The Duke's Perfect Wife

Eleanor’s stare turned icy. “Do not try to make a joke of this. I suppose you did not even talk to the police.”

“I did, as a matter of fact. I asked Inspector Fellows to look into it, because if anyone can scare up a culprit, it is our favorite Scotland Yard detective. But he doesn’t have much to go on, only a few chipped bricks. And the man might not have been shooting at me in particular, but at anyone coming out of the building.”

Lord Ramsay broke in. “You must understand that the thought of you traveling alone makes us uneasy, don’t you, Mackenzie? You in a coach? On an empty road between Reading and Hungerford?”

“I will not be alone. I hire former pugilists as footmen for their large bodies and quick reflexes.”

“Which did not help you the night you were shot,” Eleanor pointed out.

“Because that night I was not paying attention.” He’d been thinking about Eleanor in a corset, her hair up, high-heeled ankle boots on her feet. “Now I’ve been warned,” he said.

“Hardly reassuring.” Eleanor’s eyes still held anger. “But I suppose we’ll never talk you out of it. You will send a telegram the moment you arrive, won’t you?”

“El,” Hart said.

“No, never mind. Ainsley will do it. Please make certain you inform Cameron of the problem. Or Cameron might take umbrage, and he’s larger than you.”

Hart didn’t bother to keep the irritation from his voice. “Leave it, Eleanor. I will see you in Berkshire.”

She scowled at him, but Hart only saw her in his heady vision of the corset and boots, made more erotic by a liberal addition of clotted cream. He turned away and made himself walk out the door.

Eleanor had always loved Waterbury Grange, Cameron’s Berkshire estate, though she’d not visited it in ages. Cameron, second-oldest brother of the Mackenzie family, had purchased it shortly after his first wife had died, saying he wanted somewhere far from the place in which he’d spent his unhappy marriage.

Green fields stretched to wooded hills, and the Kennet and Avon Canal drifted lazily along the edge of the property. Spring meant lambs staggering after mothers across the field, and foals keeping close to the mares that wandered the pastures.

Mackenzie family tradition brought them to Waterbury every March. There the brothers, and now their wives and children, would watch Cameron train his racers while they withdrew from the eyes of the world. Here was their chance to be a private family for a short time before Cameron took his three-year-olds to Newmarket.

The house was old, a shapeless pile of golden brick, but from what Ainsley said in her letters, she’d been busily redecorating the inside. Eleanor looked forward to seeing her progress.

But when Eleanor, her father, Isabella, Mac, the exuberant children, their robust nanny, and old Ben climbed down from the carriages that brought them from the train, it was for Hart to meet them at the front door of Waterbury Grange and tell them that Ian had gone missing.

Chapter 12

“You know Ian does this all the time,” Beth said. She looked worriedly at Hart, and Eleanor sensed that Beth’s anxiousness was more for Hart than for her absent husband.

Beth stood in the breezy front hall with a child on each arm—son Jamie and tiny daughter Belle. The Mackenzie dogs, all five of them, wandered among the new arrivals, tails waving.

“Ian likes to be alone sometimes,” Beth said. “He doesn’t like crowds.”

“We aren’t a crowd,” Hart snapped. “We’re family. You should have told me at once that he’d gone.”

At the note in Hart’s voice, Eleanor looked up from kissing the two babies. Hart’s hands were clenched in his gloves, his jaw tight. He had a right to be worried after the shooting by the Parliament buildings, but his alarm seemed to go beyond that.

“I didn’t know,” Beth said. “Ian’s gotten better about telling me when he’s going on one of his long walks, but he was already up and out when I woke this morning.”

“And you didn’t bother to tell me,” Hart repeated.

“You were at Hungerford all morning, sending telegrams to London,” Beth said. “And I did not think it was any of your business.”

Hart went still at her words, and his look turned dangerous. Beth lifted her chin and met his gaze.

Eleanor understood perfectly well why Beth hadn’t mentioned Ian’s absence to Hart. Hart had the habit of walking into his brothers’ houses and attempting to take over their lives. Sometimes Ian felt the need to slip away, out from under Hart’s heavy-handedness. Cameron and Mac could shout at Hart when they grew angry at his interfering, but Ian’s defense was to disappear. Ian sometimes needed to be alone, to find rest from his overwhelming family before he faced them again. Eleanor had heard about the battle Beth had fought with Hart to let Ian live as he needed.

Beth spoke calmly. “I’ve been married to Ian for nearly three years now, and I know what he does. A stay in London always unnerves him, you know that. I imagine he went out today to enjoy not having people surrounding him. He’ll return when he’s ready.”

Hart tried to pin Beth with his stare, but Jamie squirmed to get down from Beth’s arms, and Beth turned her full attention to her son. Hart’s jaw went tighter as Beth blatantly ignored him, and he turned and strode out of the house. Two of the dogs broke free and followed him.

Eleanor caught up to Hart in the drive. She dodged in front of him to make him stop, and Ruby and Ben roamed around them, tails moving.

“I know you’re worried about the shooting,” she said. “But Ian’s not a fool. He’s more careful than you are, in many ways. I telegraphed Ainsley about the incident in case you didn’t bother telling anybody, so Ian would have known to take precaution. I’m certain he only went fishing. You know how he loves to fish.”

The terrible worry did not leave Hart’s eyes. “He does. Says the water calms him.” He scanned the empty fields. “I’m going to look for him.”

He started to walk on, but Eleanor got in front of him again. “I believe you are the one in the most danger, Hart Mackenzie. Whoever it was shot at you.”

“I won’t go alone. I have my own men, and Cameron employs a horde.”

“Ian will be distressed if a horde comes upon him,” Eleanor pointed out.

“Better he’s distressed than dead.”

Hart’s words were quiet, but Eleanor read profound fear in his eyes. She knew he’d never admit to that fear outside of being tortured, but Hart was deeply afraid, and Eleanor knew why.