“Must you?”

This morning, Isabella seizing his hand and begging him to stay would have filled him with joy. At the moment he needed to find this other Mac and break his neck.

“I won’t be long,” he promised.

“Where are you going?”

“To see a man about a dog.” Mac kissed her again, sent a glance at Evans, and left the room.

Mac had never been to Scotland Yard and any other time might have found the experience entertaining. He leapt out of his carriage at Whitehall, holding his hat against the gusting wind, and walked into the complex of buildings.

The interior was plain and busy, with men in dark suits or uniforms swarming from room to room. Mac gained someone’s attention by yanking him by the shoulder and demanding the way to Inspector Fellows.

“That’s C.I.D., guv,” the man said. “Top of this staircase.”

Mac took the stairs two at a time. He didn’t bother asking directions; he simply opened doors until he found the inspector in a room with two other plainclothes detectives.

Mac stormed in and leaned his fists on Fellows’s desk. “So what have you found out?” he demanded. “Any progress?”

Fellows regarded Mac without alarm. “Some.”

“Tell me everything. I want him.”

Fellows’s expression changed to one of more interest. He was a good inspector, like a bloodhound on a scent, and liked landing his culprit. “Something new has happened. What?”

“He attacked my wife, that’s what happened.” Mac slammed his hat and cane to the desk. “He dared lay a hand on Isabella, and he will pay dearly for that.”

“Attacked her? When? Where?”

Mac described what had happened while Fellows scribbled on a sheet of paper. He was left-handed, Mac noted.

As Fellows wrote, Mac paced. The other two detectives had their heads bent over papers; one got up and went out, and a uniformed sergeant entered to talk to another. Mac finally grew tired of pacing and dropped into a chair.

“Would it be possible for me to talk to her ladyship?” Fellows asked him. “Whatever she can remember about him will be helpful.”

“Not today. She’s upset.”

“Yes, I imagine she would be. Is she all right? Was she badly hurt?”

“He struck her. He’ll pay for that.”

Fellows glanced at the other detective and the sergeant, rose from the desk, took Mac by the shoulder, and more or less shoved him out and along the hall to an empty room. Fellows closed the door and faced Mac.

“Now we can talk plainly. What do you intend to do to this man?”

“Killing him came to mind.”

“Not something to announce at a police station,” Fellows said in a mild voice. “Trust me, I’ll get him—for forgery, fraud, arson, and now assault.”

“I’ll not have Isabella dragged into a witness box at the Old Bailey to describe how a man tried to abduct her. Wouldn’t the journalists love that? She doesn’t need the humiliation.”

“Arson may be enough. If you can prove it.”

“That’s your job, Fellows,” Mac said angrily.

The inspector looked annoyed. “I need evidence, or I’ll not get a conviction. It would have been helpful if you’d caught him in your attics. Or seen him running away down the street after the fire was lit.”

“Damn it, do you have anything for me?”

“I have quite a lot, if you’d stop raving and let me speak.”

Mac tried to calm down, but he was too angry, too afraid. The forgery had seemed a good joke—the fake Mac had been able to paint glorious pictures while Mac couldn’t manage a brushstroke. The fire had angered him, because the man had endangered the lives of Mac’s household, innocents in all this.

But this was different. This man, whoever he was, had dragged Isabella into the equation. He could beat on Mac all he wanted, but he’d die for touching Isabella.

“His name is Samson Payne,” Fellows said. “Grew up in Sheffield, came to London to work as a clerk in a solicitor’s office about seven years ago. Never gave any trouble, the solicitor says. Quit about two years ago after saving his pennies, keen to see the Continent. Solicitor hasn’t heard from him since.”

Mac blinked. “You mean you found out who he is? Why the devil haven’t you told me?”

“I know his name. Probably. But I don’t know where he is. And as you pointed out, it’s my job to find him and prove he’s been doing these things to you.”

“All right, fair dues. How the deuce did you find out his name?”

Fellows gave him a cold smile. “I’m a detective. I quizzed Crane and his assistant, went door to door until I put together a description of him, then put out an inquiry for information. I received many replies, and finally found that until a few weeks ago he lived in rooms on Great Queen Street, near Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He gave the landlady the name of Samson Payne. More inquiries turned up a gent of the same name who’d worked several years ago for a solicitor in Chancery Lane—stands to reason he’d take rooms again in the area he knew.”

“And how do you know this isn’t someone who simply happened to look like me walking down the Strand at the wrong time?”

Fellows’s smile warmed as he grew enthusiastic about his quarry. “The solicitor had a photograph of him. I showed it to Crane’s assistant, who agreed it was the same man. He resembles you greatly, but not exactly. The solicitor told me that his hair was black, but with a little dye, some theatrical makeup to make his cheeks fuller, and he’d be the spitting image of you.”

Mac felt a chill. “Please don’t tell me he’s really a Mackenzie. That my overly promiscuous father is responsible for this monster.”

“Fear not. I traced him to Sheffield—mother was a baker’s daughter, father was a coachman then retired to run a pub. They’re his parents, all right. They said that little Samson always liked to draw, was quite good at it and begged for art lessons, but they couldn’t afford to give them to him. They’d had a letter from him when he returned to London not long ago, saying he’d learned painting and would remain in London to seek his fortune.”

“And you have no idea where he is now?” Mac asked. “Other than lurking about waiting to accost my wife or set fire to my house?”

“I’m afraid not. Not yet.”

“Or why the devil he’s pretending to be me?”

Fellows shrugged. “He wanted to be an artist. Perhaps he didn’t have the money or connections to sell his work or even be recognized for it. Perhaps one day someone mistook him for you, and he thought he could make some money that way.”

“That explains the forgery and tricking Crane to sell the paintings. Not burning me out of my attics and trying to abduct Isabella.”

Fellows shrugged again. “People can become fixated. Perhaps he is trying to eliminate you so he can take your place.”

“Then why hurt Isabella? She has nothing to do with this—she’d have nothing to do with me if I hadn’t chased her to London. She left me, washed her hands of me.”

Fellows looked uncomfortable, as though not wanting to stray into the territory of Mac’s private life. “My sergeant is keeping an eye on the rooms he let, in case he returns, as well as watching the surrounding areas. This is an official inquiry now.”

“I want him, Fellows.”

Fellows nodded, meeting Mac’s gaze with mirrored determination. “We’ll get him. Don’t you worry.”

As soon as Evans stopped clucking around Isabella like a distressed hen and left the bedroom, Isabella was up and at her writing desk. She scribbled a letter to Ainsley, telling her she’d been taken ill suddenly but was recovering. The excuse sounded feeble even as it came out of her pen, but Isabella hardly wanted to distress Louisa with the truth. What Ainsley would make of it, Isabella didn’t know, but she trusted her friend to come up with another plan.

Isabella finished the letter, blotted it, tucked it into an envelope, and set it aside to be posted.

Mac still hadn’t returned, so Isabella went upstairs to check on Aimee. Miss Westlock examined Isabella’s bruised mouth and suggested an herbal poultice, which she then prepared. Isabella admitted that the poultice made her feel better. The swelling had almost completely gone by the time one of the maids brought up tea.

It had been a long time since Isabella had partaken of nursery tea. There was bread and jam, weak tea with sugar and plenty of milk, and a small portion of seedcake. Aimee ate heartily, and Miss Westlock made certain that Isabella ate as well.

Mac still hadn’t returned by eight o’clock, and Isabella, weary, climbed into bed.

She woke hours later to find Mac sliding under the sheets with her, wearing, as was his habit, nothing at all.

She sat up. “What are you doing?”

Mac yawned. “Coming to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“You have a bedroom of your own.”

“Do I? I must have wandered into this one by mistake. Indulge me, my dear, I’m far too tired to get up and move.”

“Then I’ll go.” Isabella was halfway out of bed before Mac’s strong arm hauled her back.

“Far too late to be wandering about the house, love. You’ll disturb the servants, and they deserve their sleep.”

Isabella sank down under the covers, resigned, and Mac lay back and laced his hands behind his head. Isabella had to admit two things—that she was far too comfortable to leave the warm bed, and that Mac lying next to her was a splendid sight.

His broad shoulders stretched across the pillow, his bent arms taking up even more room, a tuft of dark red hair dusting each armpit. A shadow of whiskers the same color lined his jaw, and his eyes gleamed like warm copper from under half-closed lids.

Isabella remembered the night Mac had first brought her home, how she’d sat on the edge of the bed, entranced, while he’d shed his clothes. The engrossing wonder of his body as it emerged, a section at a time, had made her almost forget her own shyness. She’d never seen a man unclothed before, had never seen one anything other than fully dressed, not even her own father. Shirtsleeves were frowned on in Earl Scranton’s house.