The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

The floor wavered again under Beth’s feet, but she held her head high. “Your speculation isn’t proof. What if the witness had faulty eyesight?”

“Come, come, Mrs. Ackerley. You will admit that Lord Ian is most distinctive.”

Beth couldn’t deny that. She also knew that policemen could lead people into believing they’d seen what said policeman wanted them to have seen.

“I can’t think why you’ve come here tonight to tell me this story,” she said icily.

“Two reasons. One is to give you warning that you’ve befriended a murderer. The second is to ask you to watch Lord Ian and pass to me any information you think is relevant. He did both of these girls, and I intend to prove it.” Beth stared at him. “You wish me to spy on the brother-in-law of the woman who has befriended me? On a family that so far has shown me nothing but kindness?” “I am asking you to help me catch a cold-blooded killer.” “I am not employed by Scotland Yard or the French police, Inspector. Have someone else do your dirty work.” Fellows shook his head in mock sadness. “I am sorry for this attitude, Mrs. Ackerley. If you refuse to help me, I will have you as an accessory when I nick Lord Ian.” “I have a solicitor, Mr. Fellows. Perhaps you should consult him. I will even give you his address in London.” Fellows smiled. “I like that you don’t take kindly to bullying. But consider this—I am certain you won’t want your new highborn friends tumbling to the fact that you’re a fraud. The daughter of a confidence trickster and a prostitute, worming your way into the bosom of the aristocracy. Dear, dear.” He clicked his tongue.

“I don’t take kindly to blackmail, either. I will take your warning as a concern for my safety, and we’ll speak no more of the matter.”

“Just so we understand each other, Mrs. Ackerley.” “You may go now” Beth said in freezing tones that would have made Mrs. Barrington proud. “And we don’t understand each other at all.”

Fellows refused to look cowed. In fact, he gave her a cheerful grin as he gathered up his hat and made his way to the drawing room door. “If you change your mind, I’m staying at the hotel at the Gare du Nord. Good evening.” Fellows dramatically shoved open the pocket doors, only to find himself facing the wall that was Ian Mackenzie. Before Beth could say a word, Ian took Fellows by the throat and shoved him back inside the room.

Chapter Six

Ian’s vision filmed red with fury. Through it he saw Beth, her hair in the same sleek, complex curls she’d worn this morning, Fellows in his black suit crinkled with wear, and Beth’s blue eyes filled with dismay.

Fellows had told her. Damn him, he’d told her everything. Fellows clawed at Ian’s hands. “Accosting a police officer is an offense.”

“Everything about you is an offense.” Ian shoved the man away. “Get out.”

“Ian.”

Beth’s voice made him turn. She stood like a flower, fragile and vulnerable, the only color in a world of gray. He’d wanted Beth to remain apart from the sordid business at High Holborn and everything Ian had strived to hide the last five years. Beth was unsoiled by it, innocent. Fellows had ruined that. The bloody man ruined everything he touched. Ian didn’t want Beth looking at him and wondering what others did—whether Ian had plunged a knife into the warm body of a courtesan, then smeared the walls with her blood. He wanted Beth to keep looking at him in soft wonder, to smile her little smile when she made a jest Ian didn’t follow.

Ian sometimes wondered himself whether he had, in his rage, killed Sally. He sometimes didn’t remember things he did in his muddles. But he also remembered what he’d seen that night, things he’d never revealed to anyone, not even to Hart.

Fellows fingered his collar, his face red. Ian hoped he’d hurt the man. Fellows’s purpose in life was to turn public opinion against Hart, against Ian, against anything Mackenzie. Fellows had harassed Hart and Ian so much that he’d been pulled off the High Holborn case five years ago and warned that he risked his job pursuing it further. Now Fellows was back. That meant he’d learned something new.

Ian thought of Lily Martin lying in the parlor where he’d found her a week ago, her sewing scissors through her heart. He remembered the anger he’d felt, and the sorrow. He’d meant to protect her, and he’d failed.

“Get out,” he repeated to Fellows. “You aren’t welcome here.”

“This house has been hired by Lady Isabella Mackenzie,” Fellows said. “And I have not been cautioned against speaking to Mrs. Ackerley. She’s not a Mackenzie.” Ian’s gaze slid over Fellows’s self-satisfied face. “Mrs. Ackerley is under my protection.”

“Your protection?” Fellows smirked. “A fine way to phrase it.”

“I certainly don’t like that implication,” Beth broke in. “Please go, Inspector. You’ve said what you need to say, and I’d be obliged if you’d leave.”

Fellows bowed, but his eyes glittered. “Of course, Mrs. Ackerley. Good evening.”

Ian wasn’t satisfied with watching Fellows exit the drawing room—he followed Fellows down to the foyer and instructed the footman to not let him back in under any circumstances. Ian stood in the doorway watching until Fellows walked away down the busy street, whistling.

He turned back to find Beth behind him. She smelled like flowers, faint perfume clinging to her skin. Her face was flushed, her cheeks damp, her breath rapid. Damnation. Her smile was gone, her brow puckered. Ian had difficulty reading people’s expressions, but Beth’s worry and uncertainty screamed at him. Damn it all, if she’d believed Fellows...