The Duke's Perfect Wife

The boat headed into the rising sun. The Romany were the only ones moving on the canal so far. Thick mist floated under the trees along the towpath, and beyond the trees, fields opened out. Lambs followed their mothers on the damp green, the lambs and ewes looking like mobile clumps of mist in the gloom.

There was silence here, and peace. Hart closed his eyes.

He awoke to find the day brightening and that Ian now leaned on the bow. The pipe-smoking man had taken over steering the horse, while the little girl and the other children had gone inside. The goats and dogs remained on deck.

Hart moved to stand next to Ian. “You still haven’t told me why you came out here.”

Ian gazed down at the water, watching the boat’s bow breaking the glasslike canal. It wasn’t unusual for Ian not to respond to a question, or to wait until a day or two after a question was put to him before he answered. Sometimes he never answered at all.

“I told Angelo’s people about the shooting,” Ian said. He closed his mouth after he spoke the words, and Hart knew nothing more would be forthcoming.

He filled in the rest himself. The Romany roamed up and down these canals and across the fields, despite the farmers’ and villagers’ attempts to keep them out. The Romany would know the instant someone out of the ordinary appeared in the area, and they would keep a sharp eye out for danger. Angelo was much beloved by his family and so, by extension, were Angelo’s friends. When Ian had learned of the assassination attempt, he’d decided it was a good idea to find and inform the Romany.

“Wise of you,” Hart said. “But you didn’t bother to tell Beth where you were going, or Curry. We have the entire estate out searching for you. Can’t you learn to leave a note?”

Ian didn’t react to Hart’s anger. “Beth knows where I go.”

“Well, she didn’t this time. And I sure as hell didn’t.”

Ian rested his arm on the railing and looked at Hart, sweeping his gaze over Hart’s open greatcoat, mussed hair, unshaven jaw. Whatever Ian was thinking or feeling, Hart didn’t know. He never knew.

“Ian,” he said, exasperated.

Ian still didn’t answer. Hart heaved a sigh and rubbed his bristly face again. “Fine, have it your way.”

Ian went back to studying the water.

Hart used to believe himself the only person who truly understood Ian, but he’d learned, painfully, that despite the connection he felt with him, he’d barely penetrated his brother’s shell. The moment Ian had met Beth, however, Ian had responded to her, emerging from his private place of silence and rage. Ian had started engaging with the world through the conduit of Beth.

What Hart had tried, and failed, to do for years, Beth Ackerley, widow of a poor parish vicar, had done in a matter of days.

Hart at first had been angry with Beth, envious of her bond with Ian, fearful that she would exploit him for her own ends. But Beth had proved her deep devotion to Ian, and Hart now loved her for what she’d done.

Hart leaned on the railing and let out a heavy breath. “How do you do it, Ian? How do you deal with the madness?”

He’d been speaking generally, thinking of his own struggles. He didn’t expect Ian to respond, but Ian said, “I have Beth.”

I have no one.

The words came out of nowhere. They were not true. Hart had his brothers, his interfering sisters-in-law, Daniel, and now his small nieces and nephews, who could be adorable—especially when they wanted something. He had Wilfred and his handpicked staff who were loyal to him to a fault. He even had David Fleming, a friend he’d been with through thick and thin over many years.

But no one gets close to Hart Mackenzie the man.

Hart had given up mistresses after Angelina Palmer’s death, forgoing even casual encounters for satiation. He’d been living like a monk. No wonder the merest whisper of Eleanor’s scent made him as randy as an eighteen-year-old. Eleanor had laughed at him, but her laughter hadn’t stopped Hart from wanting her touch.

“How do I deal with my madness?” Hart’s words sounded hollow against the water.

This time, Ian didn’t look at him and didn’t answer.

“You once said that we were all mad,” Hart said after a time. “Remember? On the day we found out about Inspector Fellows, you said that Mac was a genius with painting, Cameron with horses, me with money and politics, and Fellows with solving crimes. You were right. And Father, of course, had the same madness. I think he saw much of himself in you, and that scared him.”

“Father is dead. And I said Mac painted like a god.”

Hart gave him a wry smile. “Sorry, I don’t have your gift for precise memory. But I think my madness is growing. What do I do if I can’t stop it?”

Ian didn’t look at him. “You will.”

“Thank you for your confidence.”

“You need to show Eleanor the house,” Ian said after another silence.

Hart started. “House? What house?”

“In High Holborn. Mrs. Palmer’s house.”

Hart gripped the boat’s rail. “The devil I do. I never want Eleanor in there again. I’m still angry at you for taking her there. Why did you?”

“Because Eleanor needs to know all about it,” Ian said.

“Bloody hell, Ian. Why?”

“The house is you.”

What on earth did he mean by that? “No, Ian. No. The house might have been a large part of my life once, but that era is over.”