Once Isabella had gone, Beth asked the butler to serve her a cold supper in her chamber. Then she took up a pen and turned to her diary.
She’d begun an account of her adventures in Paris, which she scribbled about whenever she had a moment. As she chewed leftover meat pie, she flipped to clean pages at the end of the notebook.
I’m not certain how he makes me feel, she wrote. His hands are large and strong, and I wanted too much for him to lift them to my bosom. I wanted to press my br**sts inside his palms. I wanted to feel the heat of his bare hands against my ni**les. My body shouted for it, but I refused its wishes, knowing it was impossible in that time and place.
Does that mean I wish him to do such things in another time and place?
I want to unbutton my frock for him. I want him to unlace my stays and ease them from my body. I want him to touch me as I haven’t been touched in years. I ache for it.
I do not think of him as Lord Ian Mackenzie, aristocratic brother of a duke and well beyond my reach; not as the Mad Mackenzie, an eccentric people stare at and whisper about.
To me, he is simply Ian.
“Madam,” Katie bleated from the doorway.
Beth jumped and slammed her notebook closed. “Good heavens, Katie, you startled me. Is something wrong?” “Footman says a gentleman’s called to see you.”
Beth rose. Her skirt caught a spoon and sent it clattering to the floor. “Who? Lord Ian?”
“I would have said so right away if it was him, wouldn’t I? No, Henri says it’s a gent from the police.”
Beth’s brows rose. “The police? Why should the police want to see me?”
“I don’t know, madam. Says he’s an inspector or something, and he’s English, not a frog. I promise you, I haven’t stolen a thing since you caught me when I was fifteen. Not a bleedin’ thing.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Beth retrieved the spoon with a shaking hand. “I don’t think stealing oranges in Covent Garden ten years ago would warrant an inspector chasing you to Paris tonight.”
“I hope you’re right,” Katie said darkly.
Beth locked her notebook away in her jewelry case and pocketed the key before she made her way downstairs. The French footman bowed to her as he opened the door, and Beth thanked him in his own language.
A man in a faded black suit turned from the fire as she entered. “Mrs. Ackerley?”
He was tall, though not as tall as Ian. He wore his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, and his eyes were hazel. He was in his thirties and nearly handsome, though his luxuriant mustache didn’t hide the grim set to his mouth. Beth stopped just inside the door. “Yes? My companion says you are from the police.”
“My name is Fellows. I’ve called to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
He held out an ivory card that had seen better days.
Lloyd Fellows, Insp., Scotland Yard, London.
“I see.” Beth gave the card back to him, not liking how it felt in her hand.
“May we sit down, Mrs. Ackerley? There is no need for you to be uncomfortable.”
He gestured her to a plush armchair, and Beth perched on the end of it. Inspector Fellows took the hard chair from the desk, turned it around, and sat, looking utterly composed. “I won’t stay long, so you may dispense with the usual polite offering of tea.” He eyed her keenly. “I’ve come to ask you how long you have known Lord Ian Mackenzie.” “Lord Ian?” Beth stared in surprise.
“Youngest brother of the Duke of Kilmorgan, brother-in-law to the lady who owns this house.”
His tone was brutal and sarcastic, but the look in his eyes was . . . odd. “Yes, I do know who he is, Inspector.” “You met him in London, I believe?”
“Why is that your business? I met him in London, and I met his brother and his sister-in-law here in Paris. I don’t believe any of this is against the law.”
“Today you spoke to Lord Ian here in this house.” Her heart beat faster. “You’ve been watching me?” She thought of the drapes pulled back from the windows of this very room, and herself perched on lan’s knee, kissing him madly.
Fellows leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “I’ve not come here to accuse you of anything, Mrs. Ackerley. My visit is in the nature of a warning.”
“Against what? Speaking to my friend’s brother-in-law in her home?”
“Mixing in the wrong company could prove your downfall, young woman. You mark my words.”
Beth shifted in annoyance. “Please be plain, Mr. Fellows. The hour grows late, and I would like to retire.”
“No need to get haughty. I have your best interests at heart. Tell me, have you read of a murder in a boardinghouse near St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, about a week ago?” Beth frowned and shook her head. “I was busy traveling about a week ago. I must have missed the story.”
“She was not an important woman, so the English newspapers wouldn’t have made much of it, and the French ones nothing at all.” He rubbed his finger and thumb over his mustache. “You speak French fluently, do you not?” “It seems you know much about me.” His manner and arrogance, in Isabella’s own drawing room, irritated her. “My father was French, so yes, I speak the language rather well. It is one reason I decided to visit Paris, if you must know.” Fellows pulled a small notebook from his pocket and turned over the pages with a quiet rustle. “Your father called himself Gervais Villiers, Viscount Theriault.” He glanced at her. “Funny thing, the Surete have no record of such a person ever living in France.”
Beth’s pulse sped. “He left Paris a long time ago. Something to do with the revolution in ‘forty-eight, I believe.” “Nothing to do with it, madam. Gervais Villiers never existed. Gervais Foumier, on the other hand, was wanted for petty theft, fraud, and running confidence games. He fled to England and was never heard of again.” Fellows flipped another page. “I believe both you and I know what happened to him, Mrs. Ackerley.”
Beth said nothing. She couldn’t deny the truth of her father, but she had no desire to break into hysterics about it in front of Mr. Fellows.
“What has all this to do with Lord Ian Mackenzie?” “I’m coming to that.” Fellows consulted the notebook again. “I have here that your mother was once arrested for prostitution. Can that be right?”
Beth flushed. “She was desperate, Inspector. My father had just died, and we were starving. Thank heavens she was very bad at it, and the first approach she made was to a detective constable in plainclothes.”