“I don’t take kindly to blackmail, either. I will take your warning as a concern for my safety, and we’ll speak no more of the matter.”
“Just so we understand each other, Mrs. Ackerley.” “You may go now” Beth said in freezing tones that would have made Mrs. Barrington proud. “And we don’t understand each other at all.”
Fellows refused to look cowed. In fact, he gave her a cheerful grin as he gathered up his hat and made his way to the drawing room door. “If you change your mind, I’m staying at the hotel at the Gare du Nord. Good evening.” Fellows dramatically shoved open the pocket doors, only to find himself facing the wall that was Ian Mackenzie. Before Beth could say a word, Ian took Fellows by the throat and shoved him back inside the room.
Chapter Six
Ian’s vision filmed red with fury. Through it he saw Beth, her hair in the same sleek, complex curls she’d worn this morning, Fellows in his black suit crinkled with wear, and Beth’s blue eyes filled with dismay.
Fellows had told her. Damn him, he’d told her everything. Fellows clawed at Ian’s hands. “Accosting a police officer is an offense.”
“Everything about you is an offense.” Ian shoved the man away. “Get out.”
“Ian.”
Beth’s voice made him turn. She stood like a flower, fragile and vulnerable, the only color in a world of gray. He’d wanted Beth to remain apart from the sordid business at High Holborn and everything Ian had strived to hide the last five years. Beth was unsoiled by it, innocent. Fellows had ruined that. The bloody man ruined everything he touched. Ian didn’t want Beth looking at him and wondering what others did—whether Ian had plunged a knife into the warm body of a courtesan, then smeared the walls with her blood. He wanted Beth to keep looking at him in soft wonder, to smile her little smile when she made a jest Ian didn’t follow.
Ian sometimes wondered himself whether he had, in his rage, killed Sally. He sometimes didn’t remember things he did in his muddles. But he also remembered what he’d seen that night, things he’d never revealed to anyone, not even to Hart.
Fellows fingered his collar, his face red. Ian hoped he’d hurt the man. Fellows’s purpose in life was to turn public opinion against Hart, against Ian, against anything Mackenzie. Fellows had harassed Hart and Ian so much that he’d been pulled off the High Holborn case five years ago and warned that he risked his job pursuing it further. Now Fellows was back. That meant he’d learned something new.
Ian thought of Lily Martin lying in the parlor where he’d found her a week ago, her sewing scissors through her heart. He remembered the anger he’d felt, and the sorrow. He’d meant to protect her, and he’d failed.
“Get out,” he repeated to Fellows. “You aren’t welcome here.”
“This house has been hired by Lady Isabella Mackenzie,” Fellows said. “And I have not been cautioned against speaking to Mrs. Ackerley. She’s not a Mackenzie.” Ian’s gaze slid over Fellows’s self-satisfied face. “Mrs. Ackerley is under my protection.”
“Your protection?” Fellows smirked. “A fine way to phrase it.”
“I certainly don’t like that implication,” Beth broke in. “Please go, Inspector. You’ve said what you need to say, and I’d be obliged if you’d leave.”
Fellows bowed, but his eyes glittered. “Of course, Mrs. Ackerley. Good evening.”
Ian wasn’t satisfied with watching Fellows exit the drawing room—he followed Fellows down to the foyer and instructed the footman to not let him back in under any circumstances. Ian stood in the doorway watching until Fellows walked away down the busy street, whistling.
He turned back to find Beth behind him. She smelled like flowers, faint perfume clinging to her skin. Her face was flushed, her cheeks damp, her breath rapid. Damnation. Her smile was gone, her brow puckered. Ian had difficulty reading people’s expressions, but Beth’s worry and uncertainty screamed at him. Damn it all, if she’d believed Fellows...
Ian took Beth’s elbow and steered her back up the stairs to the drawing room. He slammed the doors behind him, and Beth walked away from him, holding her arms tight across her chest.
“Don’t trust him,” Ian said, voice grating. “He’s been harassing Hart for years. Have nothing to do with him.” “It’s a bit late for that.” Beth made no move to sit down, but she didn’t pace either. She stood very still, save for where her thumbs moved restlessly on her elbows. “I’m afraid the good inspector knows many secrets.”
“He knows far less than he thinks. He hates my family and will do anything to discredit them.”
“Why on earth should he?”
“I don’t know. I never did know.”
Ian scrubbed his hands through his hair, his frustrated rage boiling to the surface. He hated that rage, the one that had so infuriated Ian’s father and had earned young Ian many beatings.
It rose in him when he wanted to explain things but couldn’t find the words, when he couldn’t understand the nonsense everyone around him was babbling. As a child he’d done the only thing he could—lashed out with fists and screaming until two footmen had to hold him down. The screaming would stop only when Hart came. The little boy Ian had worshiped Hart Mackenzie, ten years his senior.
Ian was old enough now to control his impulses, but the anger still came, and he fought the demon of it every day.
He’d fought it the night Sally Tate had been murdered.
“I don’t want you to be part of this,” he repeated. Beth simply looked at him. Her eyes were so blue, her lips lush and red. He wanted to kiss her until she forgot all about Fellows and his revelations, until that look in her eyes was gone.
Ian wanted her under his body, his heat meeting hers, to hear her gasp when he fitted himself inside her. He needed the oblivion of coupling with her until they both dissolved with the passion of it. He’d wanted her as his refuge ever since he’d seen her sitting next to Lyndon Mather at Covent Garden Opera House.
He’d taken her away from Mather by betraying the man’s secrets. Mather had been right that Ian had stolen her, and Ian didn’t care. But now Beth knew lan’s secrets, and she was afraid.
“It should be simple enough to establish that you committed neither crime,” she was saying. “Surely your coachman and valet and so forth can account for your whereabouts.” She thought it was so, so simple.