The Duke's Perfect Wife

“You look it,” Fellows said without inflection. “I will be the only bachelor left. No wife to greet me on my return home, no sons to guide my doddering footsteps when I’m gray.”

“That is up to you. I imagine one of my sisters-in-law could find you a match if they put their minds to it.”

Fellows raised his hand. “No, no.”

“Be careful. They are determined women.”

Fellows nodded, then they both fell silent, uncertain how to end the conversation. They had once been enemies, they’d not yet become friends, and they were still not entirely comfortable with each other.

“You know, Fellows…” Hart began.

“No.” Fellows stood up, and Hart got to his feet with him. “I know what you are going to say. Do not offer me a post in the great Mackenzie empire. I am happy with the job I have.”

Hart didn’t ask how Fellows knew he’d been about to propose that Fellows work for Hart personally, to be in charge of keeping the Mackenzie family safe. The two men thought too much alike.

“I’ll help you, for Lady Eleanor’s sake,” Fellows went on. “But understand this—I worked a long time to become an inspector, I enjoy being a policeman, and I’ll not give up my career because you beckon.”

Hart raised his hands. “Well and good. But, if ever you need it, the offer stands.”

“Thank you.” Fellows nodded once and turned to leave.

“Wait, Fellows. I need to ask you a question.”

Fellows turned back, trepidation in his stance. He wanted to be elsewhere, that stance said, but he waited politely.

“How would you trace a letter?” Hart asked. “Find out who sent it to you, I mean?”

Fellows blinked at the question, then considered. “I’d have a look at the envelope. Find the postman who delivered it, trace the letter’s steps backward. Why? Have you been receiving threatening letters in the post?”

“No,” Hart said quickly. Fellows’s eyes narrowed, scenting the half lie. “Suppose I know the city from which the letter originated? Edinburgh, say?”

“Ask questions at the post office there. Station yourself outside said post office and watch to see if that person returns to send another.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“Most policing is tedious, Your Grace. Tedious, hard work.”

“So it seems. Thank you for your help, Fellows. And when you receive Isabella’s invitation to my wedding, for God’s sake, answer that you’ll attend.”

Fellows gave him a mirthless smile. “I long to say no, and watch the fireworks go off around you.”

“They’d go off around you too. Don’t think they wouldn’t. The ladies would be disappointed, and you’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm. Then I’ll respond correctly.”

“See that you do.”

Fellows nodded again, and took his leave.

The High Holborn house was as quiet and dusty as it had been a few weeks ago when Hart had found Eleanor there. He conceded that Eleanor was right about the fact that the house might hold a clue to whoever was sending the photographs. That did not mean, however, that he’d let her back in here.

Hart stole a few hours away from election hysteria a few days after his meeting with Fellows to take his coach to High Holborn and enter the house alone.

Ian wanted Hart to tell Eleanor all about his life here. Hart realized that was why Ian had let her come here in the first place. She should know all of Hart, Ian had intimated, down to the bottom of his grimy soul.

Hart stood in the bedroom filled with jumbled furniture, where Eleanor had busily searched. He remembered her red gold hair under the pillbox hat, the veil that drooped over her eye, her maddening but warm smile.

“I can’t do it, Ian,” he said out loud.

Hart was not ashamed of his proclivities, or what he’d done in games of pleasure. But he thought of how Eleanor had looked at him on the canal boat, with desire in her eyes, and trust, and languid delight. He needed nothing more, he thought.

Why shouldn’t that be enough, Ian Mackenzie?

You need to show Eleanor the house. Once you tell her everything about it, you will know.

No. Ian was wrong. Some things were better left buried.

He quickly made his search, discovered nothing, quit the house for Bond Street, and bought Eleanor the largest diamond necklace he could find.

Eleanor’s wedding day dawned fair and clear, a soft Scottish April morning, the only clouds well beyond the hills surrounding the Kilmorgan estate.

Eleanor stood in her room while Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley dressed her from the skin out in wedding finery. Silk camisole and drawers, new corset with pretty pink bows down the front, a long bustle to hold the many yards of wedding satin, a silk bodice that hugged Eleanor’s shoulders and buttoned snugly up the back. Seed pearls and lace adorned the bodice, and yards and yards of cascading ruffles and lace spilled down the front of the skirt. The skirt caught in a gentle pouf over the bustle, with roses, both silk and real, adorning it. From there the fabric flowed to the ground, ending in a three-foot train covered with seed pearls and lace.

Maigdlin smiled as she put another pin into Eleanor’s glossy red hair. “You’re pretty as a picture, lass—my lady. Pretty as a picture.”

“Absolutely beautiful.” Isabella stood back, hands clasped, and surveyed her work. “I want to throw my arms around you and eat you up, but I spent two hours getting you to look like this, El, so I will refrain.”