The Duke’s Perfect Wife hp-4 Read online

  Hart hadn’t heard that version of the tale, but if Eleanor’s great-great-grandmother had been anything like Eleanor, Hart believed it. Hart could imagine the woman—with her red gold hair and plaid skirts billowing in the wind—telling the English bastards that the land was hers and that was that. But, yes, I can be persuaded to do things your way if you like, she’d say, blinking those cornflower blue eyes at them, and then proceed to do whatever she pleased.

  “Tell me,” Hart said to Eleanor. “How was it that the English colonel died so soon?”

  “Oh, great-great-grandmother pushed him off the roof,” Eleanor said. “From that corner just above my bedroom. It’s a nasty drop there. He was simply awful to her, according to the stories, so I can hardly blame her.”

  Chapter 16

  Hart looked at Darragh, who was listening, openmouthed. “Remind me, Darragh, not to go up onto the roof with my wife.”

  “Best not,” Eleanor agreed. “You can be rather aggravating.” She turned her smile on Darragh. “So you see, lad, I have no more love for the English than you do. That colonel muscled his way into Great-Great-Grandmother Finella’s home and had his way with her, which is why I do not blame her one whit for the roof. I myself would love to see England become detached from Scotland and drift off into the sea—except that two of my sisters-in-law are Sassenachs, and I’d want them safely here first. Along Lord Cameron’s Romany friends. And Mrs. Mayhew and Franklin and all the servants from Hart’s London house. Not to mention my English friends, and my father’s cronies at all those universities and the British Museum.” She made a helpless gesture with her good hand. “So, you see, it is not such a simple thing, is it? To say all people labeled this should live, and all labeled that should die? Neat and tidy, you don’t have to think about it. But alas, the world is much more complicated than that.”

  Darragh was clearly out of his depth. He looked to Hart for support.

  “She’s asking you to think about what you’re doing, lad,” Hart said. “To use your intellect, not your emotion.”

  “I suppose he’s not been told he has an intellect,” Eleanor said sadly. “My father says that is the trouble with so many. They’re told they’ll never amount to much, and so they believe it, and so it becomes true. But the human mind is quite intricate, no matter what body it is born into.” Eleanor gently tapped Darragh above his left ear. “So many thoughts in there, all of them with great potential. They simply need to be pursued.”

  There it was—Eleanor smiling at the lad, her fingertips soft on his hair. Darragh looked into her blue, blue eyes, and was smitten.

  Eleanor smoothed Darragh’s hair, a motherly gesture. “What do you intend to do with him, Hart?”

  “Send him to America to his sister,” Hart said.

  Fellows came alert on the other end of the room. “No, you don’t. He shot at you and hit your wife. He needs to be arrested and stand trial for that.”

  “His colleagues will never let him live that long,” Hart said. “He stays with me, I protect him, and he tells me every last detail about his friends and where I can find them.”

  “I’ll not betray them,” Darragh said quickly.

  Hart bent him a severe look. “You will. In exchange, you go to America and forget about secret organizations. Get an honest job and live a long and healthy life.”

  Fellows strode to them. “Mackenzie, the law isn’t for you to take into your hands. I need to know these contacts. I can’t go back to my chief inspector and tell him that I let you send a violent criminal off to America with a slap on the hand.”

  “You know that once he tells us what we need to know, his life won’t be worth anything,” Hart said. “If his colleagues don’t come for him, he’ll go to Newgate and be hung or shot for treason.”

  “Rewarding him by sending him to America to live with his sister won’t exactly reform him, will it?”

  Eleanor broke in before Hart could answer. “Neither will hanging him, Mr. Fellows. He’s only a boy. He’s nothing more than a trigger, like an extension of the pistol. I’m willing to give him a chance, if he helps you find those who want Hart dead.”

  Darragh sat silently through the exchange, fear large in his eyes. It was beginning to dawn on him, Hart saw, how he’d been used. “I’m not a trigger,” he said in a small voice.

  Eleanor smoothed his hair again. “Best you keep your head down and mouth shut, lad. Or Inspector Fellows will be driving you away in a cart with bars on it. Your only chance is to do what His Grace tells you.”

  Darragh blinked back tears. “But I can’t… tell.”

  “Mackenzie,” Fellows said, voice strained, “I understand your tactics. I even admire you for them, but you’ll cost me my job.”

  “Hart will never let it come to that.” Eleanor smiled sweetly at Fellows, then Hart. “Will he?”

  “No,” Hart said. “The Home Office will answer to me soon enough, Fellows. You’ll keep your job. Especially if you are instrumental in rooting out a cache of Fenians.”

  “Then that’s settled,” Eleanor said. “Perhaps you should give Darragh some tea before you start with the questions. He looks all in.”

  Hart put his hand under Eleanor’s arm and lifted her from the chair. “You are the one who is all in. The boy will be fine. You are going back to bed.”

  “I am rather tired.” She sagged, and Hart slid his arm around her waist. “You must give me your word you won’t hurt him,” she said.

  “He’ll stay intact. Fellows, keep the boy here while I take Eleanor upstairs.”

  Fellows glared at him. He looked so much like their father when he did that.

  Eleanor’s legs buckled, and Hart swept her into his arms and carried her out. The anteroom and halls beyond were empty, Isabella having the sense to herd the remaining guests into the garden for an alfresco dinner.

  Hart carried Eleanor through the enormous front hall, still decorated with swags for the wedding, and up the stairs. The giant vase that always stood on the hall table today was filled with pink roses and lily of the valley.

  Eleanor smiled at Hart as he carried her upward, her eyes sleepy blue slits. She touched his chest, the diamond and sapphire engagement ring glittering next to the plain gold of the wedding band. Eleanor Ramsay. His wife.

  “Don’t be too long,” she murmured. “It’s our wedding night, remember.”

  Eleanor rested her head on Hart’s shoulder and went sweetly to sleep.

  Hart Mackenzie was an arrogant son of a bitch who would never change.

  Lloyd Fellows stormed away from Hart’s study several hours later. Hart had carried his wife to her bedchamber—what a tender husband—and then returned to put Darragh through it. Hart was expert at twisting information out of anyone, and he’d twisted it out of Darragh. He’d never even touched the lad. Darragh had given up the names of the leaders and where they met in London and in Liverpool.

  Fellows doubted they’d still be there. They’d have heard from one of their own that the assassination attempt was a failure and that Darragh had been taken. They’d still be in the area, though, and now Fellows knew their names. It would not be long before he found them.

  He admired Hart and at the same time wanted to strangle him. Hart Mackenzie had grown up with every privilege, while Lloyd Fellows had grubbed for himself. Fellows had worked hard all his life to take care of his mother in the back streets of London while Hart had slept between soft linen sheets and eaten food prepared by celebrated chefs.

  Now Mackenzie, instead of staying at his injured wife’s bedside, had sat in his opulent study and done Fellows’s job. Better, probably, than Fellows could have.

  It rankled. Never mind that Hart had given Fellows enough information with which to return to London and start rooting out the madmen who thought nothing of shooting into crowds and blowing up railway lines. Fellows would nab them and get all the glory. Hart would let him. That rankled too.

  To relieve his feelings, Fellows stormed into a room at
the end of the hall, unaware even of where he was going in this colossal house.

  “Oh,” said a female voice.

  Fellows stopped, his hand on the door handle, and saw a young lady standing unsteadily on a ladder, her hands full of garlands. She was definitely teetering, the garlands rendering her unable to steady herself. Fellows hurried to her and kept her from falling by putting strong hands on her hips.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You did make me jump.”

  She was Lady Louisa Scranton, Isabella Mackenzie’s younger sister. The dress beneath Fellows’s hands was a dark blue silk, the hips beneath that supple.

  Fellows had met Lady Louisa on several occasions at Mackenzie gatherings but had done no more than exchange polite pleasantries with her. Louisa much resembled her sister, Isabella, with brilliant red hair, green eyes, a curving figure, and a red-lipped smile.

  Fellows wanted to let his hands linger. She smelled of roses, and her flesh beneath the fabric was warm.

  He made himself ease his hands away. “Are you all right?”

  She blushed. “Yes, yes. I was taking down these garlands and became careless. I thought they should come down, under the circumstances. The guests won’t be using this room.”

  It was a drawing room, one whose ceilings were a mere fifteen feet high rather than the twenty to thirty usual in this house.

  “They have servants to do this.”

  Her skirts made an enticing rustle as she reached for more garlands, rising on tiptoe in slender ankle boots.

  “Yes, but truth to tell, I felt rather underfoot and wanted to be useful. Isabella can grow quite agitated when she’s upset, and rather bossy, poor lamb.”

  Fellows couldn’t think of a thing to say. He was a policeman. Polished manners were beyond him.

  “Lady Eleanor will recover, I think,” he said stiffly.

  “I know. I looked in on her not long ago. She’s sleeping like a baby.” Louisa’s green eyes scrutinized him, and Fellows suddenly felt hot. “You are very tall. Would you help me reach that?” Louisa pointed to a garland fastened to a sculpted frieze out of her reach.

  “Of course.”

  Fellows thought she’d descend, and he held out his hand to help her, but she shook her head. “You need to come up here, silly. We both must grab it or the whole thing will be ruined.”

  Silly. No woman in Lloyd Fellows’s life had dared to tell him he was silly.

  He put his foot on the bottom rung of the stepladder. Another two steps, and he was level with her.

  He found it difficult to breathe. This close to her, he was sharply aware of her scent, the curve of her cheek, how her red hair darkened at the temples.

  “There we are,” Louisa said softly, and she kissed him.

  A light touch, a virgin’s kiss, but the cushion of her red lips ignited fires throughout his body. Fellows slid his hand to the nape of her neck and scooped her up to him. He did not open her lips, but brushed them again and again, taking in the warm softness of her. He ended with a kiss to the corner of her mouth, which he savored for a time.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, breath gentle on his skin. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you.”

  “Why?” His throat was dry.

  Her lips curved into a smile. “Because you’re a handsome gentleman, and I like you. Besides, you once saved Mac’s life.”

  “And this is gratitude?”

  Her smile widened. “No, this is me being dreadfully forward. I would not blame you one whit for being disgusted.”

  Disgusted? Was she mad?

  “You should have told me.” His voice still wasn’t working.

  “It is not something easily worked into conversation.” Louisa reached for the garland. “Anyway, now I have told you. And I truly need help with this garland.”

  Fellows put a firm arm around her and reached up beside her. He was not quite sure what had just changed in his life, but the world felt different, and he would make certain that he and Louisa continued to explore what had begun in this room.

  Eleanor slept. She dreamed dark dreams that slipped away when she swam to wakefulness and pain. Then she was restless, the injury keeping her from slumbering again. When Beth offered her more laudanum in water, Eleanor was hurting enough to readily drink it.

  She slept through her wedding night, all the next day, and well into the next night. She awoke, hungry, able to eat the bread and butter Maigdlin brought her. Eleanor felt well after that, and decided to get up, only to find herself on the floor, her friends lifting her back into bed.

  Fever came, and she saw the faces of Beth, Ainsley, and Isabella come and go. And Hart’s. She wanted to cling to him and ask him a thousand questions—what had happened to Darragh? Were there any other assassins lurking? Had Inspector Fellows arrested Darragh’s friends? But she had no strength to speak.

  After what seemed a long time, Eleanor woke again, in quiet darkness. Her arm was sore, but the worst of the pain had receded, thank heavens. Eleanor stretched and yawned. Her body was damp with sweat, but she felt rested, relieved.

  She was not alone, she discovered—Maigdlin lay back in a chair, snoring, an oil lamp glowing next to her. Feeling fusty, she woke Maigdlin and asked the startled maid to run a bath. Maigdlin protested, fearing Eleanor’s fever would return, but Eleanor wanted to find Hart, and she did not want to go to her husband after sweating in bed for… who knew how long.

  Maigdlin helped her bathe, being careful of her bandages. Three days she’d been asleep, Maigdlin told her, and so sick they feared they’d lose her.

  Nonsense. Eleanor always threw off her fevers. She was strong as an ox.

  Feeling much better after the bath, Eleanor wrapped herself in a thick dressing gown, put on warm slippers, and headed for Hart’s bedchamber, three doors down from hers.

  The hall was silent, the rest of the house asleep. The doors in between her chamber and his led to Hart’s private library and study. Eleanor supposed she should be grateful that she had to walk only twenty feet to reach his bedroom. When she’d stayed at Kilmorgan as his fiancée, long ago, she’d been put in the guest wing, which was on the other side of the house.

  Eleanor did not bother to knock on the immense double doors. She’d come prepared with a key, which she’d procured the day she’d arrived at Kilmorgan. But there was no need for it, because the door was unlocked. She saw why when she entered the enormous chamber. Hart wasn’t in it.

  Hart’s bed, empty and neatly made, was colossal, with brocade hangings flowing to it from an oval canopy ten feet above it. The rest of the room was taken up with formal tables and chairs, a bookcase, a padded bench, and a console table holding brandy and a humidor.

  In spite of the elegant furnishings, this was a cold room, even with the coal fire burning brightly on the hearth. Eleanor shivered.

  Hart’s windows faced the front of the house and the east side of the grounds. The curtains had not been drawn, and Eleanor walked to the east window and peered out.

  “He’s gone out to the mausoleum, Your Grace.”

  Eleanor stifled a shriek and turned to find Hart’s French valet in the doorway. Marcel stood ramrod straight, looking not at all tired. The perfect servant, awake and alert to serve his master, even at three o’clock in the morning. Poor Maigdlin had succumbed to slumber.

  “The mausoleum?” Eleanor asked when her breath returned. “In the middle of the night?”

  “His Grace will go there sometimes when he can’t sleep,” Marcel said. “Is there anything I can fetch for you, Your Grace?”

  “No, no. That’s fine, Marcel. Thank you.”

  Marcel stood aside to let Eleanor leave the room, then he hastened down the hall ahead of her to open her bedchamber door. Eleanor thanked him politely and bade him go to bed. Hart would be fine without him, she said, and Marcel needed sleep. Marcel looked puzzled, but he went.

  Eleanor bade Maigdlin, who was changing her bedsheets, to help her dress and to fix her arm in
the sling. Maigdlin didn’t want to, of course, but Eleanor was firm. She then sent Maigdlin up to her bed, hurried downstairs, and let herself out of the house through a back door.

  She sped across the damp grass toward the squat, dark building on the edge of the grounds, her breath catching when she saw the wink of a lantern inside.

  The Mackenzie family mausoleum was always cold. Hart’s breath fogged inside it, even though the April night was almost balmy.

  His grandfather had built this place in the 1840s, a Greek-looking mock temple with plenty of marble and granite. Hart’s grandfather and grandmother reposed here, as did Hart’s father and mother. Cameron’s first wife did not, because Hart’s father wouldn’t hear of it. She was a bitch, a whore, and Cameron’s disgrace, the duke had said. She can make do with the churchyard, though I’ll be surprised if the vicar lets her in.

  Hart’s wife Sarah did have a tomb here, as did his son, Graham.

  The marble of Sarah’s tomb was black and gray, cold to the touch. The plaque on the front of the tomb was filled with flowery phrases that Hart never remembered asking for.

  The smaller plaque next to Sarah’s said, Lord Hart Graham Mackenzie, Beloved Son, June 7, 1876.

  Hart traced the lettering of his son’s name with gloved fingertips. Graham would have turned eight this year.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  Silence and darkness filled the space. But Hart felt comfort from the cool marble, from the presence of the boy he’d held—only once.

  If Hart had done everything right in his life, he and Eleanor would have been married long ago, and Kilmorgan would be overrun with children by now. The bodies of Sarah and Graham would not be in this cold place, with nothing but chisel marks on marble left to honor them.

  But Hart had done everything wrong. This time, at least, this time, he’d gotten Eleanor to the altar. And then she’d pushed him out of the way of the pistol, trying to save him.