The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie(2)
“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 fiancee?”
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.