A MacKenzie Clan Gathering

by Jennifer Ashley

  “That they are gone and you have lived to a somewhat overripe age is a crime,” I snapped. “You are a bad-tempered, high-handed, rather disgusting, arrogant ass, and always have been. I thank the Lord every day for my lucky escape. Again, I say, good day to you.”

  I doubt anyone, especially not a woman, had ever dared speak to Halsey thus, because he only gaped at me. I saw he’d lost most of his teeth, the old coot. His driver, who had his back to Halsey, wanted to laugh and laugh—I imagine the tales in the servants’ hall this evening will be lively.

  Halsey spluttered as I walked away, back to where Willie Ian waited with his nanny. “One day I will ruin the Mackenzies,” he called after me. “I swear that with my last breath. I will task my heirs to ruin them and on through the generations. The Mackenzies shall never be out of reach of my wrath.”

  I ignored him utterly. Cards and castles, what a vindictive old git! His mind must be starting to go. One should pity him, I suppose—he is only a horrible, sad man drowning in his own bitterness.

  “Who was that awful old man, Grandmama?” Willie Ian asked as I joined him. “He looks like a wet goat.”

  With his shaggy hair and glittering eyes under slammed-together brows, Halsey did rather resemble a goat. I laughed and tousled the lad’s hair. “Believe it or not, I was betrothed to the man, once upon a time,” I confessed. “Until I came to my senses and ran away with your grandfather.”

  Willie Ian, who, in his kilt and boots, his red hair and golden eyes, was the perfect likeness of his father at that age, and I imagine Malcolm as well, looked after the two-wheeled conveyance with interest. “Why didn’t Granda’ shoot the Sassenach?”

  “We were far too busy to pay him any mind.” I took Willie Ian’s hand. “To be honest, I have not thought about Halsey in many years. Our circles rarely cross, thank heavens. Now, let us return home and have many good things to eat. I will kiss your father, whom I love very much, and then I’ll go back to Kilmorgan and kiss and kiss your grandfather.”

  Willie Ian gave me a dubious look. “You and Granda’ like to kiss.”

  “Indeed, we do. ’Tis a wonderful thing, is kissing. We’ll be doing it until we fall into our graves, then we will continue it in heaven, where there will be plenty of whisky and bannocks.”

  Willie Ian gave me another glance, which the young reserve for the foolishness of the old. “When I grow up, I shall be verra kind to the ladies. Not like that old goat.” He gave the slowly retreating cart a look of approbation. “Verra kind indeed. They’ll love me.”

  I hugged him close, which he put up with, with good grace. “I’m sure they will, my gallant little lad.”

  With that, we turned our steps back to Grosvenor Square and so home—at least our London home. Home for me will ever be the wild lands of Kilmorgan, with Mal.

  * * *

  Ackerley read over the passages after Ian shoved the journal at him and pointed at the pages. Ackerley gave Ian a bewildered look when he finished.

  “What are you implying? This was written a hundred years ago. Do you mean that Lord Halsey’s heirs have a long enough memory to want to carry out their great-great-grandfather’s vengeance?”

  “Aye,” Ian said. “’Tis a possibility.”

  This was Beth’s fault. When she’d reminded Ian of Lyndon Mather’s vindictiveness when she’d jilted him, Ian had remembered Lady Mary’s stories of Lord Halsey.

  “Mind you, some of these old families have long memories,” Ackerley admitted. “In some places on the Continent families can carry on feuds for generations.”

  Ian took the journal back from him, carefully marked the passage with a scrap of paper, and closed the book. He stood up. “We will make inquiries.”

  Ackerley’s brows rose as he climbed to his feet. “We?”

  “The current Lord Halsey inherited the title two years ago. He is a direct descendant of the earl Lady Mary threw over. He has opposed every one of Hart’s proposals in the Lords, and his father worked against Hart back when Hart wanted to be prime minister and free Scotland. Halsey is English to the bone, from an old family, and hates anything Scottish. We are still Jacobites to him.”

  Ackerley held up his hand to stem Ian’s flow of words. “You said we would make inquiries. Do you include me in that pronoun?”

  Ian gave him a nod, impatient. “Aye. Halsey will admit you, an English missionary looking for funds, but not me, brother of Hart Mackenzie. You will find out all you can and report to me. Do not tell him of your connection to Beth.”

  Ackerley thought it over, his lips parted. Then he popped his mouth closed, looking interested and determined at the same time. “You can count on me. But . . . it is far-fetched, isn’t it, old chap? What if you’re wrong?”

  “Then we look elsewhere. We keep looking, until we find the right person.”

  Ackerley gave him an approving nod. “A sound method.”

  Ian knew that. Finished with his exploration, he walked past Ackerley and down the stairs to the main floors, calling for Curry on the way.

  The sooner Ackerley visited Halsey and determined whether Ian was correct or off the mark, the sooner Ian could return to peaceful fishing with his children and long nights touching the satin warmth of Beth’s skin.

  * * *

  Beth, thrown into preparations for the arrival of the rest of the family, noted with relief that John and Ian seemed to be getting along quite well today. John had followed Ian up into the attics at Beth’s suggestion—to report to Beth if anything were wrong—and Ian hadn’t sent him running down again.

  The fact that Ian hadn’t minded John staying with him assured Beth that Ian was simply in pursuit of one of his ideas. Ian didn’t always mind others with him when he was focused on a task, as long as they let him be.

  A few hours later, Ian and John came down, John with an eager expression, Ian with brows drawn. Ian ordered Curry to fetch the coach, and strode out with John to meet it, John speaking rapidly to Ian as they went. Ian kissed Beth without a word, then the two got into the coach when it appeared, and the conveyance sped off.

  Ian hadn’t said good-bye, or explained where he was going, or what he was up to. But that too was typical when he had his mind on something important. Beth knew that Ian would reveal all later.

  “I shouldn’t worry,” Eleanor said to Beth as Beth stood in the front drive, watching the carriage go. “Our coachman is a tough old soldier—he won’t let Ian murder Mr. Ackerley and push him into a ditch. Though Mr. Ackerley can talk, can he not? I shouldn’t wonder that he converted many a native to a Christian life in his missionary days. I imagine they agreed to anything to make him be quiet.”

  Beth shook her head. “He is a good man, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor tucked her arm through Beth’s and the two went back into the house. “Oh, I can see that. Goodness oozes from John Ackerley. One can simply have too much of it. Give me a little badness, and I am happy. That is why I fell in love with Hart, you know. He was as bad as bad could be. He looked at me, and I wanted to touch his fire, no matter how much it might burn. I knew I was a wicked woman then. No virtuous gentleman for me. I wanted Hart and everything that went with him.”

  Her eyes shone as she spoke. Eleanor had loved Hart for years, and Beth had seen his love for her long to come out. Beth was happy that they’d finally found each other again.

  Eleanor continued her stream of talk. “Virtuous gentlemen are often hypocrites, in my experience, do you not think? They profess they’d never dream of offending a lady with harsh language or anything so base as holding her hand or kissing her cheek. The next moment, they rush off to their mistresses and do as they please, or they marry the lady and immediately become parsimonious and persnickety. When Hart kissed me the first time and didn’t give a damn whether he offended my sensibilities, I knew the truth about myself. I wanted all the wickedness he could dish out to me. He was a high-handed, arrogant wretch, that is true, but life hadn’t yet played its cruel tricks on him, poor man. Hart
is a bit tamer now, but not too tame, if you know what I mean. I certainly wouldn’t want that.”

  “No,” Beth agreed, keeping her face straight. “We wouldn’t want to tame them entirely.”

  “But never tell them,” Eleanor said. “They believe they’ve reformed. As though a Mackenzie ever could. Oh.” She broke off as one of the untamable Mackenzies strode down the long gallery toward them. “Good afternoon, Lloyd. You look grim. What news?”

  Fellows, ever correct, stopped and gave both ladies a polite nod. “I can find no one in the house—not Hart, not Ian.”

  “Ian ran off with Mr. Ackerley,” Eleanor said. “And Hart is visiting the farms. You may deliver your grim news to us, Chief Inspector. We are resilient.”

  Fellows studied them both a moment, his brows drawn over eyes that were a match for Hart’s. “We’ve gone over all the artwork Ian found in the castle,” Fellows said. “Most of it is there, but five paintings and several bronzes are unaccounted for. Also, Hart’s majordomo, Wilfred, says that men from the firm that insures Hart’s artwork have been sniffing around, investigating a rumor that Hart instigated the theft himself. I’ve sent them away, but I know they’ll be back.”

  “Oh dear,” Beth said. Hart would be furious—she rather pitied the hapless insurance clerks. “Have you had any progress in finding the culprits?”

  “Not as yet.” Fellows’s mouth hardened. “And I might not have the chance to. I have more or less been told by my superintendent at the Yard that I’m under suspicion for helping Hart perpetrate a fraud, and I have been ordered off the case.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The current Lord Halsey lived on his estate in Lincolnshire, and Ian purchased tickets for himself and Ackerley on the next train going that direction. Curry came running as the train pulled out of the station at Kilmorgan Halt, and jumped on at the last minute.

  Curry swung into the compartment where Ian and John were settling, and scolded Ian for leaving him behind and buying the train tickets himself. A gentleman didn’t purchase things, Curry declared, but had his man do it for him. This was an ongoing argument. Ian was glad to see Curry, however, and Curry, after he said his fill, went and ordered tea for them.

  Ackerley was entranced by the first-class carriage. He marveled at the marquetry and gleaming brass, the velvet cushions, the draperies, the wide windows that framed the vast Scottish scenery rushing by.

  “I’ve taken many a train in my life,” he said as Curry returned with tea and brandy, carried on a silver tray, with porcelain cups for the tea and crystal goblets for the brandy. “I’ve trundled up and down the entire world in a train, it seems. In India, the roof is as good a seat as any, you know, in all weather. Cars rumble down the tracks, teeming with people clinging on for dear life to the sides and top. It is quite a sight. But, needs must.” Ackerley shrugged and downed his tea.

  “I would like to see that,” Ian said. He gazed out at the familiar Highlands, the mountains he knew every foot of, the glens of lush green and thick trees, lochs that stretched wide and blue under the sky. “And the rest of the world.”

  At one time, Ian hadn’t liked to travel. He’d gone to Paris and as far as Rome with his brothers and Daniel, but he’d preferred the circle of what he knew. He’d become well acquainted with Paris and was comfortable there, but the thought of venturing farther had daunted him.

  Now, as he listened to Ackerley paint pictures of hot skies and dry grasslands, green jungles and days of rain, his interest quickened. His brother-in-law, Elliot McBride, had told Ian stories of the Punjab and its beauties, intriguing him. Ian had read about these places in books, and remembered every word of every description. At one time, that would have been enough for him. Now, he wanted more.

  “When my children are more grown,” Ian said, “Beth and I will visit the world. The children can come with us.”

  Curry, clearing the tea things, stopped and gave a dramatic groan. “Never say it. I can see me trying to keep you out of trouble in foreign parts, you wandering about the ’eart of the Suk, trying to look at everything, drawing down eight different vendettas on yourself without even knowing it.”

  Ian flicked a glance at him. “Stay home, then.”

  “Oh, not bleeding likely. I made a vow a long time ago, didn’t I? To look after you. Her ladyship needs all the help she can get, and don’t think because children are grown that they won’t need looking after as well.”

  Curry clattered the porcelain onto the tray, scowled at Ian, and banged out again.

  Ackerley chuckled. “I believe he’d be offended if you left him behind. He certainly ran hard to catch this train.”

  “Curry is a good friend,” Ian said, and went back to looking out the window.

  Of course Ian would bring Curry with him when he and Beth, Jamie, Belle, and Megan set off to circle the globe. He couldn’t imagine life without him. Curry fussed, cursed, and complained, but he’d always protected Ian from the most terrible things. He was part of the fabric of Ian’s life.

  In due course, after changing trains in Edinburgh and then hiring a carriage in Lincolnshire, they reached the Halsey estate. The drive to the house rambled for a mile under beech trees, likely planted for the purpose a century ago. The house surrounded a huge courtyard, the front gates opening to let them into the tall enclosure flanked by four wings. The front door of the residence lay opposite the gates, and a run of stairs swept from courtyard to door. The coachman stopped them directly in front of the steps, and a footman hurried down to the carriage to inquire their business.

  Ackerley scrambled down, asked to speak to the master of the house, and then glanced back into the coach in alarm when Ian didn’t follow.

  “Are you not coming in with me?” Ackerley asked. “I know you don’t wish to speak to him, but your presence outside whatever room in which he receives me would be most comforting.”

  Ian shook his head. “I’m a Mackenzie. You need to go in.”

  “Yes, yes, I take your point.” Ackerley looked agitated, but he followed the footman up the flight of steps. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin before he went into the house, as though steeling himself to face a warrior tribe on a South Sea island.

  Ackerley was admitted without impediment, as Ian had suspected he would be. A so-respectable gentleman, a member of the clergy, would be able to gain access to an enemy that Ian could not.

  Ian knew his theory about the current Lord Halsey could be entirely wrong, but the thought didn’t bother him. He would examine each possibility until one proved to be the correct solution. If he had to tear up and down England, recruiting Ackerley to go where a large, mad Scotsman could not, then he would.

  Whenever Ian was forced to sit and wait, one of two things happened. Either Ian would become absorbed in a problem inside his head and not realize the time had passed, or impatience would seize him and not let him keep still.

  Today, impatience won. Ian tried to focus his mind on all he’d done with Beth last night, the best thing he could think about, but the details slipped away into a misty stream. Remembering Beth was not nearly as pleasurable as actually being with her.

  Ian managed to wait fifteen minutes before restlessness got the better of him. He glared at the watch his children had given him for his last birthday—engraved To Papa with Much Love, 1891—and willed the hands to move.

  After five more minutes, Ian shoved the watch back into his waistcoat pocket, slammed the carriage door open, leapt down, and ran up the steps to the house. He heard Curry, who was conversing with the coachman, cry after him, but Ian did not stop.

  The door was shut. Ian banged on it with his fists until the haughty footman yanked it open.

  “Sir?”

  Ian strode inside, forcing the footman out of his way. “Where did you take him?”

  “The missionary gentleman, sir? He’s with his lordship.”

  Ian leaned to the footman. He didn’t want to touch him—he disliked touch with anyone outside the fa
mily—but he’d shake the answer out of the lad if he had to.

  The footman swallowed, looking Ian fearfully up and down. “Are you . . . with him?”

  Ian had arrived with Ackerley—why wouldn’t he be with him? “Where are they?”

  The footman pointed upward. “Library, sir.”

  Ian considered for one second asking the footman to lead him there, then discarded the thought. How difficult could it be to find a library?

  He raced up the creaky grand staircase, which swayed under his weight. The upper floor, unfortunately, became a maze once Ian left the gallery at the top of the stairs. The house was very old and had been modernized by throwing in a wall here, blocking a door there, until the earls of Halsey lived in a jumble. Ian ran down corridors, ended up back at the stairs, and still couldn’t find the blasted library.

  Finally, he stood in the middle of the gallery and roared, “Halsey! Where are ye?”

  A door slammed open in the distance. “Lord Ian?” Ackerley’s voice floated to him. “What is it? Is everything all right?”

  Ian followed the sound of his voice. Ackerley waited uncertainly in a corridor outside an open door, and Ian pushed past him and into the library.

  The room rose in dark walnut panels and was lined with shelves upon shelves of books. They momentarily distracted Ian—he loved books, and had the sudden desire to start at one end of the room and read his way to the other. Perhaps after he had Halsey arrested Ian could return to this library and peruse it as he liked.

  Halsey, a middle-aged man, rose from behind a giant of a desk and peered at Ian. “Who the devil are you, sir? An ill-mannered Scotsman, obviously.”

  Halsey stood the same height as Ackerley, but where Ackerley was on the stout side, Halsey was spindly. Halsey’s brown hair was a fine down on his head, and though he’d made an effort to grow side whiskers, the result was hair that straggled down his cheeks. His body was a bit androgynous, no real shape to fill out his expensive clothes. Only his eyes, hard and blue, told Ian he came from a long line of arrogant men who believed themselves superior to all around them.