The gallery outside was deserted, thank heavens. The soprano was a popular one, and most of the attendees were fixed to their chairs, avidly watching her. Beth hurried along the gallery, hearing the singer start up again. Her vision blurred, and the paper in her glove burned her arm.
What did Lord Ian mean by writing her such a letter? He was an eccentric, Mather had said—was that the explanation? But if the accusations in the letter were the ravings of a madman, why would Lord Ian offer to arrange for Beth to meet with his brother? The Duke of Kilmorgan was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Britain—he was the Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of Scotland, which went back to 1300-something, and his father had been made Duke of Kilmorgan in the peerage of England by Queen Victoria herself.
Why should such a lofty man care about nobodies like Beth Ackerley and Lyndon Mather? Surely both she and Mather were far beneath a duke’s notice.
No, the letter was too bizarre. It had to be a lie, an invention. And yet . . . Beth thought of times she’d caught Mather looking at her as though he’d done something clever. Growing up in the East End, having the father she’d had, had given Beth the ability to spot a confidence trickster at ten paces. Had the signs been there with Sir Lyndon Mather, and she’d simply chosen to ignore them?
But, no, it couldn’t be true. She’d come to know Mather well when she’d been companion to elderly Mrs. Barrington. She and Mrs. Barrington had ridden with Mather in his carriage, visited him and his aunt at his Park Lane house, had him escort them to musicales. He’d never behaved toward Beth with anything but politeness due a rich old lady’s companion, and after Mrs. Barrington’s death, he’d proposed to Beth.
After I inherited Mrs. Barrington’s fortune, a cynical voice reminded her.
What did Lord Ian mean by sweeties? He begs them to use him as their slave.
Beth’s whalebone corset was too right, cutting off the breath she sorely needed. Black spots swam before her eyes, and she put her hand out to steady herself. A strong grip closed around her elbow. “Careful,” a Scottish voice grated in her ear. “Come with me.”
Chapter Two
Before Beth could choke out a refusal, Lord Ian propelled her along the gallery, half lifting, half pulling her. He yanked open a velvet-draped door and all but shoved her inside. Beth found herself in another box, this one large, heavily carpeted, and filled with cigar smoke. She coughed. “I need a drink of water.”
Lord Ian pushed her down into an armchair, which welcomed her into its plush depths. She clasped the cold crystal glass he thrust at her and drank deeply of its contents. She gasped when she tasted whiskey instead of water, but the liquid burned a fiery trail to her stomach, and her vision began to clear.
Once she could see again Beth realized she sat in a box that looked directly onto the stage below. From its prime position she judged that it must be the Duke of Kilmorgan’s box. It was very posh indeed, with comfortable furniture, gaslights turned low, and polished inlaid tables. But apart from herself and Lord Ian, the box was empty.
Ian took the glass from her and seated himself on the chair next to hers, far too close. He put his lips to the glass where Beth had just drunk from it and finished off the contents. A stray droplet lingered on his lower lip, and Beth suddenly wanted to lick it clean.
To drag her mind from such thoughts, she slid the paper from her glove. “What did you mean by this, my lord?” Ian didn’t even look at the letter. “Exactly what it said.”
“These are very grave—and quite distressing—accusations.” Ian’s expression said he didn’t give a damn how grave and distressing they were. “Mather is a blackguard, and you would be well rid of him.”
Beth crumpled the letter in her hand and tried to organize her thoughts. It wasn’t easy with Ian Mackenzie sitting half a foot from her, his powerful presence all but making her fall off the chair. Every time she drew a breath, she inhaled the scent of whiskey and cigar and dark maleness she wasn’t used to.
“I have heard that collectors envy one another to the point of madness,” she said.
“Mather isn’t a collector.”
“Isn’t he? I’ve seen his porcelain. He keeps it locked away in a special room, and won’t even let the servants in to clean.”
“His collection isn’t worth a damn. He can’t tell the difference between the real thing and a fake.”
Ian’s gaze roved over her, as warm and dark as his touch.
She shifted uncomfortably.
“My lord, I’ve been betrothed to Sir Lyndon for three months, and none of his other acquaintances have mentioned any peculiar behaviors.”
“Mather keeps his perversions to himself.” “But not from you? Why are you privileged with this information?”
“He thought it would impress my brother.”
“Good heavens, why should such a thing impress a duke?”
Ian lifted his shoulders in a shrug, his arm brushing Beth’s. He sat too close, but Beth couldn’t seem to make herself rise and move to another chair.
“Do you go about prepared with letters such as these in case they’re wanted?” she asked.
His gaze moved swiftly to her, then away again, as though he wanted to focus on her and couldn’t. “I wrote it before I came tonight, in case when I met you I thought you’d be worth saving.”
“Should I be flattered?”
“Mather is a blind idiot and sees only your fortune.” Exactly what her own little voice had just told her. “Mather doesn’t need my fortune,” she argued. “He has money of his own. He has a house in Park Lane, a large estate in Suffolk, and so forth.”
“He is riddled with debt. That’s why he sold me the bowl.”
She didn’t know what bowl, but humiliation burned in her stomach along with the whiskey. She’d been so careful when the offers had come thick and fast after Mrs. Barrington’s death—she liked to laugh that a young widow who’d just come into a good fortune must be, to misquote Jane Austen, in want of a husband.
“I’m not a fool, my lord. I realize that much of my charm comes from the money now attached to me.” His eyes were warm, the gold the same color as the whiskey.
“No, it doesn’t.”
The simple phrase thawed her. “If this letter is true, then I am in an untenable position.”
“Why? You are rich. You can do whatever you like.” Beth went silent. Her world had turned topsy-turvy the day Mrs. Barrington had died and left her house in Belgrave Square, her fortune, her servants, and all her worldly goods to Beth, as Mrs. Barrington had no living relation. The money was all Beth’s to do with as she liked. Wealth meant freedom. Beth had never had freedom in her life, and she supposed another reason she’d welcomed Mather’s proposal was that he and his aunt could help her ease into the world of London Society as something more than a drudge. She’d been a drudge for so very long.