The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie
Page 84

The arrogance of his class coupled with his resentment toward his
family has created a blockage in his brain, Dr. Edwards would explain to his enthusiastic audiences. He can read and remember but not understand. He also shows no interest in his father, never asks after him or writes to him even when it is suggested to him. He also makes no sign that he misses his dear, departed mother.
Dr. Edwards never saw the boy Ian sob into his pillow at night, alone, afraid, hating the dark. Knowing that if his father came for him, it would be to kill him for what Ian had seen.
Ian’s only friends were the asylum’s servants, maids who smuggled him sweetmeats from the kitchen and wine from the servants’ hall. They helped him hide the cheroots Mac brought him and the naughty books Cameron gave him when he came to call.
You read these, Cameron would whisper, with a wink. You need to know which end of a woman is what, and what each is for.
Ian had learned that at seventeen at the hands of the plump, golden-haired maid who cleaned his hearth every morning. She’d kept their secret liaison for two years, then married the coachman and moved off to a better life. Ian told Hart to make her a wedding present of several hundred guineas, but would never say why.
That was a long time ago. Ian swam back to the present, but the present was stark and terrifying. He sat in darkness, curtains cloaking the windows, while Beth struggled to live. If she died, he might as well take himself back to the asylum and lock himself in, because he’d go mad if he had to live without her.
Isabella arrived not long later. She entered the room in a faint rustle of silk, her eyes filling as she took in Beth on the bed.
“Ian, I’m so sorry.”
Ian couldn’t answer. Isabella looked exhausted. She caressed Beth’s hand and lifted it to her lips.
“I saw the doctor downstairs,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “He told me there wasn’t much hope.”
“The doctor is an idiot.”
“She’s burning up.”
“I won’t let her die.”
Isabella sank down on the bed, still holding Beth’s hand. “It happens, usually to the best people. They’re taken away to teach us humility.” Tears streaked down her cheeks. “Balls.”
Isabella looked up at him, her smile wan. “You’re stubborn, like a Mackenzie.”
“I am a Mackenzie.” What a damn fool thing to say. “I won’t let her die. I can’t.” Beth moved listlessly on the bed, soft sounds coming from her mouth.
“She’s delirious,” Isabella whispered.
Ian wet a cloth and dabbed it to Beth’s tongue as she tried to talk, her voice a croak. She lapped the droplets that fell from it, whimpering.
Isabella wiped away tears as she rose from the bed and blindly made her way out.
Mac came in not long later, his face haggard.
“Any change?” he asked.
“No.” Ian didn’t look up from pressing a cloth filled with ice to Beth’s forehead. “Did you come with Isabella?” Mac gave a soft snort. “Hardly. Different trains, different boats, and she changed her hotel as soon as she found out I’d booked in there, too.”
’You’re both fools. You can’t let her go.”
Mac raised his brows. “It’s been three years, and she isn’t exactly racing back to me.”
“You aren’t trying hard enough to get her back,” Ian said, angry. “I never thought you were this bloody stupid.” Mac looked surprised, then thoughtful. “You might have a point.”
Ian returned his attention to Beth. How anyone could find love and throw it away so carelessly was beyond him.
Mac rubbed his forehead. “Speaking of bloody fools, Hart sacked that quack of a doctor. Good thing, too. I was ready to throttle him.”
“Good.”
Mac put his hand on Ian’s shoulder, fingers squeezing. “I’m sorry. This isn’t right. You of all of us deserve to be happy.”
Ian didn’t answer. It had nothing to do with being happy.
It had everything to do with saving Beth.
Mac remained for a while, watching Beth moodily, then drifted away. He was replaced by other visitors throughout the day and into the night: Cameron, Daniel, Katie. Curry, Isabella again. They all asked the same question. “Is there any change?” Ian had to shake his head, and they went away. In the small hours of the morning, when the house was deathly still, the gilt clock on the mantelpiece apologetically chimed twice. Beth sat straight up in bed.
“Ian!”
Her skin was bright red, her eyes glittering, pupils wide.
Ian came to the bed. “I’m here.”
“Ian, I’m going to die.”
Ian wrapped his arms around her, held her close. “I won’t let you.”
She pulled away. “Ian, tell me you forgive me.” She caught Ian’s gaze, and he couldn’t turn away.
Beth’s eyes were hot blue, swimming with tears. He could look at them for hours, mesmerized by the color. He’d read that eyes were the windows to the soul, and Beth’s soul was pure and sweet.
She was safe, but a monster lurked inside Ian, the same one that had lurked inside his father. He could so easily hurt her, forget himself in a rage. He couldn’t let that happen—ever. “There is nothing to forgive, love.”
“For going to Inspector Fellows. For raking it all up again. For killing Mrs. Palmer. She’s dead, isn’t she?” “Yes.”