“I will ask you a series of questions, taking you back into the past,” Ackerley said, excitement edging his voice. “Deep into the past. The idea, you see, is to find what triggered your . . . er . . . malady. If we can deal with that memory, break its power, it will free you.”
Sounded unlikely. Ian leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and stretched out his long legs. His socks over his firm calves were thick, woolen, and patterned with Mackenzie plaid, his shoes sturdy leather.
Ackerley pulled a notebook out of the worn satchel he’d brought with him, picked up the pen Curry had provided, and dipped it into the inkwell Curry had also brought. Ackerley smoothed a page of the notebook, and let the pen hover over the paper.
“Now then, let us begin with your school days—what school did you attend? What did you like to study there? Were your brothers with you, and how did you feel about them watching over you? Tell me everything you can remember.”
Ackerley asked nothing about the asylum, Ian noticed. Fair enough. Ian didn’t want to talk about his years there in any case.
“I never went to school,” Ian said.
Ackerley stopped. “Never? But you are so learned—a brilliant mathematician, Beth says.”
“I taught myself. They tried to put me inside a school, but I ran out again.”
Ian remembered it perfectly—the boys at Harrow, where all the Mackenzies attended, staring at Ian as he’d tried to take his place among them. They’d heard of his madness, he’d supposed.
At the time Ian had not understood how different he was—he only knew the weight of all those stares had caused rage to well up inside him, and terror. In the classroom, under the Latin tutor’s nose, Ian had launched himself into two other boys, leaving them bloody and with broken limbs before Mac had rushed in to pull Ian away and carry him out. Ian had fought his way from Mac and had run, run, run . . .
“My lord?” Ackerley’s polite voice again shattered the memories.
Ian snapped his gaze to him. “I read books.”
“Ah. What sort of books?”
Was he a slow-wit? “All sorts. Books on language, art, science, mathematics—Chaussier, Darwin, Lamont, Lavoisier, Lucas, Maxwell—”
Ackerley held up his hand to halt the flow of words. “Perhaps you could give me a list later.”
Ian gave him a nod. “I’ll have Curry write one.”
“Curry.” Ackerley’s eyes took on a bright light. “He has been with you for many years.”
“Aye.”
“A pickpocket, I believe he was.”
Many people were interested in Curry’s history. “Cameron caught him trying to pick his pocket. Curry begged for mercy, and Cam liked him.” Charmed me, the blackguard, Cameron had said. When Curry proved himself efficient and un-spookable—Cam’s word—he’d sent the man to attend Ian in the asylum.
“Curry wasn’t afraid of me,” Ian said. “He made sure I was looked after, helped me hide things from my keepers—books, pictures, cheroots. Did everything for me.”
“Still does, I gather.”
“He looks after Beth now too.”
“It never worried you that he was a criminal?” Ackerley asked as he made notes.
Ian drew himself closer to the table and pressed his palms to it. “No. He never stole from me.”
“How did you know you could trust him?”
Ian watched Ackerley write in a slow, careful hand. Ian could read the words upside down. Curry becomes a father figure? Delivering the care a parent could not?
Ian had never thought of Curry as a father. A friend, yes, a conjurer sometimes, the way he was able to almost magically make things happen. But never a father. That was different.
Ackerley stopped writing and held his pen both hands. “I would like to know about your father.”
“He was an unpleasant man, and he’s dead.” The words came out in a staccato monotone. “He beat us. Hated us, Hart says, because we took our mother’s love from him. Hart says he was mad and didn’t know it.”
“What is your opinion, Ian?”
Ian didn’t have to ponder. “That we should leave him in the past. He was a madman; he’s gone now, and Hart is duke.”
“I am curious to know.” Ackerley dipped his pen in the ink once more. “What is your first memory of him?”
“Beating me.” Ian’s lips were tight. “My mother had swept me into her arms. My father took me away from her and backhanded me. He shouted at her—They’ll become soft and weak, like women, if ye touch ’em in that disgusting manner. Leave off, ye daft bitch.”
Ian’s voice had taken on the cant of his father. The words rose in his head, every one imprinted on his damnable, unrelenting brain.
“Do you know how old you were then?” Ackerley seemed to be speaking from far away, behind thick glass.
“Three. It was m’ birthday.”
The pen stilled, and Ackerley looked up. “Three? Are you certain?”
Of course Ian was certain. He forgot nothing. “Aye.”
“Do you remember what you did? Your response?”
“Wept,” Ian said without shame. “I was a child. He cuffed me for that, and the nanny was sent for to take me back to the nursery. Mac tried to console me. Hart went downstairs and shouted and swore at our father, and our father broke his arm.”
That memory was admittedly dim—Ian remembered only the significant points of the day. Hart’s screams, which cut off, then the pure hatred in Hart’s eyes while the doctor was setting his arm. Hart had been about thirteen at the time. The overt battle between Hart and his father had commenced that day. The house had not known peace since.
“I don’t want to talk about m’ father,” Ian said abruptly.
“Hmm.” Ackerley scribbled. “Very well. I don’t wish to distress you.”
The man had not thought it through if he hadn’t realized speaking about Ian’s father would be distressful. Ian drummed his fingers on the table. If Beth were here, she’d soothe him with a warm touch, a light joke that she’d have to explain to him later.
But no, Ian didn’t want Beth there. Not if they would dredge up horrors of the past. Ian wanted Ackerley to cure him. After that, he’d find Beth, tell her he wasn’t mad anymore, and then let her soothe him, in many interesting, and possibly sticky, ways.
“Now.” Ackerley caught Ian’s eye, turned a bright shade of red, and flicked his gaze to his notebook. People did that when they were uncomfortable, Beth had told Ian. What did Ackerley have to be uncomfortable about?
“I do not wish to embarrass you, Lord Ian,” Ackerley said, his tanned face going redder. “But it is important to this treatment to discuss, er, the ladies.”
Fine with Ian. He liked women, and discussing them gave him no qualm. “What about them?”
Ackerley cleared his throat. “Your first. Can you tell me about that? Not in great detail, of course,” he added quickly. “But who was the lady, and why did you decide . . . ?”
“A maidservant at the asylum. She was kind to me, and very pretty. I was seventeen; she was nineteen. She taught me well. I decided . . . because I wanted to.”
Ackerley kept his gaze on his paper. “You fell in love with her? Was it difficult to learn it would not be a permanent thing?”
“No,” Ian answered. “And, no.”
“She seduced you?” Ackerley looked up, his expression going indignant. “She must have, older than you, more experienced, you vulnerable as a patient. That is simply not on.”
“I seduced her,” Ian said. “I gave her many presents. I wanted her, and I had her. Cam had told me what to do, as did the books he lent me. I was very pleased with myself. I did not know then that it was called seduction.”
“I see.” Ackerley was back to embarrassment. “I am sorry to speak so indelicately, but it is important to the process. I was under the impression that this encounter caused you to seek women who were . . . shall we say . . . not those you would marry. Once out of the asylum and back in your br
other’s home, you did not court a respectable woman of your class.”
Ian shrugged. “I was a madman. They did not want me. The ladies I paid would look the other way at my oddities.”
“I’m certain that was upsetting,” Ackerley said, sadness in his eyes. “To know you could only have softer company if you paid . . .”
“The house Hart’s mistress owned was very comfortable,” Ian said. “The women were kind to me. I didn’t love them; they didn’t love me. It was an agreeable arrangement.”
Ian had no interest in talking about women of the past. He’d relieved his physical needs, and that was an end to it. Hart and Cam had enjoyed the ladies’ company—they would talk with the ladies and laugh, play cards, and drink, while Ian read a newspaper and waited until they were ready to leave.
“There was a terrible tragedy at that house, I believe,” Ackerley began.
“Aye.” Ian’s quick mind ran through the events from beginning to end. “I feared my brother had murdered a woman. I was mistaken.” That too was in the past and didn’t worry Ian anymore. “Hart and I and Fellows have long since reconciled. What has this to do with curing my madness?”
Ackerley laid down his pen. “The idea, you see, is to sift through your memories and find the key. Once we discover that, we can begin there and repair your mind, as it were.”
Again, Ian wasn’t certain he agreed, but he spread his hands, ready to go on. If this was what it took to cure him, he’d put up with it.
“Now,” Ackerley said. “I . . . ah . . . have heard that some of the things you did at the . . . er . . . houses such as the one of your brother’s mistress were not quite, shall we say . . . straightforward.”
“Perversions,” Ian said. “I believe that is what they are called.”
Ackerley’s face was as red as fall apples. Ian was beginning to enjoy seeing how many different colors the man could turn. “Yes. Quite.”
“My brother Hart had the proclivities, not me. I believe he still does have them.”
Ackerley stared, astonishment replacing his discomfiture. “Still? But he’s married to a respectable lady . . . the daughter of an earl.”
“Aye,” Ian said calmly.
“You mean he continues to visit houses? I am shocked, I will say, my lord. I had understood from Beth that the duke was now a family man.”
“He is,” Ian said. “Hart stays with Eleanor. He would never betray her.”
“Then I cannot imagine what you are suggesting.”
Ackerley very much wanted to know. As generally oblivious as Ian usually was to other people’s emotional states—people not Beth or his children, that is—Ian sensed his intense curiosity. Ackerley hid it behind indignation and disbelief, but he was titillated and desired to know more.
Ian couldn’t resist. “Hart likes tethers—leather or silken rope. He has cords that lace all around the woman’s body, allowing her limbs to be pulled into various positions. He collects different floggers from France and the Orient, and devices a person can be strapped to. Since he married Eleanor he has also become interested in photography. For private pictures, of course.”
“Good heavens.” Ackerley’s mouth had sagged open. He leaned forward, hanging on Ian’s every word.
“Do not write it down,” Ian said, pointing at the notebook. Ackerley’s pen hovered over it, a drop of ink ready to fall and blot the page. “I believe much of what Hart purchases is not legal.”
Ackerley jumped, and the ink fell, splotching the clean paper. “No, no, of course not. Wouldn’t dream . . .”
“But those are Hart’s proclivities,” Ian said. “They have nothing to do with my madness.”
Ackerley took out a handkerchief to mop up the ink. “They might. If you witnessed such a thing too young, it could have had a fevered effect on your brain.”
“Hart took care that I did not see until I was older, and after I had already been bedding women.”
“But perhaps when you were very young, you saw . . . Maybe you do not remember.”
Unlikely. Ian remembered everything. “I did not.”
“Or perhaps . . .” Ackerley finished wiping up and laid the pen on the stained handkerchief. His voice gentled. “Your father with your mother?”
“No,” Ian said without worry. He’d barely been allowed near his parents and certainly not on the floor that housed their bedchamber. Ian’s father had been many things, but he’d overall been a bit of a prude when it came to his wife. After her death, the old duke had taken his needs to a string of mistresses, but what he’d done with Ian’s mother had been strictly private.
“Are you certain?” Ackerley asked.
The man was obsessed by the act. Ackerley leaned forward again, as though he wished Ian to pour out a confession that he’d seen his father and mother do the things Hart was now famous for.
“Certain,” Ian said. “I would not have forgotten.”
Ackerley’s eyes lit. “Ah, but there are such things as memories that are buried—harrowing things hidden deep within the mind. I know a technique that will draw them out. Might I . . . Might we try it?”
He looked as eager as the youngest dog in Ian’s pack when it wanted to play. Ian doubted Ackerley could pull out any more memories than Ian already had—his head was stuffed full of them, and they never went away.
But Ian was as curious about Ackerley as Ackerley was about him. And, Ian was willing to try whatever might give him relief from his madness.
He gave the bright-eyed Ackerley a nod. “Aye. What do I have to do?”
Chapter Eleven
Ian watched with curiosity as Ackerley lifted the satchel and drew out a coin. Ian peered at it and was disappointed when he saw it was an ordinary coin, a French franc.
Ackerley polished it with a cloth, as though the silver bit was the most precious gold. “I’d like you to recline on that sofa, if you don’t mind. Much more comfortable for you.”
Ian glanced at the carved-backed gilded couch from the eighteenth century. “Won’t fit me. That was Will Mackenzie’s.”
“Will?” Ackerley asked, interested. “Who is he? A cousin?”
“My great-great-great-uncle. He lived in the court of Versailles and used to send back furniture.”
“Good heavens.” Ackerley gave the sofa a look of new respect. “It must be quite valuable.”
Ian nodded. “From the stories, Uncle Will had many things and lost track of most of them. He was killed in battle by English soldiers, but lived in France most of the time he was dead.”
“Lived . . . most of the time he was dead? What on earth do you mean?”
Ian rose. He’d found diaries in the attics, reams of them, when Hart had first brought him home from the asylum. Ian had hidden up there, terrified, but unable to sit still, he’d gone through all the boxes and trunks, unearthing family secrets long buried.
Lady Mary Lennox, who’d married Malcolm Mackenzie, had kept journals. She’d written of her life from her own childhood to meeting Malcolm and her breathless courtship with him, ending up running off with him—and his entire family—to Kilmorgan.
Her journals had been endlessly fascinating to Ian, and he remembered every word of them.
“Will Mackenzie was reported dead at Culloden,” Ian said. He wandered in a circle in the middle of the big room. “But he escaped to France, listed dead ever since. So were his brothers Alec and Malcolm. Malcolm was allowed to come back to life, and he built this house . . . This will be better.”
Ian took himself down to the carpet, stretching full length. From here, he could see the entire glory of the Trojan War from beginning to end, played out before his eyes. Menelaus, rage on his face, sword raised as he ordered the war on Troy, had always reminded Ian of his father. Small wonder Helen had run from him.
“Better for what?” Ackerley was on his feet, staring down at Ian in puzzlement.
“Comfort. And following the story.”
Ackerley’s frown increased. The man was rather
slow. Ian pointed to the ceiling.
“The story. When I was small, I thought I was Hermes.” Ian’s finger moved to the corner where a god lounged, covered only with a loincloth, and watched the action. The god in the painting had red-brown hair and the build of a Scotsman, skin tinged pink from the weather.
Ackerley looked up and gaped at the art dashing across the top of the room. “Hermes. Now, that is interesting. The messenger of the gods. Why did you think you were like him?”
Ian shrugged, shoulders moving on the carpet. “He looks like me.”
And he watches, Ian thought, but didn’t want to say out loud. He watches, unnoticed, but knows everything.
Ackerley studied the painting for a while, then looked back down at Ian. “Well, I suppose this will do. Must fetch a chair to rest my old bones.”
He lifted one of the carved wooden chairs with surprising strength and set it down next to Ian. “Now, then, Lord Ian, watch the coin.”
Ackerley held it toward Ian’s face and started turning it back and forth. “Watch the movement of the coin. Focus only on it.”
Ian tucked his hands behind his head and crossed his feet. It was rather comfortable on the floor. Perhaps he’d bring Beth down here, late at night, when they weren’t likely to be disturbed.
Ackerley was talking, saying something about Ian following his voice and doing what he commanded. Ian studied the ceiling, watching the heroes Hector, Ajax, Achilles, bulging with muscles, swords raised, grim determination on their faces. The fall of Troy was blamed on a woman, but these men and their pride had destroyed a lavish city and all within it. Bloody fools.
Suppose Ackerley had come rushing at Ian with sword raised when Ian had absconded with Beth. He’d spirited her off to a side-street pension in Paris, and had married her in the morning.
No army had come after them, razing the city to avenge Beth. Beth was worth fighting for, though, far more than any person or place in the mural above him.
Ian pictured her in the painting too, smiling down at him, then she descending to stand at his side. She was wrapped in the flowing clothes of the Trojan women, one fold of her drapery slipping down to bare the swell of her breast.
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