Alarm rose in Hart. Ian had on occasion locked himself away from his brothers and the world that bewildered him too much. He'd resist all attempts to make him come out, or even speak, although, he'd at least let Curry leave a tray of food outside the door. Even then, he wouldn't open the door until the hall was completely empty.
Hart tried to remain calm, logical. "All the doors in your wing have the same locks now. A key from any other door will open it."
Beth gave him an exasperated look. "This is Ian. He will have thought of that. He's bolted it from the inside."
Hart's alarm threatened to become panic. "Damnation."
"I'm sorry, Hart." Beth's eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm afraid I might have sent him into one of his muddles."
Ian hadn't had a breakdown for a long time. When he'd first come home from the asylum, he often degenerated into panicked tantrums, or he'd spend days without speaking to anyone. His body had been present, but his mind had not. Watching Ian stare straight ahead, refusing to look at Hart or respond to his words, had been heartbreaking.
The incidents had dwindled as Ian grew used to living at home and being around his brothers. They'd all but stopped after he'd met Beth, and they'd ceased altogether after he and Beth had moved into Ian's private house not far from here. The birth of Ian's children had relaxed him still more, a tension Ian had carried for so long easing away.
But Hart had never understood what had made Ian fly into his frustrated rages. Beth might be right, as much as Hart wanted her to be wrong.
Hart went to Eleanor and leaned to give her a brief embrace. She kissed his cheek, her scent and warmth lending him strength.
"Show me where he is," Hart said to Beth. "And send for Ainsley."
* * * * *
Chapter Eight
Ian heard the knocking on the door, but as though from far away. He was on his hands and knees behind a desk, working on a tricky bit. His fingers were steady as he set each object into place.
Vectors, momentum, resistance, acceleration, velocity--numbers and equations swam in his head, and he spoke softly to himself as he worked.
"The angle should be this, not this. A not B. Damn it."
He dropped one, which could have been a catastrophe, but he knew exactly where to pull another of line. Still cursing under his breath, he set the pieces in place again.
The knocking turned to banging. "Ian, open the door."
The stentorian tones of Hart came rolling through the wood. Ian paid no attention. Hart liked to tell the world what to do, but Ian had learned long ago how to ignore him.
"Ian." The shout turned to a roar.
Another rapid knock. "Come on, guv. You've got us worried something powerful."
Ian took another piece from the box and set it carefully into its place. Why, when a man wanted to retreat and do something useful, something interesting, did the entire family have to bluster their way in? Ian had learned to follow certain conventions so his brothers wouldn't worry too much about him--leaving a note when he slipped away for a few days to fish, for example, instead of simply disappearing.
Not that Ian was good at explaining or remembering to leave notes, but he'd learned that these things kept his family calm. Ian was a perfectly healthy and strong man, yet Hart could fuss so whenever Ian went for a long walk.
Ian had bolted the door, because if anyone opened it, not only would they ruin the surprise, they'd let the bloody dogs in. That would be a disaster.
"Ian!" Hart's voice rose like battering thunder. "Open the door before I have Bellamy fetch an axe."
"Hart," Ian said, raising his voice and speaking carefully so there'd be no misunderstanding. "Go. Away."
"Ainsley," he heard Hart rumble.
"I can hardly pick a lock if there is no lock to pick," came Ainsley's crisp, clear tones. The bolt's on the inside. You overestimate my skills."
"Then we go for the axe. Mac, get Bellamy."
"Don't you dare bash a hole into Ian's study door," Beth said. Good girl--she'd put Hart in his place. "It will be weeks before we can get a builder at this time of year, and I refuse to live with a door that is so much firewood."
"Persuasion is doing nothing," Hart said, angry. "Even yours."
"Stop it, both of you," Ainsley broke in. "Let me try."
Ian heard the lock of the door click--they'd have found a key for the main lock, which was why he'd had a bolt installed on his private study long ago. When he did mathematics equations that took his entire concentration, he didn't want a maid, footman, or his brothers invading the room and distracting him.
As they were doing now. A faint scratch, scratch sounded, Ainsley setting to work.
At least they'd stopped banging. Ian opened another parcel and reflected that he needed more, much more. He'd have to send to Inverness, maybe farther. How long for a package to arrive from Edinburgh or Glasgow--in time for him to finish for Christmas?