Chapter Seventeen

Being alone no longer soothed him.

Ian watched the water run along the bottom of the gorge, his boots muddy, the hem of his kilt wet from the splashing stream.

At one time in his life, fishing in Abernathy’s Gorge with nothing but the wind, sky, and water would have seemed like perfection to him. Today he felt drained and empty.

He wasn’t strictly alone. Old Geordie fished on a rock not far from him, his pole silently dangling from his weathered hand. Long ago, Geordie had been a stable hand for lan’s father, but he’d retired and lived a reclusive existence up on the mountain, miles from anywhere. His cottage was tiny and run-down, Geordie too unsocial even to hire someone to help him keep up the place.

Not long after lan’s release from the asylum, he’d stumbled upon Geordie’s retreat. Back then, Ian had been volatile and restless, easily unnerved by the scrutiny of his family and servants. He’d slipped away and wandered the wilds alone, ending up thirsty and footsore on the doorstep of a gray stone cottage. Geordie had silently opened the door, eased lan’s thirst with water and whiskey, and let him stay.

Geordie, the taciturn man who’d once taught the boy Ian to fish, had not asked any questions. Ian had helped Geordie repair a part of the roof that had peeled off, and Geordie had fed him and given him a corner to sleep in. Ian had stayed until he felt more able to cope with the world, then returned home.

It had become habit for Ian to come up here when events became too much for him. He’d help Geordie with what repairs needed to be done, and Geordie would comfort Ian with silence.

Ian had arrived early this morning. He’d stripped off his shirt and gone to work plastering the inside of Geordie’s cottage to keep the wind out during the coming winter.  Geordie, too feeble now to do much work, sat and smoked his pipe, saying nothing, as usual.

After Ian had finished, he and Geordie shouldered fishing poles and silently made their way to Abernathy’s Gorge.

Beth would like it there.

The thought struck Ian from nowhere, but it was true.  She’d like the rush of the stream, the beauty of the heather among the rocks, the sweet smell of the air. She’d smile and say she understood why Ian came here, and then she’d likely make a jest that Ian didn’t understand.

Ian glanced at Geordie. The old man sat on a rock in a threadbare kilt. He held a fishing pole negligently in one hand, and had the inevitable pipe stuck between his teeth.  “I’m married,” Ian told him.

Geordie’s expression didn’t change. He removed the pipe, said, “Oh, aye?” and shoved it back into his mouth.  “Aye.” Ian fished in silence a moment. “She’s a beautiful lass.”

Geordie grunted. He returned his attention to his line, the conversation finished. Ian could tell that Geordie was interested, however. He’d actually spoken.

Ian fished awhile longer, but he found that the sounds of the gorge and the calm of fishing didn’t still his mind as usual. He kept replaying his scene with Beth, which had ended in his muddle with the pistols. He’d bedded her into sweet oblivion after that, but woke still troubled.

She knew the stains on his soul, the darkness in his eyes.  Ian remembered how she’d gazed at him in interested innocence the night he’d met her at the opera, and knew she’d never do so again. Everything had changed. Damn Fellows.  The afternoon turned to evening, though the Highland summer sun was still high. Beth would be readying herself for supper, though if she were sensible, she’d take it alone in her chamber. Hart’s glare at the dining table could ruin an appetite.

Ian pictured her sitting at her dressing table, brushing her long, sleek hair. He loved the satiny slide of it, like warm silk on his hands.

He wanted to sleep with her against him, feel the damp warmth of her body along his. Summer air would pour through the window, and he’d breathe in its scent and hers.  Ian drew in his fishing line. “I’ll be off home, then.” Geordie’s head barely moved in a nod. “Goin’ back t’ the missus,” he said around the pipe.

“Aye.” Ian sent him a grin, gathered up his gear, and strode off down the gorge.

“He’s here,” Katie whispered. “In the drawing room.” Beth rose, peered into the mirror, smoothed a strand of hair, and left her bedroom. “Don’t come with me.” “Catch me going anywhere near the man.” Katie plopped down on the one chair in Beth’s bedroom in the Belgrave Square house. “I’ll wait.”

Beth hastened out, her hands pressed to her skirts to keep them from rustling. The staircase and hall blazed with light, Beth having firmly told Mrs. Barrington’s servants that she wanted to be able to see when she went up and down the stairs. The old butler had chuckled, then wheezed, but saw that it was done.

Inspector Fellows turned when she entered the drawing room. Beth thought of how she’d first met him in Isabella’s drawing room in Paris, her agitation and amazement as Fellows had told her all about Ian Mackenzie. She determined to conduct this interview with a little more composure.  Fellows looked much the same as he had in their first encounter.  His suit was made of cheap dark material but well-kept, his thick hair brushed back from his forehead, his mustache trimmed. Hazel eyes regarded Beth with an intensity comparable to Hart’s.

“Mrs. Ackerley.”

“My marriage is legal,” Beth said crisply, pulling the doors shut. “So I am no longer Mrs. Ackerley. Lady Ian Mackenzie sounds strange to me, but you can address me as ‘your ladyship,’ if you wish.”

Fellows gave her a wry smile. “Still the ferocious guardian. Why did you send for me?”

Beth raised her brows. “I might have grown up in the gutter, but I apparently learned better manners than you, Mr. Fellows. Shall we sit down?”

Fellows made a show of waiting for her to sit before he lowered himself, ill at ease, to the edge of a Belter armchair.  Mrs. Barrington’s horsehair furniture was hideously uncomfortable, and Beth felt a moment’s glee watching Fellows shift against the chair’s unyielding surface.  “Give up, Inspector; the chairs are impossible. If you don’t want me to ring for tea, then I shall simply begin.” She leaned forward. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the murder at the High Holborn house five years ago.  Start at the beginning and leave nothing out.” Fellows looked surprised. “You are supposed to be telling me what happened.”

“Well, I don’t know, do I? If you explain it to me, perhaps I can share what I’ve learned. But you must go first.” He stared at her a moment, and then one side of his mouth turned up. “You are a harsh negotiator, Mrs. Ackerley—forgive me—Lady Ian. Do the decadent Mackenzies know what has descended among them?”

“I find the decadent Mackenzies quite gentlemanly.  They care deeply about one another, have been kind to me, and love their dogs.”

Fellows looked unimpressed. “Are you certain you wish to hear the story? Some bits are gruesome.” “Be remorseless, Inspector.”

He had remorseless eyes, did Inspector Fellows. “Very well. Five years ago, almost to the day, 1 was called to investigate a crime in a private house in High Holborn. A young woman, Sally Tate, had been stabbed five times through the heart with a knife, according to the coroner. She bled some, and her blood had been smeared on the walls around her.”

I tried to wipe it off on the walls, on the bedding. . . . Beth shut her eyes, trying to forget the harsh sound of Ian’s voice as the words tumbled out.

Fellows continued “It took some time to pry out of Mrs.  Palmer, the owner of the house, the names of the gentlemen who’d visited there the night before. You do know that the place was once owned by Hart Mackenzie? He bought it to keep Mrs. Palmer, a famous courtesan he’d taken as his mistress.  He sold her the house when his political career began to rise.”

“I presume you did discover who was there?”

“Oh, yes. Five gentlemen attended Mrs. Palmer’s salon the night before. Hart Mackenzie and Ian. A gentleman called Mr. Stephenson—Hart had brought him to win him to his side in some financial game. A Colonel Harrison, who was a regular guest of Mrs. Palmer and her young ladies, and his friend Major Thompkins. They apparently all managed to leave well before the murder occurred, very convenient for them. I was able to interview each man the next morning, but not Ian Mackenzie, who had been bundled off to Scotland by his brother Hart.”

Beth smoothed her skirt. “You speak of them familiarly, Inspector. You say Ian and Hart, instead of ‘his lordship’ and ‘His Grace.’”

Fellows gave her a deprecating look. “I think about the Mackenzies more often than I do my own family.” “Why, I wonder?”

His color rose. “Because they are blights on society, that’s why. Rich men who spend money on women, clothes, and horses and don’t do an honest day’s work. They’re useless.  I’m surprised you take to them, you who know all about an honest day’s work. They’re nothing.”

Bitterness rang in his words. Beth stared at him, and Fellows flushed and tried to compose himself.

“Very well,” she said. “You interviewed all the gentlemen but Ian. Why don’t you suspect them?”

“They were respectable,” Fellows said.

“Visiting a brothel is respectable, the vicar’s widow asks with her brows raised?”

“They were all bachelors. No wives breaking their hearts at home. Mr. Stephenson and the two military officers were astonished by the news of the murder and were able to account satisfactorily for their movements. None of them had gone near Sally Tate, and they’d departed the house just after midnight. Sally Tate was killed near five in-the morning, according to the doctor. They left Hart and Ian Mackenzie behind. Ah, I mean, His Grace and his lordship.” “And Ian’s servants swear Ian had returned home by two,” Beth said, remembering what Fellows had told her before.