The Untamed MacKenzie

Fellows’ father had lived here. The old duke had walked up and down these stairs, no doubt growling at his footmen and butler to jump to do whatever he commanded. Hart had traversed the stairs as well, as the boy Fellows remembered from that day on the street when Fellows had pummeled the duke, the duke had beaten him, and Hart had given Fellows a coin. Hart didn’t remember the encounter—at least he’d never mentioned it. Fellows had never mentioned it either.

Fellows wondered briefly if the stern-faced Hart had ever slid down the banisters as a boy. Hart had been wild in his youth, so perhaps he had. Then again, he’d always maintained strict control over himself, so maybe he’d forgone the pleasure.

“Her Grace is in the morning room upstairs,” the stately butler who stood at the bottom of the stairs said.

Fellows shook himself out of his woolgathering and returned to the task at hand. He thanked the butler, mounted two flights of stairs, and made for the sunny sitting room at the rear of the house.

He knew the way, because whenever Fellows visited, Eleanor insisted they have tea in her sitting room. Eleanor had redecorated this room after she’d married Hart, filling it with peach and cream colors, comfortable furniture, soft carpets, and Mac’s paintings. A cozy retreat, filled with feminine grace. One of the Mackenzie dogs, Old Ben, was generally in residence. The hound liked to curl up near the fire in the winter, or lie on his back in a sunbeam in the warmer months.

Old Ben was there now, his soft doggy snore sounding between the words of the women sitting together, April sunshine touching them both. One lady was the duchess—Eleanor. The other was Louisa.

Chapter Seven

Louisa got to her feet. Fellows couldn’t force his gaze from her, even though Eleanor was also rising, coming toward him, a smile on her face. Louisa wore cream and peach like the colors in the room, a fall of soft lace at the neckline of her bodice. Red ringlets of hair straggled against her throat, making him want to lift them and lick the soft skin beneath.

“So kind of you to call, dearest Lloyd,” Eleanor said. She walked past Louisa, who stood unmoving, and reached out for him.

Eleanor took Fellows’ hands, rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek. The Mackenzie women were impulsively affectionate, and Fellows had learned to tolerate them. Cameron advised him to take it like a man, though Hart seemed to understand Fellows’ discomfiture.

Louisa was in no way inclined to come forward and join the welcoming kisses. She barely gave Fellows a civil nod.

“Sit down and have coffee,” Eleanor said, still holding his hands. “I know you loathe tea.”

She half dragged Fellows toward the sofa where Louisa had sunk down again. Fellows broke away from Eleanor and moved to a balloon-backed chair at the writing table. The fact that it had been turned around to face the ladies meant someone else had been using it and recently departed.

Eleanor saw his assessment. “You’ve missed Hart. He’s off to tell the House of Lords what to do. He so enjoys it.”

Hart Mackenzie at one time had departed the House of Lords in a quest to become prime minister. He’d backed away from that for Eleanor, for his family, for his life. But he still enjoyed politics, and according to the newspapers, was a force to be reckoned with.

Fellows waited for both ladies to sit down again before he took his seat. His mother had taught Fellows that much—no, had shouted manners into him. No one was going to say her son had the manners of gutter trash, she’d declare. He was going to rise above himself, he was. Didn’t he have a duke’s blood in his veins?

“Now, then,” Eleanor said. She poured coffee from a pot, handed the cup to Louisa, who had been sitting in stiff silence, and indicated she should take it to Fellows.

Louisa had to rise to do it, and Fellows sprang to his feet. They met halfway across the carpet, Louisa holding out the cup and saucer, Fellows reaching for it politely.

The look Louisa gave him was anything but polite. She was enraged, her eyes smoldering with it. She was angry at Eleanor, and she was angry at Fellows.

Fellows closed his hands around the cup. Louisa quickly let it go, making certain their fingers didn’t touch. She turned from him and sought the sofa before Fellows had the chance to say a word.

“You’ve come to tell us about the investigation,” Eleanor said once Louisa had resumed her seat.

Fellows sank to the chair again, balancing the coffee. He hadn’t come here for that, but he didn’t argue. “My sergeant and I have interviewed everyone who was at the garden party, some of them twice. I looked over Hargate’s flat in Piccadilly, but found nothing to suggest he’d angered someone enough for them to poison him. I will speak again to those who were closest to the tea tent. Unfortunately, no one saw anything. They were too busy talking, drinking, and wagering on the upcoming croquet match.”

“That sounds typical,” Eleanor said. “High society takes its croquet seriously.”

Fellows thought he heard Louisa make a small noise in her throat, but he couldn’t be certain. “No one claims to have seen anything, at least not what they’d say to the police. But the person Louisa glimpsed made certain to escape on the side of the tent facing the empty meadow, so we’re not surprised no one saw him.”

He said the lie without a flinch. Louisa didn’t flinch either but focused rigidly on her teacup.

“What about the poison?” Eleanor went on. “How was it administered? In the tea?” She waved her own teacup fearlessly.