The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie

Beth watched in fascination as Ian held the bowl between his fingertips and examined it in minute detail. He missed nothing, not a crack or anomaly. He smelled it, he touched his tongue to it, he closed his eyes and rested the bowl against his cheek.

“Six hundred guineas,” he said.

The burly dealer looked surprised. “Good lord, man, you’ll ruin yourself. I was going to ask three hundred, I must be honest. It’s chipped.”

“It’s rare,” Ian said. “It’s worth six hundred.”

“Well.” The dealer grinned. “Six hundred it is then. I’ve done well for myself. You wouldn’t want to appraise the rest of my collection, would you?”

Ian laid the bowl reverently on the velvet bag the dealer placed on the counter. “I don’t have time. I’m taking my bride to Scotland tonight.”

“Oh.” The good-natured dealer looked at Beth with new interest. “I beg your pardon, my lady. I didn’t realize. My felicitations.” “It was all rather sudden,” Beth said faintly.

The dealer raised his brows and glanced at Ian, who had returned his broad fingertips lovingly to the bowl. “I am pleased you had time to stop and look at my offering.” “Rather lucky we found you in,” Beth said. “And the bowl still here.”

The dealer looked surprised. “Not luck, my lady. Lord Ian wired me from Paris and told me to hold it for him.” “Oh.” Beth’s face grew warm. “Yes, of course he would have.”

Beth had been with Ian constantly since their hasty marriage, except when he paced the trains and boat. The all efficient Curry must have sent the wire from some station along the way. More details Ian didn’t have to worry about. The dealer’s assistant packed the bowl under Ian’s watchful eye. Ian said that his man of business would be along with the money, and the dealer bowed. “Of course, my lord. Congratulations again. My lady.”

The assistant held the door for them, but before they could take two steps, Lyndon Mather stepped out of a carriage in front of them. The blond, handsome man stopped dead in his tracks and went a peculiar shade of green. Beth had her hand in the crook of Ian’s arm, and Ian pulled her so abruptly against him that she fell into his side. Mather glared at the box under Ian’s arm. “Damnation, man, is that my bowl?”

“The price would have been too high for you,” Ian returned. Mather’s mouth hung open. He stared at Beth, who wanted very much to leap headfirst into the closest hansom cab and flee. She lifted her chin instead, standing her ground. “Mrs. Ackerley,” Mather said stiffly. “Have a care for your reputation. People might put it about that you’re his mistress.”

By people, Mather likely meant himself.

Before Beth could answer, Ian said quietly, “Beth is my wife.”

“No.” Mather’s face started to go purple. “Oh, you bastard. I’ll sue you both. Breach of contract and all that.” Beth imagined the humiliation of court, solicitors digging into her past, revealing what a horrible misalliance was her marriage with Ian.

“You came to sell,” Ian interrupted Mather.

“Eh?” Mather clenched his fists. “What do you mean?”

“The proprietor said he expected a bowl to come in as well as go out. You wanted to exchange yours for this one.” “What of it? This is a collector’s shop.”

“Let me see it.”

Mather’s dithering was almost comical. He opened and shut his mouth a few times, but Beth watched greed and desperation take over indignation. Mather snapped his fingers and his manservant handed him a satchel from the carriage. Ian jerked his head toward the shop, and they all went back inside.

The proprietor looked surprised to see them return, but he had his assistant fetch another square of black velvet, and Mather removed the bowl from the satchel. This one was different, with red camellia blossoms dancing around the outside. It was not as chipped as the other, and the glaze shone in the lamplight.

Ian lifted it, examining it as carefully as he had the first one. “It’s worth twelve hundred,” he announced. Mather’s mouth became a round O. “Yes,” he spluttered.

“Of course it is.”

Beth swallowed. If she understood aright, Mather had been about to exchange a twelve-hundred-guinea bowl for one worth six hundred. No wonder Ian derided him. That lan’s assessment was the correct one, Beth had no doubt. “I’ll buy it from you,” Ian said. He nodded at the proprietor.

“Will you handle the sale?”

“Ian,” Beth whispered. “Isn’t that an awful lot of money?” Ian didn’t answer. Beth pressed her lips together and watched Ian coolly transact a twelve-hundred-guinea sale, with another hundred pounds to the proprietor for doing nothing but standing next to them. Beth had lived with frugality for so long that to watch someone who didn’t know what frugality meant left her shaky. Ian didn’t even break a sweat.

Mather did, though, when he clutched Ian’s note in his hand. No doubt he’d rush to the bank right away. Ian left the shop without telling Mather good day, and helped Beth into the carriage. Curry handed in both boxes with a cheeky grin on his face.

“Well, that was an adventure,” Beth said. “You just gave Lyndon Mather twelve hundred pounds.” “I wanted the bowl.”

“How the devil did you even know the first bowl was there? Or that Mather was bringing the other? You’ve been in Paris for weeks.”