair, one hand resting fondly on his shoulder. “Ian,” Hart said calmly. “I thought you’d arrive soon. Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Beth balled her gloved hands in her lap as the carriage wound slowly from Whitehall up to High Holborn. Lloyd Fellows glared at Beth across the cramped interior, and Katie huddled on the seat next to Beth, highly uncomfortable. “What makes you think I didn’t go through that house with a fine-toothed comb five years ago?” Fellows asked.
“You might have missed something. It’s reasonable. You were in a flutter because the Mackenzies were involved.”
He scowled. “I never get into a flutter. And I didn’t know the Mackenzies were involved until well after I got there, did I? I wouldn’t have known at all if the nervous maid hadn’t let it slip.”
“It seems convenient to me that she let it slip and made you focus all your efforts on Hart and Ian. I think it blurred your judgment.”
Fellows’s hazel eyes narrowed. “It was much more complicated than that.”
“Not really. You were so pleased to have the chance to wreck the life of Hart Mackenzie that you didn’t feel the need to look beyond him and Ian. I had started to feel sympathy for you, Mr. Fellows, but I’ve changed my mind.”
Fellows spoke to the ceiling. “Dear God, where does that family find such women? Termagants, the lot of you.”
“I’m not certain Lady Isabella would be flattered by that remark,” Beth said. “Besides, I’ve heard that Hart’s wife was soft-spoken and meek.”
“And you see where it got her?”
“Exactly, Inspector. Therefore Isabella and I will remain outspoken.”
Fellows looked out the window. “You can’t save them, you know. They’re beyond redemption. If they’re not guilty of this murder, they’re guilty of so many other things. The Mackenzies move through the world leaving wreckage behind them.”
We break everything we touch.
“Perhaps I can’t save them from themselves,” Beth answered. “But I will try to save them from you.”
Fellows pressed his lips together and looked out the window again. “Bloody women,” he muttered.
Ian stared at Hart and Mrs. Palmer for a few seconds.
“Where is Beth?” he demanded.
Hart raised his brows. “Not here.”
Ian headed for the door. “Then I’m too busy to talk to you.”
“It’s Beth I want to talk to you about.”
Ian stopped abruptly and turned back. Mrs. Palmer had risen and moved behind the sofa to pour a measure of whiskey into a clean glass, the sound like rain trickling through a gutter. Hart watched her a moment, a man comfortably studying a woman he’d bedded many times.
“Beth doesn’t understand,” Ian said.
“I wonder about that,” Hart said. “You married a very perceptive and, if I may say it, tenacious woman. I don’t know if that’s good for this family or bad for it.”
“Damn good, I’d say,” Cameron said behind Ian. “I’ll look for her,” he added, then faded out the door. Ian itched to go with him, but he knew Cameron would be thorough. Cameron could be even more terrifying than Hart when he wanted to be.
Ian gave Hart a fleering glance and fixed his gaze on Mrs. Palmer pouring whiskey.
“Whatever you think of her, Beth is my wife. That means I protect her from you.”
“But who protects her from you, Ian?”
Ian’s jaw hardened. Mrs. Palmer brought the glass of whiskey to Ian, the facets of crystal catching the light. The heart of the glass held a glint of blue, like Beth’s eyes, a color never seen in the crystal unless the light was right. Ian followed the changing colors of the whiskey’s amber and gold down to the blue facets. The best crystal caught light and refracted it into every color of the rainbow, but the blue always seemed to be trapped deep inside. “Ian.”
Ian jerked his gaze from the glass. Mrs. Palmer had moved back to Hart. She leaned over the back of the chair and ran her hands down the lapels of Hart’s black evening coat.
“What?” Ian asked.
“I said I want to talk.” Hart stretched out his long legs. His hair was the darkest red of all the brothers’, and rolled back from his forehead in a thick wave. People called Hart Mackenzie handsome, but Ian had never thought so. He’d known that his brother’s eyes could turn ice-cold, his face harden like granite. Their father had been much the same.
Hart had been the only person in the world who could calm the boy Ian’s panicked reactions. When Ian had been confused, or in a thick crowd, or couldn’t understand a word being babbled around him, his first instinct had been to bolt. He’d run from the family dining room table, from the schoolrooms his father tried to send him to, from the family pew in a crowded church. Hart had always found him, had always sat with him, either talking around his panic, or just sitting in silence until Ian calmed. Ian now wanted to run through the house shouting Beth’s name, but Hart’s gaze told him it would be useless. Ian sat down. He glanced uncomfortably at Mrs. Palmer. “Leave us, love,” Hart said to her. Angelina Palmer nodded, her smile practiced. She kissed Hart on his upturned lips.
“Of course,” she said. “You know you only have to call if you need me.”
Hart caught her hand briefly as she stood, then let his fingers drift from hers. They’d been a couple a long time, through the ups and downs of Hart’s life;—his brief but unhappy marriage, his inheritance of the dukedom, his rise to political power. When Hart had decided to distance himself from her, Mrs. Palmer had seemed to accept his decision without fuss.
Mrs. Palmer glanced at Ian before she left the room. Ian kept his eyes averted, but he sensed the ice-coldness of her stare and felt her… fear?
She turned away and was gone.
“We’ve never talked about this, have we?” Hart asked once the door closed softly. Here, five years ago, four men had laughed and talked around a card table near the fireplace, while Ian had lounged in an armchair by the door, reading a newspaper. The men at the table had ignored him, which had been fine with him. And then Sally had pulled a chair next to his, leaned over the arm, and begun whispering to him. Hart cut through Ian’s thoughts. “Best to keep quiet about it, I always said.”
Ian nodded. “I agreed.”
“But you told Beth all about it.”
Ian wondered how Hart knew that.
Did he find Beth and make her tell him? Or did he have spies in Beth’s house? “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
“I’d never hurt her, Ian. I promise you that.”
“You like to hurt. To control. You like to see people at your feet, fighting for a chance to lick your boots.”
Hart’s gaze flickered. “You’re not pulling your punches tonight, are you?”
“I always did what you told me because you took care of me.”
“And I always will take care of you, Ian.”
“Because it suits you to. You always do what suits you, like Father did.”
Hart’s brow clouded. “I don’t mind you jabbing at me, but don’t compare me to Father. He was a cruel son of a bitch, and I hope he’s rotting in hell.”
“He had rages, like the ones I get. He never learned to control them.”
“And you have?” Hart asked, his voice quiet.
Ian lightly rubbed his temple. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can ever control it. But I have Curry and Beth and my brothers to help me. Father had no one.”
“You aren’t defending him, are you?”
Even Ian heard the incredulous tone. “Hell, no. But we’re his sons; it stands to reason we’re all somewhat like him. Ruthless, driven. Heartless.”
“I’m supposed to be having a talk with you, not you lecturing me.”
“Beth is perceptive.” Ian lowered his hand. “Where the devil is she?”
“Not here, as I said.”
“What have you done with her?”
“Nothing.” Hart dropped his cheroot into a bowl, and a thin spiral of smoke drifted upward. “I honesty don’t know where she is. Why did you think she’d come here?”
“To play detective.”
“Ah, of course.” Hart drank his whiskey in one swift draft and clicked the glass to the table. “She wants you to be innocent. She loves you.”
“No, she loves her husband.”
“Which is you.”
“I meant her first husband. Thomas Ackerley. She loves him, and she always will.”
“I imagine so,” Hart conceded. “But I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She loves you, and she wants to save you. You told her not to try, but am I right in thinking she didn’t listen?”