The Untamed Mackenzie

Highland Pleasures 5.5

by

Jennifer Ashley

Chapter One

Twenty-five years ago

Lloyd Fellows’ small fists beat into the dirty face of the older boy, bloodying the mouth that had taunted him. Your mum’s a whore, your dad was a scabby old man, and you’re a bastard, a bastard.

Now the older boy was howling, his teeth on the pavement and blood running down his face. Everyone knew not to taunt Lloyd of the hot temper, but sometimes it was hard to resist. Lloyd always taught them to respect his fists.

Besides, his dad wasn’t a scabby old man. His dad was a duke. When Lloyd had been very little, he’d been sure his father would come along in a golden coach and take him away from the squalid streets of London to his palace in Scotland. There Lloyd would have all the toys he wanted, horses, and brothers to play with. His dad had other sons, his mum had told him, and she’d told him Lloyd deserved everything they had.

Years passed, and no golden coach came down the back lanes of working-class London. Wiser now, Lloyd knew the duke was never coming.

Until today. Today, he’d learned, because Lloyd made it his business to know everything that happened in this part of town, his father’s ducal coach would be passing along High Holborn to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where he would be visiting solicitors. Why the duke would visit the solicitors, Lloyd had no idea, nor did he care.

His plan was to stop the coach by any means possible, present himself to his father, and tell the man he needed to take care of Lloyd and his mum. Simple as that.

The duke had never sent money, letters, any word at all that acknowledged he’d fathered Lloyd Fellows. Fellows wasn’t even his true name—his mother had taken it, pretending to be married to a Mr. Fellows who’d died long ago. Lloyd’s mum had been a tavern maid, a duke had charmed her, gotten her with child, and then left her. The duke had never spoken to or looked at them again.

Today, Lloyd would change that. He’d put on the clothes he wore to church whenever his mum bothered to take him and headed up to High Holborn.

Except the little oik, Tommy Wortley, decided to waylay Lloyd and begin his taunts. Lloyd could have thrown them off, but Tommy had brought friends, and rocks. When the stones had started flying, Lloyd had grabbed Tommy and slammed him into the wall, and the fight had commenced.

Now Lloyd was bloody and filthy, his best shirt torn. His mum would tan his hide. But it didn’t matter. Time was running out.

Lloyd delivered one final blow, leaving Tommy writhing in the mud, and he took off, running in his usual swift stride toward High Holborn.

He barely made it. He darted through the crowd, brick in hand, avoiding the grabs of the irritated men he pushed aside.

There was the coach, tall and polished, pulled by matched gray horses. As it came closer, Lloyd watched the burly coachman in his red coat and tall hat, knowing that the coachman could scatter all his plans if he wasn’t careful.

The coach came into full view. Black, with its wheels and points picked out in gold, it bore the crest of the Duke of Kilmorgan on the door—a stag surrounded by curlicues and words Fellows didn’t understand. Lloyd’s father, Daniel Malcolm Mackenzie, was the thirteenth duke in the Scottish line and the first in the English line. Lloyd had spent his childhood teaching himself all about dukes and how they became dukes. This duke had been given a high honor by Queen Victoria to be recognized in England too.

Lloyd waited for the strategic moment, then he let fly the brick, right at the coachman. His aim was not to hurt or disable the man, but to make him stop the coach.

The brick hit the coachman in the hand. The coachman dropped the reins in surprise, and the coach veered. A cart coming the other way skittered to a stop in the thick traffic, and the cart’s driver swore loudly and vehemently.

The coachman quickly caught the reins and tugged the horses right again, but a bottleneck had already happened. The coachman stood up on his box and told the cartman what he thought, finishing with Get out of the way, you piece of dung, this is a duke’s coach.

Lloyd slipped through the morass to the stopped carriage. The coach was a tall box rising above him, shining and clean, except for what mud had splashed on it this morning.

One of the windows went down, and a man put his head out. He had a mass of dark red hair and thick red sideburns, a dark red beard just starting to gray, and a full moustache. From behind all this hair, which was carefully groomed, blazed eyes yellow like an eagle’s.

“Get this pox-rotted coach moving!” the man shouted. “You! Boy!”

Lloyd blinked. The duke, his father, had fixed his gaze on him and was speaking to him. Lloyd opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“Yes, you there. Gaping like a fish. Go see what’s wrong.”

Lloyd worked his jaw, trying to remember how to speak. “Sir,” he managed. “I—”

“Go to it, boy, before I come out and beat you.”

I’m your son.

The words wouldn’t come. Lloyd stood, frozen, while the man who’d sired him, the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan, glared down at him.

“Are you an imbecile?” The duke ripped open the door, showing he wasn’t concerned about preserving his finery or position by climbing down from the coach into the street. He grabbed Lloyd by the ear and shook him hard. “I tell you to do something, boy, you obey me. Get out there and tell that cart to move.”

The man didn’t even offer a coin, as other aristos did when they commanded boys on the street to do things for them. The duke’s fingers pinched hard, and Lloyd felt a blow across his chin.

“Go.” The duke shoved him away.

Lloyd stumbled back. The years of dreaming, hoping, pretending this man would come for him and take him to a golden castle shattered at his feet.

How could he have been so stupid? Lloyd was old enough now to understand that many men saw women as merely bodies on which they took their pleasure, nothing more. So had the duke done with Lloyd’s mother. Lloyd’s existence was nothing but an accident of nature.

Disappointment, heartbreak, and fury welled up in him and, as usual, came out through his fists. Lloyd launched himself at the duke, screaming in berserker rage.

“Bastard! Bloody, dung-eating, stupid, bloody bastard!” Lloyd pummeled the duke, blows landing on the man’s chest, stomach, arms, and one lucky one across his face. The duke’s nose spouted blood as easily as Tommy’s had.

The duke seized Lloyd by both shoulders, his strength astonishing. Then he had Lloyd on the ground and started beating him with large fists, kicking him with heavy boots made from the finest leather.

Lloyd tucked himself into a ball, protecting himself with his arms, his rage keeping him from crying. After a long time and much pain, he was pulled to his feet by a dark-uniformed, tall-helmeted constable.

“This gob of filth attacked me,” the duke snarled at the policeman. Blood ran down the duke’s face, which he swiped at ineffectually with his handkerchief. “Take him off the streets.”

Lloyd didn’t struggle. He’d been nabbed by constables before. The best way to get away from them was to pretend compliance and then twist free later and lose himself in a crowd. The constables were usually too exasperated to bother giving chase to one little boy.

“Yes, sir,” the constable said.

“Your Grace,” the duke growled at him. “Learn some manners.”

A footman had come off the back of the coach and now silently waited at the open door to help the duke back inside.

That was when Lloyd saw the other boy. A lad of about Lloyd’s own age, his dark red hair and golden eyes marking him as the duke’s son, was climbing down from the coach. The boy wore a kilt of blue and green plaid, a black coat, an ivory silk waistcoat, ivory-colored wool socks, and shoes that were as finely made as his father’s boots.

No one was looking at the boy except Lloyd. All eyes were on the duke, the footman lending a beefy arm so the duke could climb back inside.

The other boy, as arrogant as his father, walked up to Lloyd, but Lloyd swore he saw a gleam of satisfaction in the boy’s eyes. The boy brushed past Lloyd, pretending not to see him, but Lloyd felt the coldness of a coin against his palm.

The duke’s son said nothing at all as he headed for the coach. The duke bellowed down at him. “Hart, get your arse back inside. Hurry it up.”

The footman held out a hand to the boy called Hart, but Hart ignored it and leapt with agility back into the coach. The traffic cleared, and the coach pulled away. Hart Mackenzie looked out the window as the coach passed, his gaze meeting Lloyd’s. The two boys stared at each other, one on either side of luxury, until another coach passed between them, and traffic swallowed the duke’s carriage.

“Come on, lad,” the constable said, his hand still firmly on Lloyd’s shoulder.

Lloyd closed his hand around the coin until the ridges of it creased his palm. He walked away with the constable, so numb that he went all the way inside the police station before he remembered he should try to get away.

Chapter Two

April, 1885

“Louisa, dear, just see that the bishop isn’t left alone, will you?”

Louisa looked down the sloping meadow from Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ Richmond house to watch the Hon. Frederick Lane, Bishop of Hargate, enter one of the tea tents. Hargate was in his forties, young for a bishop, marginally handsome, and lately had made no secret he was hanging out for a wife.

Lady Louisa Scranton, unmarried, her father dying in scandalous circumstances which had left the family nearly penniless, must be, in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ eyes, in want of a husband.

Hargate fit the criteria for an aristocrat’s daughter—wealthy, second son of an earl, successful in his own right. Hargate had reached his status young, but he had connections, many of whom were here at this garden party, attended by Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ handpicked guests.

A bishop’s wife would have money, respect, and standing. Louisa was highly aware she needed to marry well—in fact, she’d entered the Season this year with every intention of doing so. So why, when it came to the sticking point, did she feel a great reluctance to be alone with Hargate?

“Of course, Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” Louisa made herself say. “I’ll look after him.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters beamed at her. I’ll have Louisa married off in no time, the lady was no doubt thinking. Quite a feather in my cap when I do.

Louisa gave her a kind smile and hurried after the bishop.

Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ house commanded a view down a hill to the river. The April day was a fine one, the weather not too hot, clouds in the sky but not threatening rain. The land stretched away on the other side of the river to be swallowed in haze.

The expanse of lawn had been commandeered for the garden party, with seats and little tables scattered about, pathways lined with ribbon, a croquet set being brought out by the footmen. Ladies in blues, greens, yellows, golds, lavenders, and russets moved about, the spring breeze stirring feathers, ribbons, braid, and false fruits stuck into the ladies’ hats. Gentlemen in casual suits of monochrome gray or tweed filtered through the ladies. Tea had been served in the tea tents at the bottom of the hill, and many guests still carried cups and little plates of treats. An idyllic English afternoon.

The guests chatted to each other as they waited to begin the croquet match, which would be cutthroat and rather expensive. Members of high society gambled fiercely at everything.

Louisa ducked away from them into the white canvas tea tent, which was empty except for the Bishop of Hargate and white-draped tables holding tea things. The elegant china cups and saucers were patterned with sprays of roses, as were the three-tiered trays with the remains of petit fours and profiteroles. As most of the party had already refreshed themselves, only a few clean plates and cups remained.

“Ah, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, sounding pleased. “Have you come to join me?”

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters did not want you left on your own.”

“She’s a kind lady, is our hostess.” Hargate looked at Louisa with every eagerness, which Louisa found odd in a man her father had done his best to ruin.

Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, had convinced other men to give him money for investments, which were either never made or failed utterly. Earl Scranton had been paying the first investors with what the others had given him, pretending the money came from his cleverness at buying the right stocks. Finally when his true investments failed, he had to confess he could pay none of the money back. In the space of a day, Earl Scranton had moved from respectable and wealthy to complete ruin. A good many other gentlemen’s fortunes had gone with his. Hargate hadn’t lost everything, but he’d lost much, though he’d managed to build it back in a relatively short time.

Louisa moved calmly to a table, trying to behave as though none of it had happened. A lady wasn’t supposed to know about or understand such things, in any case. “Tea, Your Grace?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Louisa had been taught to be an expert at pouring tea. She trickled the soothing liquid into two china cups, dropped a lump of sugar and dollop of cream into the bishop’s tea, and handed him the cup.

She left her own cup sitting on the table and lifted two dainty, cream-filled profiteroles, which hadn’t wilted too much in the April warmth, onto one of the petite china plates. Louisa had a weakness for French pastries, even those that looked a bit limp.

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Lady Louisa,” Hargate said, an odd note in his voice. “What a fine chance that we are here alone.”

Chance, my foot. Hargate and Mrs. Leigh-Waters had contrived this meeting between them, they must have.

Hargate reached out his free hand and seized Louisa’s. He closed his fingers so tightly she’d never be able to release herself from him without jerking away. Hargate looked into her eyes, his full of something like glee. “You will do me much honor to let me speak to you, Louisa.”

Oh dear, he was about to propose.

Louisa could refuse him, of course, but she knew she risked great disapproval if she did—Haughty creature, turning down such a fine match; did she truly think she’d have the opportunity at another? A girl from a scandalous family cannot afford to be so high and mighty.

On the other hand, if Louisa accepted Hargate, she’d have to marry the man. He was everything a young lady should want in a husband, as Mrs. Leigh-Waters no doubt thought, but Louisa had never much liked him. Hargate was pompous, talked at length—usually about himself—and was quite hopelessly, well . . . dull.

“Your father and I had business dealings,” Hargate was saying. “And you of course know what happened with those.”

Yes, Louisa was reminded of it every day. When everything had fallen apart, Lord Scranton had died of the shame. Louisa and her mother, on the other hand, had to continue to live with the shame.

“Water under the bridge,” Hargate said. “I assure you. I’d never hold it against you, Louisa. That is, I won’t, if you consent to be my wife.”

And if Louisa refused him, he would hold it against her? Louisa stared at him, not certain she comprehended. Was he trying to blackmail her into marriage? From Hargate’s smile and expression, Louisa thought he might be.

I can’t marry him.

As Louisa gazed at Hargate, trying desperately to think of a way out of this troubling conversation, another face swam into her mind. This one was hard rather than handsome, a man with unruly dark hair and hazel eyes that held a glint of gold.

A working-class man, an illegitimate son, his mother a tavern maid, everything an earl’s daughter was supposed to shun. And yet, Louisa remembered the power of his kiss, the strength of his hands. His rough whiskers had burned her lips, and she’d tasted his mouth.

That kiss had occurred at Christmas, and it had been Louisa’s idea, her impulse. Likewise had been the kiss at the wedding before that at Castle Kilmorgan. Louisa’s impulse had turned into a sort of madness, and now she could not forget Lloyd Fellows, no matter how hard she tried.

But she’d felt more alive pressed against the hard doorframe while he’d kissed her, the sounds of the Christmas party in the distance, than Louisa had any other day of her life, especially this one, in this tea tent at a perfect English garden party.

She wet her lips. “Your Grace, I—”

“You know it is for the best,” Hargate said. “No one else will marry the daughter of the gentleman who ruined him. Save your respect and accept my offer.”

Hargate’s eyes took on a hard light, giving Louisa a glimpse of a meanness she’d not seen in him before. “Your Grace, you are kind, but—”

“You have no dowry; your cousin, the new earl, is a frugal man who keeps you and your mother on a small allowance—all this is common knowledge. Your Mackenzie in-laws have sordid reputations few decent families wish to be connected with. Your name has been discussed at my club, and only my admonition has stopped gentlemen saying disparaging things about you. You have few champions, Louisa, and I am one of them. When you are my wife, I will stop all gossip about you.”

Gossip? Louisa blinked in shock. About what? A little panic fluttered in her heart—the kisses with Mr. Fellows rose in her memory again, not that they were ever far away. Had someone seen?

No, she’d been careful about that. Louisa had approached him only when she was certain they’d be alone, although once the kisses began, she couldn’t swear to anything else happening around them, not even an earthquake. Someone might have seen her, and in Louisa’s circle, with its rigid rules for unmarried misses, those kisses would ruin her.

Or perhaps Hargate simply meant the speculations about Louisa in light of her older sister’s scandalous elopement. Not only had Lady Isabella run off with a Mackenzie, she’d then left him, walking out of his house and obtaining a legal separation. But instead of retreating to quiet solitude, Isabella had gone on hostessing soirees and balls as though she saw nothing amiss. Most of society expected Louisa to follow in Isabella’s footsteps. Never mind that Isabella and Mac had been reconciled and now were blissfully happy—their outrageous behavior was what everyone remembered.

The bishop was offering to save Louisa from any sort of shame. All she had to do was marry him.

“And I will drop any pursuit of the money your father owed me,” Hargate said. “You can tell your cousin the estate would be released from that debt.”

“Your Grace . . .”

Hargate let go of Louisa’s hand to touch his fingers to her lips. “Say nothing until your answer is yes, dear Louisa. I’ll wait.” He took one step away and raised his teacup to his lips, as though he would stand there and sip tea until she capitulated.

Louisa, anger rising, stared down at her profiterole, looking for inspiration in the rather runny cream. Bloody cheek he had, cornering her and demanding she give in to him.

Why on earth did Hargate want to marry her? He could have his pick of unmarried ladies, many of whom were at this very garden party, who would gladly marry him for his standing, wealth, and when a seat came empty, his place in the House of Lords. Plenty of young ladies with respectable families and good dowries would have already started planning the wedding as soon as they walked into the tea tent. What was Hargate up to?

Louisa drew a breath, hardening her resolve. “Your Grace, I . . .”

The bishop looked up at her over his teacup, and as he did, Louisa noted that his face had lost most of its color. His cheeks had taken on a greenish tinge, and Hargate’s breath hitched.

“Are you all right, Your Grace? Perhaps we should adjourn to the open air.”

If Hargate had eaten something that disagreed with him, that would put paid to this awkward proposal. Louisa caught the bishop’s arm, ready to lead him out and give him over to the ministrations of their hostess.

“Loui—” Hargate had to stop to draw a breath. He coughed, staggered, and coughed again.

Louisa began to be truly alarmed. “Come outside with me, Your Grace. We’ll take you to the house, where you can rest out of the heat.”

Hargate tried to take another breath. His eyes widened as air eluded him, and he dropped his teacup, splashing tea across the grass. He sagged against Louisa, his eyes and mouth wide, his chest heaving, but no air moving inside.

“A few more steps is all,” Louisa said, trying to support him. “You’ll be all right once we get outside.”

Hargate took one more step before his legs buckled and he fell heavily against Louisa’s side. Down went Louisa’s plate, which she realized she was still clutching, the plate breaking, creamy profiteroles smearing on the dead grass.

“Your Grace.”

Louisa couldn’t hold him. Hargate landed on his back, Louisa on her knees next to him, her blue and brown striped skirt spreading over the tea-dampened grass. Hargate’s face had gone completely gray, and hoarse little gasps came from his mouth.

A doctor. She needed to fetch a doctor. One was here at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ garden party, a very famous one called Sir Richard Cavanaugh.

Louisa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll find Sir Richard. Don’t worry. Help is coming.”

As she ran out, the heel of her high-heeled lace-up boot caught the teacup Hargate had dropped, smashing it to bits.

Louisa dashed into the open air, scanning the guests in desperate search of Sir Richard. There he was, speaking with Louisa’s sister, Isabella, and another old friend of Louisa’s, Gilbert Franklin. Both Isabella and Gil turned with welcoming smiles as Louisa panted up, but Isabella’s smile faded in concern.

“Darling, what is it?”

“Hargate . . . in the tea tent. Taken ill. He’s collapsed. Please, Sir Richard. He needs you.”

Sir Richard, a short and lean man with dark hair going to gray and an arrogant manner, seemed uneager to set aside his tea and rush across the lawn at Louisa’s request. “What seems to be the matter with him?” he asked.

Louisa resisted the urge to grab the man and shove him down the hill. “Please, you must hurry. I think he is having a fit. He can’t breathe.”

“Good Lord,” Gil said, managing to sound pleasant even with his worry. “We’d better see to him, Cavanaugh.”

Sir Richard frowned, then finally he sighed, passed his teacup to a footman, and gestured for Louisa to lead him to the tent.

He walked too slowly. Louisa had to wait for Sir Richard, she holding the tent flap open impatiently while he sauntered in. Isabella, Gil, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters followed, along with a smattering of curious guests.

Sir Richard at last showed concern when he saw Hargate, who hadn’t moved. Sir Richard went down on one knee next to the bishop and looked him over, felt his pulse points and his heart, then leaned down and sniffed at Hargate’s mouth.

The doctor gently closed the bishop’s wide, staring eyes before he got to his feet. His arrogant look had grown more arrogant, but it was more focused now, more professional.

“He is dead,” Sir Richard announced. “Nothing I can do for him. Send for the police, Mrs. Leigh-Waters. The bishop appears to have been poisoned.” He looked at Louisa when he said it, his accusing gaze like a stab to the heart.

Chapter Three

London was Lloyd Fellows’ home. He knew every street from Whitehall to the East End, from the Strand to Marylebone and all points in between. He’d known them as a boy living in St. Giles with only his mother to raise him. He’d learned more as a constable walking a beat, and even more as a detective sent to every corner of London and beyond.

Fellows knew every street like he knew his own name—who lived where, what businesses, legitimate or illegal, were where, and what people walked the streets and when. He knew every corner, every passage, every hidden staircase. Metropolitan London might be divided into districts by the government, and into cultural areas by the people who lived there, but to Fellows, London was one, and it belonged to him.

This fine April afternoon, he entered a dark passage off Crawford Street, aware of what awaited him at the end. His constables weren’t with him, because the culprit they were pursuing had changed course, and they’d split up to surround him.

Fellows was after a murderer, a man called Thaddeus Waller, who’d been nicknamed the Marylebone Killer. Waller had brutally murdered his brother and brother’s wife, then covered up the crime and pretended grief, even to taking in his brother’s children to raise.

Fellows, recently promoted to detective chief inspector, had investigated the deaths with a ruthlessness that had alarmed his superiors. But he’d uncovered fact after fact that pointed to Waller as the killer. Finally Fellows had obtained a warrant for Waller’s arrest and had gone with his constables to Marylebone to bring him in.

Waller had seen them coming and used his own wife and his brother’s children as hostages. Fellows’ fury had wound higher as Waller had held a little boy out the upstairs window, threatening to drop him to the cobbles if the police didn’t go away. The lad had cried weakly in terror as he’d hung helplessly, high above the street.

Fellows had left his constables to catch the boy if he was dropped, stormed upstairs and kicked his way into the flat, his rage making him not care what weapon Waller decided to draw on him.

Waller’s terrified and weeping wife at least managed to drag the boy back in through the window. When Fellows burst in, Waller had jumped through the window himself to the street one floor below. The constables tried to grab him, but Waller had fought like mad, they’d lost hold of him, and he’d fled.

Fellows had swung himself out the window right after him. He’d chased Waller through crowded streets to the passage where the man now hid. Fellows knew this passage. It was narrow and dark, twisted sharply to the right at its end, and emerged via a shallow flight of stairs to another street.

He sent his constables around to the stairs to bottle in Waller, while he dashed into the passage alone. Waller was going to fight, and Fellows knew his constables stood no chance against him. Although they were good and robust lads, they didn’t understand dirty fighting or what a man like Waller could do.

Fellows had grown up with dirty fighting. He knew about the destructive power of bits of brick in his hand, the various ways small knives could be used, and how to pit an opponent’s own weight and reach against him.

Waller would know the constables waited for him above. He’d make a stand. He’d killed his own brother, for God’s sake, had killed more men in the past, and wasn’t above using a child as a shield.

Fellows was one man, alone. But he knew that if he waited for help, Waller stood a chance of getting away. Fellows wasn’t going to let him.

The passage was dark, shielded from the April sunlight by high, close-set buildings. Fellows couldn’t see much, but he could hear.

Waller tried to mask his breathing, but the heavy intake of it was too thick to hide. The scuttle of rat’s claws on the cobbles also came to Fellows, as well as the clatter of carts on the streets outside, the wind pouring between buildings. Fellows pinpointed each sound, identifying and cataloging it as he moved to the source of the breathing.

The attack came swiftly. Fellows sensed the first swing of a massive fist and ducked. He rose, bringing up his elbow to slam the man in the diaphragm.

Fellows was rewarded with a blow to the head, one that darkened his world a moment. He dragged in a breath, trying to find his equilibrium, before another punch to his skull sent him to his knees. Waller didn’t waste breath laughing or gloating. He slammed his arm around Fellows’ neck and started to choke him.

Fellows shoved himself to his feet and threw his weight forward. Waller grunted and his hold loosened. Fellows dug his hands into the man’s shoulders and continued the momentum of the throw, ending up slamming Waller against the wall of the narrow passage.

Waller grunted and stumbled but swiftly regained his feet. He came at Fellows, roaring, no longer trying to be surreptitious. The constables poured down the stairs from the other end, against orders, their clubs ready.

Fellows and Waller fought, close and desperate, in the confined space. Boulder-like fists slammed at Fellows’ face. Fellows ducked under the man’s reach, came up abruptly, and smashed his fist into Waller’s jaw. The jaw broke, and Waller fell, screaming.

He grabbed Fellows on the way down, and Fellows felt the prick of a knife under his arm. He jerked away and punched Waller full in the face.

And kept on punching. Fellows’ rage was high, with a white-hot fury that blotted out all reason. He couldn’t see or hear—he only knew that this man had caused terror and death, and hadn’t held back from hurting harmless children.

“Sir,” one of the constables said. “He’s down.”

Fellows kept on punching. Waller was mewling, broken hands curled around himself. Blood poured from his nose and mouth to stain the already-grimy cobbles.

“Sir?” One of the younger constables dared seize Fellows’ arm. The touch dragged Fellows back from the dark place he’d gone, and his awareness slowly returned.

Waller lay still, hoarse sounds coming from his mouth. The young constable was eyeing Fellows nervously, hand still on his arm. The boy barely had whiskers to shave, and yet they’d sent him out to chase a madman. The constable at the moment looked as though he wasn’t certain who was more dangerous—the killer or Fellows. Fellows felt a surge of feral delight.

He drew back his square-toed boot and kicked Waller squarely in the ribs. “That’s for the little lad,” he said. He straightened up, wiping his mouth. “Arrest this filth and get him away from me,” he told the constables. “We’re finished here.”

Fellows turned away from a killer who’d slain at least five people and regularly beat his wife and children, found his hat, put it on, and walked back onto his streets.

* * *

Before Fellows returned to the Yard, he went back to Waller’s flat to tell his wife Waller had been caught and arrested. He’d waited to see the man securely locked into the police van and trundled away to face a magistrate before he’d gone.

Mrs. Waller, Fellows knew, had nothing to do with the murders; she was a victim as much as any of the people her husband had killed. She’d been the one who’d saved the children, not Waller. Fellows went to tell her she was now safe from her husband.

The residents of the area did not like policemen. They hadn’t much liked Waller, the Marylebone Killer, but even so, they’d been closemouthed when Fellows had questioned them. Now the men and women on these streets stopped what they were doing to watch Fellows pass. Fellows knew his face was bruised and bloody, but his walk and his grim look would tell the others who’d won the fight.

Mrs. Waller was upset, confused, grieved, and relieved at the same time. She promised she’d look after the children and keep them well, and Fellows believed her.

The rooms she lived in weren’t a hovel, but they weren’t a palace either. Fellows handed her a few coins before he left. He also stopped and had a word with her landlord, saying he’d be back if the landlord turfed out Mrs. Waller because her husband had been a murdering bastard. She needed help, not blame.

Fellows left, hearing muttered words behind him. But he hadn’t come here to make friends. He’d come to stop a killer and save a family, and that he’d done.

Now he needed a bath, a thick pint of beer, and a good night’s sleep.

But it wasn’t meant to be. First he’d have to report to his superiors then spend the rest of the day and into the night writing up a concise documentation of the investigation and arrest. The reward for his valor would be paperwork.

Fellows walked into his office to cheers. Word had already gotten around how he’d landed the Marylebone Killer, embellished, no doubt, by the constables who’d been on the scene.

“Well done, sir!” Detective Sergeant Pierce sang out as Fellows entered his inner office. “Fought your way through three men, single-handed, did you, sir? And then dragged out our killer by the hair, him begging for mercy?”

“Exactly,” Fellows said, and Pierce laughed.

Fellows collapsed to the chair behind his desk, drew out a clean handkerchief, and dabbed at the wounds on his face.

“Don’t get too comfortable, sir,” Sergeant Pierce said, annoyingly cheerful. “One’s come over the wire from Richmond. Asking for you specifically, Chief.”

Bloody hell, what now? “I’m on leave, Sergeant. Starting immediately. That is, after I spend all night writing a boring report.”

“Sorry, sir.” Pierce didn’t look one bit sorry, the sod. “Detective Chief Super wants you to take this. Police in Richmond telegraphed. A bishop dropped dead at a fancy garden party in the middle of a load of toffs. They think it’s foul play, and they want a detective from the Yard. They want it handled with kid gloves, and they specifically want you.”

Fellows scrubbed his hand through his hair, finding it stiff with blood. “If they want kid gloves, why do they want me?”

“I suspect ’cause you’re related to a toff—a duke, no less.”

Since the day it had come out that Fellows was in fact the illegitimate son of the Duke of Kilmorgan, he’d gotten hell from his colleagues. They either looked at him with contempt or went so far as to bow to him mockingly in the halls. Laughter was always present.

Fellows decided he could either play superior officer and quell them, or he could look the other way. He’d gained back his respect by making a rude gesture when he bothered to notice the jibes, then completely ignoring them. Fellows also worked hard to show he was damn good at his job, better than most, and did not let his accidental aristocratic blood hamper him.

Sergeant Pierce went on, “I suspect that if we do have to arrest one of the nobs, the Richmond boys would rather it be one of us who does it. They have to go on living there while we can scuttle back to Town.”

“They want us to do the dirty work, in other words.”

Pierce grinned. “On the nose, sir.”

A jaunt to Richmond to clear up a problem among the upper classes was not what Fellows wanted at the moment. He’d meant to finish his report, go home, bathe, sleep, pack, drop in at his mother’s to say hello and good-bye, and then board a train. He had a week’s leave coming. His half brother, Cameron Mackenzie, had suggested Fellows stop in at the races at Newmarket next week. Fellows, though still uncomfortable with his newfound family, didn’t mind the horse races. Any man might enjoy himself at a racecourse. He’d planned to go to the seaside and stare at the water a while, then make his leisurely way to Newmarket for the racing meet next Monday.

But he was a policeman first, and if he had to postpone his trip, then he did. Policemen didn’t get days off.

Fellows rubbed his hair again. His face was already dark with new beard, and then there was the blood all over him. He didn’t feel in any way fit to face a house party of people convinced a man who’d died of overeating and apoplexy had been murdered.

But there was nothing for it. “We go,” Fellows said in a hard voice. “It’s our job.”

Sergeant Pierce lost his grin. “We?”

“I’ll need my dutiful sergeant for this one. Let me go wash my face, and we’ll be off. Fetch your hat.”

Fellows took some grim satisfaction from Sergeant Pierce’s crestfallen look as he headed off to the washroom to make himself presentable.

* * *

“He’s dead, all right,” Sergeant Pierce said an hour or so later.

He and Fellows knelt next to the body while a doctor called Sir Richard Cavanaugh stood nearby and gave them his medical opinion in the most condescending way possible.

“Histotoxic hypoxia,” Sir Richard said. “See his blue coloring? Prussic acid, most likely. In the tea, I would think, a fatal dose. Would have been quick. Only a few moments from ingestion to death.”

Fellows disliked arrogant doctors who presumed ahead of the facts, but in this case, the man was probably right. Fellows had seen death by prussic-acid poisoning before. Still, he preferred to hear conclusions from the coroner after a thorough postmortem, not to mention a testing of food and drink the victim had taken, than speculations by a doctor to the elite.

Fellows ordered Pierce to gather up what was left of the broken teacup with the liquid inside, and also the full teacup that stood next to the pot on the table. He had Pierce pour off the tea still in the pot into a vial for more testing. Fellows scraped up cream from a pastry that had been smashed on the ground, and the remains of the plate that had held it, handing all to Pierce.

He left Pierce sealing up the vials with wax and had a look around the tea tent. Unfortunately too many people had trampled in here; the place was a mess. The grass was filled with footprints—ladies’ high heels, gentlemen’s boots, servants’ sturdy shoes—all overlapping one another.

The local police sergeant stood well outside the tent as though washing his hands of the affair. Fellows approached him anyway. The fact that the local police had sent no one higher than a sergeant meant the chief constable wanted to keep well out of the way. He wondered why.

“Your thoughts, Sergeant?” Fellows asked the local man.

The sergeant shrugged, but the man had a keen eye and didn’t look in the least bit stupid. “The doc says poison in the tea, and I don’t disagree. The young lady they think did it is in the house—my constable’s on the lookout up there. She’s an aristo’s daughter, though, so the lady of the house didn’t want the likes of us questioning her. Says we had to wait for you.” The sergeant gave Fellows a dark nod. “Better you than me, if you don’t mind me saying so, guv.”

He meant better Fellows lost his job for arresting a rich man’s spoiled daughter, which was exactly what could happen. Fellows’ Mackenzie connections might be able to save him from a lawsuit by the girl’s father, but his career could be over.

Not that Fellows wanted to go begging, hat in hand, to his half brothers for their charity. An invitation to the races was one thing. Owing a monumental obligation to Hart Mackenzie was another.

“Go help Sergeant Pierce,” Fellows growled at the man. “I’ll need statements from everyone. Who was where and what they saw—in minute detail. Understand?”

The sergeant did not look happy, but he saluted and said, “Yes, sir.”

Fellows left him behind and made for the house and the aristocrat’s daughter. He reflected as he approached the large house that running down a killer six feet three and weighing eighteen stone was much more satisfying than having to face a silly girl who probably didn’t understand what exactly she’d done. She likely felt herself perfectly justified in poisoning a man who’d annoyed her. She’d be highly strung and more than a little mad, or else too stupid to realize the consequences of her actions.

Fellows looked up at the giant brick house trimmed in white, strategically positioned for a view to the river at the bottom of a meadow. The very rich lived here, the sort who existed in their own world, with their own rules; no outsiders need enter.

He climbed the marble steps at the rear of the house and stepped into the dim coolness of its interior. Mrs. Leigh-Waters, the lady of the house, hurried toward him from the front hall. She was a large-bosomed woman with hair pressed into tight, unnatural curls, and was garbed in a gray bustle gown that made her look a bit like a pigeon.

“I’m so glad you’ve come, Chief Inspector,” she gushed. “They’ve always spoken highly of you, which is why I told the chief constable to telegraph you. The local constables can be a bit . . . hasty . . . and she needs a bit of sympathy, doesn’t she?”

“Of course,” Fellows said, forcing his tone to be polite. “I will keep the interview brief.”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters sounded relieved. “I’m certain she will thank you too.”

She led Fellows through the cool, high-ceilinged hall whose draped window at the end cut out most of the light. Mrs. Leigh-Waters tapped on a door halfway along and opened it to a sitting room with back windows overlooking the garden and the view.

Two women rose from the sofa to face him. Fellows halted three steps inside the room, unable to move.

The features of the two red-haired women were heartbreakingly similar, the younger a little taller than the older. The older wore a gown of bottle green with black buttons up its bodice. The younger woman’s gown had a blue and brown striped underskirt, the blue overskirt folded back to reveal a lining of blue and brown checks. Her bodice was buttoned to her chin with brown cloth-covered buttons. Fellows noted every detail even as his gaze fixed to her face.

The older sister, Lady Isabella, was married to Lord Mac Mackenzie, one of Fellows’ half brothers. The younger sister, Lady Louisa Scranton, had petal-soft skin, lips that could kiss with heat, and a smile that had been haunting Fellows’ dreams since the day he’d met her.

Louisa stared back at him, as frozen as he, her lips slightly parted.

Isabella unlinked herself from Louisa and came forward. “Thank heavens you’re here,” Isabella said to Fellows, both relief and worry in her voice. “They’re claiming Louisa did this, can you imagine? You’ll clear this up and tell them she didn’t, won’t you?”

Chapter Four

Isabella spoke, but Fellows could see only Louisa. Louisa looked back at him, fixed in place, her face as white as the plaster ornamentation on the cornice above her.

The other two ladies in the room faded, as did the sound of voices outside the windows, the sunshine, the fine afternoon. Fellows could be alone in a whirling fog, where nothing existed but himself and Louisa.

At Christmas this year, Fellows had found himself alone in a hallway with her in Hart’s obscenely large house. Louisa had tried to talk to Fellows, bantering with him as she did the other young men at the celebration. Fellows had only heard her voice, sweet and clear, then he’d had her up against the doorframe, his mouth on hers, her body pliant beneath him. Fellows could still taste the kiss, hot and beautiful, and remember his need for her rising high.

She was the aristo’s daughter the doctor and local sergeant were convinced had poisoned the bishop. Lady Louisa Scranton, earl’s daughter, the woman Fellows dreamed about on nights he couldn’t banish thoughts of her any longer.

He’d have to pull himself from the investigation. He’d never be able to get through it, because anything Fellows found against Louisa he’d toss aside or try to pin to someone else. He knew he’d do anything to keep from seeing this woman led away in manacles, put into a cell, charged and tried, convicted and hanged until dead.

The proper thing would be to excuse himself, summon Pierce to take her statement, and tell the Yard they needed to assign another detective to the case.

Another detective who might find evidence that Louisa had committed murder. Fellows’ heart beat sickeningly fast. If he backed away, Louisa might be convicted for the crime by people too impatient to prove she could be nothing but innocent. That she was innocent, he had no doubt.

Now was the time to speak. To say good day to Mrs. Leigh-Waters and explain that Sergeant Pierce would take over the questioning of Isabella and Louisa.

Fellows opened his stiff lips. “It shouldn’t be too much to clear up, ma’am. I’ll need to speak to Lady Louisa alone.”

“Are you certain?” Mrs. Leigh-Waters fluttered. “Perhaps she should wait for her family’s solicitor . . .”

No solicitors. No witnesses. Fellows needed to hear what Louisa had to say without any other person present.

“A preliminary questioning is all, Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” he said firmly.

“Then her sister at least should stay with her.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters was perfectly right to try to protect Louisa from an unscrupulous policeman, not to mention being alone in a room with a man at all. But Fellows couldn’t question Louisa in front of anyone, not even Isabella, not even Sergeant Pierce. He had to be alone with her, to get her to tell him what had happened, so he could keep her safe.

“Please,” Fellows said, gesturing to the door. “Lady Isabella, you too.”

Isabella gave her sister a look of concern. Louisa shook her head, the movement wooden. “I’ll be all right, Izzy.”

Isabella studied Fellows a good long time before she agreed. “Please send for me if I’m needed. Never worry, Mrs. Leigh-Waters. Mr. Fellows is a perfect gentleman.” Isabella’s look told Fellows he’d better be a perfect gentleman or face her and explain why not.

Fellows returned the look neutrally. He’d fenced with Lady Isabella before.

Isabella took Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ arm and led the reluctant woman from the room. He heard the door close, their footsteps in the hall.

When it seeped through Fellows that he and Louisa were alone, his awareness narrowed to her. How her body was a perfect upright, how the curve of her waist and bend of her arms softened her posture. Her striped gown made her look taller, her bosom a soft swell under all the buttons.

Lovely, lovely femininity. Fellows was no saint, but he hadn’t been with a woman in a good long while, not long enough to be able to look upon Louisa Scranton without wanting her.

No, it wouldn’t matter if Fellows came to her sated and exhausted from weeks of passion—he would still want her.

He gestured with a gloved hand to the sofa. “Please, sit.”

Throughout the exchanges, Louisa had remained rigidly still, as though turned to the biblical pillar of salt. Now she moved to the sofa, her movements jerky. Her face was paper white, her red hair making it whiter still. From this stunned face, her eyes burned.

Fellows knew he should not sit on the sofa next to her. He should pull a hard chair from the other side of the room and angle it away from her so he wouldn’t risk his legs touching her skirt.

But then he thought again about how they’d stood in the doorway of the empty room last Christmas, the revelry far away down the hall. How Louisa had flowed into him, her lips seeking his, her body soft against his. She’d instigated the kiss, and Fellows hadn’t been able to stop himself turning it into a taste of passion.

He did not seek the other chair. He sat on the sofa with Louisa, putting at least two feet of space between them. Then he stripped off his gloves, took a small notebook and pencil from his pocket, flipped to a clean page, and wrote: Interview with Lady Louisa Scranton, witness.

“Take me through it, Lady Louisa,” Fellows said, not letting himself look up from the notebook.

“Take you through what?” Her voice was brittle. “How I watched the Bishop of Hargate die?”

Fellows kept his eyes on the page. “I need to know exactly what happened. It’s apparent he was poisoned, and I’d like to know how and by who. You went inside the tea tent . . .”

Louisa drew a sharp breath. “We had some tea. The bishop was talking to me about . . . about his recent travels to Paris. Then he looked ill, started struggling to breathe, and he fell. I thought he was choking, and I ran and fetched Sir Richard. By the time we returned, the bishop was dead.” Louisa shivered, her hands moving restlessly.

Fellows resisted the urge to reach over and give her a comforting caress. “Did you drink any of the tea?”

“No. I never had the opportunity.”

Fellows made his hand write the notes. “But you had a cup of tea. There were two cups—one broken on the ground, one on the table near a teapot. The cup on the table was presumably yours.”

“Yes, I poured it. But I didn’t want tea just then, so I set it down to drink later.”

“Why did you do that?”

When Louisa didn’t answer right away, Fellows made himself look up from his notebook.

Louisa was staring at him, no shyness in her. The light in her eyes was angry, very angry, but behind her defiance he saw great fear.

“Why didn’t you drink?” Fellows asked again, this time watching her.

“Because I did not want tea at the moment.” Louisa said every word slowly and deliberately. “I was speaking with the bishop. I didn’t want to spill anything.”

“You were eating tea cakes.”

“Profiteroles,” Louisa said. “Choux pastry filled with cream. I took two but I didn’t eat because I was having a conversation. I could not be very dignified stuffing cream and pastry into my mouth, could I?”

Fellows had a sudden flash of her licking cream from the profiterole, then taking a dainty bite. Her red lips would part as her teeth bit down, cream would cling to her lips, then she’d lick it away. Slowly.

Fellows tightened his grip on the pencil. “Continue.”

“That is all. The bishop coughed and fell. I told you, I thought him choking or fainting. I had no idea he was dying . . .” She shivered again.

Fellows wanted to throw his notes to the floor, pull her to him, and enfold her in his arms. He’d stroke her hair, kiss her, shush her. It’s all right. I’m here. I’ll keep you safe.

He remained rigidly on his end of the sofa. “Then what did you do?”

“I rushed out of the tent looking for the doctor. Sir Richard said the bishop had been poisoned and looked at me as though I’d done it. Isabella brought me to the house.” Louisa opened her hands. “And here I am.”

Here they both were. The police had been summoned, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters, likely at the insistence of Isabella, had asked for Chief Inspector Fellows to come and take over.

Fellows closed the notebook and set it on the tea table next to the sofa. He folded his hands and leaned forward slightly, a posture he hoped didn’t threaten.

He was a master at threatening, had had many more than one criminal fling themselves at his feet and beg for mercy. But mercy wasn’t his job. Fellows’ job was to track down and arrest murderers, as he had earlier today, and bring evidence to their trials. Mercy was left to judge and jury.

But he’d do everything in his power to keep Louisa Scranton from standing in the dock at the Old Bailey, facing a jury who’d find her guilty of murder. He’d do anything to avoid the judge looking at her and voicing the awful phrase, Take her down.

Fellows held her gaze. “I need you to tell me the truth, Louisa. Did you poison him?”

Louisa’s eyes widened, then she was up and off the sofa. “No! Why on earth should I?”

Sincerity rang in her every word. She was innocent, Fellows knew it. But he was not who had to be convinced—the rest of the world must believe it too.

“Perhaps you didn’t mean to,” he suggested. “Perhaps you put something in the tea and didn’t realize what it was.”

“I gave him tea. I dropped in one lump of sugar and a dollop of cream. I’m very certain it was sugar and cream. I have served tea before.”

Fellows did not reach for his notebook. He’d had Pierce take the sugar bowl and pour off the cream as well.

“Or you thought to make him sick,” Fellows went on. “You didn’t realize what you gave him would kill him.”

Louisa stared in shock. “No. Inspector, you know me. I would never be so cruel. I am telling you, I did not poison the bishop’s tea, deliberately or accidentally. I would never do such a thing. You have to believe me.”

Her desperation sang of her innocence. But Fellows had heard the same tone from lying murderers—they were masters at it. If Sergeant Pierce were in the room, he’d say, “That’s what they all tell me, love,” and be on his way back to London to apply for an arrest warrant.

Facing a magistrate would be traumatic for Louisa. She needed to understand that. Fellows’ next words were what he knew a stern magistrate’s would be. “You were alone in the tent with him, no one else near. He died, and if we are right about what kind of poison it was, it acted swiftly. That fact will get out. Newspapers like a murder, especially in the upper classes. The bishop had given your father trouble over their financial dealings. No one else had time to put poison into his teacup. Only you. So you tell me what happened, exactly what you saw—who you saw. I will keep you out of jail and away from the courts at all costs, Louisa, but I’m going to have to work very hard to do it.”

Louisa listened to the speech in the same shock, but color returned to her face in a furious flush. “What are you saying? That you don’t believe me? I thought you knew me. Why are you . . . ? How dare you?”

Fellows was on his feet, his professional persona evaporating. “For God’s sake, Louisa, help me. My sergeant is even now listening to fifty accounts of you going into the tea tent alone with Hargate. Why did you?”

She blinked, dragging in a deep breath as she tried to calm herself. “I don’t remember . . . No, I do. Mrs. Leigh-Waters asked me to make sure the bishop was looked after.”

“And you do everything Mrs. Leigh-Waters says? You let yourself be alone with unmarried gentlemen to please Mrs. Leigh-Waters?”

“You are making this sound sordid. It wasn’t like that. You don’t understand.”

Fellows was over her, the scent of violets that clung to her floating to him. “Then tell me why.”

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters didn’t want him left by himself,” Louisa said stiffly. “And apparently he wanted to speak to me.”

“What about?”

Fellows stood too close to her, could feel the warmth of her body, see the smoothness of her skin as her pink flush deepened. “None of your business what about,” she said. “It was a private conversation.”

“Between friends?”

“Yes. Why are you talking to me like this? I’d thought we were friends. Why are you accusing me?”

Fellows curled his big hands. “Right now, I am the best friend you can have. But you have to tell me everything. What you were speaking about, why you decided to be alone with him. Why I should believe you didn’t deliberately poison him.”

Louisa’s breath tangled his for an instant before she stepped back. She put her hands to her temples, red curls snaking around her fingers. “This has to be madness. I didn’t kill him.”

“You expect me to take you at your word?”

“Yes, I do.” She glared up at him. “An Englishwoman’s word is as good as an Englishman’s.”

“Not in my world.” Fellows made his voice hard. “In my world, everybody lies. They might think it for a good reason, but they lie. And those lies hurt. They can even kill.”

“You come from a terrible world, then.”

“Oh, it’s bad, all right.” Fellows gave her a wolfish smile. “And I don’t want you to be part of it. So tell me, Louisa, why did you go off alone with the bishop?”

The tears that flooded Louisa’s eyes made his heart pound. But they weren’t tears of sorrow, they were tears of rage and embarrassment. “I don’t want to tell you,” she said. “It had nothing to do with his death.”

“You can’t know that. It might have everything to do with it.”

Louisa had opened her mouth to argue, but she stopped. She turned away again, still massaging her temples, moving to the window. The light silhouetted her, her gown gently swaying as she walked.

The vulnerability in her stance nearly undid him. Fellows wanted to go to her, slide his arms around her from behind, kiss her hair when she leaned back to him. He wanted to caress her, as though she belonged to him, and say, It’s all right, love. I’ll take care of everything. You don’t worry about any of it. I’m here.

If Fellows touched her, he wouldn’t let go. He’d draw her into his arms again, crush her up to him, let their mouths meet. He’d taste her, drink her, and let the rest of the world go to hell. He’d take her away with him, anywhere, to be safe, alone with him. Never letting go.

When Louisa turned back to him, her face was blotchy red, the tears wiped away, but one still damp on her cheek.

“You’re a policeman,” Louisa said. “From what Mac and the others have told me, you’re very good at it. A detective first, they’ve said. Like a bloodhound on the scent.”

Fellows dragged in a breath, pulling his thoughts back from burying himself in Louisa and never coming out. “Flattering.”

Ian Mackenzie had once lumped Fellows’ dedication in with the Mackenzie family’s madness, saying Fellows’ focus on catching criminals was as intense as Cameron’s brilliance with horses, Mac’s with painting, or Ian’s with numbers and total recall.

“If I tell you, the good policeman, everything, it will end up in a report on a desk, will it not? The foolishness of Lady Louisa Scranton in black and white, for all to see. Shall I then find it splashed across every newspaper and scandal sheet in London?” Louisa gave a half-hysterical laugh. “Why not? They played out my sister’s marriage and near-divorce there. They’ll quite enjoy themselves over me.”

Fellows held up his empty hands. “My notebook is over there. Whatever you say to me, in this room, will go no further. I’ll write it into no report. What you tell me will be between you and me, I promise you. You’ll have to take me at my word.”

“And why would you, the good policeman, not write down every syllable I say?”

Because I’d do anything for you, Louisa.

“Because I’m not always the good policeman,” Fellows said. “Never mind what the Mackenzies tell you about me—sometimes I’m just a man.”

Just a man who remembered every brush of her lips, every touch, their impulsive kisses, the stolen moments. I shouldn’t have done that, she’d whispered after the first time. But I’ve been wanting to kiss you. Fellows’ world had changed that day and hadn’t righted itself yet.

“I want to trust you,” Louisa said.

“I want to trust you.”

Louisa looked away, head turned, but not bowed. She was courageous, elegant, beautiful. Fellows wanted her with the intensity of a small sun. Somewhere not this overly large sitting room where she could walk so far away from him, somewhere he could close her in his arms, lay her head on his shoulder, and simply be with her.

“Very well, I’ll tell you,” Louisa said. She looked back at Fellows, her green eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Mrs. Leigh-Waters encouraged me to go alone to the tea tent with the Bishop of Hargate, because she knew he would propose to me there.”

Chapter Five

Isabella’s maid had laced Louisa’s stays too tightly. She could not draw a proper breath, couldn’t keep her voice from sounding scratched.

She hated the way Inspector Fellows was looking at her—Chief Inspector now; he’d won his long sought-after promotion. His hazel eyes were steady but behind them were questions, skepticism.

This man, this half-Mackenzie, always unnerved her. He was as tall and strong as his brothers, and possessed their air of confidence so acute it was almost arrogance. His hair, a dark shade of auburn, had been cut short, now rumpled as though the wind had caught it. Unshaved whiskers were dark on his bruised and battered face, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

But the hazel eyes that looked out at her showed anything but exhaustion. Fellows watched her with the keenness of a hawk, one waiting for the right moment to strike its prey.

The abrasions on his face had stunned Louisa almost as much as seeing him again. She wanted to touch him, ask in concern what had happened to him, try to make his hurts better, as though she had a right to.

The wild streak in the rest of the Mackenzies had been honed in Fellows into a ruthless need to pursue whatever criminals he believed needed to be pursued. He was just as single-minded as the rest of the family, but not as scandalous, because he kept a very tight rein on his emotions.

Fellows waited, not saying a word. The hawk would let his prey come to him.

Louisa drew another breath, or tried to, silently cursing her tight corset. “And yes, he did propose.”

“And you said . . . ?”

“I never had the chance to answer. As I tried to think of a way to let him down politely, he took ill.”

Fellows’ expression didn’t change. “You were going to refuse him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I thought of you, and I couldn’t. “Why?” She wanted to laugh again. “Because I did not want to marry him. I knew we wouldn’t suit.”

Fellows’ expression didn’t change. “Because your father defrauded him?”

Louisa flinched but had to nod. “I was surprised Hargate wanted to propose to me, in light of that.”

“Curious.”

“Yes, it was.” Humiliating too. Something she did not want to discuss with Mr. Fellows.

Fellows looked her up and down, and when he spoke again, his voice was mild and even. “I’ve spent years listening to people lie to me, Louisa. I’ve learned what exactly it sounds like. Up until this moment, you’ve been telling me the truth. Now you are lying. Why?”

With any other man, Louisa might hold her head up and demand him to cease badgering her, but with Fellows, she couldn’t. He knew too much about her. He knew she liked kissing him, liked the smoothness of his lips, the taste of his tongue.

Her face burned. “You are presumptuous.”

“It isn’t presumption,” Fellows said, keeping the mildness. “Or assumption. Why did you refuse the Bishop of Hargate? He’s rich, has plenty of titles in his family, and a lofty position. He should have been a good match for you.”

His indifferent tone made Louisa’s heart sting. “I should have married him for his wealth and position?” She gave him a mirthless smile. “Is that what you’re asking?”

“It is why people of your class marry, isn’t it? A business arrangement. Marriage is for connections and money; love is sought with mistresses.”

In spite of the uncaring words, the look in Fellows’ eyes was bitter. Louisa knew his history—the now-deceased Duke of Kilmorgan had dallied with a tavern maid, got her with child, then deserted her. When Fellows’ mother sought the duke to tell him about the baby and ask him for help, he’d denied Fellows was his.

Fellows’ Mackenzie blood was obvious, however. At one time he’d worn a thick moustache to hide some of his features, but now that he went about clean-shaven, the resemblance to the old duke and to Hart Mackenzie was clear. Fellows had never spoken of his parentage to Louisa, but she knew the duke’s denial of him had hurt him deeply and driven him most of his life.

“My reasons for refusing the bishop have nothing to do with this,” Louisa said. “I promise you. I didn’t poison him, and I’d like to go home now.”

Fellows took a step toward her, his carelessness gone, menace returning. “I will determine what has to do with Hargate’s death and what doesn’t. You need to tell me everything, or else you’ll be stammering it in front of a magistrate. He will also know when you are lying, and unlike me, he’ll turn everything against you. Because you’re an earl’s daughter, instead of being hanged or sent to prison, you might be put into a home for genteel ladies who have gone insane, but then again, you might find yourself up before a judge who wants to make an example of you.” Another step, the light in his hazel eyes sharp. “Or, you can tell me everything, and you won’t have to face a magistrate at all.”

He was unnervingly close. Louisa smelled the outdoors on him, the fresh April wind mixed with the scent of coal smoke that clung to the wool of his coat. His words terrified her, because she knew he was right. She knew how it looked—she alone with the bishop, she serving him tea, he dropping dead at her feet. Louisa was a young woman from a scandalous family, and who knew what she might do?

His deep voice rumbled around her, stern and harsh, but Louisa wanted to cling to it, to let the sound comfort her. While he meant to frighten her, he was asking her to trust him with the truth, and with her life. He was right that she had no one else to help her.

She clenched her hands and said the words in a rush. “The Bishop of Hargate told me he would release my family from any obligation to repay him if I married him. Repay him what he’d lost because of my father, I mean. He’d relieve us of that debt and the shame of it, but only if I consented to be his wife.”

Fellows’ eyes became even more focused, frighteningly so. “He told you this in no uncertain terms?”

Louisa nodded. “Oh, he made it very clear.”

Fellows went silent for a few moments. Clouds slid across the sun, thick enough to erase the happy spring sunshine and plunge the sitting room into gloom.

When Fellows spoke again, his voice was quiet. “You know you have just outlined a perfect motive for killing him.”

“Yes, I do realize that.” Louisa swallowed on dryness. “It is one reason I was trying very hard not to tell you.”

“One reason? What is another?”

“The other reason is because it is so very embarrassing.”

Fellows studied her, his eyes still. His left cheekbone bore a deep cut, the blood dried. Black bruises surrounded the cut, the bruises moving up to his temple. The right side of his mouth had taken another cut, and scrapes decorated his cheek. Again, Louisa wanted to reach up and touch his face, to ask if he was all right. She curled her fingers into her palms.

“Did anyone else know the terms of this proposal?” Fellows asked abruptly.

“I have no idea. Mrs. Leigh-Waters knew, or guessed, the bishop would propose to me, but whether she had any hint he would try to blackmail me into accepting, I do not know.”

“Even if she didn’t know, the story will come out sooner or later,” Fellows went on in his matter-of-fact voice. No false comfort for Louisa, just unvarnished truth. “Hargate might have confided in his valet that he planned to coerce you into marrying him, or his solicitor. Or he might have boasted of it loudly at his club or a meeting of his vestry, who knows?”

“Well, I didn’t know until he sprang it on me in the tea tent,” Louisa said. “That’s a point in my favor, is it not? If I’d decided to poison him, I would have had to prepare beforehand. But I had no reason to prepare, because I had no idea what he meant to ask me. Surely that proves my innocence. I would have had to bring the poison with me to the garden party, and I assure you, Inspector, I have no vials of poison about my person.”

“Proves nothing. You might have known about Hargate’s proposal in advance. Servants gossip. Solicitors and vestrymen gossip too. You might have seen yourself pushed into accepting him and decided the only way out of marrying a man who demanded your body in exchange for forgiving your father’s debt was killing him. You could have brought the vial in your pocket or a reticule. Afterward you could have dropped the bottle in the tea tent, or surreptitiously tossed it into the garden as you walked through it, or even hidden it in this room while you waited for me. Or you might have it in your pocket now.”

Louisa’s lips parted as she listened, something cold seeping through her body. His words . . . demanded your body in exchange for forgiving your father’s debt . . . were inelegant, even harsh, but again, he was not sparing her. Truth was often ugly.

“Yes, I might have done any of those things. But I did not. It’s ridiculous.”

“Just show me,” Fellows said.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Show me what you have in your pockets, Louisa. Believe me, if you are arrested and searched, you’ll be treated far less gently at a police station than you will here by me. So show me.”

Louisa’s frock had one pocket, in the skirt, its opening hidden by the peplum of her bodice. She jammed her hand inside and pulled out a handkerchief, a pencil on a ribbon, and a tiny notebook.

“There. That is all.”

Fellows came to her swiftly. He gave her a measuring gaze and then pushed aside her hand and slid his own into her pocket.

Louisa’s breath hitched. The corset cut into her again, and spots danced before her eyes.

Fellows didn’t touch her. She felt the warmth of his hand between skirt and petticoat, the strength of his fingers as they moved in the pocket. She looked up at him and found his hazel eyes focused directly on her.

The look in their depths made her dizzy. This man should be nothing to her—a member of the family her sister had married into, that was all. He was not of her world. He’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, raised in working-class London, and had taken up the common profession of policeman.

But he’d compelled her from the first time she’d laid eyes on him, at a family gathering at Kilmorgan Castle. Louisa had seen how uncomfortable Fellows had been in a home that might have been his, how silent he’d been, how haunted he’d looked. She’d wanted to cheer him up, to show him that the past didn’t have to mean a thing to the present.

She’d learned Fellows had a biting, deprecating sense of humor, often directed at himself, but he was also happy to direct it at those around him. He had the powerful personality of the Mackenzie men, but one turned in a different direction from theirs. While the brothers had been raised with money and power, Fellows had faced the world in all its ugliness. He’d had no protection but himself.

Now Fellows stood very close to her, and Louisa wanted to kiss him again. The first time she’d done so, she’d told herself she felt sorry for him. But she knew it had been more than that.

It was more than that now. The need to kiss him rose like an uncontrolled fire. It sent Louisa up on her tiptoes in her high-heeled boots, making her lean into him, wanting to feel his strength and his warmth.

Fellows’ eyes started to close, his body coming down to meet hers. The hunger she saw, before his lids hid his eyes, sparked an answering hunger deep inside her.

Louisa drifted into him, welcoming his heat. She felt the touch of his breath, which would be followed by his lips . . .

Then wasn’t. Fellows jerked back, eyes opening, a hard light entering them.

He lifted his hand out of her pocket. Between his broad fingers was a small bottle of cut glass with a little stopper, a tiny amount of liquid inside it.

Chapter Six

Louisa, still ensnared by the kiss that hadn’t happened, stared at the bottle uncomprehendingly. “What is that?”

“That is what I am asking you.” Fellows’ voice was harsh.

“I don’t know.” Louisa held up her hands. “It isn’t mine.”

“It was in your pocket.” His gaze grew even colder.

“You must have put it there then. I certainly didn’t.”

“Louisa.” Fellows lifted the small bottle in front of her face. “I need you to explain this to me.”

“I didn’t put it there,” Louisa repeated in desperation. “I cannot help it if you don’t believe me. I don’t even know what it is.”

“It’s a perfume bottle,” Fellows said. “But this is not perfume.”

“I can see that it’s a perfume bottle. How do you know it’s not perfume inside it?”

“Wrong consistency.”

Hysterical laughter tried to bubble up again. “And you’re an expert at what ladies carry in their perfume bottles?”

“I am an expert in the many ways people kill other people and try to cover it up.”

Louisa’s eyes widened. “I’ve told you. I didn’t kill him.”

“Someone is going to a lot of trouble to make it look as though you did. Why?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Louisa nearly shouted. “Perhaps someone did not want Hargate to marry me. Perhaps the poison was meant for me, or it was in the teapot, for us both. Only I didn’t drink it.”

Fellows’ eyes flickered, but he went on remorselessly. “Bit of a gamble, wasn’t it, to pour the poison into the correct cup of tea then put the bottle into your pocket? Who did you see when you went into the tea tent?”

“No one. It was empty. Hargate was already inside by the time I arrived, but no one else. I noticed no one leave—the rest of the guests were outside waiting for the croquet match.”

Fellows shoved the perfume bottle into his pocket. He gazed down at Louisa a moment longer, his brows coming together, then he turned abruptly and walked away from her. He made his way to the window and looked out, every line of his body tight.

His broad back, covered in black, showed his strength. If life had been different, if Fellows’ father had married his mother and the birth had been legitimate, this man would now be a duke.

Fellows turned back. When he spoke, his voice was stern and solid, worthy of any duke’s. “You entered the tea tent and saw someone crawling out the other side.”

Louisa shook her head. “No. I told you. The tent was empty, except for the bishop.”

Fellows walked to her again. “You saw someone—maybe only a glimpse of them—ducking out under the back of the tent. They must have pulled up a stake to loosen the canvas.”

“I . . . ” Louisa trailed off, her mouth drying.

Fellows wanted her to say this, was handing her the script. All she had to do was repeat the words, and he’d write them down.

“I can’t lie,” Louisa said weakly.

“Better to say it to me now than to a judge and jury, after you take the oath. Tell me what you saw, Louisa.”

Louisa bit back a cough. “I thought . . . Yes, I thought I saw someone scrambling out under the other side of the tent.”

“Man or woman?”

“It was too quick. I couldn’t see.”

“Color of their clothing?”

“Dark, I think. But as I say, I couldn’t see.”

Louisa closed her mouth, not wanting to embellish. Keep a lie very simple, her brother-in-law Mac had once told her. The more you invent, the more you have to remember. It’s tricky, lying. That’s why I never do it, myself.

“I couldn’t see,” Louisa finished.

Fellows’ hazel eyes glinted in the room’s dim light. Then he nodded, picked up his notebook from the table, moved back to her, and wrote down the words while she stood a foot away from him.

His fingers were inches from her, his eyes quietly fixed on the paper. His sleeve moved to show the cuff of his shirt, enclosing a strong wrist and forearm. His hands were tanned from the sunshine, the liquid color going back under the linen of the shirt, as though he had the habit of rolling up his sleeves outdoors. His knuckles were scratched, from whatever fight had given his face its cuts and bruises.

Louisa felt his stare. She looked up from her study of his hand to find his gaze on her. Never taking his eyes from Louisa, Fellows closed the notebook and slid it and his pencil into his pocket.

She expected him to say something, anything, to break the tension between them. Or to touch her. They’d shared two kisses, both of them intimate. Louisa could still feel the doorframe at her back from the kiss at Christmas, Fellows’ body the length of hers, his hand on her neck as he scooped her to him.

The silence stretched. Louisa was dismayed by how much she wanted to kiss him again, even after he’d interrogated her. He was the only man she’d ever kissed, the only man she’d ever wanted to.

If she touched his cheek, she’d feel the bristles of his whiskers, the heat of his skin. She could lean to him and indulge herself in another taste of him. The Mackenzie who was not a Mackenzie so fascinated Louisa that she could barely keep her thoughts together when he was in a room with her.

“Louisa.”

Louisa realized she had started to rise to him, and thumped back on her heels. “That’s all I remember.”

“It’s enough. Are you staying in London with Isabella?”

Louisa nodded, feeling giddy. “Yes, for the Season. My mother is in Berkshire with Cameron and Ainsley.” Why she felt she needed to report that, she didn’t know.

“Good. Stay in tonight. And for the next few nights. Cancel your engagements and pretend you’re sorry Hargate is dead.”

“But I am sorry . . .”

“No, you’re stunned and shocked, but you’re not grieved. This man wanted to marry you, for whatever his reasons, and everyone at this party saw you go into the tent alone with him. You need to behave as though you had interest in him, a friendliness toward him, and no contempt. If anyone knows Hargate planned to coerce you into marrying him, and they say so to you, you must have no idea what they mean. Hargate never mentioned your father, or your father’s debt to him. You thought Hargate loved you, and you were at the very least flattered by his interest in you. Understand?”

Louisa nodded numbly. “I must lie and say I liked him, because otherwise no one will believe the truth that I didn’t kill him.”

“You had the best opportunity. Easy for you to slip poison into his teacup while you poured out for him, then slide the bottle into your pocket so deeply a cursory examination wouldn’t reveal it. Most policemen would balk at putting their hands very far into an earl’s daughter’s pocket.”

“But not you.”

Louisa saw him draw one quick breath, but his reply was as hard as ever. “This is life-and-death, Louisa. Behave as though you liked him, and spare yourself the noose.”

Louisa looked at him for a long time, Fellows staring back at her. Finally, she nodded.

“Good,” he said. She saw the smallest flicker of relief in his eyes, but nothing more. “Stay here. I’ll tell Isabella to come to you.”

Louisa nodded again, tears burning. Through the blur she saw Fellows’ face soften, then he lifted his hand and brushed her cheek.

Louisa thought he’d say something to her, maybe go so far as to apologize for upsetting her, giving her a gentle word to make her feel better. But no. Fellows caressed her cheek with callused fingers, the sensation sending heat through her body. Then he withdrew his touch and walked stiffly past her and out the door. The sound of it closing behind him was as hollow as the pain in Louisa’s heart.

* * *

Fellows made Sergeant Pierce clear everyone out of the tea tent. Too many people had trampled in here after he’d gone, the grass and dirt even more of a mess than it had been before. Someone had knocked over a small table, spilling yet another set of teacups to the ground.

Once he and Pierce had convinced them all to go, including Mrs. Leigh-Waters, who wanted to linger, Fellows went over every bit of the tent on his own.

He ended up on his hands and knees on the far side of the tent, looking for signs that someone actually had crawled in the other side. But the stakes that held the tent were driven firmly into the ground, and the dirt here hadn’t been disturbed.

Fellows disturbed it. He tugged up one stake and gouged the area with his boot.

He was aware of the magnitude of his actions. Misleading the police or covering up a crime could have him arrested, possibly convicted and sent to Dartmoor to break rocks alongside the men he’d helped put there.

He didn’t care. Louisa was innocent, and he wouldn’t let her go down for this crime. Fellows had been a detective long enough to know when a person was guilty and when he or she was not. His instincts were never wrong. The only time he’d been wrong had been in a case involving Ian and Hart, and in that instance he’d let his hatred for the Mackenzie family override his instincts.

Wasn’t he letting his emotions do the same now? some niggling part of him asked.

No.

He’d made an error of judgment when he’d thought Hart and Ian Mackenzie had committed a few murders, but at the same time, Fellows had known those men to be capable of it, Hart especially. Fellows himself was capable of murder as well.

Not Louisa.

Few truly good people existed in this world, and Louisa Scranton was one of them. She had a fiery temper—he’d seen that a time or two—but she also possessed a vast kindness and generosity that made her beautiful. She was like a firefly, bright and energetic, lighting up those around her.

Fellows would do everything in his power to keep her safe.

He finished arranging the scene of the crime as he wanted it, took a few more samples from the smashed tea things, and departed the tent.

* * *

The Bishop of Hargate’s funeral two days later was well attended. Louisa went with Isabella and Mac, the three of them standing a few feet behind Hargate’s family and friends.

Rain trickled down, spotting the black umbrellas, which had opened like dark flowers as soon as sprinkles began. The tiny drumming on the canvas made Louisa’s already tight nerves stretch tighter.

Mac held an umbrella over Isabella, his arm around his wife’s waist. He was never embarrassed at displaying that he’d married for love, which Louisa had always found rather sweet. The Mackenzies were volatile, emotional men. She didn’t think they knew how to hide their feelings.

The other Mackenzie who stood at the very edge of the crowd was volatile and emotional too, but he kept a tight rein on himself. Lloyd Fellows wore severe black today, his hat in his hand as he bowed his head for the prayers. Rain darkened his hair—no umbrella for Chief Inspector Fellows.

Three days had passed since the bishop’s death. Louisa had followed Fellows’ dictate that she remain inside and away from the Season’s social whirl. She understood why, but the confinement chafed. Though Isabella’s house was cheerful and full of children, Louisa had been happy even for the excuse of the funeral to come out into open air, as chilly and dank as it was.

The churchyard contained many prominent people—both above and below ground—Hargate being no less prominent. Hargate’s father was an earl, and marriages had made him cousin to a marquis, another bishop, and a few baronets. The crowd at the burial ground today must encompass several pages of Debrett’s.

The two Scotland Yard detectives stayed well back, being respectful of the family’s grief. But Louisa knew Fellows was watching, looking for signs of feigned sorrow among the guests, a betrayal of glee that Hargate was gone.

The bishop who conducted the service finished with the usual prayers about man being dust and his life on earth nothing. The casket was lowered, and Hargate’s family sadly bade him farewell.

As the crowd dispersed, Louisa moved next to Hargate’s mother and offered her condolences. She was rewarded with a cold stare. Hargate’s father gave Louisa a look of open viciousness before he and his wife turned their backs and walked away from her.

Louisa moved back to Isabella as though nothing untoward had happened, but her heart was hammering, and she felt ill. Hargate’s parents had just cut her dead, and the entire gathering had witnessed it.

Isabella closed her fingers around Louisa’s arm. “Never mind, darling. They’re upset. Only natural.”

“They think I killed him,” Louisa said numbly. “Don’t they?”

“Please don’t think about it, dearest. We’ll go home and have lots of hot tea and stuff ourselves with cakes. You know this will blow over when Inspector Fellows clears it all up.”

Inspector Fellows had resumed his hat, but he remained on the edge of the crowd, watching every person walk by. He wasn’t part of them, and his stance said that he didn’t want to be.

He saw Louisa. Their gazes met, held for a heartbeat, two. Louisa grew hot in spite of the chill rain.

Finally Fellows gave her a nod and lifted his hat. Louisa nodded back as politeness dictated, but her head and heart ached.

* * *

Louisa usually found it soothing to sit in Mac’s studio and watch him paint. But the day after the bishop’s funeral, she paced restlessly in the wide upper room while her brother-in-law slapped paint onto canvas.

His children were there—Aimee, Eileen, and Robert—Aimee and Eileen playing together, baby Robert fast asleep. Mac Mackenzie, clad in his kilt, old boots, and loose shirt, his hair protected by a gypsy scarf, painted in a kind of frenzy, never looking away from his canvas or palette.

When Louisa paced past him for about the twentieth time, however, Mac dropped his palette with a clatter and thrust his brush into oil of turpentine.

“Louisa, lass, for God’s sake, sit down. I can’t concentrate with you rushing past a dozen times a minute.”

Louisa bit back snappish words and sat down with a thump on the threadbare sofa. The sofa was old and thoroughly worn from children playing and napping on it. Louisa knew Isabella modeled for Mac on it, and not for modest pictures. Little Robert had been conceived on it, Louisa believed. A very family-situated sofa.

“I beg your pardon, Mac. I am tired of being confined to the house.” Hearing nothing, knowing nothing. Fellows had sent no word and had not called himself. “It’s a bit frustrating.” An understatement, but Louisa had been bred to be so very polite on every occasion.

Mac softened. “Aye, I know. I’m sorry. Forgive my temper.”

“You’re an artist,” Louisa said lightly. “You can’t help yourself.”

Mac burst out laughing, a big, booming Mackenzie laugh. “A good excuse. Ashamed of myself for employing it. Why don’t you tell Isabella to take you out? No reason you should sit here day after day. If anything had happened . . . was wrong . . . the good Fellows would tell us, yes?”

Mac’s stammering around the subject did not give Louisa heart. He meant that if policemen were about to swoop down and arrest Louisa, Fellows would warn them.

“Be kind to her, Papa,” Aimee said. “She’s afraid people will accuse her of poisoning the bishop.”

Aimee was five years old, nearly six. Mac and Isabella’s adopted daughter had red hair a similar shade to Isabella’s, steady brown eyes, and a burgeoning intelligence. Unkind people made out that Mac was Aimee’s father in truth, her mother one of Mac’s models, and Isabella a fool to take Aimee into her home.

The truth was harsher—her father had been a man who’d tried to kill Mac, her mother a Parisian woman who’d died of illness and neglect. Mac’s and Isabella’s compassion had saved this little girl. Aimee was turning into a sweet, amiable, and clever child. She knew she was adopted, but the only parents she remembered were Mac and Isabella.

Mac stared at Aimee now in surprise. “Where did you hear talk like that, wee girl?”

Aimee returned his look without blinking. “You and Mama. And a few ladies who came to visit Mama yesterday. I hid in the second drawing room and listened to them talk. I like to look at the ladies in their dresses. Some of them are beautiful, though Mama’s dresses are the prettiest.”

Mac had his mouth open. On a big man wearing a kerchief, the expression was comical. “Aimee . . .”

“Perfectly all right, Mac,” Louisa broke in. “We shouldn’t hide things from her. Aimee, sweetie.” Louisa took Aimee’s hands. “It is true that some people will say I killed the Bishop of Hargate, but that is untrue.”

Aimee still looked troubled. “The ladies said you hated him for what happened with your father. And one said you’d been his lover. What does that mean, exactly?”

Mac’s Highland Scots became pronounced. “Lass, never listen to the likes of women such as they. I’ll tell Morton not to allow them into the house again. And don’t repeat such things to your mother.”

“I wouldn’t,” Aimee said. “That’s why I’m asking you and Louisa.”

“God save me,” Mac muttered, and went to find his palette again.

Louisa squeezed Aimee’s hands. “What they said is untrue as well. The bishop and I were acquaintances only, and I was not angry with him. I did nothing to hurt him.”

Aimee nodded, her eyes round. “I know you didn’t.”

Relief touched her. Louisa knew Aimee didn’t entirely understand the implications of the situation, but the girl trusted her, and Louisa wanted to do nothing to violate that trust.

“And Aimee, lass, you’re not to talk of it anymore, with anyone,” Mac said sternly. “Not even within the family.”

Eileen, who was nearly three, watched them, her fingers in her mouth. Her little brother Robert slept on a pile of clean drop cloths, on his tummy, his fists curled beside him. His hair stuck up in little spikes, his Scots fair skin a stark contrast to the brilliant red of his hair. The boy could sleep anywhere, at any time, no matter what fireworks were going off around him. Louisa found that adorable; Mac only growled that he was another stubborn Mackenzie.

“Don’t scold her, Mac,” Louisa said. “She wasn’t to know. You may talk of it with me all you like, Aimee.” She smoothed the girl’s wiry red hair. “No secrets inside the family. Those outside might not understand, which is why we’re not speaking of it to them.”

Aimee nodded. “All right, Aunt Louisa. Why do people think you poisoned him?”

“Because I was nearest him at the time. But I give you my word, I did not.”

“I believe you.” Aimee climbed up onto Louisa’s lap and gave her a warm kiss and a hug. “Don’t be afraid, Aunt Louisa. You’re safe here.”

Louisa felt anything but safe, but her eyes grew moist at the sentiment. Now, if only Lloyd Fellows would believe her. Not to mention put his arms around her and reassure her that she was all right.

Mac turned back to his canvas. He was working on a picture of a group of horses. He’d done the preliminary drawings in Berkshire at Cameron Mackenzie’s training stables, and was now painting it. The horses galloped across a pasture, manes and tails flying, muscles gleaming. Because Mac painted in the new style, the lines weren’t solid, but the wildness of the beasts came through—even more than if he’d made every line exact. Louisa could almost hear the hooves pounding, the snorts and whinnies, and smell the grass, dust, and sweat.

“Tell Isabella to take you out,” Mac repeated. He yanked his brush from the jar and rubbed it clean on a rag. “A good ride in the park or something. Our grooms don’t need to be hanging about like loose ends. Give them something to do.”

In other words, go away and let me work.

“Isabella is busy,” Louisa said. “She’s frantically finishing preparations for the supper ball, as you know. I ought to be helping her.” She fixed Mac a look. “So should you.”

“I am helping her. I’m minding the children. A good husband knows when to stay out of the way of the whirling household.”

“A fine excuse,” Louisa said, feeling the first amusement she’d had in days.

“Papa likes to hide up here,” Aimee said. “Morton and Mama bully him if he goes downstairs.”

Mac grinned. “She’s not wrong. Driven away by my wife and my butler. What is a man to do?”

Enjoy himself with his art and his children. Louisa envied him, and Isabella. They were so happy together, exactly matching each other in spirit, love, and vigor. Louisa knew Isabella would prefer to be up here with him, watching her handsome husband paint, playing with the children she loved so well.

But Isabella was a hostess at heart as well, leading the ladies of the Season. She was also keeping up her social schedule, Louisa knew, to dare anyone to say that anything was wrong. Louisa would be at the supper ball tonight, by Isabella’s side, helping to greet guests, engage shy young ladies in conversation, or smooth ruffled feathers of older ladies. This gathering would be utterly respectable, for debutantes up to the most redoubtable matrons, and Louisa would be in the middle of it.

She’d go mad. Louisa gently set Aimee on her feet and sprang up. “You’re right, Mac. Staying in will only make me more irritable.” She went to him, lightly kissed his paint-streaked cheek, and left the room, not missing Mac’s grin or his look of relief.

It also did not help her that Mac looked much like the man she could not banish from her thoughts. The near-kiss she’d shared with Fellows in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ drawing room burned her almost as much as the true kisses had. She kept feeling the heat of his body against her, his hard fingers on her cheek.

Out.

A young lady couldn’t simply walk outside in London and charge alone down the street. It wasn’t done. Louisa had to play by every rule she possibly could until the true culprit was found. All eyes were on her, she knew.

She asked Morton to fetch Isabella’s carriage, convinced the housekeeper to release a maid to accompany her, and made her way to visit Eleanor, the Duchess of Kilmorgan.

* * *

Fellows’ investigations didn’t take him often to Mayfair. Murders in London were most likely to happen at the docks or in slums where gin and desperation overrode sense, and knives came out. Mayfair was for the polite crimes of embezzlement and fraud and, long ago now, dueling.

The death of the Bishop of Hargate was a crime of Mayfair. Though the event itself had taken place in Richmond, every single person at that garden party had a London residence for the Season, all of them in Mayfair.

Fellows knew Mayfair as well as he did the rest of London, because he was thorough. The people who walked these streets, though, were not the ladies and gentlemen who lived there, but the tradesmen and domestics who worked it. Those who reposed in the houses wouldn’t consider strolling more than three doors down without a carriage.

For the past three and a half years, Fellows had made use of a new base of operation in Mayfair, the Duke of Kilmorgan’s mansion on Grosvenor Square. Once Hart, the duke in question, had officially acknowledged Fellows as part of the family, he’d made it known that Fellows could walk into and out of the Grosvenor Square house anytime he chose.

Fellows mostly didn’t choose, but he’d relaxed enough in the last few years to realize that taking Hart up on his hospitality could be convenient. Since Hart’s marriage to Lady Eleanor Ramsay last April, it had become even more convenient.

Eleanor knew everyone. She not only knew them but knew everything about them. If anyone could tell Fellows about the people at the Richmond party, it was Eleanor.

Fellows took an omnibus to Hyde Park, then walked through the park to Park Lane and north. This took time, but Fellows liked to think as he walked, and he enjoyed the open green spaces of the park. For Fellows the boy, London’s city parks had been his idea of pristine countryside. He’d sneak away from home and play in Hyde Park, St. James’s Park, Green Park, or Holland Park, until someone reported an urchin in their garden spaces, and a constable chased him away.

On Park Lane, whose giant houses grew more ostentatious by the year, he noted a moving van outside the mansion formerly belonging to Sir Lyndon Mather. It must have been sold yet again—that made three times in the last three years. Unlucky, that house must be. Fellows had never liked Mather, though Mather had inadvertently guided Fellows to the right path to solving the High Holborn murders. Nothing about that case had ended up as Fellows had ever dreamed it would. It had led, indirectly, to him meeting Lady Louisa Scranton.

Fellows turned onto Upper Brook Street and walked to Grosvenor Square and Hart’s house. Hart’s first footman had the door open for Fellows before he reached it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the footman said, reaching to relieve Fellows of his coat and hat as Fellows stepped into the wide front hall. A staircase wound up through the middle of the house, spring sunshine lighting it from windows at each landing. The balustrade was elegance itself, the airy space quiet, beautiful, and at peace.

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.

“Traces of prussic acid were found on the broken pieces of teacup the bishop held. None in Louisa’s.” That had been a great relief. Even if she’d drunk from her cup, Louisa would have been safe.

On the other hand, the fact that she’d by chance chosen the innocent cup woke Fellows up at night cold with fear. What was to say the poison hadn’t been meant for Louisa in truth? Perhaps Hargate had poisoned the cup himself then drunk the wrong one by accident. Or had there been no target—only a madman waiting to see which guest dropped dead?

Either way, Louisa had survived a close call. Fellows, who hadn’t prayed since he’d been a boy and forced to church on occasion, had sent up true thanks to God for that.

“No poison in the teapot, then?” Eleanor asked.

“None. In the bishop’s teacup only.” Fellows took a sip of coffee, which was rich and full, the best in the world. Of course it was. “Lady Louisa, since you are here, I’d like you to tell me—think carefully—why you picked up that particular cup to hand to the bishop.”

Louisa lifted her shoulders in a faint shrug. “It was the easiest to reach.” Her voice was tight, as though she hadn’t used it for some time and hoped she wouldn’t have to. “A clean one, placed on a tray. I had to reach all the way across the table for one for me. I poured Hargate’s first, to be polite.”

“So, if Hargate had gone into the tea tent alone, or someone else had, and wanted tea, they’d have reached first for that cup?”

“Yes. It would have been natural.” Louisa paled a little. “How horrible.”

“Deliberately killing another person so cold-bloodedly and letting an innocent receive the blame, that is horrible, yes.” And too close to home. Fellows wanted the man—or woman—who’d done this. He’d explain to them, slowly and thoroughly, how they’d enraged him, and what that would mean for them.

He turned to Eleanor, who’d listened to all this with interest in her blue eyes. “I’ve come to ask you, Eleanor, to tell me about Hargate. I want to know who were his friends, his enemies, and why someone would want to poison him.”

“So you are taking the assumption that he was indeed the target?” Eleanor asked.

“In a murder like this, even if it seems arbitrary, malice is usually directed at one person in particular,” Fellows said. “If the killer wanted to cause chaos and much harm, he’d have poisoned the entire pot, or all the cups. Not just one, for one person alone.”

Louisa shivered. “Gruesome.”

“The world is a gruesome place,” Fellows said to her. He wanted to shove aside his coffee, go to Louisa, sit next to her, put his arms around her, and hold her until her shaking stopped. “It never will be safe, as much as we tell ourselves we can control danger or even hide from it.”

Louisa looked back at him, her green eyes holding an equal mixture of fear and anger. He liked seeing the anger, which meant she hadn’t yet been broken by this ordeal. But there would be much more to come. Fellows longed to comfort her, to shield her from the horrors, to kiss her hair and tell her he’d make everything all right for her. But at the moment, he was trapped into being the good policeman, with no business wanting to touch her, hold her, kiss her.

He made himself drag his gaze from Louisa and continue. “Now, Eleanor, tell me about Hargate.”

Eleanor’s eyes widened. “What information can I give you? Louisa knew him much better than I did. She’ll have to answer.”

Louisa shot her a look that would have burned a lesser woman. Eleanor sipped tea and paid no attention.

“I didn’t know him all that well,” Louisa said, when it was clear Eleanor would say nothing more. “He was ambitious and became a bishop rather young, and he had family connections that helped him. But everyone knows this.”

“He was charming too,” Eleanor said. “At least, some people thought so. I never found him to be, but I’m told he had a persuasive way about him. He charmed his way into every living he held, apparently. The only person who ever blocked him was Louisa’s father, Earl Scranton, and he and Hargate had words over it.”

So had every single person Fellows interviewed told him; they’d told him as well that Earl Scranton had later taken much of Hargate’s money in fraudulent schemes.

“Why did your father cause problems for him over the living?” Fellows asked Louisa.

Louisa shrugged, looking past him and out the window. “Father didn’t approve of young men getting above themselves. The living at Scranton is quite prosperous, and Hargate wanted it. He was the Honorable Frederick Lane then. My father didn’t like him and didn’t want him to be the local vicar. He found Hargate foppish, and said he preferred an older clergyman.”

“Simple as that?” Fellows asked.

“As simple as that.” Louisa looked at him again, her eyes green like polished jade. “Hargate was angry, of course, but once he began his rise to power, he forgave my father. Well, he said, rather deprecatingly, that taking my father’s church would have held him back, so it was all for the best.”

“Forgave him enough to let your father invest money for him?” Fellows asked.

Louisa’s smile was thin and forced. “Investing with my father became the fashionable thing to do. Everyone wanted to say they’d of course entrusted their money to Earl Scranton.”

All the worse when the scheme came tumbling down. “And Hargate was angry when everything fell apart?”

Eleanor broke in. “Of course he was. So many were, unfortunately. But when I spoke to Hargate earlier this Season, he seemed unconcerned about it. No grudges there. But Hargate’s family have always given him piles of money, even though he was the second son, and he never had to worry much about the ready. Seems to me Hargate led a charmed life. He would have found a seat in the House of Lords soon and lived happily ever after. Well, happy except for being a bit bullied by Hart. But then his luck ran out, poor man.”

“And I need to find out who killed him, and quickly. That’s why I’ve come to you for help,” Fellows said, looking at Eleanor.

Eleanor contrived to look surprised again. “I don’t know what I can do.”

She did know, but she was making Fellows spell it out. “You know everyone. When I talk to them, they see a policeman prying into their affairs. No, don’t bother telling me I’m one of the family and they should treat me as though I’m a true Mackenzie. I’m the illegitimate son and always will be. When you talk to them, they see their friend Lady Eleanor Ramsay. They’ll tell you things they’d never dream of telling me.”

“And then I report it all to you.” Eleanor gave him a severe look. “You are asking me to spy on my friends.”

“I am, yes.”

Eleanor’s severe look vanished, and she beamed a smile. “Sounds delightful. When do I begin?”

“As soon as you can.”

“Hmm, Isabella’s supper ball would be a good place to start. Absolutely everyone will be there. She’s hired assembly rooms for it, because her house is far too small for such a grand event—even this house isn’t large enough to hold the entire upper echelon of English society. Besides, Hart has become quite tedious about having any large affairs here now that there’s a baby in the house, although I—”

Eleanor broke off when a small cry—more of a grunt—invaded the silence, even over Old Ben’s snores. Fellows saw now what he’d missed by focusing all his attention on Louisa—a bassinet hidden behind the sofa, its interior shielded from the sunshine by a light cloth.

Eleanor rose immediately, went to the bassinet, and lifted out a small body in a long nightgown. “Here’s my little man,” she cooed, her voice filling with vast fondness. “Forgive my abruptness, dear friends, but I wanted to pick up my son before he started howling. He can shatter the windows, can little Alec.”

Fellows had risen automatically as soon as Eleanor left her seat. Eleanor lifted the boy high, gazing at him in pure rapture. “Did you have a good nap, Alec? Look, Uncle Lloyd has come to see you.” Eleanor turned the baby and held him out to Fellows.

Fellows looked at a sleep-flushed face, tousled red-gold hair, and the eyes of Hart Mackenzie. At the age of four months, Alec—Lord Hart Alec Mackenzie, Eleanor and Hart’s firstborn—already had the hazel-golden Mackenzie eyes and the look of arrogant command of every Mackenzie male.

As Fellows stood still, unwilling to reach for this little bundle he might drop, Alec’s face scrunched into a fierce scowl. Then he opened his mouth, and roared.

Fellows had heard plenty of children cry in hunger, in fear, or in want of simple attention. Alec’s bellowing possessed the strength of his Highland ancestors, calling out for blood.

Old Ben woke up with a snort, looking around in concern. Eleanor laughed, turned Alec, and cuddled him close. “There, now, Alec. The inspector can’t help looking at you like that. He scrutinizes everyone so.” Alec’s cries quieted as he snuggled into his mother’s shoulder. Ben huffed again then laid his large head back down.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Eleanor said. “I must return this lad to the nursery for his afternoon feeding. Tell Louisa what you wish me to do, and thank you for keeping us up on the matter.”

So saying, she gathered Alec tighter and breezed out of the room before Fellows could say a word.

The closing door left him alone with Louisa. She looked up from her place on the sofa to where Fellows stood, awkwardly holding his coffee cup.

“You may leave if you wish,” Louisa said. She wanted him to, that was plain.

Fellows remained standing but set down the coffee. “I’m glad to report I was able to make the investigation turn its focus from you,” he said, trying to sound brisk and businesslike. “You’re not to be arrested unless there’s evidence solid enough to bring you before the magistrate. The coroner and my chief super don’t want to risk putting an earl’s daughter in jail unless the chance of making the charges stick is very high. I’ve convinced my sergeant and my guv that the story of the man escaping from under the tent wall is true.”

“It’s very good of you.”

Such a stiff and formal response from the woman he wanted to gaze at him in soft delight. His heart burned. “No, it’s very bad of me to lie to my own men, but I am trying to keep you out of Newgate.”

“And I am grateful to you, make no mistake.”

“But angry you have to be grateful to me,” Fellows said, his words brittle.

“No, not angry. It’s just . . .” Louisa heaved a sigh, pushed herself to her feet, and paced the sunny room. Ben watched her without raising his head. “I’m confused. I don’t know what to do, or how to think or feel. How I should think or feel. Or how to behave.”

“It’s a bad business,” Fellows said tightly.

“And now you’re trying to help me, and I’m being horribly rude. I . . .” Louisa swung around, her peach and cream skirts swishing. “Nothing in my life has prepared me for this. Even Papa defrauding all his friends was not as difficult to understand—you’d be appalled how many wealthy gentlemen are bad at simple business matters. But watching a man die and then being accused of killing him—that I have no idea how to parry.”

“Being accused?” Fellows asked sharply. “Has someone said that to you?”

“No, but they are all thinking it. I can feel them thinking it. Out there.” She waved her hand at the windows. “Even you think it.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m trying to find the culprit.”

“If you didn’t have a doubt, you wouldn’t go to such pains to keep me from being arrested.”

Fellows stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. “Let me make this clear to you, Louisa. You’re right that everything at this moment points to you. But if you believe our system of justice will prove your innocence, only because you’re innocent, you are wrong. If a judge gets it into his head that you’re a giddy young woman who goes around poisoning potential suitors, nothing will change his mind, not the best barrister, not the jury. Most of the judges at the Old Bailey are about a hundred years old and regard young women as either temptresses or fools. Would you like to face one of them? Or a gallery of eager people off the streets, coming to mock you? Journalists writing about what you look like standing in the dock? Every expression, every gesture you make?”

Louisa’s face lost color. “No, of course not.”

“Then let me do my job and keep you out of court. I wish you didn’t hate me for it, but if the price of keeping you free is your hatred, so be it.” And a hard price to pay it was.

Louisa’s eyes glittered with tears. “No, I don’t hate you. You must know that. I never could.”

She was too beautiful. Her hair was coming down in soft little ringlets, the red shining in the April sunshine. Many English aristocratic families had Anglo-Saxon ancestry, and it was evident in Louisa—pale skin, bright hair, eyes of brilliant green. Fellows could drown himself in her beauty and never want to come up for air.

He caught her hands. The touch of her warm flesh sent his heart pounding and swept away the last fragment of his self-discipline.

He pulled her by her fisted hands against him, her soft body becoming the focus of his world. Fellows heard nothing, saw nothing but her beautiful face and eyes, her lips parting as he came down to her.

The first taste was intoxicating. Sweetness clung to Louisa’s lips from the tea she’d drunk, laced with sugar and cream.

He needed more. Fellows opened her mouth with his, sweeping his tongue inside. Louisa made a noise in her throat, and clutched the lapels on his coat. She kissed him clumsily, unpracticed, but eager.

She smelled of lilacs and dusty silk, and a warmth that was all Louisa. They were alone in silence and sunshine. Fellows slid his arms around her, finding the curve of her waist. Her bodice’s smooth fabric was thin, the bones of her corset the only barrier between him and her soft skin.

If he could strip away the layers of her—satin, lawn, lace—and touch her, he knew he’d fill the gaping hole in his life.

She was against him now, her breasts to his chest, her fingers tightening on his coat. Fellows tasted more of her. Her lips were soft, hot, but seeking, learning . . . wanting. He was hard for her, growing harder by the second.

I need her. I would do anything . . .

A sound outside the door made Fellows break the kiss. Louisa backed away, her eyes wide, breath coming fast. Fellows let her go, finding his fists clenched, his heart pounding, raw emotion tearing at his control.

But he needed control. They were in the Duke of Kilmorgan’s London house, with servants moving to and fro outside the door, the lady of the house likely to enter at any moment. Eleanor had slyly left them alone, but if she opened the door and found virginal Louisa in Fellows’ arms, he ravishing her mouth, even Eleanor wouldn’t be able to look the other way.

Louisa’s fingers went to her lips. The first time she’d kissed him, she’d smiled warmly at him. The second time, Fellows had left her abruptly and hadn’t seen her reaction. Now Louisa looked stunned, even ashamed.

Fellows made himself move around her to the door. He knew he should say something, a polite good-bye, but he couldn’t. Politeness had gone to hell and didn’t matter.

He found his hand shaking as he reached for the door handle, then he was in the hall, and going down the stairs, the encounter over.

No, not over. Fellows might have left Louisa behind, but he felt her hot kiss linger on his lips for the rest of the day and on into the night.

* * *

“Why aren’t you coming, exactly?” Louisa asked Eleanor six hours later.

“Because I am quite unwell.” Eleanor lounged on a sofa in her bedchamber, looking perfectly healthy as she bounced Alec on her knees. She wore a dressing gown instead of a ball gown, and was nowhere near ready to leave for Isabella’s supper ball.

Louisa in her finery had arrived at Eleanor and Hart’s, having agreed that Hart and Eleanor would escort her tonight. A young, unmarried lady did not go to a ball alone. When Louisa had argued that she could simply ride over to the assembly rooms with Isabella, Eleanor had negated the idea. If Louisa went with Isabella, she would be the sister working behind the scenes, not the young, eligible earl’s daughter announced to the crowd arriving with the Duke and Duchess of Kilmorgan.

Louisa had also questioned the need for them all to leave from the Grosvenor Square house—Hart and Eleanor could collect her from Isabella’s on their way. But no, Eleanor wanted them all to be seen leaving from the ducal mansion. She seemed adamant.

Usually it was easier to simply agree with Eleanor when she was determined, because she could talk any argument to death—Eleanor would go off onto many and varied tangents until everyone forgot what the original disagreement had been. What Eleanor wanted wasn’t unreasonable, so Louisa had given in before Eleanor had time to launch into one of her impossible speeches.

But now it seemed that Louisa was to go to the ball escorted by Hart, Beth, and Ian, while Eleanor remained at home to nurse a cold.

Cold, my foot.

Louisa said, “You do remember that Mr. Fellows asked you to converse tonight with the guests from the garden party?”

“Oh, you can do that, dear. And Beth can help you. She’s very good at making others open up.”

That, at least was true. Beth, married to the elusive Ian Mackenzie, was good at winning people over. But the thought of approaching the garden party guests unnerved Louisa a bit.

“Hart will be annoyed,” Louisa tried.

“Hart prefers I stay indoors and make my apologies if I don’t feel well. He never dances at balls anyway, and if he does not have to worry about me there, he’s free to spend the time coercing gentlemen into doing things for him. He so enjoys that. And he does not mind in the slightest escorting you. He calls you the only sensible woman in the family.”

Flattering from Hart, who tolerated so very few. “Hardly kind to you or the other Mackenzie ladies,” Louisa said.

“Hart also enjoys being rude. But in this case, I agree with him. Run along, dear.” Eleanor blew her a kiss. “You look absolutely beautiful in that gown. Isabella has wonderful taste, does she not? And it strikes just the right note.”

The gown was indeed beautiful. Isabella had taken Louisa to her modiste at the beginning of the Season to have Louisa fitted with an entire wardrobe, and had insisted on paying for the lot. Louisa had kept her protests to a minimum. She didn’t want to be ungrateful for her sister’s kindness, she did need the clothes, and also, it was true, Isabella had exquisite taste.

The ball gown for tonight was a cream and light sage green confection, the décolletage baring Louisa’s shoulders, the satin of the bodice hugging her waist. The underskirt was draped with cream lace, with a shimmering sage moiré overskirt pulled back and puffed over a bustle. The gown spoke of spring and light breezes, and set off Louisa’s red hair and green eyes to perfection.

Louisa crossed the room, leaned down, and kissed Eleanor’s cheek. She had no worry about catching Eleanor’s cold—she had as much chance of flying out the window.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, but I’ll go,” Louisa said. She pressed a kiss to Alec’s forehead. The lad clutched at her hair, but Louisa gently untangled his tiny fingers, kissed him again, and left them.

Hart waited outside the front door at the carriage, stepping back so Louisa could be handed in first. He did not look pleased, but he greeted Louisa civilly enough and handed her into the landau himself.

Louisa understood now why Eleanor had asked her to come to the house tonight—with Louisa here, Hart would not steadfastly refuse to go without Eleanor. Eleanor apparently counted on his sympathy and liking for Louisa to override his annoyance, an event that would be more certain if he had Louisa standing before him.

Beth and Ian were already in the coach, sitting opposite each other. Beth gave Louisa a warm hello and squeezed her hand as Louisa sat down beside her. Beth was with child again, already about four months gone, though her gown had been made to not show it yet. Louisa was surprised she’d wanted to come tonight, but Beth was a strong and resilient woman who loved soaking up enjoyment from Isabella’s parties.

Ian had his head turned, gazing out the window at passing traffic, and said nothing at all. Louisa knew him well enough not to be offended—Ian might be thinking deeply about some mathematical conundrum and not even realize she’d entered the carriage.

Hart swung in next to his youngest brother, a footman shut the door, and the carriage lurched into traffic.

The two gentlemen rode in the rear-facing seat, leaving the front-facing one for the ladies. Louisa put aside her mixed feelings about the ball and studied the two Mackenzie men. Both wore formal frock coats and waistcoats, wool kilts of Mackenzie blue and green plaid, thick socks, and finely crafted leather shoes. The landau was generously sized, plenty of room for all, but was still crowded by the two large Scotsmen.

The brothers were much alike and yet entirely different. Hart was the most reminiscent of their Highland ancestors, with his hard face and arrogance—an arrogance Louisa had seen soften a long way since he’d married Eleanor. Now behind the imperious glint in Hart’s eyes was the look of a man who’d found happiness. Rest. Peace. Love.

Ian too had found peace. He still possessed a restless energy, one that could focus with amazing precision on whatever task he wanted to undertake. Ian could dive into a complex, impossible mathematical problem, close his eyes, and find the solution in his head. He’d become so famous for this that mathematicians, physicists, and astronomers throughout Europe wrote to him for advice.

Ian had come to love with great difficulty, but once he’d found Beth, his life had blossomed. He was still shy, preferring to spend time home alone with Beth and his children, or at most, with his extended family. He didn’t like crowds, and he had the unnerving tendency to spring into a conversation with a non sequitur—though his declarations made perfect sense once Louisa worked out how he’d arrived at that particular statement.

Louisa liked Ian, finding him a unique man in the midst of a society that strove for perfect sameness. She thought him refreshing.

Perhaps the same sort of interest in the unique was what drew her to Inspector Fellows. She didn’t want to think of him at the moment, but she hadn’t been able to think about much except him after the searing kiss in Eleanor’s sitting room this afternoon. This kiss he had instigated, though Louisa had instantly and readily succumbed. She could still feel the press of his lips, his hard muscles under his coat, the strength of his hands as he held her.

Fellows had broken the kiss and abruptly walked away, and Louisa couldn’t blame him for that. He was trying to investigate a murder, and she should let him get on with his job. Their mouths falling together every time they were alone had to cease. They needed to be comfortable with each other, friends.

Friends. The word sounded so empty.

The landau halted in the street, a little way from the assembly rooms, inching forward with the line of carriages depositing guests at the door. So many carriages, so many people.

As they at last reached the entrance, and a footman snapped open the door, realization struck Louisa with an ice-cold slap. Eleanor had sent Louisa to go among those from the garden party and ask questions because she wanted Louisa to report directly to Fellows herself. It would stand to reason, El would explain in all innocence. Louisa had asked the questions; she would best know how to relate the answers.

The glint in Eleanor’s eye, her secret smile, her decision to leave Louisa and Fellows alone in the sitting room this afternoon . . . Louisa wanted to groan with dismay. Eleanor was a romantic—the only explanation for how she’d remained in love with Hart all these years. Now she was inventing a romance for Louisa.

Louisa hid her disquiet under a sunny smile for Hart, who held out his arm to her. Hart shot her a look of grave suspicion then schooled his expression to a neutral one and led her inside.

Chapter Eight

“Lord and Lady Ian Mackenzie,” the majordomo announced. “The Duke of Kilmorgan, Lady Louisa Scranton.”

The assembly rooms, giant spaces with tall, arched ceilings and wide chandeliers that dripped with crystal facets, already teemed with people. The ladies glittered under the light—diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires flashing rainbow colors on gowns of equally rainbow shades. Gentlemen and lords in white ties and flowing black coats moved among their ladies.

Everyone within hearing range of the majordomo’s booming voice turned to watch the duke and his party arrive. Any other night, Lord Ian and his nobody wife, Beth, might have been the object of scrutiny. Tonight, all eyes focused on Louisa.

The weight of their stares fell on her. The looks ranged from pure curiosity to sordid interest to outright disgust and disapproval. Here was a young woman who probably had poisoned the Bishop of Hargate, and she arrived bold as you please on the arm of the lofty Duke of Kilmorgan. Yes, he was her sister’s brother-in-law, but she was using him to shield her, wasn’t she? A proper young woman, who was an unmarried miss no less, should stay home and show the shame she ought.

The stares followed Louisa, in a pause that would have been awkward had not an orchestra already been playing to entertain the arrivals. Louisa’s pretty heeled slippers now seemed too tight, her dress too garish. Hart’s solid arm was the only thing that kept her upright as they moved to the receiving line.

Hart, not oblivious to the scrutiny, leaned to her and spoke in a low voice. “Face them down and to hell with them.”

Hart straightened up again, saying nothing more, but Louisa felt a little better. She drew a breath, rearranged her expression, and smiled warmly at a knot of young ladies who stared openly at her.

Hart was right, as usual. Louisa could do this. After all, she hadn’t killed Hargate, and she had nothing to be ashamed of.

“Good girl,” Hart said. He gave her arm a pat with his strong hand.

They reached their host and hostess, Mac and Isabella, who stood at the top of the long line of guests. Isabella’s dark blue satin ball gown was elegance itself, but she was careful not to outshine the other women present. Her role as hostess was to make the ladies of the ton feel welcome and special, not belittled, and Isabella took that role very seriously.

She gathered Louisa into a hug and kissed her cheek before she grasped Hart’s hands and kissed him as well. Isabella didn’t seem surprised in the least that Eleanor had not come with them. Louisa frowned at her, but Isabella turned away to greet Beth and Ian before Louisa could say a word.

“I’m glad you braved it.” Mac squeezed Louisa’s hands in his large ones before he kissed her cheek. “Remember, Louisa, we are always here to catch you.”

They were, especially Mac. Mac had been the one who’d pulled Isabella and Louisa’s family out of the fire when Earl Scranton’s fraud had been found out. If not for Mac and his machinations, Louisa’s family would never have survived.

“Thank you, Mac,” Louisa said, heartfelt.

Hart turned Louisa loose once they’d finished the greetings, he and Ian making straight for the gaming rooms. Beth took Louisa’s arm, and the two ladies headed for the withdrawing rooms to straighten gowns and repin hair.

This night should be the same as any other since Louisa’s come out. Louisa knew as many people as Isabella did, and even her father’s behavior hadn’t lost Louisa her friends. Money ebbed and flowed, Louisa hadn’t been to blame, it was vulgar to worry about finances anyway, and a good marriage could put everything right for her again. Louisa knew half the girls in London and was close friends with half of those—had been their bridesmaids, held their first children, gossiped with them, shared their memories of growing up in privileged Mayfair and country estates.

Louisa was not as well acquainted with the ladies who happened to be in the withdrawing rooms, but though they stared, they softened under Beth’s friendly smile—most people did. Louisa began to relax. As long as everyone was polite, the ball would be fine.

Louisa left for the main assembly rooms with Beth and quickly spied a knot of her friends. They were watching her, none of them making any pretense about staring at her and murmuring to each other. Louisa felt suddenly chilled.

Hart’s words came back to her. Face them down and to hell with them.

Nothing for it. Louisa could not cling to Beth all night. She slid away from Beth as Beth turned to other guests, and approached the ladies and gentlemen clustered together, watching her come.

“Adele, how are you?” Louisa held out her hands to a young woman she’d known since they’d been toddlers. “What a lovely gown. You are all the rage tonight.”

Lady Adele returned Louisa’s kiss on the cheek, but stiffly. “We hardly thought to see you here tonight, Louisa.”

“I did mean to stay home—I’ve been rather upset, as you might have guessed—but my sister coaxed me out. I couldn’t refuse her, when she had her heart set.” Louisa smiled, as though to say, What can you do with older sisters?

“Of course, but Louisa . . .” Adele smiled, but the smile was cool and condescending. “In spite of everything, you have never been anything but tasteful.”

Implying Louisa was not being tasteful now. Louisa saw that the rest of the group agreed with Adele. She’d known these people from childhood, had played in nurseries with them, ridden ponies with them, had made her debut with them. She’d flirted with the gentlemen, giggled with the ladies. And now they gazed upon her as though she were a stranger from a remote land.

“As I say, Isabella wished me to see friends,” Louisa said, pretending not to notice. “She thought I’d feel better in company.”

“It is a lovely gown,” another lady said, looking Louisa up and down. “Very . . . bright.”

“Jane,” Louisa said, all but stopping herself from snarling at her. “You’ve known me long enough to know I dislike hints and insinuations. If you believe I should put on mourning and bury myself at home, say so clearly and have done. I did not know the Bishop of Hargate and his family very well. It’s a terrible thing that happened to him. My sympathies lie with his family, of course, where they should. It would be unfair to them for me to claim the entirety of the grief, as though what happened to the bishop was about me and my feelings alone.”

Jane flushed, but she remained resolute. “Very well, Louisa, I’ll be plain. Putting on a pretty new dress and sailing in all cheerful as though nothing had happened isn’t quite the thing, is it?”

“I am anything but cheerful,” Louisa said, striving to keep her tone even. “My sister thought the gown would put me in better spirits. She and my sisters-in-law convinced me to come, because they thought I should go out and see people. I’m certain they believed I’d find sympathy among my oldest and dearest friends.”

Instead of being admonished, the ladies and gentlemen looked annoyed, and Adele laughed. “Louisa, my dear, it’s becoming a dangerous thing to be your friend.”

One of the gentlemen laughed as well. The four young men behind the ladies were those she’d played tag with in the meadows of Kent and danced with after her come out. One gentleman looked at Louisa as though he’d never seen her before, and another was glancing about for a way to escape without appearing rude.

“I do beg your pardon for my sister Jane,” the gentleman who’d laughed said. “You see, Mama has told her—and me—to stay away from you. I’m afraid your dance card won’t be very full tonight. Word is circulating that you’re poison.” He laughed again, proud he’d made a joke.

“You aren’t funny, Samuel,” Jane said. “But it’s true, Louisa. We have been advised to keep our distance.”

“I see.” Louisa’s chest tightened as she looked at them, finding no sympathy in their faces. “I see now what years of friendship can count for.” She’d cared for Adele and Jane, but their expressions were stony tonight, all caring gone.

“Not their fault,” Samuel said. “It’s just that murder is so sordid. Not the done thing, you know.” He mimed stabbing with a knife, still grinning.

“I did nothing to him.” Louisa gave Samuel a hard look. “I had hoped my closest friends would believe me.”

“It doesn’t matter, does it?” Samuel asked. “No chap is going to risk being at your side tonight, Louisa darling. He’ll always worry about taking a sip of his tea, or his claret, or his port, or his brandy, or his—”

“What the devil is this?” a new voice said.

Louisa started, and looked around to see the Honorable Gilbert Franklin, who’d stopped in time to hear the last comments. Gilbert was one of Louisa’s oldest friends—they’d lived next door to each other as children, and Louisa had been maid of honor to Gil’s sister last summer. She hadn’t seen much of either of them since, until Gil had turned up at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ now-infamous garden party.

Gilbert cast a disparaging gaze over the little group. “Are you telling me, Sam, that after all these years, you still have no idea how to behave to a lady? I believe that in this glorious England, we think a person innocent of a crime until proven otherwise, do we not? Doesn’t Louisa deserve that same faith? Or at the very least, your respect?” Gil spoke in pleasant tones, as he always did, but his look was sharp, his words direct.

Samuel had the grace to be abashed. Gilbert was well liked, and now the others looked embarrassed, no longer laughing.

“How are you, Louisa?” Gil stuck out his hand and squeezed Louisa’s when she put hers into his. “I’m happy to see you tonight. I know you have been painfully upset, and I’ll wager none of these louts have decided to rally ’round and make you feel better.”

Adele bridled. “Really, Gil.”

“Yes, really, Del,” Gil said. “I never thought you so heartless. Louisa, I believe the first set is forming in the ballroom. Will you do me the honor? And if your dance card has remained empty tonight, I will happily fill it.”

The others had gone deathly silent. Gil’s strong fingers remained around Louisa’s hand.

Louisa’s heart pounded. Every part of her had been wanting to flee back across Mayfair to the sanctuary of Isabella’s house, where she could go up to the nursery and make herself feel better sitting with the children. Being around Isabella’s children always comforted her, and they did not believe her a murderess.

Now Gil’s wash of sympathy nearly undid her. He was handing Louisa a lifeline, coming to her rescue. Refusing him and running would be as churlish as Adele and her friends were being to Louisa. The Hon. Gil was well liked, well-bred, well-dressed, attractive, wealthy, and intelligent. His stamp of approval could save her life.

Louisa smiled at him in true gratitude. “Of course. I would indeed love to dance. Excuse me, my friends. I hope you enjoy Isabella’s entertainments.”

She wouldn’t cut them dead, much as she longed to. She would not be as petty as they were being. She bowed graciously to the collective group, who had to return the bow or be forever branded as uncouth.

Gil led Louisa away, keeping such a quick pace she didn’t have time to say anything to him until they stood in line for the opening dance, an old-fashioned country dance. Waltzing would take up the rest of the night—with pauses for Scottish reels, since this was a Mackenzie party after all—but Isabella always opened her balls with country dances.

Gil knew these dances as well as he knew everything else. Gil had always been there, in the background of Louisa’s life, she now realized. He’d been brother to her dear friend, playing with the two girls as children, teaching them cricket in their adolescence, escorting them to parties after their come outs, quietly shrugging off their praise about his academic honors at university. Gil was the perfect gentleman, so perfect one didn’t always notice him, because he did his best to efface himself and not push in front of others.

On the other hand, everyone in Louisa’s set considered Gil’s opinion highly important. If Gil had taken Adele’s and Samuel’s part this evening, her social ruin would have been assured. The fact that Gil had admonished them would be all over Mayfair by the end of the set.

“Thank you for taking pity on me,” Louisa said as they came together in the dance.

“Nonsense, Louisa, I meant every word of it.”

“Nevertheless, it was kind.”

Gil gave her a warm smile. “You deserve much more than to be snubbed by Samuel and Jane, believe me.”

The dance took them apart, but Gil’s smile remained, like an anchor in the swirling madness. Louisa knew he’d done her a great favor, simply from the goodness of his heart. She’d have to find a way to thank the man who’d just saved her from being an outcast at her own sister’s ball.

* * *

How the devil Hart had talked him into stuffing himself into this suit and walking into Isabella Mackenzie’s supper ball, Fellows had no idea.

His mother had been all for it, though. Fellows hadn’t mentioned the invitation to his mother, because he knew exactly what she’d say. But Isabella must have written to her, because she brought it up immediately when Fellows had visited her earlier this evening.

The Mackenzie wives had taken to writing to Mrs. Fellows, who loved receiving the letters from the women she termed the “la-de-da ladies.” She read every single missive out to Fellows, and she wrote back to them. She’d been invited to the ball as well, and she laughed about it.

“Imagine me in a ballroom with a bunch of toffs,” she’d said. “A right git I’d look. I was a tavern maid like me mum before me, and my sister was too, and that’s all there is to that.” She’d softened. “It’s a kindness, I know. They don’t really expect me to come. But you, my boy—you go and show them there ain’t nothing wrong with you. You’re the son of a duke, and you should have been the duke. Now you go and show Lord Hart you’re the better brother.”

“Huh,” Fellows said, falling into the cadence of his youth. “A right git I’ll look in a fancy suit, Mum, and you know it.”

“Don’t throw my words back at me, boy. You’re not so big I can’t still smack you about.”

Catherine Fellows was five feet high, a bit rotund from the ale she liked to drink, and had wrinkles lining her face from the laughter she loved so much. Lloyd towered over her with the tallness of the Mackenzies, coupled with their strength.

“You’re half my height, woman,” Fellows said, ruffling her hair fondly. “And you’ve got the tongue of a viper.”

“Yeah? Then I have half a mind to buy a posh dress and go to this do, just to show you. I’ll drag you along by your ear, see if I don’t.”

“Leave off, I’m going. And not because of you. If you think you can scold, you’ve not had the four Mackenzie ladies stand in front of you and ask you why you didn’t do what they asked. Frighten a man out of ten years’ growth, they can.”

“I think they’re sweet girls,” Catherine said, abruptly ceasing her bantering. “Good manners. So kind to me. No, indeed, you can’t disappoint them.” Her look turned shrewd. “What about Lady Louisa? Does she frighten you out of ten years’ growth?”

Fellows often discussed his cases with his mother, who for all her talk about being only a tavern maid had good perception about her fellow man. A lifetime of carrying about ale in a public house, she said, had honed her understanding. In Fellows’ opinion, she’d have made an excellent detective if she’d been born male. Her insights had helped him see a case clearly more than once.

Those insights, unfortunately, made Catherine realize that Fellows viewed Louisa as more than a suspect, and more than simply his sister-in-law’s younger sister. He’d been careful to bury the fact that he thought about Louisa day and night, waking and sleeping. Every time he drew breath, in fact. But Fellows had learned long ago that he could never hide things from his mother.

“Let it lie, Mum.” Fellows leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“You’re every bit as good as her, you know,” Catherine said. “Your dad was a duke. Her dad was only an earl. And now her distant cousin is earl, and stingy from what I hear.”

“I’m a police detective,” Fellows said. “I’m let into the great houses by the tradesman’s entrance. That’s the end of it.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Catherine said.

Fellows pretended not to hear, gave his mother another kiss, and departed. Back at his flat—four large rooms in a building off the Strand that had recently been refurbished—he dressed in the coat and waistcoat Eleanor had bullied him into being fitted for by Hart’s tailor. Under that was a new lawn shirt, high collar, and cravat.

On bottom . . . Fellows studied the blue and green Mackenzie plaid kilt laid out across his bed. He’d worn it before, at Christmas at Kilmorgan, feeling strange with wool wrapping his hips, air circulating his thighs. Scotsmen had to be mad.

But Fellows was a Scotsman, or at least half a Scotsman, one of the family Mackenzie. He’d spent his boyhood trying and failing to be acknowledged by them. And then he’d hated them. The hatred had wound so long and so deep it was difficult to put aside.

He was tired of anger. Anger was a poison, leeching into a man and stealing everything he was. While anger had allowed Fellows to reach great heights in his profession, he’d also jeopardized his career and even his life because of it. Now he might jeopardize Louisa.

He put on the kilt and combed his hair, or tried to. His hair never stayed put, the short strands going wherever they wished. At least he’d had time to shave.

Nothing he could do about the healing bruises and nicks on his face, though. Evidence of his fight with the Marylebone Killer was still present. The bruises were now turning yellow and green, the cuts scabbed over, but dark red.

If Isabella didn’t like them, he couldn’t help it. She’d already seen them anyway.

And Louisa? She likely wouldn’t be there. Fellows had told her not to go out until this was over, and Louisa had seemed inclined to agree. Louisa had spirit, but she was no fool.

So it was with great shock that Fellows walked into the assembly rooms to see Louisa waltzing with a handsome young man, laughing up at him, her eyes bright, joy on her face.

Chapter Nine

Fellows had entered the assembly rooms through a side door, not wanting to endure the nonsense of the stiff-necked majordomo shouting his name to all present. How bloody stupid would that sound? The Duke and Duchess of Almond Paste, the Princess of Peach Pie, and . . . er . . . Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows of Scotland Yard. The company would suppose he’d come to arrest someone.

If Fellows could clap cuffs around the wrists of the young man dancing with Louisa, he’d do it in a trice. Fellows’ eyes narrowed as he assessed him. Expensively dressed—well, he would be if he’d been invited here. Golden hair gleaming under the chandeliers, every strand of that hair in place. Handsome face, just hard enough not to be feminine, skin unmarred by bruises or cuts.

The young man danced with ease, gliding Louisa around the ballroom without missing a step. The perfect gentleman.

Louisa looked up at her partner with laughter in her eyes, talking easily with him, smiling at him. She looked relaxed and happy, not stiff and frightened as she had this afternoon when Fellows had entered Eleanor’s sitting room. And then Fellows had given up on discipline and kissed Louisa. Hard.

She’d gazed at him in anger and fear . . . no wide smile, no sparkle in her eyes. Those were reserved for the young man currently with his hand on Louisa’s waist. A fist tightened around Fellows’ heart until he could barely breathe.

Something in the back of Fellows’ mind told him to find his host and hostess, to speak to them, to pretend to be civilized. But Fellows couldn’t pull his gaze from Louisa. The rest of the ballroom didn’t matter, nor did the people in it. The only thing that existed was Louisa dancing on light feet, tiny diamonds glittering in her hair, her froth of cream and green skirts spinning around and around. She wore a black ribbon with a white cameo around her throat, which emphasized her lush femininity as well as her erotic beauty.

The splendor of her—the whole of her—was like a physical blow. As Fellows stood, alone among a sea of people, watching her, he realized what she meant to him.

Everything.

“What’s the matter, Uncle Fellows?” a voice said beside him. “You look like someone has just punched you in the gut.”

Daniel Mackenzie, Fellows’ tall nephew, had stopped next to him, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Daniel already had the hard look of his father, Cameron, though his lanky body still showed his nineteen-year-old youth.

“Or maybe punched you in the face,” Daniel continued, casting a critical eye over Fellows’ bruises. “I take it the other bloke looks worse?”

Fellows’ gaze went back to Louisa. “The other bloke is in Newgate awaiting trial. And, yes, he looks worse.”

Daniel chuckled. “Good for you. A villain, is he?”

“One of the worst. Don’t waste sympathy on him.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Daniel turned to look where Fellows’ attention had been dragged. “Ah. That explains the gut blow.”

Fellows wrenched his gaze away from Louisa again. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“I’m not a fool, Uncle. Our Louisa is beautiful. Why wouldn’t you fall for her?”

In all his life, Fellows had never considered marrying, no matter how many dalliances or flirtations he’d had. He’d assumed himself too buried in his work, too ruthless and suspicious, or simply not interested in marriage. He’d never seen a good example of it, had he? He’d spent his childhood wishing he belonged to a family who’d made it clear he wasn’t wanted. He’d grown up with a mother angry at a rich man who’d charmed her, used her, and cast her aside.

None of that had relevance now. As Fellows looked at Louisa, he knew why he’d never married. He’d been waiting for her. And now she danced and laughed with a young man of her class who held her admiration.

“She’s not exactly our Louisa,” Fellows said. “Yours, maybe.”

He felt Daniel studying him. His irritation rose. Daniel gave him a knowing, and also sympathetic, grin. “Ask her to dance,” Daniel said.

“I don’t dance.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Never had a dancing master.”

“I advise you to learn. Ladies love a gentleman who can spin them about the floor. Once they know you can dance, they’ll follow you anywhere.”

“You speak from experience?”

“Aye, that I do.”

None of the Mackenzie men had ever had trouble attracting women, and Daniel, despite his youth, was no different. The ladies here, of his age and a few years older, were eyeing him with interest. Daniel was young, virile, handsome, and rich. He would come into the money left to him in trust by his mother when he was twenty-one, and would inherit everything Cameron had at Cameron’s death. Then he’d be a wealthy man indeed, and powerful. The fact that he stood a few steps removed from a dukedom only added to his desirability.

“Watch yourself,” Fellows advised. “One of these hopeful mamas will have you in the noose before you know it, if you’re not careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Daniel said, speaking with confidence above his years. “But the matrons have started flinging the debutantes at me, haven’t they? Some of these girls are barely out of the schoolroom. They should still be in short skirts and pigtails.”

“That’s aristos for you. Marry young, repent for many years to come.”

“And put seventeen heirs in the nursery while you’re at it,” Daniel finished. “Cynical, Uncle. Whatever happened to true love?”

“Love is for the middle class,” Fellows said. “The poor can’t afford it, and neither can the rich.”

“A sad thing to say, but probably true. These mamas who are eyeing me like sharks would be devastated to know I don’t plan to marry for many years. First, I’m going to travel the wide earth, and then learn how to build all the machines I have in my mind. The world’s on the brink of great change. Many people fear the change, but I want to be at its forefront, looking down its throat.”

“The enthusiasm of the young,” Fellows said.

“Not only the young. I know plenty of older chaps ready to face it with me. Now if I can ever find a lady like that—she’s who I’d marry.”

Fellows had already returned to watching Louisa. “Perhaps you and Louisa should make a match of it.”

Daniel’s attention came back from his future, and he bent his shrewd stare on his uncle. “Louisa and I have become great friends,” he said, as though choosing his words with care. “But no. I don’t believe we would suit.”

“Maybe not now. In a few years, though . . .”

“No. I’m thinking that in a few years, she won’t still be waiting.”

Daniel was right. Louisa shone with brilliance. She was kind, warmhearted, and stronger than she understood. As soon as Fellows proved her innocence and all this blew over, Louisa would be snapped up by any of a string of eligible bachelors. The newspapers would make much of the marriage between the earl’s daughter and some sprig of aristocracy. She’d marry in glory, and then be gone. She might greet Fellows at family parties, but Louisa would have her own life, no longer connected with his.

Louisa and her partner whirled closer to the corner in which Fellows and Daniel stood. Daniel lifted his whiskey glass in salute. Louisa smiled back at him, then her gaze landed on Fellows.

Her smile vanished, and the light drained from her face as though someone had extinguished a lamp. She stumbled. The gentleman with her caught her, so smoothly no one but Fellows and Daniel saw the near fall.

The gentleman said something to her, and Louisa laughed. The light returned, she spun away from Fellows, and resumed the dance.

Fellows felt as though someone had crushed all the air out of him. He might as well be lying at the bottom of a pile of bricks, with no hope of clawing his way out.

When he could manage to speak again, Fellows asked sharply, “Who is he?”

“Gilbert Franklin. The Honorable. His dad’s an earl. England’s bloody thick with earls, don’t you think? Can’t turn around without tripping over one. He was at the notorious garden party, you know. If he’s sweet on Louisa, he might have a reason to do in Hargate. You could always arrest him and ask him.”

Daniel wasn’t smiling, but amusement definitely hovered near. Fellows turned a cold look on him.

“I don’t arrest people and get them convicted for my convenience,” Fellows said. “My job is to find true villains and keep them from hurting others.”

Was Daniel cowed at the admonishment? No, his grin broke free. “Ah ha—so you admit it would be to your convenience.”

Fellows scowled. “You probably should go off on your world travels soon, Danny. Might take the cockiness out of you.”

“I doubt that.” Daniel gave him a tip of his glass. “I doubt it very much.”

Daniel turned and sauntered away. Fellows watched him go, reflecting that however arrogant Daniel was, he was smart and too perceptive for his own good.

He looked back at the dance floor, but Louisa had gone. Fellows craned to see her, but her shining red hair glittering with diamonds had vanished.

Fellows circled around the crowd to search for her again, even while he growled at himself for doing it.

* * *

“I’m fine, really,” Louisa said. Gilbert had her seated on a divan at the end of the ballroom. He’d brought lemonade and an ice, and then sat down and held them for her while she partook. “You don’t need to stay with me.”

“I need to look after you,” Gil said reasonably. “You might have a sprain, and it would be my fault. It is either this or I carry you out of the ballroom in my arms, and what would people think?”

“Don’t be so silly.” But Louisa smiled. Gil had the knack of making people feel better.

She’d stumbled in her too-high heels because she’d seen Lloyd Fellows standing at the edge of the ballroom. He’d been wearing a kilt—one of the Mackenzie plaids that Hart had thrust upon him. It fit him well, hugging his hips, smooth against his thighs, showing his strong legs below its hem. He wore a coat as finely tailored as any man’s here, though it looked better on him because he had the body to fill it out.

The bruises from whatever brawl he’d been in were obvious on his face, though he was clean-shaven tonight. He looked like a warrior who’d taken time off fighting to look in on civilization.

No, Fellows didn’t fit among these soft-faced people. There was still too much of the brute Highlander about him for civilized company. He fought battles out in the world so the ladies and gentlemen in this ballroom could walk about in peace.

“Louisa?” Gil was looking at her. She’d missed what he’d just said.

“I do beg your pardon. I believe my ankle hurts more than I thought it did.” She lied, but Louisa needed a reason to cover for her distracted state.

Gil looked concerned. “Shall I fetch Isabella? Call for your coach?”

“No, no. I only wrenched it a bit. I’ll sit here quietly and watch the dancing.”

“Then I will sit with you.”

Gil handed the empty ice bowl to a passing waiter, fetched another lemonade for Louisa and champagne for himself and sat down with her again. Not too close—no one in the ballroom seeing them seated on the far sides of a divan would think anything inappropriate was afoot. Then again, the two of them even occupying the same piece of furniture might start people talking. Anything for gossip.

“Really, there is no need for you to miss enjoying yourself,” Louisa said. “I will be well.”

Gil leaned closer. “Louisa, you weren’t well when I first spied you here. That idiot Samuel talks more than his brains should let him, and his sister and Adele were being vicious. I’d rather not leave you alone to their knives again. Besides, I can enjoy myself quite well sitting with you.”

Louisa’s face heated at the same time something inside her warmed. “You’re very flattering tonight.”

“Not at all. I was unbelievably distressed about what happened at the garden party. I wanted to comfort you there, but I was shunted away home. I came here tonight hoping to see you again. And I have.”

Louisa smiled at the same time she let her gaze rove the ballroom. She couldn’t see Fellows anywhere. Had he made for the card rooms? Or left the ball altogether? “You’ve always been a friend, Gil,” she said, more to keep up her end of the conversation than anything else. “So kind to the hanger-on of your sister.”

“Oh, I think you know I’ve always viewed you as far more than a hanger-on, Louisa. Or a friend.”

Louisa, with difficulty, pulled her attention back to Gil. His expression was serious, no teasing. She tried to laugh. “I’m not sure I’m in the proper mood for flirting, Gil, dear.”

“And you know it is not flirting.”

Gil’s affable blue eyes held something quiet and heartfelt. Oh, dear.

But, then again, why not? the sensible side of Louisa asked. Gil was the obvious answer to Louisa’s current troubles as well as her quest for matrimony. Louisa still wanted to marry—she wanted a home of her own, respect, children.

An unmarried miss had little say in the world. She lived with her married sister or brother or childhood friend, and was a helper, a companion, an appendage. A married woman, on the other hand, was viewed with respect and even admiration if her marriage was a good one. She could become a great hostess, a leader of her set, a powerful force in her world.

The Honorable Gil was one of the most respected gentlemen in England. He would one day be an earl. Louisa had known him all her life, and they rubbed along well together. His friends were her friends. Gil and Louisa would, in fact, make the perfect couple.

So why did her heart beat too quickly as she caught a glimpse of Inspector Fellows again, her hands grow moist, and her feet long to thump to the floor and carry her away from both of them?

Louisa drew a sharp breath. “Gil—my dearest friend—I’m not sure I am strong enough to hear declarations tonight.”

Instantly Gil went solicitous. “Then I won’t make any. Not tonight. Don’t worry. I’m not the pestering sort. But I will sit here and make sure no one else pesters you.”

“Thank you. It’s good of you.”

“If you’d like to think so.”

Gil sat for a moment with her in silence, giving her time to master herself, then he started up with a conversation that had nothing to do with the two of them, Louisa’s predicament, or the poisoning.

He was nice, really. Kind. Generous. Warmhearted. Completely different from the man who came around the dancers in his kilt, a tailored coat stretched over his strong shoulders. He held a champagne glass in one hand, looking as though he didn’t know what to do with it, and walked beside Mac Mackenzie, paying half attention to whatever Mac was jabbering about.

Fellows saw Louisa and sent her a sharp look, then one to Gil. The look stabbed Louisa all the way through, and then the blow doubled as Fellows started to turn away again.

Mac, with seeming nonchalance, blocked Fellows’ escape. Fellows would either have to turn back to the divan or push Mac bodily aside to get around him. The look on Fellows’ face told Louisa he preferred to shove his way out, but at the last minute he let Mac chivvy him toward the divan and the two sitting there.

Gil rose to meet them. “Mac, how are you? Well met, Chief Inspector. Can you tell us how the case is going? If you’ve found the man responsible yet? Or are you allowed to say?”

Gil asked with sincere curiosity, and also with obvious concern for Louisa’s part in it. Mac’s expression said he showed the same concern. Only Fellows looked furious. He did not want to discuss the case at all, and Mac and Gil pushing him into it made him angry.

“It is all right, Chief Inspector,” Louisa said quickly. “You do not have to tell us. I understand that more gossip about it would not be good.”

If anything, Fellows looked even more angry. “There is very little to say. The investigation is ongoing. We are pursuing several leads.”

“Have you had any luck tracing the chap Louisa saw rolling out from under the tent?” Gil asked in all innocence.

“Not yet.”

“He’s the guilty one, must be.” Gil emphasized his words with little jerks of the hand that held his champagne glass.

“No doubt,” Fellows said, his tone dry.

“It might have been a woman,” Louisa broke in. “I couldn’t be certain, as I said.” She directed the words at Fellows, but he was watching Gil, assessing him. Possibly wondering how he’d look in handcuffs.

“No, a man,” Mac said, shaking his head. “I’ll wager it was a man in the tent. Stands to reason. A woman would be hampered by skirts and bustles and all the paraphernalia women seem to wear.”

Gil smiled. “I find the paraphernalia charming.”

“Entrancing,” Mac said, winking at Louisa. “I call it utterly entrancing.”

“An even better word,” Gil agreed.

Fellows looked annoyed. Louisa could see that at this moment, he didn’t find women or their paraphernalia charming or entrancing, or even remotely interesting. He was again stuck in a society party where he didn’t feel comfortable, coerced by his brothers and sisters-in-law to do what he didn’t want to do. A fish out of water, was the saying.

“It is good of you to help, Mr. Fellows,” Louisa said, to try to fill the break in conversation. “I am grateful.”

Fellows scowled at her. “It’s a murder, and it’s my job.” He clicked the champagne glass onto the tray of a passing waiter and made a little bow. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Louisa.”

He walked away without further word, and this time, Mac didn’t try to stop him.

Chapter Ten

The pain in Louisa’s ankle became nothing to the pain in her heart as she watched Inspector Fellows fade back into the crowd, finished with her. Ladies and gentlemen parted for his broad frame, looking after him with curiosity. Louisa felt suddenly hollow, as though something important had just been lost to her.

“I beg your pardon, Louisa,” she heard Gil saying, as though from a long way off. “And Mac. I think I’ve gone and put my foot in it.”

Louisa turned back to him. “No, no. He’s—”

“Bloody rude sometimes,” Mac finished. “He’s a Mackenzie. No need to apologize, Franklin, or for you to make excuses for him, Louisa. El and Isabella coaxed Fellows into coming tonight, and he didn’t want to. He’s busy. I don’t blame him for being out of sorts.”

“I shouldn’t have needled him about the case,” Gil said. “I admit I’m dashed curious, though, having been at the party myself. As well as being anxious for Louisa.”

For heaven’s sake. Men could excuse each other over the worst offenses when they wanted to—oh, he didn’t mean to overturn the entire dining table and swing out of the room on the chandelier; he was out of sorts because he lost ten guineas at cards, poor fellow.

“If you will excuse me, gentlemen.” Louisa got to her feet, pretending not to wince at the twinge in her ankle. “I should be assisting Isabella instead of lounging about. Thank you for all the dances, Gil. It was kind of you. Stay and converse with him, Mac. I won’t need an escort across a room full of family and friends.”

Gil and Mac both stared at her, then Gil remembered his manners and bowed, his expression polite. Mac only frowned at her. Louisa knew she’d be in for it when she got home—Mac and Izzy would sit her down and quiz her about her jumpiness, but for now, Louisa just wanted air.

At least Gil was courteous enough to let her go. Mac clearly wondered what she was up to, but he too let her go, his duties as host keeping him too busy to pursue her.

She was not following Mr. Fellows to ask him why he was so angry with her. Not at all. Louisa held her skirts as she slid past the crowd at the perimeter of the dance floor. She would not admit that her gaze roved them, looking for a broad-shouldered man in black with close-shorn, mussed hair.

Before the murder at the garden party, Louisa could never have moved through a ballroom without being stopped every few feet and pulled into delighted conversation. Tonight, too many people turned away when she flowed by, too many people pretended not to see her.

Louisa ground her teeth, her temper rising. They had no business snubbing her. She’d done nothing wrong. Her only crime had been foolishly letting Mrs. Leigh-Waters talk her into entering the tea tent with Hargate. If Louisa had refused and gone to wait for the croquet match with Isabella, she would even now be talking and laughing with her friends and acquaintances as usual, having a fine time at Isabella’s splendid supper ball.

Strange how life could alter so greatly with one decision, one spin of a coin. Into the tea tent or not, speak to the bishop or stand with her sister.

Fellows’ declaration that the world was not a safe place haunted her too. Of course it wasn’t safe. But Louisa had lived a sheltered existence, growing up believing that bad things would always be kept far from her. She’d learned, too late, that this wasn’t always the case.

Fellows, on the other hand, had lived life in its raw state, seeing all the horrors of it. He’d been raised on the backstreets of St. Giles, learning about crime and criminals firsthand. If the old Duke of Kilmorgan had been a kind man and had taken Fellows in to raise, his life would have been entirely different, perhaps as pampered and sheltered as Louisa’s. Fellows could never inherit the dukedom, regardless, having been born out of wedlock, but the duke could have given him a good education, settled unentailed money on him, and allowed him to pursue a gentlemanly profession.

Another choice, in another time, that had changed a man’s entire life.

Louisa reached the other side of the ballroom rather quickly, her ankle not hurting near as much anymore, but her temper was getting the better of her. By the time she ducked into a cool back hall, she wanted to scream or do something unladylike such as beat on a wall. To add to her frustration, she had not seen Fellows anywhere.

She knew she’d never be able to go back into the assembly rooms and speak civilly with anyone. If anyone condescended to even talk to her. But Louisa rushing out and home without a word to Isabella would look churlish and cowardly. As much as it hurt her, Louisa had to stay here and face them all, as Hart had advised her to. Make them know she was not in the wrong and had nothing to be ashamed of.

Having been to these assembly rooms on many occasions, Louisa knew there was a quiet room at the end of this hall—an office or some such. Though the office was not in use during the balls and other gatherings, guests sometimes slipped inside it to seek calm moments or for assignations.

Louisa hoped no dallying couple occupied its sanctuary tonight. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found the dim room empty, then jumped when a man stood up from the high-backed chair in front of the fireplace.

Her heart went to her throat when she saw the broad shoulders and glint of red hair of a Mackenzie. Then her breath went out again when she realized which Mackenzie it was.

“Ian.” Louisa’s legs shook as she made her way across the small room and gave up altogether as she collapsed to the chair. “I’m glad it’s you.”

Ian pulled out the desk’s chair and sat down on it, not responding to her statement. He might not know what she meant—or he might have understood, thought of five different answers, and decided to say none of them. That was Ian’s way.

Silence settled over the room, which was lit only by firelight. Restful. Ian never expected a person to say something simply to say something. He had no use for banalities or meaningless conversation, for talking to pass the time. Louisa didn’t ask whether she disturbed him. If she had, he’d have walked out of the room without a word and sought another refuge.

“I always wondered at your aversion to crowds,” Louisa said. “Until tonight. Now I understand perfectly.”

Ian’s eccentricities were well-known and well talked about. Whenever he walked into a gathering, people stopped, stared, whispered. Even if they didn’t whisper, Ian had difficulty with the focus of too much attention at once. He was better with one person at a time.

Ian said nothing about Louisa’s sudden compassion, didn’t nod, and silence descended again.

Presently, Louisa let out an exasperated breath. “I say botheration to the lot of them. They’ve damned me for having the misfortune of standing beside a man while he died. I was the object of pity before the garden party; now I am an object of disgust. Well, I am tired of it already, I must say.”

Ian didn’t answer. He was studying the room, the worn books in the shelves, the desk empty of papers, locked for the night. The office’s one window was heavily curtained, shutting out the night, the only light the coal fire which would soon die.

“They expect Mr. Fellows to haul me away to jail,” Louisa said, the words tumbling out. “They are wondering why he hasn’t already done so. I think they were hoping he’d come tonight to arrest me. Wouldn’t that have been titillating?” She gave a short laugh. “Well, they will just have to live without it. I didn’t poison Hargate, and I refuse to be condemned for it. There must be something I can do to prove my innocence.”

Ian had tilted his head back to study the ceiling. Louisa couldn’t stop herself looking up at it too. It was quite pretty, laid out in squares of molding, with filigree in the corners of the squares. Instead of being whitewashed, the wood was in its natural state, rich walnut, which made the room both dark and elegant.

Ian probably hadn’t heard a word Louisa had said. He did that sometimes, let a person babble on, not answering. In his head, he’d be working out a mathematical problem, or thinking of every word his little girl and boy had said today, or thinking about Beth and the baby she would have by autumn. This room, Louisa, the supper ball—this part of London, even—might not exist for him.

“I wish he understood,” Louisa went on, not minding that Ian didn’t answer. “If not for him, I would probably be in Newgate right now, or under house arrest. Something dreadful anyway, while men gathered evidence for my trial. But Mr. Fellows won’t stand still and talk to me. What is wrong with me, Ian, that makes him turn away or not want to be in the same room with me at all?”

Ian still didn’t answer, and Louisa had stopped expecting him to. “We are in completely different worlds, he and I, and I don’t know if we can ever cross the chasm between them. I see him at places like this, and he is so unhappy. He doesn’t want to be here.” Louisa gave another laugh. “A bit like you, Ian. Mr. Fellows doesn’t like this world; he prefers the one he made for himself. I wish he could see that his world is a good one. He does something. People like Gil are wonderful—Gil is good at making people feel happy. But he’s never had to worry about anything in his life, has he? If everything were stripped from Gil, would he be the same? I know Lloyd would be. Even if all Inspector Fellows had worked for was taken from him, he’d still walk straight through it all, come what may.”

Louisa stopped, finally running out of breath. The room had cooled with the night and dying fire. Ian sat comfortably in the darkness, the low firelight touching his face.

Louisa closed her eyes, deciding to be silent with him. She had nothing more to say, and her heart was burning.

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” Ian said.

Louisa popped her eyes open. Ian had turned to her, watching her. In the past Ian had had trouble looking into a person’s eyes, but tonight he was relaxed, thoughtful, and easily meeting her gaze.

Louisa blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs. Leigh-Waters,” Ian repeated, as though waiting for Louisa to catch up.

“What about her?”

“You should speak to her.”

Louisa tried to remember all she’d said since she’d come in and which part Ian was responding to. “You mean I should talk to her about the garden party again?”

Ian made a slow nod. “She invited the guests.”

Louisa sat still a moment, turning his words over in her mind. What Ian said always had deeper meaning than his listener first supposed.

She invited the guests. Mrs. Leigh-Waters hadn’t asked her entire social circle to her garden party—the guest list had been fairly exclusive. Why had she invited certain people and not others?

“Hmm,” Louisa said. “I think I see what you mean.”

Ian turned his head and looked away, finished with the discussion.

“Thank you, Ian.”

A small clock on a shelf struck midnight. Outside the windows, church clocks in Mayfair and beyond took up the chime.

Ian rose, pulled out his pocket watch, checked it against the clocks, and made a minute adjustment. “I’ll go to Beth now. She will be tired.”

So that was why Ian had come in here—he was counting the minutes until he could take Beth home. Beth would have insisted on staying a polite amount of time; Ian would have insisted on an exact hour to take their leave. They always worked out their differences so beautifully.

“Tell Beth good night for me,” Louisa said.

The clocks were still chiming, and Ian didn’t wait on ceremony. He walked swiftly out of the room without a good-bye, as though he had to reach Beth before the last stroke of midnight. Ian pursuing his Cinderella.

They’d endured so much, Ian and Beth, had found each other through fire and fog. They deserved every moment of the happiness they had now.

Louisa supposed she ought to go home with them. Fellows had likely departed, and Louisa had no desire to return to the ballroom and paste a false smile on her face for a few more hours. Beth would not mind dropping Louisa at Isabella’s on the way home.

Ian had already disappeared, however, by the time Louisa had made up her mind and left the office. She found no sign of Ian in the back hall or in the corridor that led around to the front door.

The foyer was still full of people, though not the crush that had filled it when she’d entered the assembly rooms earlier tonight. Louisa didn’t see Ian or Beth there, going out, nor did she see Mr. Fellows. She did spy Daniel, who was talking with his usual animation to a knot of guests, no doubt charming them to pieces. Daniel was just nineteen now and already friends with half of England, not to mention all of Scotland and probably most of Wales.

A look into the games room showed her Hart Mackenzie lounging at a card table like a king among his subjects, in no hurry to depart. Cheroot smoke layered the air like fog.

Ian had likely decided to scoot Beth out a back door to avoid the crowd. Louisa made her way again to the little hall that led to the office, turning a corner beyond it to seek a rear door.

Inspector Fellows was there, his broad back to her as he opened the door, letting in a draft of cool spring air.

Louisa sped her steps, her anger returning. She raced forward and grabbed the sleeve of his coat, just as Fellows stepped out into the night.

Fellows swung around, eyes blazing, his hand going automatically to Louisa’s throat, and the other balled into a hard fist, pulled back to punch.

In the next instant, he blinked. “Louisa. Bloody hell.” He moved his hand so swiftly from her that she felt a warm breeze on her skin. “Don’t do that.”

Louisa stared at him. “Did you think I was a robber? In Mayfair assembly rooms?”

Fellows had taken a step back, but his hands were still clenched, his face flushed. “You’d be surprised where thieves lurk. Why aren’t you in the ballroom, dancing with all your beaux?”

“I don’t have any beaux, and I was looking for you.”

“Why?”

The door was still half open, the two of them on the doorstep. Neither in nor out, neither forward nor back. Like their friendship, Louisa thought.

“You walked away,” she said. “I was defending you. You snapped at me as though I’d insulted you, and then you turned your back and walked away.”

Fellows gave her an impatient look. “I know I’m rude. I wasn’t raised to this life.”

“A poor excuse. You can be perfectly civil—I’ve seen you be. What did I do to earn your wrath this evening?”

Fellows reached behind her and pulled the door closed. They were alone in the night, in a dim passage steps away from the busy street. “Understand, Louisa, I can’t discuss what I investigate with everyone in the ballroom. You and Mac are one thing, but Mr. Franklin himself was at the garden party. He is a suspect.”

“Gil?” Louisa’s eyes widened. “Surely not. Gil wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Hargate wasn’t a fly. He was a pompous git from what I hear, and he proposed to you. From the way Mr. Franklin looked at you, he’s happy the bishop is no longer around to be his rival.”

“That is ridiculous . . . ” But Gil had made it clear tonight he wanted to speak to Louisa about more than friendship. Perhaps not so ridiculous, but Gil? “I still don’t think Gil capable of murdering anyone,” she said, certain. “And in any case, we weren’t asking for a summation of the case in minute detail. We only wanted to know if you’d discovered anything important.”

Fellows looked down at her in angry silence, resembling a Highland warrior even more out here in the dark. Louisa’s imagination made the tailored coat and ivory waistcoat become a linen shirt and great kilt wrapped around his shoulders; the glint of his watch chain blurred into the hilt of a dirk. He was powerful, strong, nothing tame about him. At any moment, he’d snatch her up and carry her off, a Highlander stealing himself a bride.

Louisa jumped when he reached out and seized her wrist. Reality and fantasy melded, and her heart pounded.

“Come with me,” he said, voice hard. “If you want to understand why I can’t give you the simple answers you want, come with me, and I’ll show you.”

He didn’t wait for her to debate. Fellows pulled Louisa out of the passage and to the street, April wind rushing at them as they emerged into the wider avenue. Louisa could have protested, jerked away, run back to the safety of the assembly rooms. But she didn’t. She let Fellows hold her, Louisa following her Highlander into the dark.

Fellows gave a sharp whistle through his teeth. A hansom cab a little way away jerked forward, the horse’s hooves clopping as the carriage came toward them. Fellows had obviously already planned his escape.

He opened the door and all but shoved Louisa into the cab. She didn’t have her wrap, but she had no desire to rush back inside to fetch it. The night was warm enough, Fellows might change his mind if he had to wait, and Louisa wanted very much to run off with him, wherever he was taking her.

Fellows gave the driver a direction she didn’t hear then climbed in beside her.

Louisa knew she had to be mad, leaving with him without a word, but with Lloyd warm beside her, his animation exciting her, she wanted to go. Whatever damage Louisa did by her flight, she’d repair it in the morning. No looking back.

Fellows took hold of her wrist again, as though he feared she might climb out the other side of the hansom and run if he didn’t. As the horse started, Fellows slid his clasp down to her hand, and their fingers twined. The pulse of it raced from hands to Louisa’s heart.

The cab listed abruptly. Louisa let out a squeak in alarm as another man wrenched open the carriage door and heaved himself in, landing next to Louisa in the one-seated cab. He was another Highland warrior, this one exuberant and young. He settled himself in the small space, forcing Louisa closer to Fellows, and told the startled driver to keep going.

“Saw you leave,” Daniel said, flashing his grin at both of them. “Couldn’t let you rush off without a chaperone, now could I?”

Chapter Eleven

The offices of Scotland Yard were quiet and echoing at night, though not deserted. Constables went in and out from the ground floor on their duties. Detectives used the calm of night to work on cases or for writing up the paperwork that went with them. Talk had been ongoing about moving the cramped police offices to a larger building to be erected near the Victoria Embankment, where a new opera house had been started then abandoned years ago. Fellows had been hearing about this theoretical move for a long time—he wondered if he’d still be alive when it happened.

The few men on the ground floor glanced at Fellows in curiosity when he walked inside in his formal kilt and suit, escorting a young lady in a fancy ball gown and a younger man in kilt and coat. That is, the constables stared until Fellows gave them a look that made them scramble back to their duties.

Fellows had shown Daniel Scotland Yard before. Being a curious lad, he’d turned up not long after Fellows’ identity had been revealed to the Mackenzies and demanded a tour. He’d wanted to know everything about the workings of the Metropolitan Police, thinking to perhaps become a detective himself. After the tour, Daniel told Fellows he’d changed his mind—he’d rather be an inventor. But maybe Scotland Yard would be purchasing some of his inventions in time, he’d said.

Daniel gazed about him in as much curiosity tonight, and Louisa looked interested as well. She was completely out of place here in her cream and green bustle gown, diamonds in her red hair, but she looked about without fear.

They had to walk up the two flights of stairs to Fellows’ office. Louisa shivered—it was always either too cold or too hot in this blasted building. Before Fellows could turn back and offer her his coat, Daniel had slid his from his shoulders and wrapped it around Louisa. Daniel threw Fellows an apologetic look, but Fellows didn’t comment.

He led them into his office. The small room held two desks, one for himself and one for Sergeant Pierce, with a cubbyhole for Constable Dobbs. The constable dealt with the bulk of the menial work, such as sending telegrams and messages, typing up handwriting notes, pigeonholing papers or fetching them, and keeping his chief inspector and sergeant supplied with coffee and tea, and in the case of Sergeant Pierce, thin cigarettes. The smell of stale smoke clung to the rooms, though the charwoman had cleared out the bowls of ash and spent butts hours ago.

The top of Fellows’ desk was bare. Every night before he left, Fellows shoved all the files and papers he was currently working with into the deep drawers. The drawers looked like a jumbled mess, but Fellows knew precisely where each item was.

He fished up the bulkiest stack, gestured for Louisa to sit at his desk, and dropped the papers onto the desk’s flat surface.

Louisa took the seat and looked at the tall file in front of her. “My.”

Fellows started fanning out the stacks of papers. “My notes on the suspect interviews,” he said, touching a pile covered with his painstaking handwriting. “These are Pierce’s notes. This is the pathology report on Hargate, and the reports on the tea, the cups, the pot, the plates, the pastries. Photographs of the tent, inside and out. This is the second set of witness interviews; this, notes of my search of Hargate’s flat and my interview with his parents. Every single detail typed up here.” Fellows put a blunt finger on sheets of paper crowded with typewritten characters.

Louisa stared at it all uncomprehendingly. Dobbs’ typing left something to be desired—there were overstrikes, bad erasure marks, and penciled-in words everywhere. Hardly surprising that Louisa gazed at the report in perplexity.

“You can see why I couldn’t make a detailed account of my progress,” Fellows said. “Mostly because I don’t know what my progress is. The truth is somewhere in that mess. If I go over it another fifty times or so, I might find some clear thread to pull.”

Fellows had expected Daniel to give him suggestions, if he didn’t just start reading the entire report right there, but when Fellows turned to look for Daniel, he found that the young man had gone. Where, Fellows couldn’t imagine. He might have smelled the smoke and longed for a cheroot, he might have spied someone he knew—Daniel seemed to know everyone in London, upper-, middle-, or working– class—or he might have decided that Fellows needed a discreet chat with Louisa. No matter what his motive, Fellows and Louisa were now alone.

Louisa touched one of the pages. “You’ll find it. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Look at a jumble no one else understands and discover a clear pattern?”

That was exactly what he did, but this time, Fellows was finding the way murky. “You have much faith in me.”

“I’ve heard about your cases from Hart. He’s very interested in what you do. You find people, you solve crimes that no one else is able to.” Louisa looked up at him, her eyes full of confidence. “You’ll solve this one. That was what I was trying to tell you before you dragged me away so precipitously from my sister’s supper ball.” Her smile returned, the warm one she’d bestowed on Fellows a few times in the past. He remembered every single instance. “If anyone saw us go, my reputation will be in tatters—even more than it already is.”

“You’ll not be ruined,” Fellows said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

“Because Daniel is with us? True, I wager he’ll spin a tale that he and I begged you to show us the inner workings of Scotland Yard until you capitulated.” She shrugged, pretending nonchalance, though her shoulders were stiff. “It is all in the family, after all.”

“We’re not family,” Fellows said abruptly.

Louisa shook her head, which made the diamonds glitter in the room’s stark gaslight. “Indeed, we are, which is Isabella’s fault. I never thought I’d find myself with five somewhat overbearing brothers and one energetic grown-up nephew, but when Isabella married Mac, that is what I got. I do like it, most of the time.”

“You and I are not brother and sister.” Fellows’ words came out harsh and flat.

“Well, no, not by blood.” Louisa smiled again, that heartbreaking, beautiful smile. "We have shared a kiss or two, after all."

He was going to die. Louisa sat in his office chair, decorating the room as nothing ever had, smiling her sweet little smile. She didn’t belong here, and yet she brightened the space like a beacon.

“A kiss or two,” Fellows said. “Is that how you think of them?” While he dreamed of them in the nighttime and woke up hot, sweaty, and hard. He had to stifle his groans so he wouldn’t disturb the neighbors.

Louisa’s smile wavered. “I imagined that was how you thought of them. The silly kisses of a silly girl.”

Fellows came around the desk and stood over her, his breath hurting him. “I’m not like Daniel,” he said, voice still grating. “Or your Mr. Franklin. Or those stuffed asses at the ball with lust in their eyes as they watched you dance. I wanted to pound the faces of every one of those bastards for looking at you like that.”

Louisa blinked in surprise. “What are you talking about? They looked at me in disgust. Everyone believes I poisoned Hargate.”

“And the idea that you might be a murderess excited them. Every male there wanted you, Louisa; I watched them want you. That’s another reason I took you away from there tonight, another reason I urged you to stay home until this is over.”

They stared at each other. Louisa’s eyes were a beautiful green, slightly moist with tears she refused to let form. The men tonight had wanted her, Fellows had seen. Not only was she lovely in her froth of a ball gown, that black ribbon around her throat, the taint of the murder made her even more seductive. The same taint also took away some of the stigma for touching her—she was not the sweet innocent her set had thought her, or so they now believed. If they debauched her, it would be Louisa’s fault, not theirs.

Fellows had to protect her from that. At the same time, he knew he was a hypocrite, because he wanted her as much as had any man there. Fellows didn’t only dream of Louisa in the night, he dreamed of her every waking minute.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her soft red lips in the kisses they’d shared. He couldn’t cease imagining how her mouth would feel on other parts of him, especially the one that was hard under his kilt even now. He wanted to kiss every inch of her body, taste her skin, inhale her scent.

When he lay awake in his bed of nights, his imagination put Louisa in the room with him, she casually undressing with her back to him. She’d slowly strip off her gown, then what was under the gown, letting each piece of clothing loosen and fall. When she was clad only in her corset, her red hair rippling down her back, she’d look over her shoulder and give him her lovely smile.

Fellows made a noise in his throat. He could reach for her right now. She was alone with him, vulnerable. He could do anything to her, and nothing that came to his mind at the moment was honorable.

“Do you believe the same as they do?” Louisa was asking. “That I’m fast?” She let out a small sigh and another shiver. “I’m very afraid they might be right.”

She waited for his answer worriedly, as though what Fellows’ thought mattered to her very much. The cameo at her throat beckoned him to lean down to lick her there. “Louisa, you’re an innocent.” He had to remember that. “Of that there is no doubt.”

Louisa rose, her breath lifting her too-low décolletage in a dangerous way. “Then why do I think about kissing you every time I see you? I should be at my sister’s ball, hoping one of the gentlemen I dance with will propose to me and solve my troubles. Instead, I ran off with you the moment you beckoned. Whenever I see you, I know I don’t want duty and properness—I want the wicked things my brothers-in-law whisper to my sisters-in-law when they think I don’t hear them. I want to do those things with you, not with the young men I was raised to expect to marry. Please, explain to me how I can be so innocent with those desires in my head.”

Oh God. Fellows’ body tightened. He wasn’t good with words, was much better at chasing down criminals and then beating them until they stayed down. Words weren’t his gift—persistence and his fists were. And now the woman he craved was asking him to explain away the basic animal instinct that burned inside him.

He cleared his throat. “Have you acted on these thoughts, either with me or other gentlemen?”

“No, of course not . . .”

“Then you are an innocent. You have no idea of the full of it.”

“But I want to know.” Louisa put her hand on his where it rested on the desk. “I want to know all these things. With you.”

The world stopped. The flash of Louisa undressing, smiling at him over her shoulder, came to Fellows again, with force. He couldn’t say anything, not even her name. Louisa. The beautiful, sweet word. She wanted him. What he desired, what he craved—she wanted it too.

Louisa nodded, her diamonds flashing again. “You see? I am a wanton. At least, I am where you are concerned. And I have no idea what to do about it.”

Fellows had plenty of ideas. And he couldn’t act on any of them, not without being as insidious as the most vicious criminals he’d chased to ground.

Louisa was alone with him, in his power, innocent, no matter what she claimed. She knew nothing of life, not in all the ugliness he’d lived through. And she was telling him she wanted to give that innocence to him.

So much heat washed through his veins that Fellows thought he’d fall. But cold followed hard upon the heat. Louisa trusted him. She had no idea what a man like Fellows was capable of. He could take her right here, to hell with virtue and respectability, and she wouldn’t be able to stop him. She trusted him because he was now one of the Mackenzies, acknowledged as the half brother of her sister’s husband. All in the family, she’d said.

But Fellows wasn’t like the Mackenzies—he was worse than any of them. For all the brothers’ hardness and ruthlessness, Hart, Cam, Mac, and even Ian had a modicum of polish. Fancy schools and university, money, influential friends, and the right circles, had given them a bit of a gloss.

Fellows had lived in squalor, his mother working harder than any woman should have to keep him fed. Catherine had stayed late into the night at the taverns, working her feet off for impatient tavern keepers, putting up with men trying to corner her. Fellows knew she’d let some of them corner her, for money, when she needed it. And he’d never blamed her for it.

The tamer Mackenzies had never had to watch their mother try not to cry as she counted out her coin for the night and realized it wouldn’t be enough. Hart hadn’t fed off tavern scraps grudgingly given, hadn’t had to watch his mother work harder and harder for less and less as her prettiness faded. Fellows had determined, the day he’d been accepted as a police constable, that his mother would never have to work again. And he’d fulfilled that vow.

Louisa knew nothing of these hardships, and Fellows would do everything in his power to make sure she never did.

He could frighten her away from him. Make her go running back to the safety of Mac and Isabella’s home, lock the door, stay there. He abruptly slid his hand to the back of her head, twisted her face up to his, and crushed his lips over her mouth.

Louisa gasped, lips parting. Fellows tasted the sweet and tart of the lemonade she’d drunk, brought to her by the insipid Mr. Franklin. The thought of Franklin made Fellows angry. He dragged Louisa closer, fingers tangling in her satin-smooth curls, the kiss turning hard.

She made a little sound, and he knew he was bruising her, but he didn’t care. He meant to frighten her, meant her to jerk away and flee him.

She didn’t flee. Louisa was warmer than the room, the heat of her mouth searing. Daniel’s coat, still around her shoulders, smelled of cheroots, but her fragrance was all Fellows heeded.

He scooped his arm under her legs, easing her up onto the wooden desk. Perfect. Louisa sat on its edge, looking up at him, lips red with his kisses. Fellows cradled her head in his hands and kissed her again, deeper and fuller, locking her in place.

He jumped when her slipper brushed his leg. The point of her heel touched his wool socks then the bare of his thigh beneath the kilt. The little scratch of the heel jolted his need into a rampant fire.

Louisa was supposed to be frightened. She was supposed to fight away from him, shout at him that he should never dare take such a liberty. She should instruct him to never touch her, never to speak to her again. But Louisa’s answering kiss was as frenzied as his. Her slipper went up and up, her leg wrapping his and holding on.

One swift thrust on the desk, and she’d be his forever. But this was wrong. Fellows should savor her, in a bed, perhaps in an elegant hotel on soft sheets. Louisa deserved that. But the desk was here, the room dark and empty, his yearning for her climbing.

Fellows forced his mouth from hers. Louisa looked up at him in need, her eyes half closed, her lips red, parted, swollen. Her body was soft, hands curled around the lapels of his coat.

“Louisa.” He could barely get out her name. “No.”

It was the hardest thing he’d ever said. Louisa released her hold on his coat, but only to slide her hands around his neck. “Lloyd.”

The whisper was the first time he’d ever heard her speak his name.

He felt something break apart inside him, a breath of air that cleansed everything soiled within him. Fellows’ arms went around her, and their bodies moved together down to the flat surface of the desk. Daniel’s coat fell from Louisa’s shoulders, pooling on the hard wood and all the papers beneath her.

Louisa made another little gasp as he kissed her again, and Fellows took advantage. He kissed her parted lips, licking them, suckling them.

She didn’t stop him, didn’t fight him. Louisa kissed him back, trying to imitate what he did, which was sweet and erotic at the same time.

Fellows moved from her lips to her throat and the black ribbon and cameo. Fellows bit the innocent cameo then brushed his tongue down the curve of her neck to her breasts. Soft skin rose above the neckline of her bodice, the slight salt taste of her making him want more.

She’d be damp and warm under the gown, the space between her legs moist and welcoming. Fellows wanted to taste her, to sink his tongue into her and take her goodness into his mouth.

He could have her. Raise her skirts, kiss her thighs, enjoy her delights and bring her to heights of pleasure. Louisa’s restless hands in his hair, her leg still twined around his, told him she wanted him, wanted this.

Fellows licked across the top of her breasts, his tongue catching the fabric of the bodice. The satin’s dry contrast to Louisa’s skin only spiraled his need to near madness.

“Lloyd,” Louisa said again.

Her beautiful, throaty voice caressed his name. Everything painful in him washed away on its sound . . .

Someone coughed.

Reality came crashing back into Fellows so hard he lost his next breath. He took his mouth from Louisa’s breast and carefully raised his head.

He expected Daniel. Embarrassing, but Daniel might be trusted to keep silent. The lad already suspected Fellows’ intense interest in Louisa. Fellows would apologize for taking the liberty and explain the situation, then ask that Daniel keep it to himself. If Fellows could explain.

The young man standing inside the doorway wasn’t Daniel. It was Constable Dobbs.

Dobbs was about nineteen, eager to learn, eager to please. He had close-cropped blond hair, blue eyes, and a tall, Viking-like body.

Right now, his fair face was scarlet. “Sir.”

“Out,” Fellows said.

“Sir.” Dobbs nodded nervously. “Sorry, sir.”

Even as Dobbs turned for the open door, he peered surreptitiously at Louisa, trying to make out who she was. Catching Fellows’ glare, he turned quickly away and sidled out, leaving the door open.

Louisa’s eyes were wide with alarm, her breathing rapid as she struggled to sit up. Fellows helped her from the desk and steadied her on her feet. Louisa’s hair was mussed, red ringlets straggling down her neck, her face as flushed as Dobbs’ had been.

No apology came from Fellows’ lips. He wouldn’t apologize for doing something he’d longed to do with everything inside him.

“Dobbs won’t say a word,” Fellows said.

Louisa reached for the coat, not looking at him, her cheeks still red. “We should find Daniel.”

She slid the coat around her shoulders. Fellows helped her settle it, but still Louisa wouldn’t look at him.

The moment was fragile. One wrong word, and she’d be lost to him forever.

But there were no right words. Fellows wasn’t elegantly articulate, like Mr. Franklin, or glib like Daniel. He’d learned plain speaking from his mother, as well as the value of keeping his mouth shut when the situation called for it.

He said nothing.

Louisa wouldn’t look at him, but she didn’t bow her head. She was a proud lady, from a long line of proud people. She was elegant and regal and wouldn’t crumble to dust because a police detective kissed her on his desk.

Fellows led her out the door. Louisa didn’t blindly rush away; she walked calmly with him through the empty corridors and down the stairs. Neither of them spoke or even looked at each other.

Daniel leaned on a desk inside the front door, talking and laughing with the sergeant there. When Daniel saw Fellows and Louisa, he straightened up in surprise. The sergeant quickly found something else to do, but Daniel’s eyes narrowed as he looked them over.

Fellows led Louisa past Daniel without a word and out into the street. The hansom cab still waited outside. Daniel, who’d insisted on paying the fare, must have tipped the driver well.

Fellows handed Louisa into the cab. She gripped his hand without hesitation as she stepped inside, but still she didn’t look at him.

“Take her home,” Fellows said to Daniel.

Louisa leaned forward, finally meeting his eyes. “Aren’t you coming?”

Fellows shook his head. “Have things to do, and my flat isn’t far from here. Daniel will escort you home.”

“That he will,” Daniel said. “Good night.” He didn’t look pleased that Fellows was deserting Louisa, but at least he didn’t argue. He climbed in after Louisa and settled onto the seat with a swing of kilt and a boisterous thump.

“Good night.” Fellows closed the door to the hansom with a snap.

Louisa continued to watch him. Curls of her loosened hair fell forward, haloing her in red. Then the carriage jerked forward, and Fellows’ view of her was lost.

Lost. A good word. Fellows remained on the street, watching the receding carriage for too long, until it disappeared into the April mists.

Chapter Twelve

“Do you want to talk about it?” Daniel asked.

Louisa jerked from her reverie, in which she saw, heard, and felt nothing but Lloyd’s warmth around her, his mouth on her, his strong hands . . .

“Talk about what?”

“What happened upstairs,” Daniel said. “I step away for five minutes, you come down flushed and mussed, not to mention distracted and upset. Did ye not like his attentions? Do I have to pummel him for you?”

Daniel, so young and eager—and so wide awake; did he never get tired?—watched her with a shrewdness that belied his youth.

Louisa couldn’t answer. She sank into the hard back of the hansom’s seat, stifling a sigh. Isabella’s house on Mount Street wasn’t impossibly far from Whitehall, but the hansom went slowly, and she knew the ride would be long.

“Ah,” Daniel said when the silence had stretched a while. “So you did like his attentions. That’s the trouble, is it?”

Louisa let out an exasperated breath. “I don’t know what he wants. That is the trouble. I don’t know.”

“Well, ye have to understand that when a gent looks at a beautiful woman, such as yourself . . .”

Daniel left it hanging. Louisa sat up. “Yes, I know very well what you are implying. And you are very flattering. But I have no idea if he wants anything more than that. Or if I do. Blast it all, it’s a terrible thing when I can’t trust my own thoughts. I don’t even know what I want.”

“I think you do.”

“Yes, of course I do,” Louisa snapped. “I want to not have gone into the tea tent with the Bishop of Hargate. I want Mr. Fellows not to be so standoffish with me. I want to be his friend. More than his friend. I want . . . Oh, Danny, it’s so confusing.”

“Not really. You’re falling in love with him. Or are already in love with him.”

“But am I? Or just . . . overwhelmed?”

“Love is overwhelming. Look what your sister did when she met my uncle Mac. She lost her head and ran away with him the very night she met him. She was just eighteen, younger than I am now. Whatever Mac thinks, Isabella would never have done anything so reckless if she hadn’t fallen crazily in love with him.”

“She might have,” Louisa said darkly. “Isabella was always headstrong.”

“She is headstrong.” Daniel gave Louisa another assessing look. “Let me guess—Isabella was the bold one, while you were always the good girl. The one who stayed home, behaved herself, never did anything to upset people. Am I right?”

“Yes.” Louisa thumped her hands to the seat. “You are absolutely right. I never did anything. I stayed quiet and obedient and did what was expected of me. And what was my reward? People pitying me, whispering about my scandalous family. So I decided to look for a respectable husband to make them stop pitying me. Now I’m accused of murder, and I’m letting the detective in charge of the investigation kiss me senseless.”

“Ah ha, is that what went on upstairs when my back was turned?”

“Yes.” Louisa’s face heated. “If you must know, yes.”

Daniel grinned. “You didn’t really have to tell me, you know. The stars in your eyes, your hair coming down, the pretty flush on your cheek, all betrayed you.”

“And you mustn’t tell anyone.” Louisa pinned him with a severe look. “Promise me, Daniel.”

Daniel raised his hands. “Never worry. I always keep the confidences of my great friends. Now, what you have to decide is what you’re going to do about this falling-in-love business. Ignore it and pursue your respectable marriage? With Gil Franklin, I’m thinking? You won’t have to push hard for a proposal there, I’d wager. Or wait and see if Fellows tries to kiss you again? Or asks more of you?”

“He won’t,” Louisa said glumly.

“Which he? Won’t do what?”

“Mr. Fellows won’t ask anything of me. He barely speaks to me. I have no idea why he kisses me, except for the fact that I’ve thrown myself at him several times now. He must think me depraved. I’m not certain he’s wrong.”

Daniel watched her. “This is all fascinating. I had no idea it had gone this far.”

“Nothing has gone far at all,” Louisa said in exasperation. “I’m behaving like a flighty, ridiculous woman who’s been sitting on the shelf so long she’s starting to go mad. It’s the only explanation for my insanity. You’re right—I should tell Gil I welcome his attentions, marry him, and have done.”

Louisa turned abruptly to the window so Daniel wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes. If she married Gil, she could never let herself be alone with Fellows again. She couldn’t trust her own body not to react to him or trust herself to remain sensible and not succumb to desire. Even now she couldn’t banish the sensation of Fellows’ burning kisses, the feeling of his mouth on her skin, and the knowledge of how much she wanted him.

“Yes, live in misery the rest of your life,” Daniel said. “That will show everyone.”

Louisa turned back. Let him see the tears. What did she care? “It won’t be in misery. Gil is a gentleman. He’s courteous and kind, never rude, generous, good-hearted . . .”

“And dull. I hear it in your voice. You’re trying to be fair to him because he is a good chap. But dull. You’d do the same thing every day, he’d never do anything unexpected, never make you wonder what was going on in his head. Gil is transparent. Makes him a fine bloke to play cards with, because I win every hand, but probably very tedious to live with.”

Louisa wanted to hotly defend Gil, who’d been a friend to her tonight when no one else had, but the words died on her lips.

Daniel wasn’t wrong. Louisa liked Gil immensely, she always had, but she didn’t love him. She’d never be interested in him in the way she wanted to understand what was inside Lloyd Fellows. When she saw Lloyd, she wanted to follow him, be with him, listen to him, touch him, make him understand that he wasn’t alone. Louisa was fascinated by Fellows’ job, wanted him to talk to her about it and confide in her, and she wanted to confide in him.

She leaned her head back on the seat. “It’s hopeless. Inspector Fellows is very conscious of his position in life, and mine.”

“That is true. He’s a snob. I’ve found that working-class chaps generally are. Any hint of getting above yourself is ruthlessly quashed. The posh should stay posh; the honest workers should stay honest workers. And Fellows has always seen himself as an honest worker. More so once he realized his dad was never going to acknowledge him. The working classes, now, they tolerate me because I’m such an honest bloke, and I don’t try to change them.”

Louisa had to laugh. “And you’re not conceited at all.”

“I’m all sorts of conceited, I know that. I’m very clever and see no reason to hide it. On the other hand, being clever is no assurance of being great or finding success. Success takes bloody hard work too. I know that. But we’re not talking about me, Auntie Louisa. We’re talking about you and Uncle Fellows. And what we’re going to do about it.”

“We will do nothing about it. I will marry Gil or remain a spinster, and Inspector Fellows will go on being a policeman. Perhaps he’ll find a cheerful working-class woman to marry him, and his life will become simple and pleasant.”

“Listen to yourself. Poor martyred Louisa. I predict that Fellows will solve this murder and then sweep you off your feet.” Daniel shrugged. “Well, the sweeping-you-off-your-feet part might take a little nudge. But he wants to do it. It’s a beautiful thing to watch the way he looks at you. Fellows glared at Gil tonight as though he wanted to find a claymore, learn how to use it, and finish him off. Or just pull out a pistol and shoot him.”

Louisa gave up. She leaned across the seat in the rattling coach and kissed Daniel’s cheek. “You are sweet, Danny. A complete madman, but a very sweet one.”

“Aw, Auntie. You know I love you. I’m devastated ye won’t pick me as your husband, but if not, I’m happy to help you land one of your own.”

“Pish. You haven’t fallen in love yet, so you don’t understand how very awful it can be. I used to be a rational girl, and now I’m doing foolish things like running about London in the middle of the night and letting police inspectors kiss me senseless. I shall be all right. It will pass. And when you do fall in love, Daniel Mackenzie, I shall laugh at you.”

“No fear of that. I enjoy ladies, as both friends and lovers, but I will let nothing stand in the way of my inventions.”

“So say you. Well, here I am,” she said as the carriage pulled to a halt in front of Isabella’s house. “Thank you, Danny.”

Daniel gallantly leapt down and handed her out. He surprised Louisa by pulling her into a crushing hug before he let her go. “Never worry, Auntie,” he said softly. “I’ll make sure all is well.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek, another hug, and then backed away and waved good night. Louisa hurried into the house, Morton the butler pulling the door open for her before she reached the doorstep. Daniel called good night again, leapt into the hansom, and rattled off.

Louisa wasn’t sure whether to take hope from Daniel’s words or worry about what mad thing he’d take it into his head to do. Either way, most of her thoughts were still focused on Fellows’ kisses, the strength of his body on hers, the look of dark desperation in his eyes when he’d backed away from her.

She had to be right. It was hopeless.

Louisa went up the stairs, not stopping on the landing that led to her bedchamber. She kept climbing, up to the nursery to quietly slip inside and kiss the three sleeping children good night. She sat there after that, in the dark, watching them sleep, soaking in the calming silence.

* * *

“The guv’s asking for you,” Sergeant Pierce said to Fellows, looking apologetic. “Says now, sir.”

Damnation. Fellows looked up from the fifty statements he was going over again, meticulously, trying to decide who was telling the truth. They were all lying—people did that to the police—but usually for reasons that had nothing to do with the case. Fellows had to sift through and pick out the important lies from the unimportant ones.

He’d been here since the early hours, after going home last night and trying to sleep. Not possible. Fellows had lain awake, staring at the whitewashed ceiling above his bed, which reflected every passing light, the moon, streetlights.

In the reflections he saw Louisa, her red hair coming down, the sultry look in her eyes when he’d lain her back on the desk. He heard her voice, low and vibrant, saying his name. Lloyd.

He’d do anything to have her say it to him like that again.

Sleeping being out of the question, Fellows had come in to see if he could make sense of all this mess.

“Now?” Fellows repeated irritably.

“Yes, sir. Says it’s urgent.”

Fellows heaved an aggrieved sigh, slammed papers aside, got to his feet, and headed out of the room. Constable Dobbs was just coming in with cups of tea, and the two met in the doorway. Fellows turned sideways to move past him. Dobbs turned red. The constable’s hands shook so hard that tea sloshed from the full cups and splashed to Fellows’ shoes.

“Watch yourself, Constable,” Fellows snapped, then he was past and striding down the hall.

Detective Chief Superintendent Giles Kenton had been Fellows’ superior for nearly five years. It had been Kenton who’d lifted his former superior’s restrictions on Fellows’ promotions, put in place when Fellows had been fanatically pursuing the Mackenzies for murder.

Kenton had made clear that Fellows needed to have a care in who he offended with his obsessive investigations. Kenton was a good man to work for, though, because he recognized that Fellows had a unique way of solving his cases and that his clear-up rate was better than most.

Kenton waved Fellows to the only other chair in his office, keeping his attention on the papers that littered his desk. That was a good sign. No sitting upright, hands on the desk, gaze trained on Fellows. Just Kenton doing what he usually did.

Kenton signed a piece of paper, blotted the paper, and clattered the pen to a tray, spraying a few ink droplets to his desk. Finally he pushed aside everything and looked up at Fellows.

Not so good. Kenton had a sharp light in his eyes that came from anger. “I’m pulling you and your team off the Hargate case,” he said.

Fellows’ answer was abrupt and instant. “No. You can’t. I mean . . . No, sir. Please don’t.”

“I can and I will. Hargate was powerful, and his family is powerful, both his father’s and his mother’s. His friends are powerful. They are all busily screaming for our blood, wondering why we haven’t closed this case yet.”

Fellows couldn’t stay seated. He was on his feet, fists clenched. “It’s been less than a week. Cases like this can take months. Years. You know that.”

“Yes, I know that. Civilians don’t, especially posh ones. They either want the police to work miracles or else they complain we’re a bloody nuisance.”

“Then they should let me get on with my job. Having my chief super pull me in to twit me is wasting time.”

Kenton gave him a severe look. “Are you finished?”

Fellows leaned his fists on the desk. “You can’t take me off this case, sir.”

“Listen.” Kenton’s voice lost its edge. “Fellows, you are the best detective on the force. I don’t even qualify that by saying you are one of the best. You truly are the best. You’ll make detective superintendent in no time, probably chief super beyond it, and likely higher than that. You’re the best because you not only have good instincts, you’re also careful and thorough. You follow up on everything. Unfortunately, Hargate’s family wants a quick arrest. And they’re wondering why the devil you haven’t made one.”

“Because I haven’t found a culprit yet,” Fellows said, trying not to shout. “As soon as I get a lead on the man seen crawling out from under the tent, I’ll bring him in.”

“Hmm, yes. Very convenient this bloke is, isn’t he? He gives you a good excuse not to pull together the evidence to arrest Lady Louisa Scranton.”

“Because she didn’t do it.” The shout came then.

“Maybe not. But consider—once she’s arrested and examined by a magistrate, and the magistrate determines her innocence, she’ll be let go. End of the matter.”

Fellows shook his head. “For God’s sake, you know she can’t afford to appear before a magistrate. He’ll be compelled by Hargate’s family to push her through to a trial, and they’ll make sure the very best prosecutor in the country gets her convicted. The Scrantons haven’t been well liked since Louisa’s father ruined half the aristos in Mayfair. No one would fuss much if a Scranton was buried for this.”

“Then Lady Louisa’s family will come up with a barrage of solicitors to help her. You know that. Her ties to the Mackenzies will help too. And those ties are the exact reason I’m taking you off this case.”

Fellows stood up, his fists tightening. “What the devil does that mean?”

“It means that you are the finest detective on the force—until you have something to do with the Mackenzie family. Then your common sense takes a dive out the window. You break rules, you don’t sleep, you focus your energy on them and everything about them. Five years, wasn’t it, that you tried to pin a murder on them? The duke had to threaten gents in the Home Office to get you to stop. And then you went behind everyone’s back, chased Lord Ian Mackenzie to Paris, and tried a number of ways to get around the rules to land him.”

“But I got to the bottom of the problem,” Fellows said, voice stiff. “Murders solved. Case closed.”

“You’re quibbling, Fellows. You solved them, all right, but a woman died, and another nearly died in the process. I’m taking you off the case, because I can’t explain to Hargate’s father—an earl—and his mother—the daughter of a marquis—why you haven’t arrested Lady Louisa Scranton by now. I imagine you don’t wish me to tell them it’s because she’s your mistress.”

Fellows’ face burned. “Good Lord, sir. She is not my mistress.”

“Then why did Dobbs charge in here bright and early this morning and tell me she was? Yes, he gave me the whole story of finding you ravishing the lead suspect in the Hargate case on top of your desk.” Kenton’s mouth tightened. “You need to speak to that lad about going over your head to spread tittle-tattle. A constable should be loyal to his own guvnor, whether that guvnor is ravishing suspects or not.”

“I wasn’t ravishing her,” Fellows said. “Dobbs got it wrong.” And he’d wring the boy’s neck.

“Dobbs’ exact words were: He had her spread across the desk, knees up, and he were kissing her tits.” Kenton mimicked Dobbs’ youthful voice exactly. “Not something I wanted to hear, trust me.”

“It doesn’t matter what Dobbs saw or what he said.” Fellows’ voice hardened. “It doesn’t matter what my feelings for her are either. Louisa Scranton is innocent. I know it. Whatever the world thinks of her, she did not kill the Bishop of Hargate.”

“Climb down off your high horse. I don’t care if you had her naked on her hands and knees and were giving her one up the backside. I care that Hargate’s dad and mum and all the titles they’re connected to want a result. My neck’s being breathed on, and so I’m breathing on yours. You’re too slow. I’m giving the case to Harrison.”

“No.” Cold fear spread through Fellows’ body. “Harrison arrests everyone in sight then sorts out who did what. Sometimes he doesn’t find out the truth until several people have been hanged.”

“But he’s fast and he gets his man. Or woman.”

“No.” Fellows leaned over the desk again, barely stopping himself from grabbing Kenton and shaking him. “Please. I promise I’ll stay the hell away from Lady Louisa. Miles away if need be. But don’t take me off the case. I’ll find the culprit—I promise you. Don’t leave her to Harrison’s mercy.”

Kenton gave him a severe look. “I’ve gone to the wall for you, Fellows. Several times. Worth it to keep you. But by God, you push it.”

“If you give this to Harrison, sir, I’m off the force.”

Kenton scowled. “Don’t threaten me. I’ve been threatened by more frightening men than you in my time, believe me, including my own guvnor.”

“I’m not threatening. If I’m off the case, I’m gone. I’ll not stay where men arrest innocent young women only to prove they’re getting things done. I’ll go, and then I’ll protect her from you any way I can.” He paused. “Sir.”

Kenton sat back in his chair. The look on his face said he knew damn well Fellows wanted to throttle him, but he put up no defenses. “You said you were going off to the races on Monday. To Newmarket.”

“Yes, but I won’t go. Keep me on, and I’ll stay here and work—”

“Let me finish. You’ll go. You need the day out. If, before you leave, you make an arrest—one that will stick—then I won’t pull you from the case. If you haven’t solved it before you go, then you’re off.”

Fellows stared at him in dismay. “That’s only two days.”

“Yes, it is. It’s the best I can do for you.”

“I mean it,” Fellows said. “If I can’t solve this case in two blasted days, and you pull me off, I’m gone.”

Kenton raked papers back toward him. “Then you’d better solve it quick then, hadn’t you?”

Fellows moved his fists from the desk again and straightened up. Kenton was finished, the interview over.

As Fellows walked to the door, Kenton cleared his throat behind him. “And stay away from the Scranton woman. I’ll hold you to that. Unless you’re escorting her to Bow Street and the magistrate, I don’t want you anywhere near her.”

“Yes, sir,” Fellows said stiffly, and made his way through the building back to his office.

He walked in on Dobbs sitting on a wooden chair holding a hand to his bruised and bloody face. Pierce was wringing out his own hand, looking furious.

“Pierce,” Fellows snapped.

Pierce betrayed no shame. “I was just explaining to Dobbs that he don’t go around his chief inspector to tell tales, no matter what. You respect your team.”

Fellows gazed quietly down at Dobbs, who gazed back, half fearful, half defiant. “Dobbs,” Fellows said, his voice as chill as his stance. “It’s not you peaching to my guv that I mind. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But if you ever speak about Lady Louisa again, especially in those words, to anyone, I will pound you until you can’t walk. Understand?”

Dobbs swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Now get me coffee and don’t spill anything this time. Pierce, we’re going to clear up this case before Monday. I want you to—”

“Monday?” Pierce said, springing up. “What the devil did the chief super say to you?”

“Monday,” Fellows repeated. “We’re dividing up the suspects between us, and we’ll poke and prod until we get answers. I don’t care who we annoy, provoke, or just plain make hate us. We’re not out to make friends; we’re out to catch a criminal. The first thing I want, though, is for you to find out everything—I mean absolutely everything—about the Honorable Gilbert Franklin. I want to know where he’s been, what he does when he’s there, what he has for breakfast, and when he shits it out again. All right?”

“Shits it out again,” Pierce wrote down in his notebook. “Got it, sir. I’ll start right now.”

Chapter Thirteen

That afternoon, Louisa sat once more in Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ back sitting room. This time, though, Daniel was with her, and Louisa had come for a purpose.

The fact that Mrs. Leigh-Waters received Louisa at all encouraged her. Mrs. Leigh-Waters had always been a close friend to Louisa’s mother and to Isabella, one of the few to stand by Isabella when Isabella had left Mac.

Today, the lady was full of sympathy for Louisa and also for Hargate. “I wake up with palpitations thinking about that poor man,” Mrs. Leigh-Waters said, pressing a hand to her bosom. “What he must have suffered. It must have been quite distressing for you, Louisa, to watch him die. I am so sorry, my dear.”

She sounded sorry, but also a bit morbidly curious. “Indeed,” Louisa said. “Thank you.”

“And you, Mr. Mackenzie,” Mrs. Leigh-Waters said to Daniel. “So kind of you to stand by our dear Louisa.”

“Not at all,” Daniel said. He gave Mrs. Leigh-Waters his best I’m-young-but-very-intelligent-and-understanding smile. “Louisa is a favorite of mine.”

“Of mine as well.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters returned the smile, but with a glint in her eye. She looked back and forth between Louisa and Daniel with obvious interest. Daniel was nineteen, it was true, and Louisa years older than he, but such matches had been made. Once Daniel finished university and came into his majority, he would be a very wealthy young man indeed.

Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ eyes were truly gleaming now. Louisa broke in hastily, “What I wondered, if you’ll forgive me asking, is how you decided who to invite to the garden party? I saw people here I hadn’t in ages.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters blinked. “My guest list was quite large, dear. My garden party is always an important Season gathering. I invite a wide circle, though I keep my list to those I like best.”

In other words, the gathering was large enough to be interesting, but exclusive enough for those invited to feel superior over those who had not been.

“What Louisa means,” Daniel said, “is that she’s surprised the Bishop of Hargate made your list. Louisa hadn’t thought you were particular friends. In fact, Hargate could be a priggish and condescending oik, God rest him.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters flushed. “You are certainly forthright, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“But truthful. Hargate rose high in his profession very fast. My uncle Hart figured he called in favor after favor and bought his way to the top.”

Hart would know. He’d used similar methods himself on occasion, and he likely knew whose nest Hargate had feathered to become bishop.

“Well, your uncle Hart might not be wrong,” Mrs. Leigh-Waters said. “Hargate did ask my husband for a word in the right ear in exchange for him helping Mr. Leigh-Waters in certain matters. It’s often done, but with Hargate . . .”

“It was obvious and obsequious,” Daniel finished. “Is that why you invited him to the party? To repay what he’d done for your husband?”

“No, no.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ flush went deeper. “If you must know, I owed the bishop a bit of money, and he was needling me for it. I invited him at his request, intending to settle the debt here.”

“And did you settle it?” Daniel asked. He softened the abrupt question with a smile, took a sip of tea, and then gestured with his cup. “I mean, did you have the chance before . . . you know.”

“I did, as a matter of fact. I gave him his hundred guineas. Well, most of it.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters leaned toward them, lowering her voice. “Please don’t tell my husband.”

Louisa shook her head. “Never fear about that. Was it a gambling debt?”

“Pardon?” Mrs. Leigh-Waters looked surprised, then her face grew as red as the velvet curtains behind her. “Oh. Yes. Indeed. I had some very bad luck at cards and had to give Hargate a vowel for what I’d lost. I planned to pay him as soon as I could, but he was a bit impatient. For a man of the cloth, I must say, Hargate did not practice much forgiveness.”

In fact, Hargate seemed to excel at all the deadly sins, Louisa thought, pride and avarice being the top contenders. But some gentlemen went into the clergy not because they had a calling or deep faith, but because, if they went the right way about it, they could make a good living and gain power. Hargate had been a power-seeker and hadn’t much tried to hide it.

“I am sorry,” Louisa said. “I know this is difficult for you.”

Daniel gave Mrs. Leigh-Waters a cheerful smile. “At least your slate is clean. You were able to pay your debt, and all was finished.”

“Not exactly.” Mrs. Leigh-Waters put her hand over Louisa’s, her eyes welling with tears. “Dearest Louisa, I must beg your forgiveness. I couldn’t pay Hargate the entire amount. My pin money for the month was gone, and I could not ask my husband for more without telling him why. I didn’t want Mr. Leigh-Waters to know. He doesn’t approve of gambling.”

This was the first Louisa had heard of it. Mr. Leigh-Waters was often seen around card tables at Isabella’s parties, his wife the same. But Louisa smiled encouragingly and let Mrs. Leigh-Waters go on.

“Hargate threatened to go to my husband directly. I begged him not to. I asked what else I could give him, something to keep him happy until I could raise the rest of the money. He said—oh, my dear Louisa, I am so ashamed of myself now.”

Louisa thought she understood. “Did Hargate ask you to arrange for him to speak to me alone?”

“Yes. Oh, my poor darling, I’m so sorry. I knew he meant to propose to you. He often spoke of you as being the perfect bride for him. He wasn’t wrong—you’d have made a very good bishop’s wife.” Tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. “I agreed, I’m afraid. Anything to keep him from going to my husband.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ distress was true but seemed a bit much for a woman who’d owed a debt from a card game. Most people in Mayfair owed each other for losses at whist, faro, hazard, the American game of poker, any sporting matches, or even which side of the street a cat would walk down. Gambling mania was alive and well in the haut ton. Louisa knew men who’d lost pieces of unentailed land, favorite horses, servants, and even houses, to their friends. The bets were squared eventually, often good-naturedly. Wives whose husbands frowned on their gambling did try to be covert, but sympathetic friends often helped them pay. Mrs. Leigh-Waters had lied when she’d said her husband disapproved of gambling, though, but Louisa couldn’t fathom why.

Daniel broke in, his voice quieter. “What did Hargate expect you to do, with respect to Louisa? Was letting him speak to her alone the end of it?”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters shook her head. “He wanted me to encourage her in the match if she proved shy. Talk her into it. Or bribe her, threaten her, whatever it took.”

Louisa’s eyes widened. “You promised him that?”

“I couldn’t help it.” More tears came, Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ large bosom rising. “I was desperate, my dear. And I didn’t see the harm. You told me yourself you’d decided this Season to look for a respectable husband. Hargate would have been a good match for you—would have helped you and your family.”

“At the expense of her happiness,” Daniel said. “If Louisa had accepted Hargate, I would have done anything to persuade her out of it.” He shuddered. “I couldn’t stick having Hargate for an uncle-in-law. Imagine having to be pleasant to him over pudding at Christmas. No, thank you.”

“I would have refused him,” Louisa said. “Hargate did try very hard to persuade me, telling me he’d forgive my family’s debts to him if I married him. My family has paid back most of what my father owed him, but he intended to squeeze me for the rest of it. Horrid man.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters looked even more distressed. “Oh, Louisa, you mustn’t . . .”

“Speak ill of the dead?” Daniel asked, before Louisa could answer. “It’s not the done thing, no, but death doesn’t change what a person was in life. Hargate wasn’t above a bit of blackmail to get what he wanted. Key to most of his successes, I’d wager. He even tried to blackmail me once.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters wiped her eyes. “He did? What about? I mean . . . Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Mackenzie. I don’t mean to pry.”

Daniel shrugged. “Youthful indiscretions. I’ve had so many of those I had to tax Hargate a bit before I pinned down exactly which youthful indiscretion he was threatening to tell my father about. I told Hargate to tell him and be damned. Which he did. My dad came down on me hard, but I confessed my sins, Dad and I argued, he forgave me, we had a whiskey, and all was well.” Daniel’s relationship with his father in a nutshell.

“Rather mean of Hargate,” Louisa said indignantly. “Did he ask you for money to keep quiet?”

“That and a word with Uncle Hart to hurry Hargate’s chances of getting into the House of Lords. Only room for so many bishops’ bums on the seats there. Someone has to die before another can come in the front door. Hargate wanted to be moved to the top of the list. I told him he was optimistic about Hart opening a way for him. Hart’s harder to blackmail than anyone I know. Trust me. I’ve tried. My ears still hurt from the drubbing he gave me.” Daniel rubbed the side of his head. “Of course, I was only ten at the time and not practiced.”

Daniel’s casual tone, dismissing blackmail as merely a nuisance, was having good effect on Mrs. Leigh-Waters. Her crying quieted, and she started to relax.

“Was he blackmailing you too?” Daniel asked her. “I’m sorry if he was.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters nodded. “Please, please don’t tell my husband.”

“No.” Louisa squeezed her hand. “We understand.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters looked at them watching her, then she jumped. “But if you are thinking I poisoned Hargate to keep him quiet, I did not. I paid him, as I said, and set up the appointment for him to meet you. I knew he might try for more money in future, but I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.”

Louisa wondered very much what knowledge Hargate had possessed that so shamed Mrs. Leigh-Waters, but she wouldn’t ask. The poor lady had suffered enough without having to worry that someone else knew her secret. Hargate was gone now, and Mrs. Leigh-Waters was safe from him.

“Never fear,” Louisa said. “I don’t see how you could have killed him, anyway, if the poison was in the teacup. How could you know which cup he’d choose? Or which I’d choose to give him? It was me who handed him the cup. I am, unfortunately, the most likely suspect.”

Louisa deflated. She’d come here hoping to learn much more. She’d discovered from their conversation that Mrs. Leigh-Waters did indeed have a motive for killing Hargate, but she had difficulty picturing Mrs. Leigh-Waters thinking of so intricate a way to administer the poison. Besides, would the lady risk killing the man in her own garden? In front of a large party of people?

Someone had. And that someone had shifted the blame squarely on Louisa.

“Thank you.” Louisa squeezed Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ hand again. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this.”

“And I you,” Mrs. Leigh-Waters said. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Leigh-Waters let out her breath, her relief plain. Louisa and Daniel exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to end the conversation, and they took the rest of their tea in peace.

* * *

When Louisa and Daniel left Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ house, Louisa gave Mac’s coachman directions to take them straight to London and Scotland Yard. She would try to keep Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ confidences as best she could, but she wanted to tell Fellows what they’d discovered about Hargate. Immediately. As awkward as it would be to face Fellows again after last night, she wanted him to know.

Daniel agreed, and the coach headed east at a good clip.

When they reached Scotland Yard, however, the sergeant downstairs told Daniel that Fellows was out. So was Sergeant Pierce and Constable Dobbs. But they could always leave a message.

Daniel returned to the coach, where Louisa waited, with this information.

“I suppose I can leave him a message,” Louisa said, unhappy.

“No.” Daniel knocked on the roof of the coach and directed the coachman to the Strand. “We’ll wait for him in his own lair. Might be a while, though. I say we fetch food and drink on the way.”

* * *

Sergeant Pierce had suggested to Fellows that they go back to Richmond to reexamine the scene of the crime, but Fellows negated the idea. As he’d contemplated before, this was a crime of Mayfair. The players, and the answer, lay in that section of London.

Fellows began by visiting the Bishop of Hargate’s father, the Earl of Norwell, in Norwell’s Berkeley Square house. Norwell didn’t want to see Fellows, the butler informed them when he answered the front door. He also said that Fellows and Pierce should have gone down the stairs to enter the house via the kitchen.

Fellows did tell Pierce to go down—it never hurt to cultivate those below stairs and learn the household gossip—but Fellows remained squarely in the doorway.

“Tell his lordship that if he wishes me to find and arrest his son’s killer, and quickly, he’ll speak to me,” Fellows said to the butler.

The man looked aggrieved, but at last he obeyed. Pierce sketched a cheerful salute and departed for the kitchen.

The Earl of Norwell kept Fellows waiting in a reception room for at least half an hour before the butler returned and led Fellows up a flight of stairs to a study lined with books. The room’s high walls held a second floor of bookcases, reached by an iron spiral staircase.

Norwell looked much like his dead son, handsome and lean, though twenty years older. His hair was gray, his belly gone to fat from too much rich food and too much port, his black mourning suit making his pale face more sallow.

Norwell ran his gaze up and down Fellows, obviously not liking what he saw. “So you’re old Kilmorgan’s by-blow.”

Fellows made a shallow bow, hiding the sting. “I have that honor.”

Norwell grunted. “You look like him. Kilmorgan was a mean son of a bitch, and the current duke is no better.”

Fellows took this stoically. He’d come to like Hart more and more as he got to know him, but he knew he’d waste his breath defending him to Norwell. Norwell was the sort of man who made his judgments and stuck to them, come hell or high water.

“How can speaking to me help you catch a murderer?” Norwell asked. “It was the Scranton bitch who did it, and we all know it. That entire family is mad.”

Fellows clenched his jaw to keep his temper. “New evidence has come to light that tells me it was not Lady Louisa.”

“What evidence? You’re lying. The only reason you haven’t arrested her is that she’s connected with the Mackenzies, and you have an absurd loyalty to them.”

“No, Lord Norwell,” Fellows said in a hard voice. “I’m after the truth, no matter what. One reason I came here today is that I’d like to look over your son’s bedchamber. His valet told me he often stayed in this house when he'd be in Town only briefly and didn’t want to bother opening up his own flat. Is that correct?”

Norwell looked Fellows over again, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “You’re a bit above yourself, aren’t you, Chief Inspector? You might be a duke’s son, but you’re still a bastard.”

“Which has nothing to do with me looking at your son’s rooms.”

Norwell heaved a sigh. “What are you searching for?”

“I’ll know that when I find it.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“I’m leaving no stone unturned,” Fellows said firmly. “I want this killer found as quickly as you do and so am looking into every possibility. Don’t worry, I will do no damage to your son’s things, and leave everything as I found it.”

Norwell again looked Fellows up and down, in the most condescending way possible. He heaved another sigh, this one sounding as though it came from his toes, turned away, and pushed a bell on the desk. The butler entered almost immediately—Fellows suspected the man had been listening outside the door.

“Take the inspector up to Frederick’s old rooms,” Norwell said. “Stay there with him, and don’t let him steal anything.”

Fellows didn’t react at all to the statement. Norwell was grieving—Fellows allowed that. Otherwise, he’d be tempted to punch the man in the mouth. Fellows made himself turn his back and follow the butler out of the library without a word.

The butler led him up another flight of stairs. As they entered a large, dim bedchamber, Fellows bade him go down and tell Sergeant Pierce to come up. No one searched a room better than Pierce. He could find nooks and crannies that most missed, and he could do it rapidly and thoroughly. Fellows had always suspected that Pierce, in his youth, might have been a thief, but he’d never asked directly.

The butler looked put out, but he went. Slowly. The stairs creaked, one at a time, as he descended.

Fellows pulled open the heavy curtains, letting cleansing sunlight into the too-dark room. The room was musty—Norwell must have shut it up at his son’s death and not allowed anyone in. Grieving people often wanted to hide away their loved ones’ belongings.

The chamber was elegantly furnished, as befitting this Berkeley Square mansion. A tester bed with brocade draperies held prominence, a sofa stood near the fireplace, a writing table was positioned near the window, and a bookshelf full of leather-bound volumes took up part of one wall. Thick carpets covered the floor, and a dressing room with a wardrobe and a tall mirror opened off the main room.

Fellows took advantage of the butler’s absence to start going through the writing table. He pulled out drawers, sorted through the few letters he found, and turned the drawers upside down to look for anything hidden beneath. He finished soon, the contents disappointingly sparse. Hargate’s recent correspondence had been in his flat in Piccadilly, which Fellows had read when he’d searched there, but he’d found nothing of interest. Fellows wasn’t certain what he hoped to find here, in Hargate’s boyhood bedroom, but it was the one place Fellows hadn’t searched yet.

By the time Fellows heard Pierce’s step on the stairs, he was under the large bed, looking beneath the slats for hidden treasures. Nothing.

Fellows crawled out and brushed himself off, and was on his feet pulling out books from the bookcase by the time Pierce and the butler arrived. Pierce, who prided himself on his forthrightness, shut the door in the butler’s face. “Fetch us some tea, there’s a good chap,” he called through the door. “And coffee for the Chief Inspector. He don’t like tea.” He turned away and surveyed the room. “Anything, guv?”

“Nothing yet. See what you can make of it.”

Pierce went to work. Fellows trusted his sergeant’s skill, and for good reason. Pierce could feel every corner of a pillow without cutting it open, tell if a mattress or featherbed held any secrets. He checked every inch of wainscoting and the paneling around the windows, tested bricks of the fireplace, turned over chairs, and patted the curtains to see if anything resided between drapery and liner or inside the hems. Pierce flipped carpets up and tested floorboards, then went through the books and examined their bindings.

Undaunted by finding nothing, Pierce entered the dressing room. Fellows continued to look through the letters he’d taken from the drawer. Presently the banging and rustling in the dressing room stopped, and Pierce said, “Eureka, sir.”

Fellows didn’t get his hopes up. This had been Hargate’s room when he’d been a young man living at home. Pierce might have found nothing more than a university lad’s old stash of cigarettes or malt whiskey.

Pierce was crouching on the floor in the dressing room, having folded back the carpet. He’d lifted a loose board from the floor and now pulled out a square box that had been resting on the joists beneath.

The box was locked, but the lock was small and decorative, more to keep out those who would have respected his privacy anyway. Fellows put the box on the dressing table, took out a blunt tin nail he kept for such occasions, and quickly forced open the lock.

Would he find cheroots and love poems to long-ago schoolgirls? Fellows’ heart beat faster as he lifted the lid.

He found a notebook. He took it out, noting that it was clean and crisp. Almost new.

“Ah,” Pierce said. “Wonderful things, notebooks. Can tell you so much about a chap. His personal thoughts. Locked in a box under the floorboards.”

Fellows sat down on the chair at the dressing table and opened the notebook. As he’d suspected, it wasn’t a straightforward, written journal of everything the bishop had been up to, whom he’d angered, and who wanted to kill him. It was a series of cryptic notes, but Hargate had been kind enough to date them. He’d made the last entry the morning of the garden party.

“Bring the box,” Fellows said grimly. “We’re taking this.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lloyd Fellows’ flat was in a lane off the Strand in a respectable house that retained some of the elegance of the past. The landlady was gracious enough to let Louisa and Daniel upstairs to Fellows’ rooms once Daniel explained who they were—and charmed her with his smiles and youthful innocence. He portrayed innocence very well.

The flat had four rooms—a sitting room which doubled as a dining room, a small office with a cluttered desk, and a bedroom with a bath chamber beyond. Daniel solved Louisa’s problem of wondering if she would ever dare enter Fellows’ bedroom by opening the door and barging in himself. Of course, Louisa had to follow to make sure he stayed out of mischief.

“He won’t mind,” Daniel said. “I come here all the time for a bit of a chat. Ah, there it is.” He picked up a book from Fellows’ bedside table. “I lent him this a while ago. Thought it might be in here.”

Louisa gave him a sharp look. It would be just like Daniel to pretend he’d given Fellows the book in order to have an excuse for snooping in the man’s bedroom.

She ought to tell him they should leave the room and close the door. But Louisa stood in the middle of it, absorbing everything about Lloyd Fellows.

His bed was large, with low posts and no hangings. Neatly made, the pillows plump, a quilt folded across the bottom. Louisa wondered if his mother had sewn the quilt.

The room was small, most of it taken up with the bed. Fellows didn’t have many decorative touches, except a few photographs in frames on top of the high dresser. Louisa moved to look at them.

One photo was of his mother, taken when she was younger. Louisa had met Mrs. Fellows at informal Mackenzie gatherings—the photograph showed she’d been vivacious and pretty when younger, and her eyes held shrewd intelligence, much like her son’s.

Another photo was a full-length portrait of a very young Lloyd, in his policeman’s uniform, probably taken when he’d first joined the force. He stood stiffly, proud, his helmet tucked under his arm.

The third photograph was of Louisa.

Louisa looked quickly behind her, but Daniel was busy flipping through the book he’d found. Louisa turned back to the photo, her heart hammering.

The photograph was a casual one, taken by Eleanor during one of Louisa’s visits to Kilmorgan—Eleanor enjoyed taking photographs and developing them herself. Louisa stood in the garden at Kilmorgan Castle, sunlight on her face, climbing roses around her. The sepia photo showed the roses as white, but in reality they were very light pink. Louisa’s hair looked a shade of brown instead of bright red, her dress darker than the pretty green it had been, but overall, the photograph was a good one. Because Eleanor was skilled at photography, Louisa wasn’t standing ramrod-stiff, her face and eyes washed out from the light, but was smiling, her pose natural.

How the photograph had gotten onto the dresser in Lloyd Fellows’ London bedchamber, Louisa had no idea. Eleanor might have given him a copy. Or perhaps Daniel, who’d just ingenuously said that he’d been here many times before, had.

Louisa bit her lip as she turned around. The open door beyond the bed led into his bathroom, where she told herself she wouldn’t go. But the window gave full light into the little room, showing her a mug and shaving brush on his washstand, towels neatly hung, a large bathtub with a tap. Fellows was a very tidy man, or else the landlady provided a competent maid. Nothing was out of place.

Louisa wanted to enter the bathroom and touch the shaving brush, an object of masculinity. She wanted to connect to Lloyd through it, feel again his strength, heat, the weight of him on her.

She’d never erase the imprint of his mouth on hers, the taste of him on her tongue. And she wanted more than kisses. Last night, if the constable hadn’t arrived, Louisa would have let Fellows carry their passion on the desk to its conclusion. She’d have slid off her drawers and raked up her skirts, welcoming him into her arms and inside her body.

Louisa, who should go to her marriage bed a virgin, would have thrown virtue aside for the joy of being with Lloyd at least once. By the social rules she lived by, Louisa would then have had to withdraw herself from the marriage mart after that, because no man wanted to discover on the wedding night that his bride was soiled goods.

But Louisa would not have cared. Even now she felt nothing but deep regret that they’d been interrupted.

“We should wait for him in the sitting room,” Louisa said abruptly.

Daniel looked up. “Eh?” He closed the book and shrugged. “Just as you like.”

Daniel led the way back to the sitting room, and Louisa made herself shut the door of the enticing chamber behind them.

* * *

Fellows walked home in the dark, his thoughts piling one on top of the other. Hargate’s notebook had revealed much. Fellows had left the book in its box firmly under lock and key at the Yard, but Fellows’ notes on it burned in his pocket, waiting for him to have the time to sit and go over them.

He might be lost in thought, but Fellows knew the placement of every single person on the street with him as well as those lurking in dark passages, what they were doing, and, if he’d seen them before, who they were. Those he hadn’t seen before, he made a note of in the back of his mind to look for again.

Denizens of the night always left Fellows alone, however. Though he wore a suit no different from that of any other businessman returning home late from work, somehow even those who knew nothing about him stayed far from him. Fellows was trouble, they sensed, and they didn’t want to deal with that much trouble.

Fellows let himself into the house with his key, walked up the quiet stairs, and used his flat key to open the door to his sitting room.

Daniel looked up from the sofa where he’d been reading a book. He didn’t spring to his feet, because Louisa was dozing next to him, her head on Daniel’s shoulder.

Fellows stopped in the act of dropping his hat to a chair. Louisa was so serenely beautiful, her face flushed, her body limp against Daniel’s, her red curls across her cheek.

Fellows drew a sharp breath as he imagined her head on his shoulder, better still, on his pillow with him lying next to her. The vision was so sharp, so desirable, that he couldn’t move. He needed it to be true.

Daniel touched her shoulder. “Louisa.”

Louisa frowned in her sleep, moved against his arm, then she opened her eyes. She stared in puzzlement at Fellows a moment, then she came fully awake, and sat up, pushing her hair from her face.

Fellows closed the door behind him. “You can’t be here.”

Daniel put his book aside and got to his feet. “A fine way to greet your family.”

Fellows finally set his hat on the chair, stripped off his gloves, and dropped them on top of the hat. “I meant Louisa. She can’t be seen anywhere near me until this investigation is closed.”

Louisa rose, still trying to press her hair back into place. Fellows wanted to tell her it looked much better mussed—he wanted to go to her and muss it some more.

“I am in the room with you, Chief Inspector,” she said. “You may tell me directly that you want me to go.”

Fellows fixed his gaze on her and her alone, and wished he hadn’t. “I want you to go.”

“Not yet,” Daniel said. “We didn’t come for a social call. We came to tell you something.”

Fellows still looked at Louisa. Her gown today was a brown broadcloth she’d covered with a jacket of burnt orange, autumn colors that went with her pale skin and red hair. She was a confection he wanted to eat.

It took a moment before Fellows realized Louisa was speaking to him, her eyes full of anger. “The Bishop of Hargate was blackmailing Mrs. Leigh-Waters. I told you he tried to blackmail me into marrying him, but I’ve learned that he also tried to blackmail Daniel.”

“I know,” Fellows said.

Louisa stopped, surprise pushing aside her anger. “You know? How?”

“Not about Daniel.” Fellows shot his nephew a look, which Daniel returned with a guileless one. “But I know about Mrs. Leigh-Waters.”

“This is interesting,” Daniel said. “Was Hargate blackmailing any others?”

“I’m not discussing the case with you, Daniel.”

“No?”

“No.” But Daniel was perceptive. Hargate’s book, once Fellows had deciphered his somewhat simplistic letter and number substitution code, showed he’d carried on an active round of blackmailing. A few of his victims, besides Mrs. Leigh-Waters, had been at the garden party. “The murderer doesn’t need to know in advance what line of inquiry I’m taking,” he said to Daniel.

“Of course not,” Louisa said, sounding reasonable. “We should let the chief inspector do his job, Danny.”

“Yes,” Fellows said dryly. “Please do.” He stepped aside and signaled with a wave of his hand that they should go.

Daniel didn’t move. “If you’re thinking of Mrs. Leigh-Waters as the murderer, I don’t think she did it, if my opinion is worth anything,” he said. “I don’t think she’d have the courage.”

“Nor do I,” Louisa added. Her belief in the woman was clear in her eyes. “And there’s the question of the poison—how it got into the tea, or at least the teacup, without Mrs. Leigh-Waters being there to make sure the right person drank it.”

“Yes,” Fellows said slowly. Louisa’s words made the part of his thoughts still tangled in the case begin to work. “And I think that’s it.”

Daniel and Louisa looked blank. “What?” Louisa asked.

“The answer to the entire problem.”

“Ah,” Daniel said. “You know how it was done?”

“Not yet. But I have possibilities to check. I planned to think about it tonight, alone, and then ponder while I sleep. I need sleep.” Fellows hadn’t gotten any the night before, that was certain.

Daniel looked resigned but nodded at him. “We’ll leave ye to it, then. Except you have to tell us what you discover. We’re pining to know.”

“I’ll send you a telegram,” Fellows said in his dry voice. He opened the door. “Thank you for the information. Good night.”

“Right you are.” Daniel held out his arm to Louisa. “Auntie?”

Louisa didn’t look at him. “I’d like to remain a moment, Daniel.”

“No,” Fellows said immediately. If Louisa stayed in his rooms, with his bedchamber steps away, he’d never be able to let her out again.

“Daniel,” Louisa said.

“I shouldn’t let you,” Daniel said. “I’m the chaperone, you know.”

“He is right,” Fellows said to Louisa. “You can’t stay up here with me.”

“For heaven’s sake, he can wait outside the door, which you may keep unlocked. If Daniel hears me scream, he will rush in to my rescue. I need to speak with you.”

Fellows’ hand stilled on the doorknob. He could not let her stay, blast the woman. But she stood stubbornly, as though rooting herself to the floor.

Daniel decided for them. Because neither Fellows nor Louisa moved, Daniel picked up his hat and gloves and walked out past Fellows, the hem of his kilt swinging.

“I’ll be kicking my heels at the end of the hall,” he said. “Shout when you’re ready, Louisa.”

Fellows remained at the door, holding it open. “Daniel, she can’t stay.”

“Best humor her,” Daniel said. “Else she gets terse, and I’ll have to ride all the way to Isabella’s with her like that. Do me a favor and let her speak her piece.”

Fellows had no sympathy. But he knew Louisa wouldn’t budge unless he lifted her over his shoulder and carried her out. And if he touched her, he’d carry her straight to the bedroom.

Daniel grinned and turned away as Fellows finally swung the door shut. Fellows heard him whistling in the hall.

“Begin,” Fellows said to Louisa. “Then leave.”

He kept himself beside the door. Safer there—the entire sitting room lay between him and her.

Louisa wore brown leather gloves that hugged her fingers. Fellows couldn’t stop his imagination putting those gloved hands on his bare chest, feeling the cool leather on his hot skin. She’d move her hands down across his abdomen, roving to the hardness that strained for her.

“Why do you have my photo in your bedchamber?” Louisa asked.

Fellows started, pushing his fantasies aside. Louisa looked at him expressionlessly, without anger, or disgust, scorn, or any other emotion he’d expect her to have. He kept a picture of her without her knowledge, and she only asked him about it in a calm voice. How she’d discovered he had it, Fellows hadn’t the slightest doubt.

“I will throttle Daniel Mackenzie,” he said.

“You have three photographs on your dresser,” Louisa said slowly. “One of your mother, one of yourself in your police uniform. Natural enough. And you have me.”

Any lie would sound ridiculous. There was no reason in the world Fellows should have her photograph, except one.

“I don’t often see you,” he said. “I have the photo so I can look at you in the stretches of time between.”

She regarded him in silence a moment, as though considering his answer. “Did Eleanor give it to you?”

“She did.”

“Did you ask her for it?”

“No,” Fellows said. “But when she offered it, I didn’t refuse.”

Louisa swallowed, the movement faint in her slender throat. “I, on the other hand, have no photograph of you.”

“I don’t often have one taken. Haven’t in years.”

“Eleanor would do it,” Louisa said.

“No doubt.”

Another pause. Shakespeare would have had trouble writing this play. His characters talked and talked, spilling out streams of poesy. So many words, when silence spoke volumes.

“That photograph of me was taken a year ago,” Louisa said. “Just after Eleanor and Hart’s wedding.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“You’ve had it all this time.” Louisa lost her frozen stance and stepped forward. “You’ve had it all this time, and you’ve not said a word. You haven’t said anything.”

“Would it have done any good?”

“I think it would have done the world of good.” Louisa’s voice increased in volume. “But how could I know? How can I know anything of what you’re thinking? You hide so much.”

Fellows came out of his rigidity. “I don’t have much of a chance to speak to you, do I? Every time I see you, you’re at a party of some kind, surrounded by friends, laughing with them. You’re where you belong. You’re part of their world, with people you understand, and I am not.”

“What are you talking about?” She glared at him. “You are in that world now. You’re part of the Mackenzie family. They’ve welcomed you with open arms.”

“They have, yes.” His tone went ironic. “They’ve been adamant to erase the part of my life when I lived in penury. Their remorse is touching. The only one not wallowing in guilt is Ian, because I don’t think he understands the meaning of the word.”

Louisa flushed. “Do you think I’m wallowing in guilt?”

“You feel sorry for me, Louisa. You’ve told me.”

Her face reddened further. “You think I’ve kissed you out of pity?”

“You might believe otherwise, but yes.”

“Is that what you truly think? That I’d be so . . . patronizing?”

“Aren’t you?” Fellows knew he made her angry, but maybe if she grew furious enough she’d go, and stay away from him. “You told me once that I looked as though I needed cheering up. Poor Inspector Fellows—like a beggar standing outside the window, gazing at a feast he’s not allowed to have.” He’d felt that way often enough as a lad, especially the day he’d watched the boy Hart climb back into the sumptuous Mackenzie carriage and ride away with their father. Fellows had been left behind, outraged and bereft, and dragged off to a police station. That was the day he’d decided to become a policeman.

Louisa’s eyes were starry with anger. “How can you say that? How can you know anything about my feelings for you? You’ve never bothered to ask me!”

“I don’t remember you bothering to ask me before you coaxed me onto a ladder with you, or dragged me under the mistletoe.”

Louisa moved to him, halting close enough to him that he could breathe in her scent. Dangerous. “I don’t recall you pushing me away,” she said.

Was she mad? “Dear God, what sane man would? There you were, beautiful and wanting to kiss me. Last night you wrapped your arms around me and pulled me down to my desk with you. Only a saint would push you away, and I assure you, I am no saint.”

Louisa took a breath, pulling her voice down from a shout. “Why are you trying to make me angry? You are being deliberately cruel. Why?”

“Because you can’t be here. I said that when I came in. We can’t be together, Louisa. No declarations, nothing.” Fellows tried to speak steadily. “If anyone discovers me even talking to you, the investigation will be compromised. I’ll be pulled from the case and a detective assigned to it who cares nothing for truth, only for arrests and convictions.”

She looked puzzled. “But I’m not the only suspect now. Hargate was a blackmailer, with many other victims. You said you had ideas.”

“And by your own admission, Hargate was blackmailing you. You still had a motive, still are a very good suspect. So until this investigation is over, we don’t see each other, we don’t speak. If I have anything more to ask you regarding Hargate, I’ll send Sergeant Pierce to you. Do you understand?”

“Well enough.” Another of the small silences fell. “What about when the investigation is over?”

“I don’t know.” Fellows drew a breath. “There is still . . . I don’t know.”

“And yet, you have my photograph.”

They looked at each other a long moment. Everything spoken and unspoken hovered between them, waiting to be shattered.

Then Fellows moved around and past her, making himself give her a wide berth. He strode to the bedchamber, slammed inside it, grabbed the small photo from the dresser, and slammed out again.

He thrust the photograph at her. “Take it.”

Louisa didn’t reach for it. “Why? It’s yours.”

“Take it.” Fellows grabbed her wrist, pulled her gloved hand to him, and slapped the framed photo into it. “Give it back to Eleanor, keep it for yourself, give it to Mr. Franklin. I don’t give a damn.”

“You’re horrible.”

“Yes, I am. Best you know that. Now get out.”

Louisa stared at him, her mouth open, red lips moist. It was all Fellows could do not to sweep her up, deposit her on the sofa, strip off her clothes, and have her. Now. Hang the investigation.

And then Louisa might truly hang. No, Fellows would never let that happen. Even if he had to stay away from her from this point forward, let her marry another man, and never see her again, he’d do it to keep her from harm. Louisa’s life was worth far more to him than his own happiness.

Louisa didn’t hurry to obey. She looked up at Fellows for a long time, then clutched the photograph to her chest.

“I’ll go,” she said in her quiet voice. “I understand how it will look for the investigation if it’s thought we are having a liaison. But I won’t stay away forever.”

“When that time comes, no doubt we’ll argue again,” Fellows said.

“Do plan on it.” Louisa turned from him, snatching up the hat she’d left on a side table. “When I hear someone else has been found to be the culprit, I’ll seek you out again. I doubt you’ll send me word, so I won’t wait for it.” She dropped the photograph into her pocket, thrust the hat onto her head, and turned to the mirror to stab two hatpins through the hat's crown.

Fellows watched her, mesmerized, as Louisa turned back to him, the hat perfectly in place. She gave him a last glare then marched past him and out the door without a good-bye. Despite her words, the slam of the door behind her spoke of finality.

* * *

Fellows spent the next two days frantically going over his notes, questioning those he felt should be reexamined, including Mrs. Leigh-Waters and the interesting reason Hargate had blackmailed her. She’d had an affair a dozen years ago, the notebook said. The affair had ended, Mrs. Leigh-Waters told Fellows tearfully. The gentleman in question had married and gone to live in Boston with his American wife, and they never corresponded. But her husband had never learned of it.

Hargate had somehow found out and decided to torment her about it. Hargate had found out many things about many people. He’d used the leverage over them to obtain money, favors, positions, and his bishopric.

Any number of people might have wanted to kill Hargate, yes, Fellows thought in frustration. But only one of them had figured out how to put the poison into the right teacup.

By Monday morning, Fellows had not uncovered who. At least, not with enough evidence to convince Chief Superintendent Kenton.

Fellows was ordered to take the train to Newmarket. A police van drove him to King’s Cross station, a constable making sure he boarded. Kenton, understanding Fellows’ desperation, said he wouldn’t officially assign Inspector Harrison to the case until Fellows returned. Fellows would have until after the races to come up with an answer. But he had to go to Newmarket.

When Fellows arrived in Newmarket, the entire Mackenzie brood already there, the horse-mad aristos of England were abuzz with the latest gossip. The Honorable Gilbert Franklin had proposed to Lady Louisa Scranton, and wedding bells were sure to ring before midsummer.

Chapter Fifteen

Louisa loved the racing season, loved traveling with Cameron Mackenzie and his growing family to Epsom Downs, Newmarket, Goodwood, Doncaster. The Mackenzies had a private box in the stands at each course, usually full of the family cheering on Cameron’s horses.

All the Mackenzies had gathered for this Newmarket race, including the duke and duchess. The children had come to Newmarket as well, though they were currently at the hired house under the watchful eyes of their nannies. Cameron, Daniel’s father, tall and harsh-voiced, stayed in the box only a short time, impatient to get back to his horses. Cameron bore a deep scar on his cheek, evidence of his former unhappiness. Louisa watched Cam’s second wife, Ainsley, rise on her tiptoes to kiss that scar before he left. Softness flashed into Cameron’s eyes, and the look he gave Ainsley was full of heat and fierce joy.

Cameron left the box, pausing to say something to Daniel on his way out. Daniel laughed out loud, looking exactly like his father in that moment.

“Excellent weather for it,” Gilbert Franklin said next to Louisa.

Eleanor had enthusiastically invited Gil to attend the races with them. Isabella, when informed, had been less than pleased. Izzy had been cool to Gil since he’d called at the Mount Street house the morning after Louisa’s encounter in Fellows’ flat. Gil had asked to speak to Louisa alone and then proposed to her, even going down on his knees to do it.

Weeks ago, Isabella had been happy to help Louisa with her idea of using the Season to try to find a husband. Now that Gil, the perfect match, had made it clear he wanted Louisa to be his wife, Izzy barely stopped shy of snubbing him. That she didn’t approve was obvious.

Gil put his warm hand on Louisa’s arm, and her shaking started again. Every time Gil touched her, Louisa trembled. Any other woman might believe herself madly in love, half swooning at the touch of her beloved, but Louisa knew better. She shook because she felt as though she’d boarded a wrong train, and that train was rocketing off into the wilderness, no way to stop it.

When Louisa saw the unmistakable form of Lloyd Fellows approach Cameron near the track below, she became suddenly sick to her stomach.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Gil asked her in concern.

She really should be more grateful to him, she knew. Gil was like clear water, soothing, never troubling. Louisa ought to be glad, after all the upsets in her life, to lie still and let the water trickle over her.

Fellows, on the other hand, was fire. Fire burned. Even the spark of him was enough to sear her to the bone. Louisa always hurt when she was with Fellows, and merely looking at him talking to Cameron made her ache.

Fire and water. Water should put out the fire and ease the pain. Then again, fire that was hot enough jumped over water and continued its destruction.

The next race began, and Louisa tried to pull her attention to it. One of Cameron’s horses was running in it, as well as horses he trained that belonged to other gentlemen. Cameron never bet on his own animals, but the other Mackenzies usually had a flutter. Cameron’s horses were always short odds to win, but it was fun to wager a little. Today, Gil had gone down to the bookmakers and put money on all the races for him and for Louisa.

Gil didn’t sit so close to Louisa that he would cause a scandal, but he did keep his arm near hers, so that their shoulders were nearly touching. When he turned to her and smiled, it was like the sun coming out. Louisa ought to be deliriously happy.

The horses started. The crowd surged to its feet, including everyone in the Mackenzie box, and the noise began. Ian was the only one who didn’t cheer on the horses, but he held his hands ready to clap when his wife did. He still didn’t entirely understand the concept of cheering and clapping, but he’d learned to mimic, so others would not point out his eccentricities. Beth cued him these days, her gentle guidance helping him over many a rough moment.

Cameron’s horse, Night-Blooming Jasmine, running in the mare’s race, easily pulled ahead of the others. Jasmine ran as though she could do this all day, then perhaps have a romp in the pasture afterward before going home to enjoy a good grooming. The other horses sprinted to catch up to her, but Jasmine leisurely galloped around the track, pulling even farther ahead in the last furlong. She finished first by a long measure.

The Mackenzie box exploded with noise, Daniel and Mac standing on the railings and shouting the loudest. Ian abandoned clapping to put his arm around Beth and give her a hard squeeze. Beth was more important to him than a horse winning a race.

“I had no doubt,” Ainsley said, smiling. “Jaz is a wonderful horse.” She credited Jasmine with helping her and Cameron through their rough courtship.

“An excellent win.” Gil abandoned propriety to slide his arm around Louisa’s waist. “A little something to feather our nest, eh?”

Isabella, standing on Louisa’s other side, gave Gil a formidable frown. Gil assumed she was unhappy about the arm around Louisa’s waist, and withdrew, sending Isabella an apologetic grin.

“I’m very thirsty,” Isabella announced. “Louisa, will you accompany me to the tea tent?”

Mac turned around to her. “No need to bestir yourself, my love. Danny and I will rush down and procure for you anything you wish. You too, Louisa; ladies.”

Isabella’s cold look dissolved into a smile. She touched Mac’s face, the love in her eyes beautiful to see. “No thank you, Mac. I am making an excuse to take a stroll and speak to my sister. We’re going to gab like mindless females.”

Mac raised his hands. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of that.”

“Beth, come with us,” Louisa said quickly. Isabella was going to scold, she knew it, but Louisa might avoid the worst of it if Beth came along to mitigate.

“If it’s all the same, I’d rather not.” Beth fanned herself. She didn’t look tired, but she also didn’t like to rush about too much these days.

“I’ll come,” Ainsley said. She gave Gil a smile when he bowed and helped her across the box to where Louisa and Isabella waited. “Eleanor will make certain you aren’t abandoned, Mr. Franklin.”

“Indeed.” Eleanor moved from her seat and to the one next to Gil. “We will have ever so much to talk about, now that you want to become part of the family.”

Hart sent his wife a suspicious glance, and Louisa seconded it. Whenever Eleanor got that mischievous look in her eyes, there was no telling what she’d say or do. Fortunately Hart would be near to quell her if necessary—or to try to quell her, at least. The only person who didn’t tremble and obey the mighty Hart the instant he growled was Eleanor.

Isabella pulled Louisa and Ainsley away, and the three of them left the box to pick their way down the stairs to the tea tents below. Louisa reflected that she never wanted to see another tea tent in her life, but Isabella had her arm firmly through Louisa’s, and there was nothing for it but to follow and find out what she wanted.

The tea tent they reached was full, ladies in their finest gowns and beautiful hats greeting each other as though it hadn’t been only a day or two since they’d been together in London. They chatted while filling their plates with pastries, finger sandwiches, petit fours, scones and clotted cream.

As Louisa walked in with Isabella on one side, Ainsley on the other, ladies paused, ceased talking, watched. They didn’t quite cut Louisa, but they didn’t greet her openly either.

Louisa heard the whispers begin as Isabella escorted her to the food tables. “Gilbert Franklin actually proposed to her. Would he marry her if he thought her a poisoner, do you think?” “All I say is, he’d better be careful when he drinks his morning tea.” Titters. Laughter.

Izzy said nothing to anyone, and kept Louisa close. Ainsley, on the other hand, greeted ladies and waved to friends, behaving as though no one openly and rudely discussed Louisa.

Isabella stayed with Louisa as they loaded their plates. Louisa lifted a profiterole onto a dainty flowered plate and flashed back to holding a similar plate with a cream puff at Mrs. Leigh-Waters’ party. She’d been looking at the profiterole when Hargate had started to choke and gasp. She shivered.

Ladies who seemed to decide they didn’t want to risk offending Ainsley and Isabella, the wives of the influential Mackenzies, ventured to engage them in conversation, and Louisa was left relatively alone.

Louisa wondered anew why Isabella had brought her down here. To help her overcome her fear of tea tents? Or to make her face the ladies who stared at her?

She took a determined sip of tea. Then Louisa set down her cup, snatched her pastry from her plate, and took a large bite.

Cream slithered out of the soft crust and smeared across her mouth. Of course it did. Louisa reached for a handkerchief and found Isabella no longer by her side. Ainsley either. They had become swallowed by friends and acquaintances, absorbed into the chattering mass.

Louisa did see Lloyd Fellows look into the tea tent, lock his gaze to her, give her the barest nod, and then turn away.

Drat it. He had to choose that moment to spy her, didn’t he? When she had cream smeared across her lips, her eyes wide as she looked frantically about for Isabella.

Other ladies were staring at her, and their gazes were not friendly. She heard someone say behind her, “Shame on Mr. Franklin for leaving better girls in the starting gate.”

Louisa slammed the plate to the table and walked out of the tea tent, scrubbing her mouth with her handkerchief. Ladies parted to let her pass, their hostile looks barely veiled.

She emerged to see Inspector Fellows heading for the stables. Louisa kept a good distance and part of the crowd between her and him as she followed, pretending she was doing nothing more than wandering about looking at horses.

Had Louisa understood his minute signal that she was to follow him? Or had it been her wishful thinking? She’d welcome the chance to explain to him about Gil. The situation was not what Fellows’ thought—what anyone thought. Fellows would understand, perhaps, but only if she had a chance to speak to him.

Fellows walked into the far end of one of the long rows of stables. Few people lingered there—a couple of grooms were leading horses out, but that was all. The bulk of the spectators, owners, trainers, and jockeys were in the stands or on the track.

No one bothered about one stray lady in pale yellow as she crossed behind horse vans and stable blocks and ducked into the last stable yard. This stable block wasn’t much in use—a few horses poked their heads over the stall doors as Louisa entered, curious as to who was coming to see them.

The peace and coolness of the stables started to soothe her. Louisa loved horses. As a child, she’d sought refuge in the barns whenever her lessons in deportment drove her mad, or when the household was too busy making a fuss over Isabella to pay attention to Louisa. No one had much noticed where Louisa had gone.

She spied Fellows. He stood at the end of the line of loose boxes, his hand on a horse’s nose. He was talking to the animal, the horse basking in his attention.

Louisa walked toward him, heels clicking on the cobbles. Fellows heard her, turned, and scowled formidably. He didn’t call out; he waited until she neared him, then he walked away from her into an open, empty stall.

He knew Louisa would follow. She ducked inside the stall to find him standing on freshly strewn hay, his arms folded, eyes glinting in the dim light. Fire.

The shade of the stall was soothing. So were the scent of horses, the pungent smell of feed, and the mellower smells of leather and soap.

“Did anyone see you?” Fellows asked.

“No. I was careful.”

“Good.”

“Then I was right,” she said. “You wanted me to follow you?”

“Yes. I need to talk to you. About Franklin. You can’t marry him.”

His gruff tone made her heart beat faster. At the same time, her anger rose. “I see. Do the police approve all marriages now?”

“Only yours. You are engaged to him?”

His voice was calm, but full of rage. Louisa looked into his hazel eyes to find the fire high.

“No,” Louisa said. She wanted him to know. “The truth is, Gil did propose. I admit I didn’t discourage him from asking. He’d spoken to my mother and my cousin before he called on me. Such an old-fashioned gentleman, don’t you think? They were delighted.”

“And were you delighted?” Fellows watched her closely.

Louisa rubbed her arms, suddenly chilled. “It was very kind of him. Considering my current notoriety, it was brave of him to declare his intentions. But in all honesty—and no one but the family knows this—I haven’t given him my answer yet. So no, I am not officially engaged to him.”

Fellows lost his stiffness in an instant. “Thank God.” The words flowed with relief.

Louisa regarded him in surprise. “I thought you’d be pleased to hear I was engaged. That would keep tongues from wagging about me and you, wouldn’t it? And prevent you being taken off the investigation. I am letting people believe as they wish until I give Gil my final answer.”

“Why the devil should I be pleased?” His rage was back. “Use the betrothal as a blind if you want, but tell him no. You can’t marry Gilbert Franklin.”

“Why not? I believe you made it clear that you and I are not suited. Never will be. That you have no intention of trying to make us suit.” Louisa unlaced her arms to pick at her tight gloves. “You made it painfully clear.”

“This has nothing to do with what is between you and me. You can’t marry Franklin for the very simple reason that he is already married.”

Louisa had drawn a breath, ready to argue, then the breath lodged in her throat. “What?”

Fellows gave her a grim nod. “The Not-So-Honorable Mr. Franklin about six years ago married a woman in a village outside Rome. He has four children by her.”

Louisa staggered. She reached her hand out to the board wall to steady herself. Not enough support. She turned to put her back against it.

“Four children . . . No, that can’t be. You must be mistaken. You must have the wrong Mr. Franklin.”

“It’s not a mistake.” The words were flat, final.

“But . . .” Louisa wet her lips, finding a bit of cream she hadn’t managed to wipe away. “Good heavens, why didn’t you tell me before this? I’ve been considering accepting Gil’s offer. Seriously considering it, because you gave me no hope.”

“I didn’t know until yesterday evening. I ordered Sergeant Pierce to find out everything he could about Franklin, especially after his name turned up in Hargate’s notebook of sinners. I only had the telegrams from Rome last night. A copy of a parish register will follow in the post. Franklin married her all right. Legally. She’s the daughter of a farmer. But I suppose an earl’s son knew he needed a more acceptable bride to please his family and friends.”

Louisa remained against the wall, unable to make herself stand. Part of her continued to argue. The Roman police had to be wrong. Fellows was wrong. It must be a mistake.

But Louisa knew Lloyd Fellows. He was thorough. He would not make a statement like this until he was absolutely certain of its truth.

Disbelief fled, and along came anger. Louisa balled her fists. “That absolute rat!” She pushed herself off the wall and started to pace. “How dare he? To think, I felt sorry for him!”

Her agitated walking brought her up against Fellows, or maybe he’d stepped in front of her. He stood quietly, a rock she could cling to, a calm in the storm.

“And you say Hargate was blackmailing him?” Louisa asked. “Bloody hell.” The expletive came out—from Louisa, who’d been raised to never dream of swearing. “I can scarce believe it. Devil take all men.” She looked up at Fellows, who watched her from his solid height. “And you!” Her fists came up, and she thumped them once to his chest. “You made me fall in love with you. You made me start to believe you cared for me in return, and then you pushed me away. And I don’t mean because you were worried about risking the investigation. You implied that, even after the investigation was over, there’d be no hope. How dare you?”

She pummeled him a few times, but he didn’t move, didn’t flinch. When Louisa wound down, Fellows said, “In love.”

The words were flat, calm, as though he was too stunned to put more emotion behind them.

“Yes, in love. Good heavens, why else would I chase you about and throw myself at you like a ninny? I convinced myself I wanted a respectable marriage—to save my family’s reputation and to keep from being pitied, I thought. But I lied to myself. Pursuing a marriage was only an excuse to forget about you. But then you started to let me hope. And then you took that hope away.”

Louisa’s fists moved again, and Fellows grabbed her flailing hands.

“Louisa. Stop.” He frowned down at her, his hazel eyes holding something she didn’t understand.

“Why?” Louisa tried and failed to jerk away. “Why shouldn’t I shout at you? You deserve to be shouted at!”

“Louisa.” Fellows shook her once, hard. “You have to . . . stop.”

Louisa looked up at him, startled out of her frenzy. Fellows studied her a few heartbeats more, then he dragged her against him.

“You have to stop, sweetheart,” Fellows said. “Because I love you so much, it’s killing me.”

Chapter Sixteen

Fellows couldn’t believe he’d said the words, but he didn’t want to take them back. Not with Louisa gaping up at him, a fleck of cream still on the corner of her mouth.

When he’d peeked into the tea tent and seen her closing her mouth around the profiterole, the cream smearing across her lips, he’d had to turn away before he rushed in and hauled her out. Not only out of the tea tent, but out of Newmarket and back to London and his flat where he could have her all night. He’d smothered a groan, hoping no one noticed his sudden hard-on, and walked away with difficulty.

Fellows had wanted to catch her attention, because he needed to warn her off Mr. Franklin before it was too late. Betrothals could be as binding as marriage, especially if the marriage settlements had already been put in motion. Even if Louisa hated Fellows for the information, he refused to stand by and let Mr. Franklin lie to her and ruin her.

He’d gotten Louisa to follow him here so they wouldn’t be seen together. But now, alone with her, in the dim coolness of the stall, Fellows knew his mistake.

Louisa was tight against him, her eyes full of fire, her lips brushed with cream. He could no longer resist her—he only had so much strength. He leaned down and licked the side of her mouth.

The sparks he’d seen inside her ignited. Louisa twined her arms around Fellows and pulled him down to her for a full, hard, and desperate kiss.

They were not leaving. Fellows scraped her to him, his hand in her hair. Her hat came away and fell to the hay, and he was pulling her up into him, his arm solidly around her.

Louisa kissed him with urgency. Her hands scrabbled on his back, his neck, his shoulders. She wasn’t an experienced kisser, not seductive and sultry like a courtesan, and Fellows didn’t care.

She was his. A few steps had her against the wall. Fellows lifted her, hooking his arm around her hips. Her skirts came up as her leg twined around his. Fellows pushed the petticoats out of the way to find her warm thigh, bare under the lawn of her loose drawers.

He broke the kiss to touch his lips to her face, her hair. “Louisa,” he said, the whisper hoarse. “Marry me.”

Her intake of breath was sharp. “What?”

“Marry me. I can promise you damn all, but I need you in my life. I’ll take care of you better than that bastard Franklin ever could.”

“I know.” Louisa touched his face. “I know.”

“Then say yes. You are so high above me it makes my head spin to look at you, but I can’t let you go. Those bloody aristos will use you and make you miserable. I promise I will never do that.” He touched his forehead to hers, brushed a hard thumb across her cheek. “Please, Louisa.”

“Yes.” Louisa let out a breathless laugh. “Yes, I will. I’ll marry you. Dearest Lloyd.”

“Thank God.” Fellows’ prayer was heartfelt. “Thank God.”

He sank to his knees and pulled her down with him, cradling her in his arms as he laid her down on the soft hay. His fervent hands unlaced her drawers and pulled them off, moving her skirts to cushion her. This was not what Fellows wanted for her, no elegance here, but he couldn’t stop. His was a crude and fierce need, animal-like—fitting that they were in a stable.

Louisa didn’t stop him or push him away. She slid her hand through his hair, the desire in her eyes reflecting his.

Fellows got his buttons open, his trousers loosened. He moved his hand to her bare thigh again, then higher, his fingers sinking into her breathtaking heat. Louisa started, and he softened his touch, knowing she’d not felt this before.

He gently stroked her opening, feeling the wetness increase. She was excited for him, needy. His cock pulsing with the rapid beating of his heart was just as needy.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, or thought he said. “I promise.”

She nodded, her eyes growing heavy with pleasure. Fellows’ fingers continued their dance, and Louisa’s body became more and more pliant. She murmured something in bliss, her smile widening and warming.

Fellows laced his arm behind her hips and lifted her to him; at the same time he fitted himself to her and slowly, slowly pushed inside.

His world changed. A mix of wild excitement and incredible tenderness spiraled through him, in addition to the wonder of being tightly inside her. Her head went back, eyes closing.

Her small gasp as he broke through her barrier made him stop. Fellows caressed her, soothed her, his hands shaking. He knew he’d hurt her; he hadn’t wanted it to.

“Are you all right?” he asked her softly.

“Yes, I’m . . .” Louisa rose to him, her body knowing what to do. “I’m all right. I love you.”

Whatever Fellows tried to say in reply was incoherent. He slid on inside her, a crazed feeling flooding him as they connected.

He lost all sense of time, of place. He was with Louisa, bodies together. Her fingers, still hugged by leather gloves, brushed his face. The cool of them lent a sharp contrast to the heat of her. Erotic, joyful.

Fellows kissed her, their lips seeking each other’s, bruising. He thrust inside her, growing stronger as she opened more for him. This beautiful woman with her soft scent, her sweet body, was his.

“Louisa,” he said. “Louisa. Bloody hell.”

Too soon, too soon . . . His climax hit him. He kept thrusting into her, Louisa crying out with it and her own pleasure, her gloved fingers gripping his shoulders.

Fellows went on, hips rocking. He needed her, needed all of her. He couldn’t form the words, but the thoughts were there.

You are the beauty I’ve been seeking all my life. My existence was dark, grim, full of struggle, until you. You are the light that pushes the darkness away. When I’m with you, I can see my way, and I can breathe again.

All that came out was, “I love you.”

Louisa smiled, her eyes soft with the passion of what they did. “I love you too. My dearest Lloyd.”

And that was enough.

* * *

They were sitting up together against the wall, she on his lap. Louisa felt stretched and different. The world looked different to her too, as though colors she’d never seen before had suddenly become clear to her.

She leaned against Lloyd’s shoulder, he with his arm around her. They’d kissed quietly for a long time on the hay, then he’d withdrawn, lifted Louisa to his lap, and held her close.

Louisa didn’t want to leave for the harsh light of the afternoon, not yet. They sat on the giving hay, not speaking. Basking.

Lloyd took her left hand in his, slid off her glove, and pressed a kiss to her third finger. “I will give you a ring. It won’t have nearly the diamond Franklin would have given you, but it will be something.”

Louisa wanted to laugh. “I’d rather have a band of tin from you than the Kohinoor diamond from Gil. What you give me will be true.”

He continued to caress her finger. “If I hadn’t told you what I told you about Franklin, would you have accepted him?”

“No.” Louisa could say it honestly and decidedly. “I would have turned him down. I thought at one time he’d be the perfect husband for me. But perfection . . . It’s cloying, dull sameness.”

Fellows laughed his dry laugh. “Well, I am nothing like perfection.”

“You’re better. You’re you.” Louisa squeezed his arm. She belonged to him now, and she liked that feeling. “Gil is apparently a liar, a cheat, and a manipulator. Hargate was even worse.” She lifted her head. “You don’t think Gil killed Hargate for knowing his secret, do you? I’ll not forgive Gil for deceiving me so dreadfully, but I’m not sure he’d go so far as murder.”

“You would be surprised who would go so far as murder.” Fellows gave her a soft kiss. “Would you consider beginning your life as a policeman’s wife by helping me catch a killer? I don’t have the evidence to apply for an arrest warrant yet, and I have to be careful about it. I won’t push you to help me, because there is some danger involved. I won’t lie about that.”

“Of course I’ll help,” Louisa said. “I’ll gladly assist you proving I didn’t do it. I’d gladly assist you even if I hadn’t been suspected. I didn’t much like Hargate, but I watched him die—I wouldn’t wish such a terrifying death on anyone.”

“Before you agree, wait until I tell you what I have in mind,” Fellows said. “I had planned to ask Eleanor to help, because she’s resilient, though Hart would throttle me when he found out what I asked her to do.”

“I’m resilient.” Louisa sat up and took his hands. “Please, I want to help you. You’ve done so much for me.”

“Thank you.” A grim light entered Fellows’ eyes then, as the police detective returned, and he outlined his plan to her.

* * *

Louisa entered the family’s box a different woman than when she’d left it. She’d spent a while in the horse stall putting herself to rights, Lloyd having to pick bits of hay out of every piece of Louisa’s clothing and her hair. He’d laughed as he’d done it—she loved his laugh, the deep, warm one that held none of his self-deprecation or bitterness.

Louisa had left the stable yard alone, pretending she’d done nothing but linger to pet the horses. She made her way back to the Mackenzie box, nodding and smiling at ladies who still watched her with contempt.

Ainsley and Isabella had already returned to the box, both of them giving Louisa sharp looks when she entered.

Gil greeted her warmly. “Louisa, my sweet, I was worried about you. Where did you disappear to?”

Louisa shrugged, hoping her warm face and the new softness in her body didn’t betray her. “Chatting to people is all. And looking at horses. I love horses, you know.”

“Well, it’s good to have you back to myself,” Gil said.

He smiled his warm smile, full of friendliness, no less sincere than when she’d left him an hour ago. Louisa had felt slightly guilty to receive his kind attentions then; now he only irritated her. What a difference an hour made!

Gil sat next to her and again moved close without being too obvious. But now the movement seemed possessive and arrogant, as though Gil implied he knew exactly how to behave and Louisa did not.

“I long to travel,” Louisa said to him. “To lands far away. Don’t you?”

Gil raised his brows at the non sequitur. “Yes, I enjoy travel. But there’s something to be said for good old England, isn’t there?”

“That’s true, but I very much enjoy my journeys to Scotland. Such wild land there, some of it quite rough. But beautiful, I think. Land untouched by any but God.”

“Yes, Scotland can be lovely,” Gil agreed, obviously wondering why on earth she’d brought it up.

“But I’ve never been abroad. I wasn’t able to have a Grand Tour. Perhaps we could go together, Gil. I’d especially love to see the Italian cities: Florence, Venice, Rome. Shall we go to Rome?”

Gil stared at her as though she’d lost her senses. “I suppose. Rome is a bit crowded. Hot in the summer. Loud.”

“Is it? But there is so much history there, and art. And I thought you partial to the city.”

“Well, yes, it can be beautiful,” Gil said, still bewildered. “But really, I think we ought to stay in northern climes. For instance, Paris in the summer is heavenly.”

“I think I’d prefer Rome. I hear some of the outlying towns are very pretty. Perhaps you can introduce me to your acquaintance there.”

Gil looked at her in confusion for a few moments longer, then Louisa saw him realize that she knew. His brows came down, lower, lower, in puzzlement, worry, anger.

“Louisa.”

Louisa patted his arm. “Do not worry, Gil. I wouldn’t make any sort of trouble for you. But it is a bit unfair to her, isn’t it? Oh, and to me. Marrying me under false pretenses, I mean.”

The last statement brought the other conversations in the box to a halt. Heads turned. Gilbert suddenly found himself under the scrutiny of four pairs of Mackenzie eyes, and the equally stony stares of the Mackenzie wives.

Gil’s face lost color. “It isn’t . . . the marriage wasn’t legal.”

“I have been told that it was legal without doubt,” Louisa said. “From a very good source. I am certain she insisted on it, wise lady. I think you’d better confess your sins, Gil. To your parents, to your friends, to me. Is bringing your true wife to England such a difficulty?”

“Louisa.” Gil tried frantically to lower his voice, but too late. “It was nothing. A youthful indiscretion is all. Long ago.”

Daniel broke in. “Ah, those youthful indiscretions. Always come back to haunt one, don’t they?”

Mac laughed. “You’re too young to have youthful indiscretions haunting you, Danny.”

“Don’t be so certain,” Ainsley said. “You’d be amazed what comes to light about our Daniel. But you were speaking of your indiscretions, Gil. Do not let us interrupt.”

Gilbert kept his gaze on Louisa. “You must believe me, Louisa. I was very young. It was mad and brief, and over.”

Louisa’s anger had climbed down a long way since she’d first learned Gilbert’s guilty secret. Wild happiness had erased most of her outrage. Now she could pity him, but the anger was still there. Gil had cold-bloodedly decided he’d lie to Louisa, and to his true wife, to deceive everyone. It was base and mean.

“I would believe you, Gil,” Louisa said. “But four children? Four little ones hardly indicates that you’ve left the affair far in the past.”

Gil dropped the innocent look. “Bloody hell.”

“A wife and four children, Mr. Franklin?” Hart’s eagle gaze skewered him.

“Indeed,” Louisa said. “They live in a village near Rome. Gil married her . . . about six years ago, was it, Gil? I imagine you realized your father would kick up a fuss if he discovered you’d married an Italian farmer’s daughter, so you decided to take an English wife of noble birth to keep him happy.”

Gil seized her hands. “No, Louisa. I asked you to marry me because I want to marry you. I will divorce her. I am having difficulty, I will admit—she’s Catholic and won’t hear of it. But I promise, I’ll get out of it. I have my best solicitors on it.”

Louisa tried to withdraw her hands, but Gilbert held them hard. She shook her head, realizing as she did so, that a piece of hay still rested on her shoulder. Daniel had noticed it, according to the sudden shrewd look he gave her.

“It makes no difference to me whether you extract yourself from the marriage or not,” Louisa said to Gil. “You must see that. I rather think you weren’t going to tell me about it at all, were you?”

“I will obtain the divorce,” Gil said stubbornly. “I won’t hold you to anything, Louisa. We won’t announce an engagement, even, if you don’t want to, until it’s done. But please, don’t say no. I love you.”

Hart had left his place in the corner of the box to take a seat next to Gil. “You’re in a bad place, Franklin,” he said. “Louisa is trying to tell you to take yourself away from her. I’ll go further and tell you to leave England altogether. Go back to Italy and acknowledge your wife and children. If you don’t think they’ll be happy in England, then stay with them and settle down there.”

Gil drew himself up. “Do not presume to tell me what to do, Kilmorgan. Your copybook is blotted far worse than mine.”

“It’s the nature of the blots that are important,” Hart said. “Secret wives cause all sorts of legal complications. And then there are your children. Four, Louisa said? All yours?”

“Yes,” Gil snapped.

“Then acknowledge them as yours. Raise them. Be a father to them. The cruelest thing you can do in this world, Franklin, is to not acknowledge your sons and daughters. Don’t let them grow up believing their father doesn’t want them.”

Like Lloyd. He grew up knowing his father had rejected him. Hart understood that. Louisa read remorse in Hart’s eyes for what his father had done.

“They’ve done nothing to deserve that,” Louisa said in avid agreement.

“Louisa, please.”

Louisa got to her feet. Gil, trained in politeness from the cradle, rose to his at the same time. But Louisa had reached the end of her patience with him. “I won’t marry you, Gil. Not now, not if you obtain a divorce. You may as well go to Italy and stay there. I think you should leave at once. I’m sure you can find a train that will carry you to Dover this very evening.”

“Louisa . . .”

“No, Gil. I’d like you to go now.”

Louisa took a step away from him, intending to join the ladies. Gil reached for her, desperation on his face. Louisa sidestepped his outstretched hands, tripped, and came down on the same foot she’d wrenched dancing.

She cried out and started to fall. Gil snatched at her in true alarm and missed.

Another hand caught Louisa under her arm, lifting her up again. Ian. He frowned down at her, the look in his eyes telling Louisa he knew everything that was going on and everything that would come.

How he knew, Louisa didn’t bother trying to understand. What Ian did and didn’t know was always astonishing to her.

“Wretched foot.” Louisa took a step and cried out again. Ian’s grip tightened, and Daniel sprang to her other side, supporting her between himself and Ian.

“Sit down, Aunt Louisa,” Daniel said. “I’ll fetch Angelo. He’s excellent at binding up fetlocks.”

Louisa grimaced. “Thank you, Danny, but I believe I’ve done more to my fetlock than I previously thought.”

“She’s right,” Isabella said worriedly. “We’ll take you to a doctor, dear. I’m sure there are competent surgeons in Newmarket.”

Ian looked at Daniel. “We will take her.”

“We will?” Daniel blinked. “Yes, of course we will. Come along, Auntie. Ian and I will take care of you.”

Isabella tried to follow, but Ian had Louisa hauled out of the box so quickly that Isabella got left behind. When Ian reached the stairs, he abandoned trying to help Louisa walk and simply lifted her into his arms.

Ian didn’t much like touching people, or people touching him. He welcomed hugs from Beth and his children, tolerated them from his brothers and Daniel, but he slid away from everyone else. Now Ian cradled Louisa close, never minding that she clasped her hands around his neck to hold on.

Ian walked rapidly and grimly down the stairs with her, as though he carried a Mackenzie dog that had hurt itself. And possibly, Louisa mused, Ian thought of Louisa as little different from them.

Daniel ran ahead and found the doctor Ian sought. The man’s eyes widened when he saw Louisa, pale and hurt, and changed from the social gentleman to the professional.

“Bring her in here,” he said, gesturing to one of the tents.

This one was empty, whatever use it had been put to finished, tables strewn about waiting to be carried away. Daniel made certain a table was clear, and Ian laid Louisa on it. Louisa bit her lip, trying to look brave.

One of Sir Richard Cavanaugh’s lackeys hurried in with his bag and departed just as quickly. Sir Richard ran his hand competently over Louisa’s ankle, and she made a noise of pain when he squeezed the right place.

“I’ll need to examine it more closely—it might be broken. Gentlemen, if you’ll go?”

He meant that he might have to expose Louisa’s bare ankle. Daniel and Ian weren’t closely enough related to her that it would be proper for them to see that. Silly, but Sir Richard had likely learned long ago to adhere strictly to the rules. Hence his knighthood.

“Wait for Isabella first,” Daniel suggested.

Louisa waved him off. “No, please go. The quicker he finishes, the quicker I’ll be out of pain. I’ll be fine.”

Ian, without a word, put his hand on Daniel’s shoulder, turned the puzzled young man around, and marched him out of the tent. Daniel went, but with reluctance.

“Now then, Lady Louisa.” Sir Richard worked the stopper from a small green bottle and held it out to her. “Take the smallest sniff of this. It will relax you and make you feel better.”

Louisa regarded the bottle with suspicion. “What is it?”

“Just a sedative. See?” Sir Richard waved the bottle under his own nose. “Nothing noxious.”

He held it out to her again. Louisa took a small sniff, smelling something sharp and sweet. She lay down on the table again, the pain almost evaporating, or at least receding to someplace far away. Louisa’s limbs relaxed, and she drew a long breath.

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Just a touch of ether,” Sir Richard said. “I don’t want my examination to hurt you.”

He picked up her foot, unlaced and drew off her boot, and slid his hand up her leg to take down her stocking. All quick, competent, professional. He rotated her foot this way and that, pressed her ankle, and then ran warm hands all over her foot.

“I don’t think you’ve broken anything, fortunately, Lady Louisa. A mild sprain is all, though they can hurt very much. I’ll bind the foot and give you something for the pain.”

“Thank you.” He was kind, really. “You’re nice,” Louisa said. Then she drew a breath. Why on earth had she said that?

“Lovely of you to say so, my dear.” Sir Richard smiled at her, then something else entered his eyes. “You have beautiful legs, Louisa. A pity no one sees them.”

Louisa’s dry lips parted. “I beg your—”

She broke off with a little squeak as Sir Richard put his hand on her ankle again. It didn’t hurt, but she watched, wide-eyed, as he caressed her leg all the way to the knee, the touch no longer that of a compassionate doctor. “Very nice,” he said, his voice thick with pleasure.

Louisa wanted to shriek and kick, but the sedative he’d given her made her giggle instead. How very awful. Lloyd had been right after all.

“He generally is,” Louisa said before she could stop herself.

“Pardon?” Sir Richard went on caressing behind her knee, his fingers sliding under the hem of her drawers. “Who generally is what?”

“Lloyd. He’s always right about people. He’s very clever.”

“I’m certain.” It was apparent Sir Richard had no idea who “Lloyd” was. He didn’t connect the name with the police inspector who’d interviewed him—how very rude of him. “Louisa, my dear, you are quite a beautiful woman.” Sir Richard withdrew his hand from her skirt only to slide it up her bodice and her bosom. He squeezed her breast, then started to undo the buttons that closed the bodice to her chin. “Let me loosen your gown, so you can breathe easier.”

“Yes.” The open buttons did let her draw a long breath. “Help,” she tried to shout, but the word came out quietly.

“Hush now,” Sir Richard said. “We don’t have much time. Someone will come soon. That makes it a bit more exciting, doesn’t it?” He drew her placket apart and put his large, rather soft hand on her breast . . .

A very large fist connected with the side of Sir Richard’s face. Louisa’s eyes widened as Sir Richard staggered, blood appearing on his temple. He tried to keep to his feet, then he fell over like a tree in a storm and lay stunned on the wilted grass.

Louisa looked at the fist that had done the punching and recognized the black leather gloves Lloyd liked to wear. The punch had been very competent. Louisa tried to leverage herself up on her elbows, then she gave up and laughed.

Sir Richard struggled to rise. A large boot, this one belonging to Sergeant Pierce, landed on the man’s chest.

“Now then, sir,” Pierce said. “Just you rest there a bit.”

The tent seemed to be full of people all the sudden. Ian Mackenzie, thunder in his eyes, put his booted foot on Sir Richard’s chest as well. Sir Richard wasn’t going anywhere.

The rest of the Mackenzies, including Isabella, took up the rest of the small tent. Gilbert, fortunately, was nowhere in sight.

Fellows had shrugged off his coat and now he draped it over Louisa. She smiled up at him and touched his strong hand. “Did I do all right?” she asked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he’d give me such a strong sedative. I couldn’t scream for help.”

“You did fine. Thank you.” Lloyd leaned down and kissed the top of her head. No one looked surprised, least of all Ian, the crafty devil.

Isabella was giving Fellows a hard look. “Do you mean to say, Chief Inspector, that you used my sister as bait?”

Daniel laughed. “It was well done. I never suspected, until Ian told me.”

“Ian knew?” This from Mac, who came to stand protectively near Louisa with Isabella. “Why did no one tell me? I’m still not clear on everything, come to think of it.”

“I needed an ally who could keep his mouth shut,” Fellows said. “And one who would look after Louisa. Ian was the obvious choice. Thank you, Ian.”

Ian only nodded. At one time, Louisa had heard from Isabella, Ian had possessed fury to the point of violence against Lloyd, especially when Lloyd had tried to use Beth to get to Ian and Hart. Now Ian gave Fellows a satisfied look, an acknowledgment of camaraderie. He pushed a little harder on Sir Richard’s chest with his boot, making Sir Richard cry out.

Fellows moved back to Sir Richard, took the iron cuffs Sergeant Pierce held out to him, and snapped them around Sir Richard’s wrists. “Sir Richard Cavanaugh, I am arresting you for the murder of Frederick Lane, the Bishop of Hargate. I will take you to a magistrate, who will examine you and determine if there is cause to bind you over for trial.”

“On what evidence?” Sir Richard scoffed. “You have none.”

“Oh, I have plenty.” Fellows tapped Sir Richard’s doctor’s bag. “All in here. And in your surgery, and at your house, and in the Bishop of Hargate’s notes. I will try to make sure all the lady patients you’ve molested over the years, the poor women too afraid and ashamed to say anything against you, will be present in the gallery at your trial. Not enough justice for them, I think, but it will have to do. A man of your standing might wriggle out of a charge of indecent behavior, even sexual assault, but I intend to see you go down for murder.”

Lloyd’s voice was quiet but held the weight of authority. Sir Richard was furious, but he was down now. He couldn’t fight.

Louisa, still drunk with sedative, raised her head and curled her lip. “You are disgusting,” she said clearly. Then she found herself rushing back down to the table. “Oh, my.” She reached for Lloyd and held his hand when he gave it to her. “I think I’ll sleep now.”

Lloyd kissed her forehead, his rough whiskers brushing her skin. “I’ll be with you when you wake.”

And he was.

Chapter Seventeen

“You must explain all to us, dear Lloyd,” Eleanor said from her place at the foot of the table.

A Mackenzie family dinner was taking place at the Duke of Kilmorgan’s mansion on Grosvenor Square several days after their return from Newmarket. A family dinner meant all the Mackenzies, including Fellows and Daniel, Louisa, and Fellows’ mother.

They dined informally, no place settings to conform to. The guests could sit where they chose, with whom they chose. The only structure to the table was that Hart sat at the head, Eleanor at its foot.

Ian claimed the chair next to Beth, Daniel was with his father and stepmother, and Mrs. Fellows sat next to Louisa, delighting in every moment of the gathering. She was highly pleased with Fellows’ choice of bride and kept smiling broadly at Louisa.

“I knew he had good taste,” she said. “You are the sweetest little thing, Louisa. You do know that?”

When Eleanor demanded the story, the rest of the table quieted. Fellows, on Louisa’s other side, calmly laid down his fork.

“Louisa’s hatpin,” he said.

They waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, Daniel said, “What are we supposed to understand from that? Play fair, Uncle Fellows. You have to tell the less clever of us what that means.”

Fellows didn’t smile, but Louisa could see he was enjoying teasing them all. He took a sip of wine, gave Daniel an acknowledging nod, and went on.

“When I saw Louisa sticking hatpins into her hat, it gave me the idea. If someone coated a pin or needle with a poison and stuck it into someone, perhaps that person might not die instantly, especially if it was a low enough dose. Or if the pin had been coated with a sedative instead of a poison, the victim might simply grow sick or perhaps fall unconscious. If Sir Richard Cavanaugh spoke to Hargate before he went into the tea tent, perhaps clapped him on the shoulder or shook his hand, he’d have the opportunity to stick something into him surreptitiously. Cavanaugh, as a doctor, would have needles at his disposal. Hargate begins to grow ill in the tea tent. Louisa runs out for the doctor. Cavanaugh comes to investigate, finds Hargate on the ground. A final prick of prussic acid finishes the job, or perhaps Cavanaugh poured it into Hargate’s mouth while he examined him. He had the prussic acid in his doctor’s bag, in a little bottle, along with his medicines and sedatives. He could also pretend to try to revive the man and wave the poison under his nose. Inhaling prussic acid can be just as deadly as imbibing it.”

“But it was in the teacup, wasn’t it?” Ainsley asked, puzzled. “The one Louisa handed to the bishop.”

Fellows shook his head. “Cavanaugh saw it lying broken on the ground. Easy for him to drop a little poison onto the pieces after the fact. He made certain to lecture us, the plodding policemen, on how prussic acid killed a man, and pointed out an obvious way Hargate could have taken the poison. He also had a suspect at hand—Lady Louisa, whose father had swindled Hargate. Hargate was still demanding repayment from her family, and perhaps told Cavanaugh of his plan to ask her to marry him in exchange for forgiving the debt. Or Hargate told someone else, and Cavanaugh heard the gossip. In any case, Hargate was blackmailing Cavanaugh over Cavanaugh’s practice of sedating women and taking advantage of them. The poison found in the teacup would point to Louisa, as would the bottle Cavanaugh managed to slip into Louisa's pocket. If Hargate had been standing with someone else when he died, no doubt Cavanaugh would have found a way to point to them. That was an advantage of killing a man at a large gathering—so many handy suspects.”

“It is all so cruel,” Isabella said angrily. “Especially to Louisa. If I hadn’t been able to convince Mrs. Leigh-Waters to telegraph for you, the Richmond police would have arrested her.”

“I hope someone would have sent for me even if Isabella hadn’t telegraphed,” Lloyd said, giving the table a stern look.

“Of course we would have,” Daniel said. “You’re the best detective in the Yard.”

“Louisa is important to me.” Fellows slid his hand over Louisa’s. “Very important.”

“Which is why you moved heaven and earth to help her,” Daniel said. He grinned. “We tumbled to that.”

“A June wedding,” Isabella said. “Not much time to prepare, but Louisa will have the most beautiful gown and a lovely ceremony. All the trimmings. St. George’s, Hanover Square?”

“No,” Louisa said. “We’ve discussed it. A quiet family wedding is what we want. Not all of London gawping at us at a fashionable church. We’d like to marry either in Berkshire or at Kilmorgan. Just the family, Isabella.” Louisa gave her a severe look, then added one for the duchess. “Eleanor.”

Both ladies looked innocent. “You may trust us,” Isabella said. “We’ll give you exactly what you need. The world will be green with envy that they couldn’t attend.”

Louisa let out a sigh. “A quiet wedding, Izzy.”

“Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.”

Mac winked at Louisa across the table. “Don’t worry. I’ll rein her in if she gets too flighty.”

“I am not flighty, Mac Mackenzie,” Isabella said indignantly.

“Yes, you are, my sweet Sassenach.”

Isabella’s cheeks went prettily pink. She subsided, but Louisa knew she’d have to keep an eye on her sister. Isabella loved to come up with grand occasions.

“I won’t have a mansion to take you to,” Fellows said to Louisa as other conversations began again. “I have enough salary for a modest house, but not in the fashionable district. And no hordes of servants. One or two at most. Are you certain you don’t want to reconsider?”

Louisa leaned her head against his strong shoulder. “Those are practical things. We’ll work them out. I am so very good at being practical.”

Mrs. Fellows winked at Louisa. “Don’t worry, dear. I have plenty of dusters put aside you can borrow. And I’ll show you how to black a stove.”

“Mum,” Fellows said, half weary, half affectionate.

“I’m only teasing,” Mrs. Fellows said. “But the dusters will be handy.”

Lloyd didn’t look convinced, but Louisa would show him she’d be fine. She’d grown up with every luxury handed to her, but she’d learned how empty that luxurious life could be. Her father had used his money and position dishonorably, had betrayed his friends’ trust.

Louisa had discovered how to live simply once the money was gone, she and her mother staying alone in the dower house. It wasn’t money and a title that made one honorable, Louisa had learned, but one’s character and actions. And Lloyd had plenty of honor.

Ian alone hadn’t spoken throughout the meal. He’d listened to Lloyd’s explanation of Cavanaugh’s actions then gone back to eating without a word. Now he put his arm around Beth and kissed her hair.

“What do you think, Ian?” Louisa asked him across the table. “Lloyd and I will do well together, won’t we?”

Ian didn’t answer right away. The table quieted, waiting for Ian’s words of wisdom, but when it became clear he wasn’t ready to respond, they took up conversing again. The family had learned not to push him.

Finally Ian looked at Louisa. He met her eyes full on, warmth and intelligence in his gaze. “I believe he loves you.”

“I believe Ian’s right,” Fellows said quietly.

Louisa didn’t answer in words. She tugged Lloyd down to her and kissed him, her heart in the kiss. She didn’t care who saw, and neither did Lloyd. He put his arm around her and let the kiss turn passionate.

Daniel whooped, and the ladies applauded. Louisa broke from Lloyd, laughing.

Mrs. Fellows dabbed her cheek with her napkin. “Aw, look at that,” she said. “You made your old mum cry.”

Lloyd didn’t smile. The look in his eyes when he leaned down and kissed Louisa again was full of love, and full of heat. Fire burned, but it also warmed.

Epilogue

June, 1885

The woods north of Kilmorgan were deep, isolated, quiet. The two men in kilts had walked a long way, Hart leading, his half brother following.

Fellows acknowledged that a kilt was good for walking in the woods. Thick boots and socks kept the underbrush from scratching his legs, and the wool of the kilt kept him warm as he and Hart made their way through the cool, dim forest.

Fellows’ wedding to Louisa had been more or less a blur, and thoughts of it came to him in a series of images. He standing in the Kilmorgan chapel, a minister before him, Hart at his side as his groomsman. Aimee Mackenzie scattering flower petals down the aisle, Isabella Mackenzie following her. Then Louisa walking in on Ian’s arm, and everything else fading.

Fellows knew he’d said the vows, put the gold ring on Louisa’s finger, done everything right. But all he could remember was Louisa in ivory satin, her smile behind her gauze veil, the sweet-smelling yellow roses in her flame-red hair. Once Fellows was married to her, he’d lifted the barrier of the veil, taken her into his arms, and kissed her.

And kissed her. One taste of her had not been enough.

Only Louisa had existed for him as they’d stood in the sunlight coming through the chapel’s plain windows. Her warmth, her touch, her love.

As the kiss went on, the rest of the family had started to clap, then to laugh, until finally, Hart had tapped Fellows on the shoulder and told him to take it to the house.

Fellows wasn’t certain how he’d gotten through the wedding festivities afterward. It had still been light, the June sunshine lasting far into the night, when he’d at last taken Louisa to the bedroom prepared for them—one well away from the rest of the family.

That night was imprinted on his memory forever. Louisa and he under the sheets, Lloyd inside her, her light touch, her kisses, the little feminine sounds she made as she reached her deepest pleasure. Lloyd had touched her and loved her far into the night, until they’d slept, exhausted. As soon as morning light brushed them—very early—Louisa had wakened him with a kiss. She’d smiled sleepily at him, and Lloyd had rolled onto her and loved her again.

That had been three days ago. They’d spent most of that time in their bedroom. Daniel remarked, when they’d finally emerged, that he was surprised either of them could walk.

Today, Hart had wanted to take Fellows on a ramble through the woods. He wouldn’t say why, but Fellows, being the great detective he was, realized the outing was important to Hart.

After about half an hour of tramping, Hart stopped. They were in a small clearing, woods thick around them, the evergreen branches shutting out the sky.

“This is where it happened,” Hart said. “Where our father died.”

Hart had told Fellows the true story of their father’s death, after Hart’s marriage to Eleanor. Not the widely circulated public version of the duke falling from his horse and breaking his neck, nor the story Hart had told the family, that the old duke had accidentally shot himself. Hart had told Fellows the truth. All of it. Only Hart had known, and he’d told only Eleanor.

“Father lived his life in hatred,” Hart said now. “And he tried to pass that hatred on to us. He hated me because I was his heir, and he knew I’d push him out one day. He hated my brothers because our mother loved them, and because I took care of them better than he ever could. He hated you because you reminded him he had no control over himself, or over the world, as much as he pretended to.”

“I’m glad we finished with the hatred,” Fellows said.

Hart looked around the clearing, the tension in him easing a bit. “Maybe the hatred made us stronger.”

“I don’t think so,” Fellows said. “It kept us apart, and weak. Love is better.”

Hart grinned. When he did that, he looked as he had as a very young man—handsome, devilishly arrogant, certain he’d rule the world. “Did Louisa teach you that?”

“Yes,” Fellows said without shame. “As Eleanor taught you.” He studied Hart for a time. “I kept it, you know. I still have it.”

Hart stared at his abrupt change of subject. “Kept what?”

“The shilling you gave me when I was ten years old. You must have been about that age too.”

Hart frowned. “I’m not recalling . . .”

“The duke’s coach pulled up in High Holborn—he was on his way to Lincoln’s Inn. A traffic snarl, of my making, stopped the carriage. The duke got down to see what was the matter. I’d planned to tell him I was his son that day. He was supposed to look astonished then welcome me into the coach and take me home with him. Instead, he beat me. You looked happy that I took my fists to him, and you gave me a shilling.”

Hart’s expression cleared. “I remember now. That boy was you?”

“You wouldn’t have noticed a resemblance with my face so filthy. Not to mention bruised and bloody.”

“Good Lord. I wish I’d known.” He gave Fellows a grim smile. “Yes, I was happy you pummeled him. The man beat me every night of my life, so I was glad to see him get a taste of it. He beat me to make a man of me, he said. Well, he succeeded.”

“Yes.”

Both of them looked around the clearing again, where a man who’d made so many miserable had come to his end.

“They’ll be wondering where we are,” Fellows said after a time.

Eleanor and Louisa, their wives and lovers. “They will,” Hart agreed.

“If they have to come after us, they’ll scold when they get here,” Fellows said.

“True. Then want to do something daft, like have a picnic.”

“The ladies do enjoy a picnic. After a five-mile hike.”

“I think we’ve been domesticated,” Hart said. “The Highland warriors have gone soft.”

Fellows shrugged. “I can do with a little softness now and again.”

“Eleanor knew I could too,” Hart said. “That’s why she came back for me.”

“They saved us from ourselves,” Fellows offered.

“Someone had to.”

The clearing had been a place of violence. Fellows imagined it, the gunshot, birds fleeing in a sudden rush of wings, the heat and smell of blood. The old duke, mean and thoughtless, falling dead. Hart breathing hard, the shotgun in his hands.

So much viciousness and cruelty. All gone now. The ground of the clearing was soft green, tiny yellow flowers blooming where the sun reached.

Without another word, the two men turned and started back for Kilmorgan.

They emerged from the trees near the river where Ian had taken the rest of the family fishing. They were all there—Beth and her children on a spread blanket; Mac’s family nearby with Louisa and Fellows’ mother; Ainsley and Cameron together; Daniel playing with his little sister; Eleanor and Alec on another blanket.

And Louisa. She smiled at Lloyd from where she reposed next to Isabella, and she rose to greet him.

Fellows met her halfway across the grass. He took her hands, and they shared a kiss, full of warmth, delight, and the sweet taste of sugared tea.

Louisa eased back down from her tiptoes and brushed her fingers across Lloyd’s mouth. The simple wedding band glistened on her finger next to her engagement ring with its small diamond.

“Welcome home,” she said.

“Thank you,” Fellows answered. He meant the thanks for all, for all she was and all she’d done for him.

He drew her into his arms, and Louisa softly kissed him again. Laughter surrounded them, and the summer sunshine.

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Mackenzie historical romance

THE WICKED DEEDS OF DANIEL MACKENZIE

Available October 2013 from Berkley Sensation

Chapter One

London 1890

He doesn’t have the ace.

Daniel Mackenzie held four eights, and he’d backed that fact with large stacks of money.

He faced Mortimer, who was ten years older and had a face like a weasel. Mortimer was pretending he’d just been given an ace from the young woman who dealt the cards at the head of the table, completing his straight. Daniel knew better.

The other gentlemen in the St. James’s gaming hell called the Nines had already folded in Fenton Mortimer’s favorite game of poker. The entire club now lingered to see the battle of wits between twenty-five-year-old Daniel Mackenzie and Mortimer, a hardened gambler. So much cigar smoke hung in the air that any consumptive who’d dared walk in the door would have fallen dead on the spot.

The game of choice at this hell was whist, but Mortimer had recently introduced the American game of poker, which he’d learned during a yearlong stint in that country. Mortimer was good at it, quickly relieving young Mayfair aristos of thousands of pounds. And still they came to him, eager to learn the game. Eleven gentlemen had started this round, dropping out one by one until only Daniel and Mortimer remained.

Daniel kept his cards facedown on the table so the nosy club fodder wouldn’t telegraph his hand to Mortimer. He gathered up more of his paper bills and dropped them in front of his cards. “See you, and raise two hundred.”

Mortimer turned a slight shade of green but slid money opposite Daniel’s.

“Raise you again,” Daniel said. He picked up another pile of notes and laid them on the already substantial stack. “Can you cover?”

“I can.” Mortimer didn’t dig out any more notes or coin, obviously hoping he wouldn’t have to.

“Sure about that?”

Mortimer’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying, Mackenzie? If you’d like to question my honor in a private room, I will be happy to answer.”

Daniel refrained from rolling his eyes. “Calm yourself, lad.” He lifted a cigar from the holder beside him and sucked smoke into his mouth. “I believe you. What have you got?”

“Show yours first.”

Daniel picked up his cards and flipped them over with a nonchalant flick. Four eights, one ace.

The men around him let out a collective groan, the lady dealer smiled at Daniel, and Mortimer went chalk white.

“Bloody hell. I didn’t think you had it.” Mortimer’s own cards fell face up—a ten, jack, queen, seven, and three.

Daniel raked in his money and winked at the dealer. She really was lovely. “You can write me a vowel for the rest,” he said to Mortimer.

Mortimer wet his lips. “Now, Mackenzie . . .”

He couldn’t cover. What idiot wagered the last of his cash when he didn’t have a winning hand? Mortimer should have taken his loss several rounds ago and walked away.

But no, Mortimer had convinced himself he was expert at the bluffing part of the game, and would fleece the naive young Scotsman who’d walked in here tonight in a kilt.

A hard-faced man standing near the door sent Mortimer a grim look. Daniel guessed that said ruffian had given Mortimer cash for this night’s play, or was working for someone who had. The man wasn’t pleased Mortimer had just lost it all.

Daniel rose from the table. “Never mind,” he said. “Keep what you owe me as a token of appreciation for a night of good play.”

Mortimer scowled. “I pay my debts, Mackenzie.”

Daniel glanced at the bone-breaker across the room and lowered his voice. “You’ll pay more than that if ye don’t beat a hasty retreat, I’m thinking. How much do ye owe him?”

Mortimer’s eyes went cold. “None of your business.”

“I don’t wish to see a man have his face removed because I was lucky at cards. What do ye owe him? I’ll give ye that back. Ye can owe me.”

“Be beholden to a Mackenzie?” Mortimer’s outrage rang from him.

Well, Daniel had tried. He stuffed his winnings into his pockets and took his greatcoat from the lady dealer. She helped him into it, running her hand suggestively across Daniel’s shoulders as she straightened his collar.

Daniel winked at her again. He folded one of the banknotes he’d just won into a thin sliver, and slipped it down the top of her bodice.

“Aye, well.” Daniel took his hat from the slender-fingered lady, who gave him an even warmer smile. “Hope you can find tuppence for the ferryman at your funeral, Mortimer. Good night.”

He turned to leave and found Mortimer’s friends surrounding him.

“Changed my mind,” Mortimer said, smiling thinly. “The chaps reminded me I had something worth bargaining with. Say, for the last two thousand.”

“Oh aye? What is it? A motorcar?” The only thing worth the trouble these days, in Daniel’s opinion.

“Better,” Mortimer said. “A lady.”

Daniel hid a sigh. “I don’t need a courtesan. I can find women on me own.”

Easily. Daniel looked at ladies, and they came to him. Part of his charm, he knew, was his wealth; part was the fact that he belonged to the great Mackenzie family and was nephew to a duke. But Daniel never argued about the ladies’ motives; he simply enjoyed.

“She’s not a courtesan,” Mortimer said. “She’s special. You’ll see.”

An actress, perhaps. She’d give an indifferent performance of a Shakespearean soliloquy, and Daniel would be expected to smile and pronounce her worth every penny.

“Keep your money,” Daniel said. “Give me a horse or your best servant in lieu—I’m not particular.”

Mortimer’s friends didn’t move. “But I insist,” Mortimer said.

Eleven against one. If Daniel argued, he’d only end up with bruised knuckles. He didn’t particularly want to hurt his hands, because he had the fine-tuning of his engine to do, and he needed to be able to hold a spanner.

“Fair enough,” Daniel said. “But I assess the goods before I accept it as payment of debt.”

Mortimer agreed. He clapped Daniel on the shoulder as he led him out, and Daniel stopped himself shaking off his touch.

Mortimer’s friends filed around them in a defensive flank as they made their way to Mortimer’s waiting landau. Daniel noted as they pulled away from the Nines that the bone-breaker had slipped out the door behind them and followed.

Mortimer took Daniel through the misty city to a respectable neighborhood north of Oxford Street, stopping on a quiet lane near Portman Square.

The hour was two in the morning, and this street was silent, the houses dark. Behind the windows lay respectable gentlemen who would rise in the early hours and trundle to the City for work.

Daniel descended from the landau and looked up at the dark windows. “She’ll be asleep, surely. Leave it for tomorrow.”

“Nonsense,” Mortimer said. “She sees me anytime I call.”

He walked to a black-painted front door and rapped on it with his stick. Above them a light appeared, and a curtain drew back. Mortimer looked up at the window, made an impatient gesture, and rapped on the door again.

The curtain dropped, and the light faded. Tap, tap, tap, went Mortimer’s stick. Daniel folded his arms, stopping himself from ripping the stick from Mortimer’s hands and breaking it over his knee. “Who lives here?”

“I do,” Mortimer said. “I mean, I own the house. At least, my family does. We let it to Madame Bastien and her daughter. For a slight savings in rent, they agreed to entertain me and my friends anytime I asked it.”

“Including the middle of the bloody night?”

“Especially the middle of the night.”

Mortimer smiled—self-satisfied English prig. The ladies inside had to be courtesans. Mortimer had reduced the rent and obligated them to pay in kind.

Daniel turned back to the landau. “This isn’t worth two thousand, Mortimer.”

“Patience. You’ll see.”

The rest of Mortimer’s friends had arrived and hemmed them in, blocking the way back to the landau. The bone-breaker was still in attendance, hovering in the shadows a little way down the street.

The door opened. A maid who’d obviously dressed hastily stepped aside and let the stream of gentlemen inside. The drunker lads of the party wanted to pause to see what entertainment she might provide, but Daniel planted himself solidly beside the door, blocking their way to her. They moved past, forgetting about her.

Mortimer led the way to double pocket doors at the end of the hall and pushed them open. Daniel caught a flurry of movement from the room beyond, but by the time Mortimer beckoned Daniel, stillness had taken over.

They entered a dining room. The walls were covered with a blue, gold, and burnt orange striped wallpaper, its many colors bright in the light of a hearth fire. A gas chandelier hung dark above, and a solitary candelabra with three candles rested on the long, empty table. A young woman was just touching a match to the candlewicks.

When the third candle was lit, she blew out the match and straightened up. “So sorry to have kept you waiting, gentlemen,” she said in a voice very faintly accented. “I’m afraid my mother is unable to rise. You will have to make do with me.”

Whatever Mortimer and the other gentlemen said in response, Daniel didn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. He couldn’t see anything either, except the woman who stood poised behind the candelabra, the long match still in her hand, the smile of an angel on her face.

She wasn’t beautiful. Daniel had seen faces more beautiful in the Casino in Monte Carlo, at the Moulin Rouge in Paris. He’d known slimmer bodies in dancers, or in the butterflies that glided about the gaming hells in St. James’s and Monaco, enticing gentlemen to play.

This young woman had an angular face softened by a mass of dark hair dressed in a pompadour, ringlets trickling down the sides of her face. Her nose was a little too long, her mouth too wide, her shoulders and arms too plump. Her eyes were her best feature, set in exact proportion in her face, dark blue in the glint of candlelight.

They were eyes a man could gaze into all night and wake up to in the morning. He could contemplate her eyes across the breakfast table and then at dinner while he made plans to look into them again all through the night.

She wasn’t a courtesan. Courtesans began charming the moment a gentleman walked into a room. They gestured with graceful fingers, implying that those fingers would be equally graceful traveling a man’s body. Courtesans drew in, they suggested without words, they used every movement and every expression to beguile.

This woman stood fixed in place, her body language not inviting the gentlemen into the room at all, despite her words and her smile. If her movements were graceful as she turned to toss the match into the fire, it was from nature, not practice.

She wore a plain gown of blue satin that bared her shoulders, but the gown was no less respectable than what a lady in this neighborhood might wear for dinner or a night at the theatre. Her hair in the simple pompadour had no ribbons or jewels to adorn it. The unaffected style hinted that the dark masses might come down at any time over the hands of the lucky gentleman who pulled out the hairpins.

The young woman spread her hands at the now silent men. “If you’ll sit, gentlemen, we can begin.”

Daniel couldn’t move. His feet had grown into the floor, disobedient to his will. They wanted him to stand in that place all night long and gaze upon this woman.

Mortimer leaned to Daniel. “You see? Did I not tell you she’d be worth it?” He cleared his throat. “Daniel Mackenzie, may I introduce Mademoiselle Bastien. Violette is her Christian name, in the French way. Mademoiselle, this is Daniel Mackenzie, son of Lord Cameron Mackenzie and nephew to the Duke of Kilmorgan. You’ll give him a fine show, won’t you? There’s a good girl.”

* * *

As the man called Daniel Mackenzie came around the table and boldly stepped next to Violet, her breath stopped. Mr. Mackenzie did nothing but look at her and hold out his hand in greeting. And yet, every inch of Violet’s flesh tingled at his nearness, every breath threatened to choke her.

Scottish, Violet thought rapidly, taking in his blue and green plaid kilt under the fashionable black suit coat and ivory waistcoat. Rich, noting the costly materials and the way in which the coat hugged his broad shoulders. Tailor-made, and not by a cheap or apprentice tailor. A master had designed and sewn those clothes. Mr. Mackenzie was used to the very best.

He topped most of the other gentlemen here by at least a foot, had a hard face, a nose that would be large on any other man, and eyes that made her stop. Violet couldn’t decide the color of them in this light—hazel? brown?—but they were arresting. So arresting that she stood staring at him, not taking the hand he held out to her.

“Daniel Mackenzie, at your service, Mademoiselle.”

He gave her a light, charming smile, his eyes pulling her in, keeping her where he wanted her.

Definitely danger here.

Old terror stirred, but Violet pushed it down. She couldn’t afford to go to pieces right now. She’d come down here to placate Mortimer, letting her mother, who’d nearly had hysterics when Mortimer had started pounding on the door, stay safely upstairs. Violet, who could handle a crowd of several hundred angry men and women shouting for blood, could certainly cope with less than a dozen half-drunk Mayfair gentlemen in the middle of the night.

Mr. Mackenzie was only another of Mortimer’s vapid friends. Violet saw the barrier behind Mr. Mackenzie’s eyes, though, when she risked a look into them. This man gave up his secrets to very few. He would be difficult to read, which could be a problem.

Mr. Mackenzie waited, his hand out. Violet finally slid hers into his gloved one, making the movement slow and deliberate.

“How do you do,” she said formally, her English perfect. She’d discovered long ago that speaking flawless English reinforced the fiction that she was entirely French.

Daniel closed his large hand around hers and raised it to his lips. “Enchanted.”

The quick, hot brush of his mouth to the backs of her fingers ignited a spark to rival that on the match she’d tossed away. Violet’s nerves tightened like wires, forcing the deep breath she’d been trying not to take.

The little gasp sounded loud to her, but Mortimer’s cronies were making plenty of noise as they shed coats and debated where each would sit.

Daniel’s gaze fixed on Violet over her hand, challenging, daring. Show me who you are, that gaze said.

Violet was supposed to be thinking that about him. Whatever the world believed about the talents of Violette Bastien, medium and spiritualist, she knew her true gift was reading people.

Within a few moments of studying a man, Violet could understand what he loved and what he hated, what he wanted with all his heart and what he’d do to get it. She’d learned these lessons painstakingly from Jacobi in the backstreets of Paris, had been his best pupil.

But she couldn’t read Mr. Mackenzie. He didn’t let anyone behind his barriers, not easily. But when he did . . .

When he did, worlds would unfold.

Violet snatched her hand from him and turned to the others. “Please, gentlemen,” she said, striving to maintain the calm note in her voice.

She moved to sit down and found Daniel Mackenzie’s hand on the back of her chair. Violet forced her gaze from him and seated herself, trying to ignore the warmth of his body at her side, the fold of open coat that brushed her shoulder. The breath went out of her again as Daniel eased her chair forward, his strength unnerving.

Shaking, Violet laid her hands flat on the table, trying to use its cool surface to calm herself. She needed to appear utterly composed, sugar-sweet, and ready to help.

Inside, she was in turmoil. I hate this, I hate this. Why the devil can’t they leave us alone?

She gave the others an appealing look. “Will you gentlemen give me a moment to prepare myself?”

The gentlemen agreed without argument. Many had been to the house before, most often as Mortimer’s guests, but some had returned alone for private consultations with Violet and her mother.

Mr. Mackenzie sat down beside Violet and looked her in the eye. “Prepare yourself for what?”

One of Mortimer’s friends, Mr. Ellingham, answered, “To contact the other side, of course.”

Daniel kept his gaze on Violet. “The other side o’ what? The room?”

“The ether,” Ellingham said impatiently. “She’s a spiritualist, man. Didn’t you know? Madame and Mademoiselle Bastien are the most famous spiritualists in London.”

Chapter Two

The flash of disappointment in Daniel’s eyes stung Violet. Stung her hard. Why she should care what this man she’d never seen before tonight thought of her, she didn’t know, but she did.

Plenty of people didn’t believe in spiritualism and scoffed at what Violet and her mother did. They didn’t believe a trained medium could contact those beyond the veil, to let the dear departed send comforting messages to the survivors.

Just as well, Violet’s inner voice drawled. You don’t believe it either.

Violet knew she’d never felt the cold touch of the otherworld or the trembling ecstasy her mother found in her trances. She’d never seen a ghost or a spirit, and had never had one talk to her, or knock at her, or do any of those other useful things spirits could do.

But she’d become very, very good at pretending she did.

That Mr. Mackenzie didn’t believe shouldn’t bother her. Jacobi had told her never to argue with an unbeliever, but to ignore him and move on to the next mark.

Violet should close to Mr. Mackenzie and concentrate on the other gentlemen, to make him feel that he was left out somehow, to make him doubt his own disbelief.

So why didn’t Violet turn away with her superior little smile, her amused disdain? Why did she keep wanting to look at him, to explain that she did this for survival, and beg him not to dislike her for it?

Daniel leaned his elbow on the table, stretching the fine cloth of his coat. “The other side, eh? I’d like to see that.”

Mortimer said, “You’re in for a show then. That’s why I said she’s worth more than a motorcar or a horse.”

A motorcar or a horse? Violet’s anger surged. She wished she did have the powers she claimed to, so she could curse Mortimer into living out his life as a rabbit, or at least being a disappointment to any ladies he took to bed. A horse. God help us.

The gentlemen finally ceased speaking, quieting to watch her prepare. Violet’s preparation was part of the show—when she closed her eyes and drew long breaths to calm herself, her breasts pressed hard into her tight décolletage. Distracted the clients wonderfully.

When she opened her eyes again, however, she found Mr. Mackenzie not distracted in the slightest. Instead of letting his gaze drop to her rising bosom, as the other gentlemen had, Mr. Mackenzie smiled straight into her face.

Never let skeptics make you nervous, Jacobi had said. Give them a show in spite of their disbelief. Make them doubt their own doubts.

Violet glanced around the table, trying to ignore Daniel. “All is calm tonight, the veil so thin. Mr. Ellingham, I believe we were very near reaching your father the last time. Shall we try again?”

Before the eager Mr. Ellingham—who was attempting to find out where his now-deceased father had hidden away about ten thousand pounds—could answer, Mortimer broke in.

“Contact someone for Mackenzie. He’s my guest tonight. His dear old mum, perhaps.” Mortimer’s eyes glinted with dislike.

Violet didn’t miss Daniel’s flash of anger. The flicker was brief and instantly gone, but Violet had seen it. Whatever had happened to Mr. Mackenzie’s mother, his anger about it ran deep; the hurt that accompanied it, massive.

“Perhaps that would not be for the best,” Violet said quickly.

Mr. Mackenzie’s mask dropped into place. “Aye, let me mum rest in peace. Tell you what, why don’t you contact me dad, instead?” He sent her a guileless look.

Too transparent. Violet gave him a sweet smile. “If you wish me to contact your father, Mr. Mackenzie, I suggest a telegram, because that gentleman is very much still living.”

Mr. Mackenzie stared at her for a heartbeat then burst out laughing. His laugh was deep and true, a man who knew how to laugh for the joy of it. “You were right, Mortimer. She truly has the second sight.”

“I don’t need second sight to read the newspapers,” Violet said. “First sight will do. Your father appears in many pages of the sporting news. Now, if he’d like me to tell him which of his racehorses will do best this year, his lordship is welcome to join us.”

Daniel wound down to a chuckle. “I’m starting to like you, Mademoiselle.”

Violet let her eyes go wide. “I am pleased to hear it, Mr. Mackenzie. However, if you have come tonight to mock me and my work, I will have to ask you to depart. Or at least wait in the hall.”

“Why?” His eyes held an impish twinkle. “Does my mockery disturb th’ spirits?”

“Of course not. Those on the other side can be quite forgiving. But I find it a bit distracting.”

Mr. Mackenzie raised his hands in surrender. “Forgive me, lass. I’ll be the model of goodness from now on. Promise.”

Violet knew better than to believe him, but she returned her attention to the others. “Shall we see what spirits are close tonight?”

The other men readily agreed. They liked the show.

“Then, as you know, I must ask for silence.”

Violet closed her eyes again, and thankfully, the gentlemen quieted down, their guffaws finally dying off.

Violet let her breathing become slow and deep. She rocked her head forward then let it go all the way back, turning her face to the ceiling. She kept her eyes closed as her breathing grew more rapid, faster, faster.

Soft noises escaped her mouth. Violet moved her head from side to side, making sure she didn’t overdo it. Too much gyration looked fake. A little bit was far more frightening, a person in the grip of forces she didn’t understand. Violet also knew that a young woman moaning, perspiring, and letting her bosom move with her panting froze gentlemen into place.

A large, warm hand landed on hers, and Mr. Mackenzie said in a quiet voice, “You all right, lass?”

The concern in his words sent a shock through Violet, and her eyes popped open. For a moment, her rapid breaths choked her, and she struggled for air.

No one had ever spoken to her thus—not her mother, not Jacobi. Daniel Mackenzie, a stranger of warmth by her side, touched her in worry and asked after her with a protectiveness never before directed at her.

It nearly broke her. A moment ago, Violet had prided herself on being able to handle a roomful of unruly gentlemen. Now she felt her façade crumbling to reveal the lonely and weary young woman she was—nearly thirty years old, taking care of an ill mother, living by her wits and her skill in hiding her lies.

Violet found it easy to keep a barrier between Mortimer and his ilk, but she recognized that Mr. Mackenzie could rip down any wall she erected with one touch.

She tried to catch her breath, tried to keep her persona in place, but for a moment, she was only a frightened young woman angry at a man for exposing her.

Mr. Ellingham, oblivious, broke the tension. “Damn it, Mackenzie. We’ll never get a contact if you interfere with the medium’s trance. Everyone knows that.”

Daniel kept his gaze on Violet. “You sure you’re all right, love?”

Violet moved her hands to the table again, pressing down to stop their trembling. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You’re an ass, Mackenzie,” Mortimer said, his voice tinged with fury. “Now we’ll have to start all over again.”

“No, we won’t,” Daniel said, still looking at Violet. “We’ll go and leave Mademoiselle Bastien to her sleep.”

“The hell we will,” Mortimer said, standing up. “We’re not leaving this house. Not until we have satisfaction.”

* * *

Daniel shot Mortimer a look of disgust. He knew damn well why Mortimer didn’t want to leave—the ruffian waited outside for him. Mortimer wouldn’t make it back home tonight without trouble.

Mortimer met Daniel’s gaze with rage and fear mixing in his dark eyes. Why the idiot wouldn’t take Daniel’s offer of paying off the bone-breaker, Daniel didn’t know. Daniel had been sympathetic at first, but watching how Mortimer treated Mademoiselle Violette had wiped away any sympathy. Mortimer would be the loser tonight.

Mortimer went on. “If Mackenzie is too prissy to watch Mademoiselle Violette go into her trance, then let us bring out the talking board.”

The other gentlemen eagerly agreed. Before Daniel could voice an objection, Ellingham had sprung from his chair with the energy of his twenty-two years. He seemed to know his way around Mademoiselle Bastien’s dining room, because he made for the sideboard, opened one of its lower drawers, and brought out a wooden board and planchette, which he set in the middle of the table.

The wooden board was rectangular, burned with the letters of the English alphabet—A through R on the first row, S through Z on the second. Below the letters were the numbers 1 through 9 with a 0 at the end. In the top left corner was the word Yes, in the right, No. On the bottom in the middle were the words Thank You and Good-Bye. A very polite piece of oak.

Daniel hadn’t seen a talking board before, but he’d heard about them. The idea was for the medium and her guests to put their fingers on the planchette—a more or less oval piece of polished wood—and ask a question of the spirit. The planchette would then obligingly drag itself to the letters to spell out an answer—which supposed that the spirit was fluent in the language of the questioner and a reasonably good speller.

Daniel had his own idea about how the planchette moved—the questioners moved it themselves, he believed, even if they didn’t realize they were doing it. Thoughts fixed in the head stimulated muscles in the arms and fingers, making the person pull the planchette to spell out what they wanted the spirit to say. Amazing what the human brain could convince the body to do.

As soon as Ellingham resumed his seat, eager hands shot to the planchette. Mademoiselle Bastien waited for Daniel to place his fingers on it, before she put hers next to his.

The warmth of her hand touched Daniel through his glove. He liked her fingers, not too delicate, but long and strong. He had a swift image of those fingers unbuttoning his shirt, peeling it from his body, running across his exposed skin . . .

Daniel shifted in his seat, hot and suddenly hard.

“Are you ready, Mr. Mackenzie?” Mademoiselle Bastien asked him. God help him, Daniel hoped he wasn’t blushing. “This can be quite daunting for the novice,” she went on. Her dark blue eyes held a light that said she was ready for his challenge.

And I’m damned good and ready for hers. “Carry on, lass.”

Mademoiselle Violette took another of those bodice-lifting breaths that left him dizzy and said, “Very well. Spirit, do you have a message for anyone here?”

Candlelight brushed the polished wood of the board, the gloved hands of the gentlemen present, and Mademoiselle Violette’s bare fingers, so feminine and beautiful amidst the sea of masculinity.

The planchette was only so large, so several of the men, including Mortimer, got left out. Mortimer didn’t seem to mind. He sat back and watched, his dark gaze planted on Violette’s body, his ratlike face not hiding his lecherous thoughts.

Beneath Daniel’s fingers, the planchette wobbled then started to move. Ellingham drew an excited breath.

The planchette stopped, rocked again, and moved in the opposite direction. After a few seconds it changed once more. Every hand trying to drag it where the gentleman wants it to go.

Daniel relaxed his fingers, waiting to see what Mademoiselle Violette would do.

She called softly into the darkness, “Spirit, do you have a message for us?”

Any spirit hearing Mademoiselle Violette plead to it in that sensual, contralto voice should spring forward and agree to do whatever she wanted. Daniel moved in his seat, trying to still his rising fantasies. He was as bad as Mortimer.

The planchette trembled, then made a rapid but smooth move to the word Yes.

A collective sigh went through the men present. Difficult to believe that a few hours ago, they were hardened gamblers trying to win packets of money at poker.

“To whom is the message directed?” Mademoiselle Violette asked the air.

The planchette fanned back and forth among the letters, seeking. Finally it stopped at the letter M.

“Mortimer?” one of the gentlemen asked.

The planchette nearly ripped itself across the board to the word No. It then backed away to a neutral area, as though apologizing for its rudeness.

“Will you show us more letters?” Mademoiselle asked.

The rest of the gentlemen leaned forward. Daniel had no doubt that those with M’s in their names—including him—silently begged, Please, please, let it be me.

The planchette traveled slowly across the letters again and stopped at C. It moved on to K, then to E, N, and Z.

“Mackenzie!” Ellingham shouted. He jerked his hand from the planchette, and it stopped.

Of course the thing had spelled out Mackenzie. Or at least McKenz. Daniel shot a glance at Mademoiselle Violette, who studied the board with a serene look.

Little vixen. His estimation of her rose again. She knew bloody well that Daniel knew she was a charlatan, and she was going to play on him every trick she could.

So she thinks.

Violette asked the air in her smooth voice, “Do you have a message for Mr. Mackenzie?”

The planchette said Yes.

Mademoiselle Violette was very good, but Daniel was good too. “What message?” he asked.

Ellingham joined them on the planchette again, and it started to move. Around and around it went on the board, back and forth, sliding toward a letter only to slide away before it could stop. Daniel felt Violette’s subtle but steady pull, and he subtly but steadily pulled back.

Mademoiselle kept her countenance absolutely still. If the spirit’s indecision vexed her, she made no sign.

The planchette at last halted at the letter F. Ellingham said excitedly, “Someone should write this down.”

A gentleman obligingly drew a small notebook and pencil from his coat pocket and wrote, F.

The planchette moved again. It stopped at U, paused for a time, then slid innocently to the letter C. After another pause, it began a rapid journey toward the letter K.

Mademoiselle jerked her hand back, and the planchette stopped dead. The room filled with snickers and chortles.

“Well,” Violette said, turning to fully face Daniel. “The spirit seems in a mischievous mood tonight.”

Her eyes sparkled like candle flames on a frosty night. They looked at each other, neither offering to glance away first. Mademoiselle’s cheeks took on a faint flush, but other than that she sat as still as marble.

Damn, but she was beautiful, and defiant too. No simpering miss in her first Season, hoping to snare the wealthy Mr. Mackenzie, one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain. Why the hell young women were taught that pretending to be frail should make men fall madly in love with them, Daniel didn’t understand. The frail act made Daniel want to suggest the lady eat robust food and take plenty of exercise until she felt better.

This young woman could walk five miles in a storm, brush off her skirts, and comment offhand that the wind was a bit brisk today. Then in the next breath she’d tell someone like Daniel and all his money to go to the devil.

Mademoiselle Violette’s lips parted. The moisture between them beckoned. Daniel wanted to send Mortimer and his irritating cronies out into the cold and have Mademoiselle to himself, to ask her to perform for him alone. No layabouts of the English ton watching, no Mortimer. Just Daniel and this lovely lady, a candlelit room, and time.

“Enough of these parlor games,” Mortimer broke in angrily. “I told you, Mademoiselle, Mackenzie came here to see the whole show. So give it to him.”

Daniel had to turn away from Violette’s beautiful eyes, and for that, Mortimer would pay. “Shut your gob,” Daniel said. “She’s done enough for tonight, and you still owe me two thousand quid.”

Mortimer was halfway out of his chair. “I’m paying for a show, and by God, I want one.”

Daniel started up himself, ready to go over the table to him, but Mademoiselle raised her hands, her voice cutting through the impending tempest.

“The spirits are here! Now!”

A freezing wind swept through the dining room, extinguishing the candles in one go. The room plunged into darkness. In the middle of the table, where the candles had burned, a pale, luminescent blob began to form and spread.

Before Daniel could sit down, a heavy grip seized him by the arms, and someone very strong dragged him up and out through a door and into a pitch-dark room. The door shut, cutting him off from the wind, Mortimer, and the enchanting Mademoiselle Violette.

Jennifer Ashley, New York Times bestselling author and winner of a Romance Writers of America RITA Award, writes as Allyson James and Jennifer Ashley. She’s penned more than fifty novels and twenty novellas in historical romance, paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and mystery. She now lives in the Southwest with her husband and cats, spends most of her time in the wonderful world of her stories, and enjoys hiking, music, and building dollhouses and dollhouse miniatures. More information about Jennifer's books can be found on her website, http://www.jennifersromances.com.

Content

The Untamed Mackenzie
Highland Pleasures 5.5
by
Jennifer Ashley

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Mackenzie historical romance THE WICKED DEEDS OF DANIEL MACKENZIE Available October 2013 from Berkley Sensation

Chapter One

Chapter Two