The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 68
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“M’lady?” Katie stuck her head around the parlor door.
“Is it safe to come in now?”
“He’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Beth rose, feeling exhausted. “Fetch our wraps, Katie. We’re going out.” Katie sent a disparaging glance to the dark, foggy window.
“Now? To where?”
“The East End.”
Katie blinked. “What d’you want to go to that hellhole for? Old times’ sake?”
“No,” Beth answered. “To find some answers.” “Gone?” Ian raised his dripping head and stared at Curry in disbelief. “Gone where?”
“To London, m’lord.” Curry backed a step from Ian at the washbasin, knowing from experience how far to put his body from Ian’s whenever he had to relate bad news. Ian straightened up, water trickling from his wet hair down his bare chest. He’d been scrubbing off the plaster dust from Geordie’s cottage and mud from the subsequent fishing expedition when he’d asked Curry where Beth was.
He’d expected Curry to tell him she was walking in the garden, exploring the house, or continuing riding lessons with Cameron. Not, Well, here’s the thing, m’lord. She’s gone.
“London?” Ian demanded. “Why?”
Curry shrugged. “Dunno. Shopping?”
“Why the devil should she go all the way to London to go shopping? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I couldn’t stop her, could I? She’s got a mind of ‘er own, ‘as ‘er ladyship.”
“Bloody idiot.”
“What’d ye expect me to do?” Curry shrilled as he slapped a dry towel to Ian’s chest. “Lock her in a dungeon?” “Yes.”
“She said she’d be back, guv—“
Ian cut him off. “She’s not coming back, you fool. She’s gone, and you let her go.”
“Now, m’lord . . .”
Ian wasn’t listening. Hollowness spread from his chest until it filled his body. Beth was gone, and the emptiness of that hurt like nothing else ever had.
Curry jumped away as Ian upended the entire dressing table, sending every knickknack and stupid toiletry to the floor. The pain in his chest was unbearable. It matched the pounding in his temple, the migraine that never went away. He struck the splintered table with his fists, the slivers of wood bloodying his hands. Beth had seen a glimpse of him at his worst—could he blame her for running away? Ian looked at the scarlet droplets on his fingers, remembering Sally Tate’s blood on them, remembering the horror of finding the ruin of her body. His mind swiftly inserted Beth in place of Sally, Beth’s beautiful eyes sightless, a blade buried in her chest.
It could happen. Ian dragged in a chill breath as panic replaced his rage. He’d dragged Beth into his life, had exposed her to Inspector Fellows, had made her as vulnerable as Lily Martin.
He threw off Curry’s well-meaning hands, stormed past Cameron, who’d come to see what was the matter, and raced out the door.
“Ian, where are you going?” Cameron demanded, catching up to him on the stairs.
“London. Don’t tell Hart or try to stop me, or I’ll thrash you.”
Cameron fell into step beside him. “I’ll come with you.” Yes. Ian knew that Cameron simply wanted to keep an eye on him, but Cameron would be handy. He knew how to fight and wasn’t afraid of anything. Ian gave him a curt nod. “Besides,” Cameron went on, “Curry says Daniel went with her. and I’m certain he’s making her life a misery.” Ian said nothing. He snatched the shirt Curry kept thrusting at him and banged out of the house for the stables, Cameron on his heels.
Chapter Eighteen
Proper ladies did not go to the East End. Proper ladies pulled the curtains closed in their carriages and did not look out when their route took them through Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. Mrs. Barrington would turn in her grave, but Thomas. . . Thomas would have approved. Beth’s heart squeezed as her hired coach rolled past the little parish church that had been Thomas Ackerley’s. The tiny building was squashed between dull brick edifices but managed to retain its dignity. Behind it, in the cramped churchyard, Thomas’s body lay. A tiny square stone, all the parish and Beth could afford, marked the place. Behind the church lay the vicarage where Beth had spent one hopeful year. Two doors past that was the hall Thomas had set up, where those forced to live on the streets could get a hot meal and a place out of the weather for a little while. The parish had not approved it, so Thomas had funded it out of his own pocket, and a philanthropic gentleman had taken it over on Thomas’s death.
Beth entered the rickety building that smelled of old meals and unwashed bodies, hoping to find her answers there. Daniel Mackenzie came behind her, towering over Katie and Beth, the lanky young man die most nervous of the three. “Should you be here?” Daniel hissed. “My dad would tan my hide if he knew I let you come near a game girl, and God knows what Uncle Ian will do.”
A tired-looking young woman sat on a hard chair with her legs stretched out, skirts hiked to her knees. As Beth rustled in, she looked up, blinked, and jumped to her feet. “Blimey, it’s the missus.”
Beth went to the young woman and took her hands.
“Hello, Molly.”
Molly grinned in delight. She had brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a warm smile. She smelled like tobacco and alcohol, as usual, and the faint odor of a man’s cologne lingered in her clothes.
“Is it safe to come in now?”
“He’s gone, if that’s what you mean.” Beth rose, feeling exhausted. “Fetch our wraps, Katie. We’re going out.” Katie sent a disparaging glance to the dark, foggy window.
“Now? To where?”
“The East End.”
Katie blinked. “What d’you want to go to that hellhole for? Old times’ sake?”
“No,” Beth answered. “To find some answers.” “Gone?” Ian raised his dripping head and stared at Curry in disbelief. “Gone where?”
“To London, m’lord.” Curry backed a step from Ian at the washbasin, knowing from experience how far to put his body from Ian’s whenever he had to relate bad news. Ian straightened up, water trickling from his wet hair down his bare chest. He’d been scrubbing off the plaster dust from Geordie’s cottage and mud from the subsequent fishing expedition when he’d asked Curry where Beth was.
He’d expected Curry to tell him she was walking in the garden, exploring the house, or continuing riding lessons with Cameron. Not, Well, here’s the thing, m’lord. She’s gone.
“London?” Ian demanded. “Why?”
Curry shrugged. “Dunno. Shopping?”
“Why the devil should she go all the way to London to go shopping? Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I couldn’t stop her, could I? She’s got a mind of ‘er own, ‘as ‘er ladyship.”
“Bloody idiot.”
“What’d ye expect me to do?” Curry shrilled as he slapped a dry towel to Ian’s chest. “Lock her in a dungeon?” “Yes.”
“She said she’d be back, guv—“
Ian cut him off. “She’s not coming back, you fool. She’s gone, and you let her go.”
“Now, m’lord . . .”
Ian wasn’t listening. Hollowness spread from his chest until it filled his body. Beth was gone, and the emptiness of that hurt like nothing else ever had.
Curry jumped away as Ian upended the entire dressing table, sending every knickknack and stupid toiletry to the floor. The pain in his chest was unbearable. It matched the pounding in his temple, the migraine that never went away. He struck the splintered table with his fists, the slivers of wood bloodying his hands. Beth had seen a glimpse of him at his worst—could he blame her for running away? Ian looked at the scarlet droplets on his fingers, remembering Sally Tate’s blood on them, remembering the horror of finding the ruin of her body. His mind swiftly inserted Beth in place of Sally, Beth’s beautiful eyes sightless, a blade buried in her chest.
It could happen. Ian dragged in a chill breath as panic replaced his rage. He’d dragged Beth into his life, had exposed her to Inspector Fellows, had made her as vulnerable as Lily Martin.
He threw off Curry’s well-meaning hands, stormed past Cameron, who’d come to see what was the matter, and raced out the door.
“Ian, where are you going?” Cameron demanded, catching up to him on the stairs.
“London. Don’t tell Hart or try to stop me, or I’ll thrash you.”
Cameron fell into step beside him. “I’ll come with you.” Yes. Ian knew that Cameron simply wanted to keep an eye on him, but Cameron would be handy. He knew how to fight and wasn’t afraid of anything. Ian gave him a curt nod. “Besides,” Cameron went on, “Curry says Daniel went with her. and I’m certain he’s making her life a misery.” Ian said nothing. He snatched the shirt Curry kept thrusting at him and banged out of the house for the stables, Cameron on his heels.
Chapter Eighteen
Proper ladies did not go to the East End. Proper ladies pulled the curtains closed in their carriages and did not look out when their route took them through Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. Mrs. Barrington would turn in her grave, but Thomas. . . Thomas would have approved. Beth’s heart squeezed as her hired coach rolled past the little parish church that had been Thomas Ackerley’s. The tiny building was squashed between dull brick edifices but managed to retain its dignity. Behind it, in the cramped churchyard, Thomas’s body lay. A tiny square stone, all the parish and Beth could afford, marked the place. Behind the church lay the vicarage where Beth had spent one hopeful year. Two doors past that was the hall Thomas had set up, where those forced to live on the streets could get a hot meal and a place out of the weather for a little while. The parish had not approved it, so Thomas had funded it out of his own pocket, and a philanthropic gentleman had taken it over on Thomas’s death.
Beth entered the rickety building that smelled of old meals and unwashed bodies, hoping to find her answers there. Daniel Mackenzie came behind her, towering over Katie and Beth, the lanky young man die most nervous of the three. “Should you be here?” Daniel hissed. “My dad would tan my hide if he knew I let you come near a game girl, and God knows what Uncle Ian will do.”
A tired-looking young woman sat on a hard chair with her legs stretched out, skirts hiked to her knees. As Beth rustled in, she looked up, blinked, and jumped to her feet. “Blimey, it’s the missus.”
Beth went to the young woman and took her hands.
“Hello, Molly.”
Molly grinned in delight. She had brown hair, a snub nose, freckles, and a warm smile. She smelled like tobacco and alcohol, as usual, and the faint odor of a man’s cologne lingered in her clothes.
