***
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.