Chapter One
London, 1881
“I find that a Ming bowl is like a woman’s breast,” Sir
Lyndon Mather said to Ian Mackenzie, who held the bowl in
question between his fingertips. “The swelling curve, the
creamy pallor. Don’t you agree?”
Ian couldn’t think of a woman who would be flattered to
have her breast compared to a bowl, so he didn’t bother to
nod.
The delicate vessel was from the early Ming period, the
porcelain barely flushed with green, the sides so thin Ian
could see light through them. Three gray-green dragons
chased one another across the outside, and four
chrysanthemums seemed to float across the bottom.
The little vessel might just cup a small rounded breast,
but that was as far as Ian was willing to go.
“One thousand guineas,” he said.
Mather’s smile turned sickly. “Now, my lord, I thought we
were friends.”
Ian wondered where Mather had got that idea. “The bowl is
worth one thousand guineas.” He fingered the slightly
chipped rim, the base worn from centuries of handling.
Mather looked taken aback, blue eyes glittering in his
overly handsome face.
“I paid fifteen hundred for it. Explain yourself.”
There was nothing to explain. Ian’s rapidly calculating
mind had taken in every asset and flaw in ten seconds flat.
If Mather couldn’t tell the value of his pieces, he had no
business collecting porcelain. There were at least five
fakes in the glass case on the other side of Mather’s
collection room, and Ian wagered Mather had no idea.
Ian put his nose to the glaze, liking the clean scent that
had survived the heavy cigar smoke of Mather’s house. The
bowl was genuine, it was beautiful, and he wanted it.
“At least give me what I paid for it,” Mather said in a
panicked voice. “The man told me I had it at a bargain.”
“One thousand guineas,” Ian repeated.
“Damn it, man, I’m getting married.”
Ian recalled the announcement in the Times——verbatim,
because he recalled everything verbatim: Sir Lyndon Mather
of St. Aubrey’s, Suffolk, announces his betrothal to Mrs.
Thomas Ackerley, a widow. The wedding to be held on the
twenty-seventh of June of this year in St. Aubrey’s at ten
o’clock in the morning.
“My felicitations,” Ian said.
“I wish to buy my beloved a gift with what I get for the
bowl.”
Ian kept his gaze on the vessel. “Why not give her the bowl
itself?”
Mather’s hearty laugh filled the room. “My dear fellow,
women don’t know the first thing about porcelain. She’ll
want a carriage and a matched team and a string of servants
to carry all the fripperies she buys. I’ll give her that.
She’s a fine-looking woman, daughter of some froggie
aristo, for all she’s long in the tooth and a widow.”
Ian didn’t answer. He touched the tip of his tongue to the
bowl, reflecting that it was far better than ten carriages
with matched teams. Any woman who didn’t see the poetry in
it was a fool.
Mather wrinkled his nose as Ian tasted the bowl, but Ian
had learned to test the genuineness of the glaze that way.
Mather wouldn’t be able to tell a genuine glaze if someone
painted him with it.
“She’s got a bloody fortune of her own,” Mather went
on, “inherited from that Barrington woman, a rich old lady
who didn’t keep her opinions to herself. Mrs. Ackerley, her
quiet companion, copped the lot.”
Then why is she marrying you? Ian turned the bowl over in
his hands as he speculated, but if Mrs. Ackerley wanted to
make her bed with Lyndon Mather, she could lie in it. Of
course, she might find the bed a little crowded. Mather
kept a secret house for his mistress and several other
women to cater to his needs, which he loved to boast about
to Ian’s brothers. I’m as decadent as you lot, he was
trying to say. But in Ian’s opinion, Mather understood
pleasures of the flesh about as well as he understood Ming
porcelain.
“Bet you’re surprised a dedicated bachelor like myself is
for the chop, eh?” Mather went on. “If you’re wondering
whether I’m giving up my bit of the other, the answer is
no. You are welcome to come ’round and join in anytime, you
know. I’ve extended the invitation to you, and your
brothers as well.”
Ian had met Mather’s ladies, vacant-eyed women willing to
put up with Mather’s proclivities for the money he gave
them.
Mather reached for a cigar. “I say, we’re at Covent Garden
Opera tonight. Come meet my fiancée. I’d like your opinion.
Everyone knows you have as exquisite taste in females as
you do in porcelain.” He chuckled.
Ian didn’t answer. He had to rescue the bowl from this
philistine. “One thousand guineas.”
“You’re a hard man, Mackenzie.”
“One thousand guineas, and I’ll see you at the opera.”
“Oh, very well, though you’re ruining me.”
He’d ruined himself. “Your widow has a fortune. You’ll
recover.”
Mather laughed, his handsome face lighting. Ian had seen
women of every age blush or flutter fans when Mather
smiled. Mather was the master of the double life.
“True, and she’s lovely to boot. I’m a lucky man.”
Mather rang for his butler and Ian’s valet, Curry. Curry
produced a wooden box lined with straw, into which Ian
carefully placed the dragon bowl.
Ian hated to cover up such beauty. He touched it one last
time, his gaze fixed on it until Curry broke his
concentration by placing the lid on the box.
He looked up to find that Mather had ordered the butler to
pour brandy. Ian accepted a glass and sat down in front of
the bankbook Curry had placed on Mather’s desk for him.
Ian set aside the brandy and dipped his pen in the ink. He
bent down to write and caught sight of the droplet of black
ink hanging on the nib in a perfect, round sphere.
He stared at the droplet, something inside him singing at
the perfection of the ball of ink, the glistening viscosity
that held it suspended from the nib. The sphere was
perfect, shining, a wonder.
He wished he could savor its perfection forever, but he
knew that in a second it would fall from the pen and be
lost. If his brother Mac could paint something this
exquisite, this beautiful, Ian would treasure it.
He had no idea how long he’d sat there studying the droplet
of ink until he heard Mather say, “Damnation, he really is
mad, isn’t he?”
The droplet fell down, down, down to splash on the page,
gone to its death in a splatter of black ink.
“I’ll write it out for you, then, m’lord?”
Ian looked into the homely face of his manservant, a young
Cockney who’d spent his boyhood pickpocketing his way
across London.
Ian nodded and relinquished the pen. Curry turned the
bankbook toward him and wrote the draft in careful
capitals. He dipped the pen again and handed it back to
Ian, holding the nib down so Ian wouldn’t see the ink.
Ian signed his name painstakingly, feeling the weight of
Mather’s stare.
“Does he do that often?” Mather asked as Ian rose, leaving
Curry to blot the paper.
Curry’s cheekbones stained red. “No ’arm done, sir.”
Ian lifted his glass and swiftly drank down the brandy,
then took up the box. “I will see you at the opera.”
He didn’t shake hands on his way out. Mather frowned, but
gave Ian a nod. Lord Ian Mackenzie, brother to the Duke of
Kilmorgan, socially outranked him, and Mather was acutely
aware of social rank.
Once in his carriage, Ian set the box beside him. He could
feel the bowl inside, round and perfect, filling a niche in
himself.
“I know it ain’t me place to say,” Curry said from the
opposite seat as the carriage jerked forward into the rainy
streets. “But the man’s a right bastard. Not fit for you to
wipe your boots on. Why even have truck with him?”
Ian caressed the box. “I wanted this piece.”
“You do have a way of getting what you want, no mistake,
m’lord. Are we really meeting him at the opera?”
“I’ll sit in Hart’s box.” Ian flicked his gaze over Curry’s
baby-innocent face and focused safely on the carriage’s
velvet wall. “Find out everything you can about a Mrs.
Ackerley, a widow now betrothed to Sir Lyndon Mather. Tell
me about it tonight.”
“Oh, aye? Why are we so interested in the right bastard’s
fiancée?”
Ian ran his fingertips lightly over the box again. “I want
to know if she’s exquisite porcelain or a fake.”
Curry winked. “Right ye are, guv. I’ll see what I can dig
up.”
#
Lyndon Mather was all that was handsome and charming, and
heads turned when Beth Ackerley walked by on his arm at
Covent Garden Opera House.
Mather had a pure profile, a slim, athletic body, and a
head of golden hair that ladies longed to run their fingers
through. His manners were impeccable, and he charmed
everyone he met. He had a substantial income, a lavish
house on Park Lane, and he was received by the highest of
the high. An excellent choice for a lady of unexpected
fortune looking for a second husband.
Even a lady of unexpected fortune tires of being alone,Beth
thought as she entered Mather’s luxurious box behind his
elderly aunt and companion. She’d known Mather for several
years, his aunt and her employer being fast friends. He
wasn’t the most exciting of gentlemen, but Beth didn’t want
exciting. No drama, she promised herself. She’d had enough
drama to last a lifetime.
Now Beth wanted comfort; she’d learned how to run a
houseful of servants, and she’d perhaps have the chance to
have the children she’d always longed for. Her first
marriage nine years ago had produced none, but then, poor
Thomas had died barely a year after they’d taken their
vows. He’d been so ill, he hadn’t even been able to say
good-bye.
The opera had begun by the time they settled into Sir
Lyndon’s box. The young woman onstage had a beautiful
soprano voice and an ample body with which to project it.
Beth was soon lost in the rapture of the music. Mather left
the box ten minutes after they’d entered, as he usually
did. He liked to spend his nights at the theatre seeing
everyone of importance and being seen with them. Beth
didn’t mind. She’d grown used to sitting with elderly
matrons and preferred it to exchanging inanities with
glittering society ladies. Oh, darling did you hear? Lady
Marmaduke had three inches of lace on her dress instead of
two. Can you imagine anything more vulgar? And her pleats
were limp, my darling, absolutely limp. Such important
information.
Beth fanned herself and enjoyed the music while Mather’s
aunt and her companion tried to make sense of the plot of
La Traviata. Beth reflected that they thought nothing of an
outing to the theatre, but to a girl growing up in the East
End, it was anything but ordinary. Beth loved music, and
imbibed it any way she could, though she thought herself
only a mediocre musician. No matter, she could listen to
others play and enjoy it just fine. Mather liked to go to
the theatre, to the opera, to musicales, so Beth’s new life
would have much music in it.
Her enjoyment was interrupted by Mather’s noisy return to
the box. “My dear,” he said in a loud voice, “I’ve brought
you my very close friend Lord Ian Mackenzie. Give him your
hand, darling. His brother is the Duke of Kilmorgan, you
know.”
Beth looked past Mather at the tall man who’d entered the
box behind him, and her entire world stopped.
Lord Ian was a big man, his body solid muscle, the hand
that reached to hers huge in a kid leather glove. His
shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and the dim light
touched his dark hair with red. His face was as hard as his
body, but his eyes set Ian Mackenzie apart from every other
person Beth had ever met.
She at first thought his eyes were light brown, but when
Mather almost shoved him down into the chair at Beth’s
side, she saw that they were golden. Not hazel, but amber
like brandy, flecked with gold as though the sun danced on
them.
“This is my Mrs. Ackerley,” Mather was saying. “What do you
think, eh? I told you she was the best-looking woman in
London.”
Lord Ian ran a quick glance over Beth’s face, then fixed
his gaze at a point somewhere beyond the box. He still held
her hand, his grip firm, the pressure of his fingers just
shy of painful.
He didn’t agree or disagree with Mather, a bit rudely, Beth
thought. Even if Lord Ian didn’t clutch his breast and
declare Beth the most beautiful woman since Elaine of
Camelot, he ought to at least give some polite answer.
Instead he sat in stony silence. He still held Beth’s hand,
and his thumb traced the pattern of stitching on the back
of her glove. Over and over the thumb moved, hot, quick
patterns, the pressure pulsing heat through her limbs.
“If he told you I was the most beautiful woman in London, I
fear you were much deceived,” Beth said rapidly. “I
apologize if he misled you.”
Lord Ian’s gaze flicked over her, a small frown on his
face, as though he had no idea what she was talking about.
“Don’t crush the poor woman, Mackenzie,” Mather said
jovially. “She’s fragile, like one of your Ming bowls.”
“Oh, do you have an interest in porcelain, my lord?” Beth
grasped at something to say. “Sir Lyndon has shown me his
collection.”
“Mackenzie is one of the foremost authorities,” Mather said
with a trace of envy.
“Are you?” Beth asked.
Lord Ian flicked another glance over her. “Yes.”
He sat no closer to her than Mather did, but Beth’s
awareness of him screamed at her. She could feel his hard
knee against her skirts, the firm pressure of his thumb on
her hand, the weight of his not-stare.
A woman wouldn’t be comfortable with this man, she thought
with a shiver. There would be drama aplenty. She sensed
that in the restlessness of his body, the large, warm hand
that gripped her own, the eyes that wouldn’t quite meet
hers. Should she pity the woman those eyes finally rested
on? Or envy her?
Beth’s tongue tripped along. “Sir Lyndon has lovely things.
When I touch a piece that an emperor held hundreds of years
ago, I feel … I’m not sure. Close to him, I think. Quite
privileged.”
Sparks of gold flashed as Ian looked at her a bare
instant. “You must come view my collection.” He had a
slight Scots accent, his voice low and gravel-rough.
“Love to, old chap,” Mather said. “I’ll see when we are
free.”
Mather lifted his opera glasses to study the large-bosomed
soprano, and Lord Ian’s gaze moved to him. The disgust and
intense dislike in Lord Ian’s unguarded expression startled
Beth. Before she could speak, Lord Ian leaned to her. The
heat of his body touched her like a sharp wave, bringing
with it the scent of shaving soap and male spice. She’d
forgotten how heady was the scent of a man. Mather always
covered himself with cologne.
“Read it out of his sight.”
Lord Ian’s breath grazed Beth’s ear, warming things inside
her that hadn’t been touched in nine long years. His
fingers slid beneath the opening of her glove above her
elbow, and she felt the folded edge of paper scrape her
bare arm. She stared at Lord Ian’s golden eyes so near
hers, watching his pupils widen before he flicked his gaze
away again.
He sat up, his face smooth and expressionless. Mather
turned to Ian with a comment about the singer, noticing
nothing.
Lord Ian abruptly rose. The warm pressure left Beth’s hand,
and she realized he’d been holding it the entire time.
“Going already, old chap?” Mather asked in surprise.
“My brother is waiting.”
Mather’s eyes gleamed. “The duke?”
“My brother Cameron and his son.”
“Oh.” Mather looked disappointed, but he stood and renewed
the promise to bring Beth to see Ian’s collection.
Without saying good night, Ian moved past the empty chairs
and out of the box. Beth’s gaze wouldn’t leave Lord Ian’s
back until the blank door closed behind him. She was very
aware of the folded paper pressing the inside of her arm
and the trickle of sweat forming under it.
Mather sat down next to Beth and blew out his
breath. “There, my dear, goes an eccentric.”
Beth curled her fingers in her gray taffeta skirt, her hand
cold without Lord Ian’s around it. “An eccentric?”
“Mad as a hatter. Poor chap lived in a private asylum most
of his life, and he runs free now only because his brother
the duke let him out again. But don’t worry.” Mather took
Beth’s hand. “You won’t have to see him without me present.
The entire family is scandalous. Never speak to any of them
without me, my dear, all right?”
Beth murmured something noncommittal. She had at least
heard of the Mackenzie family, the hereditary Dukes of
Kilmorgan, because old Mrs. Barrington had adored gossip
about the aristocracy. The Mackenzies had featured in many
of the scandal sheets that Beth read out to Mrs. Barrington
on rainy nights.
Lord Ian hadn’t seemed entirely mad to her, although he
certainly was like no man she’d ever met. Mather’s hand in
hers felt limp and cool, while the hard pressure of Lord
Ian’s had heated her in a way she hadn’t felt in a long
time. Beth missed the intimacy she’d felt with Thomas, the
long, warm nights in bed with him. She knew she’d share a
bed with Mather, but the thought had never stirred her
blood. She reasoned that what she’d had with Thomas was
special and magical, and she couldn’t expect to feel it
with any other man. So why had her breath quickened when
Lord Ian’s lilting whisper had touched her ear; why had her
heart beat faster when he’d moved his thumb over the back
of her hand?
No. Lord Ian was drama, Mather, safety. She would choose
safety. She had to.
Mather managed to stay still for five minutes, then rose
again. “Must pay my respects to Lord and Lady Beresford.
You don’t mind, do you, m’dear?”
“Of course not,” Beth said automatically.
“You are a treasure, my darling. I always told dear Mrs.
Barrington how sweet and polite you were.” Mather kissed
Beth’s hand, then left the box.
The soprano began an aria, the notes filling every space of
the opera house. Behind her, Mather’s aunt and her
companion put their heads together behind fans, whispering,
whispering.
Beth worked her fingers under the edge of her long glove
and pulled out the piece of paper. She put her back
squarely to the elderly ladies and quietly unfolded the
note.
Mrs. Ackerley, it began in a careful, neat hand.
I make bold to warn you of the true character of Sir Lyndon
Mather, with whom my brother the Duke of Kilmorgan is well
acquainted. I wish to tell you that Mather keeps a house
just off the Strand near Temple Bar, where he has women
meet him, several at a time. He calls the women
his “sweeties” and begs them to use him as their slave.
They are not regular courtesans but women who need the
money enough to put up with him. I have listed five of the
women he regularly meets, should you wish to have them
questioned, or I can arrange for you to speak to the duke.
I remain,
Yours faithfully,
Ian Mackenzie
The soprano flung open her arms, building the last note of
the aria to a wild crescendo, until it was lost in a burst
of applause.
Beth stared at the letter, the noise in the opera house
smothering. The words on the page didn’t change, remaining
painfully black against stark white.
Her breath poured back into her lungs, sharp and hot. She
glanced quickly at Mather’s aunt, but the old lady and her
companion were applauding and shouting, “Brava! Brava!”
Beth rose, shoving the paper back into her glove. The small
box with its cushioned chairs and tea tables seemed to tilt
as she groped her way to the door.
Mather’s aunt glanced at her in surprise. “Are you all
right, my dear?”
“I just need some air. It’s close in here.”
Mather’s aunt began to fumble among her things. “Do you
need smelling salts? Alice, do help me.”
“No, no.” Beth opened the door and hurried out as Mather’s
aunt began to chastise her companion. “I shall be quite all
right.”
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 tight, 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.”
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