Chapter 8

“Do?” Hart shoveled up a forkful of eggs and thrust them into his mouth. They were cool and congealing, but he chewed and swallowed the mess. “Why should I do anything?”

“My dear Hart, you have the reputation of never taking a lady to a ballroom floor, under any circumstance,” Isabella said.

“I know that.”

Hart had learned a long time ago that singling out this young lady or that one to dance led to expectations. The girls and their mothers started believing he’d propose, or their fathers would use the indication of interest to try to finagle favors. Hart did not have time to dance with all ladies at any given event, and the families of those left out would take it as a slight. Hart had decided early on in his career that if he wanted to keep people dangling on his string, it was best to appear to favor no young ladies at all. He’d danced with Eleanor, and he’d danced with Sarah, and that was all.

“I know you know that,” Isabella said. “Mamas have learned not to push their daughters in front of you at supper balls because the effort is wasted. And then, last night, you pluck out Eleanor and waltz her about with great fervor. You have ripped the lid off the powder keg. Some speculate you did it as vengeance for her jilting you—because now she’ll be talked about. Others speculate that it means you are once again on the marriage mart.”

Hart abandoned the eggs and sliced the sausage. It looked greasy. What had happened to his celebrated cook?

“It is my own business with whom I dance or don’t dance.”

Lord Ramsay looked up from his newspaper, putting his finger on the column where he’d stopped. “Not when you’re famous, Mackenzie. When you are a famous person, everything you do is well picked over. Debated. Discussed. Speculated on.”

Hart did know that, having seen his life and that of his brothers spilled out in newspapers all the years of their lives, but he was too out of sorts to be reasonable.

“Do people not have anything better to talk about?” he grumbled.

“No,” Lord Ramsay said. “They don’t.” He went back to his paper, lifting his finger from the words as he resumed reading.

Isabella rested her arms on the table. Mac kept spreading marmalade, his grin at Hart’s discomfiture irritating.

“I mentioned a powder keg,” Isabella said. “Your dance means that mamas all over London and far beyond are going to assume you fair game. They will try to throw their daughters between you and Eleanor, claiming they have the better match for you. In that case, Hart, we should get you married off quickly and avoid the battles to come.”

“No,” Hart said.

Mac broke in. “Your own fault, my brother. You raised Isabella’s expectations at Ascot last year, declaring you were thinking about taking a wife. She grew quite excited, but since then, you’ve done nothing about it.”

In the box at Ascot, Hart had known exactly what he was doing. He supposed his brothers had come up with the romantic idea that he’d ride up to Eleanor’s dilapidated estate, beating his way through the overgrown garden to find her, and carry her off. Never mind how much she protested—and Eleanor would protest.

No, he would go about taking her as wife as thoroughly and deliberately as he ran one of his political campaigns. Overt courting would come later, but it would come. For now, having her live in his house and help Wilfred and Isabella organize his life was getting her used to the demands of it. He’d have Isabella coax her to a dressmaker’s so that Eleanor would grow used to pretty things and find it too much of a wrench to give them up. He would indulge her father in all the books, museums, and conversation with experts he could want, so that Eleanor would not have the heart to take it all away from him again. After a time, Eleanor would find herself so entrenched in Hart’s life that she’d not be able to walk away.

The dance last night had been a whim—no, not a whim, a voice said inside him. A burning hunger.

Whatever Hart’s reasoning had been, he’d use the dance to indicate to the world that he had set his sights again on Eleanor. Hart’s party would take the country by storm soon, the queen would ask Hart to form a government, and Hart would lay his victory at Eleanor’s feet.

“I told you, Mac,” Hart said. “That is my own business.”

“Marrying quickly will also save Eleanor from scandal,” Isabella said, ignoring both of them. “Attention will focus on your new bride-to-be, and the impromptu dance with Eleanor will be forgotten.”

No, it wouldn’t. Hart would make certain that it wouldn’t.

Isabella turned a page in her notebook and applied her pencil. “Let me see. The lady must be, first, Scottish. No English roses for Hart Mackenzie. Second, of the right lineage. I’d say earl’s daughter or above, don’t you agree? Third, she must be beyond reproach. No scandals attached to her name. Fourth, not a widow—that way you avoid her former husband’s family suddenly wanting favors or making trouble for you. Fifth, she should be well liked, able to smooth people over after you irritate them to death. Sixth, a good hostess for the many soirees, fˆetes, and balls you will have to host. Knowing who should not sit by whom, and so forth. Seventh, she must be well liked by the queen. The queen is not fond of Mackenzies, and a wife she likes will help things along for you when you become prime minister. Eighth, the young lady ought to be fine-looking enough to draw admiration, but not so showy as to incite jealousy.” Isabella lifted her pencil from the page. “Do I have everything? Mac?”

“Nine: Able to put up with Hart Mackenzie,” Mac said.

“Ah, yes.” Isabella wrote. “And I’ll add strong-minded and resolute. That will be number ten, a nice round number.”

“Isabella, please stop,” Hart said.

Isabella, amazingly, ceased writing. “I am finished for now. I’ll draw up a list of names of young ladies who fit the criteria, and then you can begin courting them.”

“The devil I will.” Hart felt something cold and wet bump his knee. He looked down to see Ben looking up at him, heard his tail thump the floor. “Why is the dog under the table?”

“He followed Ian,” Isabella said.

“Who followed Ian?” Eleanor’s voice preceded her into the room.

Did Eleanor look exhausted from her long night, from her exuberant dance with Hart, from Hart kissing her first in the stairwell and then on the pile of laundry? No, she looked fresh and clean, and smelled of the lavender soap she liked as she went around Hart to the sideboard. Lavender—the scent always meant Eleanor to him.

Eleanor filled her plate, then brought it back to the table, kissed her father’s cheek, and sat down between him and Hart.

“Old Ben,” Isabella said. “He likes Ian.”

Eleanor peeped under the table. “Ah. Good morning, Ben.”

She says good morning to the dog, Hart thought irritably. No words for me.

“Eleanor, what do you think of Constance McDonald?” Isabella asked.

Eleanor began eating the cold eggs and greasy sausage as though they were the headiest ambrosia. “What do I think of her? Why?”

“As a potential wife for Hart. We are making a list.”

“Are we?” Eleanor ate, her gaze on Ian and his newspaper. “Yes, I think Constance McDonald would make him a fine wife. Twenty-five, quite lovely, rides well, knows how to wrap stuffy Englishmen around her finger, is good with people.”

“Her father’s Old John McDonald, remember,” Mac said. “Head of the McDonald clan and a right ogre. Many people are afraid of him. Including me. He nearly thrashed the life out of me when I was a callow youth.”

“That’s because you got drunk and half trampled one of his fields,” Isabella said.

Mac shrugged. “That’s a truth.”

“Do not worry about Old John,” Eleanor said. “He’s a sweetie if handled correctly.”

“Very well,” Isabella said. “On the list Miss McDonald goes. What about Honoria Butterworth?”

“For God’s sake!” Hart sprang to his feet.

Everyone at the table stopped and stared at him, including Ian. “Do I have to be made a mockery of in my own house?”

Mac leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head. “Would you prefer we made a mockery of you in the street? In Hyde Park, maybe? In the middle of Pall Mall? The card room at your club?”

“Mac, shut it!”

A faint laugh escaped Lord Ramsay’s mouth, which he covered with a cough. Hart looked down at his plate and noticed the sausage he’d taken a bite from now missing. He hadn’t eaten it.

The sound of breathy chewing came from under the table, and Eleanor looked suddenly innocent.

A shout worked its way up through Hart’s throat, and he couldn’t stop it coming out of his mouth. His voice rang against the crystals of the chandeliers, and Ben stopped crunching.

Hart slammed away from the table, his chair falling over behind him. Somehow he got himself out of the room, walking as swiftly as he could down the hall and toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Eleanor say, “Goodness, what is the matter with him this morning?”

Just as well Hart had gone, Eleanor thought, lifting her fork in an unsteady hand. She felt quite shy with him this morning, after the heady kisses in the laundry room and him holding her on the railing in the upstairs hall. She was wearing the very drawers he’d pulled out of the laundry pile last night, Maigdlin having brought them upstairs this morning.

Maigdlin had said nothing about servants finding the laundry in a sad state, because they hadn’t. Eleanor had stayed behind and refolded every single garment before rejoining Isabella to help her through the rest of the ball.

When Eleanor had slid on the drawers this morning, she’d remembered Hart pressing a kiss to the fabric and telling her to think of him. Eleanor had, and now she swore she could feel the imprint of his lips on her backside.

Eleanor lifted the remaining sausage from Hart’s plate and fed it to Ben. “Why are you writing out potential brides for Hart?”

Isabella laid down her pencil. “I am not. This is all flummery, Eleanor. We all know that you are his perfect match; he just needs a push to get there.”

Eleanor felt chilled. “I believe he is right about one thing, Izzy. This is his business, and mine.”

“Now, don’t go all haughty on me. You know I am right. Am I not right, Lord Ramsay?”

Lord Ramsay folded his paper and laid it on the table, the last page ready to read. “It would not be so bad a thing for you to marry him, El.”

Eleanor stared at him in surprise. “I thought you were happy when I broke the engagement. You stood up to Hart with me.”

“Yes, indeed, I agreed at the time. Hart was arrogant and even dangerous, and you were not well suited. But now, things are different. I am growing old, my dear, and when I die I will leave you penniless. Destitute. I’d rest much easier knowing you had all this.” He waved his hand at the grand dining room.

Eleanor stabbed her fork into her eggs. “Well, it doesn’t matter what you all want, or even what I want. It isn’t up to us, is it?”

Across the table, Ian had fixed his attention on the pot of honey. As though he didn’t realize he was doing it, he reached for it, lifted the dripper, and let the golden stream of honey fall back into the pot.

“What do you think, Ian?” Eleanor asked. At least from Ian, she’d get honesty. Brutal honesty, but that’s what she needed.

Ian didn’t answer. He lifted the dripper again, swirling the sticky honey, watching it fall in a sunlit swath.

“Leave him alone,” Mac said. “He’s thinking of Beth.”

“Is he?” Eleanor asked. “How do you know?”

Mac winked at her. “Trust me. An excellent idea you had with the honey, Ian. You may trust me on that too.”

Isabella flushed, but she did not look unhappy. “I believe Cameron started that bit of nonsense.”

“Not nonsense.” Mac licked his finger and bent to Isabella. “Tasty.”

Lord Ramsay smiled and took his attention back to his paper. Eleanor watched Ian.

“You miss her,” she said to him.

Ian dragged his gaze from the honey and fixed it on Eleanor, eyes as golden as the liquid he stirred. “Yes.”

“You’ll see her soon enough,” Mac said. “We’re off to Berkshire next week.”

Ian didn’t answer, but Eleanor saw in Ian’s fleeting glance that next week would not be soon enough. She set down her fork, pushed back her chair, and went around the table to him.

Mac and Isabella watched in surprise as Eleanor put her arms around Ian and bent down to kiss his cheek. They tensed, waiting to see what Ian would do. Ian did not like being touched by anyone except Beth or his children.

But Ian had looked so lonely sitting there that Eleanor felt compelled to comfort him. Ian had left his beloved Beth to travel to London to ensure that his oldest brother didn’t break Eleanor’s heart. A noble and generous deed.

“I will be all right,” Eleanor said to him. “Go back to her.”

Ian remained still while Mac and Isabella held their breaths and pretended not to. Even Eleanor’s father glanced up, concerned.

Ian slowly lifted his hand and gave Eleanor’s wrist a warm squeeze. “Beth has already left for Berkshire,” he said. “I will meet her there.”

“You’ll go today?” Eleanor said.

“Today. Curry will pack for me.”

“Good. Give her my love.” Eleanor pressed another kiss to his cheek and rose.

Isabella and Mac let out their breaths and went back to the remains of their breakfasts, carefully not looking at Ian. Eleanor walked back to her place, wiping away the tears that had started in her eyes.

“Wilfred,” Eleanor said several hours later, looking up from her Remington. “This letter has nothing in it. You’ve written a name and an address, and that is all.”

Wilfred removed his spectacles and looked across his desk at her. “No letter, my lady,” he said. “Just enclose the cheque inside the blank paper and address the envelope.”

To Mrs. Whitaker, Eleanor typed on the envelope. “That is all? No note saying, Here is payment for… or Please accept this contribution to your charitable works…?”

“No, my lady.” Wilfred said.

“Who is this Mrs. Whitaker?” Eleanor asked as she rolled the platen to type the address. “And why is Hart sending her…” She turned over the cheque Wilfred had placed facedown on her desk. “One thousand guineas?”

“His Grace can be generous,” Wilfred said.

Eleanor stared at him, but Wilfred only bent his head and went back to writing.

Eleanor had learned that Wilfred was a poor source of information about the Mackenzie family. The man refused to gossip about anything or anyone. This quality was likely why Hart had promoted him from valet to private secretary, but Eleanor found it quite inconvenient. Wilfred was discretion made man.

Wilfred was a human being some of the time, Eleanor knew. He had a daughter and a granddaughter in Kent and doted on them both. He kept their photos in his desk drawer, bought them chocolates and little gifts, and boasted of their accomplishments to Eleanor, in his quiet way.

However, Wilfred never spoke about his shady past when he’d been an embezzler; never mentioned a Mrs. Wilfred; and never, ever told tales about Hart. If Wilfred did not want Eleanor to know why Hart was sending one thousand guineas to this Mrs. Whitaker, Wilfred would take the secret to his grave.

Eleanor gave up, typed the address on the envelope—George Street, near Portman Square—and neatly folded the cheque inside the paper.

Perhaps Hart had found the source of the photographs. Perhaps he was paying the woman to destroy them or to keep quiet about them, or perhaps to persuade her to send him the rest.

Or Mrs. Whitaker might have absolutely nothing to do with the photographs.

Eleanor tucked the cheque into the envelope, closed it, and added the envelope to her stack of finished correspondence.

The house near Portman Square where Mrs. Whitaker lived was ordinary-looking enough. Eleanor studied it carefully as she strolled past for the third time.

Eleanor had used the pretense of doing some shopping to journey to Portman Square, timing the outing to coincide with Isabella returning to her own house to argue with the decorators. In order to lend verisimilitude, Eleanor wandered the shops on the square and nearby streets, buying little gifts for the Mackenzie children and their mothers. Maigdlin trailed her, carrying packages.

Eleanor had seen no activity at all in or around Mrs. Whitaker’s house in the hour or so she’d drifted up and down George Street. No maids cleaning the stoop or footmen walking out to pass the time of day with the maids next door. The blinds remained closed, the door firmly shut.

In order to linger on the street a little longer, Eleanor started browsing the carts of the street vendors, deciding to buy a present for Cameron’s son Daniel. That Daniel was now eighteen was difficult for Eleanor to swallow. He’d been a wild and unhappy child when Eleanor had first met him, always in some scrape or another, earning Cameron’s wrath. He’d resisted Eleanor’s attempts to be motherly, but he had shown Eleanor his collection of live beetles, which Hart had told her was an honor.

Daniel had turned out all right, she’d seen, despite growing up in a houseful of Mackenzie bachelors. He was settled at the university in Edinburgh now, and seemed happy enough.

Eleanor was startled out of thoughts of Daniel by the door of Mrs. Whitaker’s house opening. A footman, a large, beefy lad like Hart’s footmen, came out of it. At the same time a carriage pulled up, and the footman hurried the few steps across the pavement to open the coach’s door.

Eleanor stepped to a street vendor who sold little cakes and watched as a quick-walking maid emerged from the house, followed by a woman who must be Mrs. Whitaker.

The lady was not very tall, but she was voluptuous, a trait she did not bother to hide. Even her fur wrap, pulled on against the chill, was draped to show off her large bosom. She painted—she had deeply rouged cheeks and red lip color—and the hair under her highly fashionable hat was very black.

Mrs. Whitaker adjusted her skintight leather gloves, gave her footman a kind enough nod of thanks, and let him hand her into the carriage. Eleanor stared openly as the carriage moved off, bearing mistress and maid. The footman, looking neither right nor left, strode back into the house and shut the door.

“Good heavens,” Eleanor said to the man selling cakes. “Who was that?”

The vendor glanced at the retreating carriage. “Not the sort of woman I should be talking about to a lady, miss.”

“Truly?” Eleanor slid a coin to him, and the vendor put a warm, wrapped seedcake into her hand. “Now you do have me curious. Do not worry—I am quite long in the tooth and not easily shocked.”

“No better than she ought to be, and that’s the truth, miss. And the gentlemen what go in and out at all hours… Some of the highest in the land, would you believe?”

Yes, Eleanor would believe it. That Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan did not surprise her in the least. That she was a very successful one showed in her expensive furs, elegant carriage, and high-stepping horses.

Eleanor hid her dismay by unfolding the paper that wrapped the cake and nibbling a corner. “Gracious,” she said.

“I do mean the highest,” the vendor said. “The things I could tell you. Princes go in there. And dukes, like that Scots one, what always wears his kilt. Why a man wants to wear a skirt, I couldn’t say. I’d think the cold would go right up his jacksie, wouldn’t you? Oh, begging your pardon, miss. I forget my tongue.”

“Not at all.” Eleanor smiled at him and took another bite of cake.

Curiosity certainly killed the cat. Mrs. Whitaker was a courtesan, and Hart Mackenzie had sent her a thousand guineas. For the photographs? Or for the usual reason a gentleman paid a courtesan?

Well, Hart was a man, his longtime mistress was dead, and gentlemen did have bodily needs. That was a scientific fact. Their gently born wives could neither understand these bodily needs nor were able to endure them, the scientists went on to say, because gently born ladies did not have the same needs.

Absolute nonsense. Eleanor scoffed at this fiction, and so did her father. The truth was that gentlemen visited courtesans because they enjoyed it. Ladies stayed home and endured their husbands straying because they had no choice.

Hart had never been a saint, and he was dedicated to no one at the moment. Eleanor should not condemn him.

And yet. Eleanor’s heart burned, and for a moment, the street blurred. Another conveyance came toward her while she stood unable to move, a dark square in her clouded vision.

The carriage solidified as it pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Speak of the devil,” the vendor said. “That’s his crest. The Scots duke’s, I mean.”

Eleanor’s vision cleared. There was no time to run and nowhere to hide. Eleanor scuttled to the nearest lamppost and put her shoulder against it, hiding her face to eat another bite of seedcake.

She saw square, polished boots stop in front of her, saw the hem of blue and green Mackenzie plaid above them. Her gaze moved from the kilt that hugged his hips to his crisp shirt under his open greatcoat to Hart’s granite face under the brim of his hat.

Hart said not one word. He’d know perfectly well why Eleanor lurked outside the house of a courtesan called Mrs. Whitaker—he had no need to ask. Eleanor could claim it coincidence that she’d chosen to purchase a seedcake three feet from the woman’s door, but Hart would know better.

Eleanor met his gaze and refused to feel remorse. After all, she wasn’t the one visiting a courtesan or paying her a thousand guineas.

They might have stood on the cold street, staring at one another the rest of the day, if the door of the house hadn’t burst open again. The same beefy footman emerged, this time carrying a man out over his shoulder. Hart barely paid any mind as the footman made straight for Hart’s carriage and put the man inside.

Eleanor’s astonishment mounted as David Fleming came out of the house, looked up at the cloudy sky, put on his hat, and climbed into Hart’s carriage as well.

Eleanor swung back to Hart, questions on her lips.

Hart pointed at the carriage. “Get in.”

Eleanor started, and the cake vendor, who’d been watching with evident enjoyment, looked worried. “No need,” Eleanor said to Hart. “I’ll find a hansom. I’ve brought Maigdlin, and I have so many parcels.”

“Get into the carriage, El, or I’ll strap you to the top of it.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and took another bite of seedcake. She waved at Maigdlin, who was at another vendor’s cart a little way down the street. “Come along, Maigdlin. We’re going.”

The maid, looking relieved, trotted back toward Eleanor and the familiar coach, set down the parcels, and let Mrs. Whitaker’s footman boost her up beside the coachman. The cake vendor watched the proceedings, arrested in the act of lifting another cake off his tiny coal stove.

“It is quite all right,” Eleanor told the cake seller. “His Grace can’t help being rude.” She turned and made for the carriage. “Hart, give the man a crown for his trouble, won’t you?”