Beth caught her breath. The painting showed Isabella sitting on the edge of a tumbled bed. A sheet slid provocatively down her shoulder, baring one prefect breast, and a swirl of hair peeped from the join of her thighs. Isabella was looking away from the painter, her red hair caught in a loose knot at the base of her neck.
Despite the subject—a woman just rising from the bed of her lover—the portrait was in no way lewd or indecorous. The muted colors were elegantly cool, with Isabella’s hair and a sprig of bright yellow roses the only vivid colors. It was the portrait of a beloved, painted by a man who regarded his wife as his lover. It was also, if Beth was any judge, an amazingly good painting. The light, the shadows, the composition, the color—so much captured on one small canvas. The painter had signed the corner with a flourish:
Mac Mackenzie.
“You see?” Isabella said softly. “He really is a genius.”
Beth pressed her hands together. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” “He painted that the morning after we married. He did the sketch right there in the bedroom, then painted it in his studio. Slapdash, he called it, but he said he couldn’t stop himself.”
“You are right, Isabella. He did love you.”
Silent tears slid down Isabella’s cheeks. “You should have seen me at my debut ball—I was a silly ninny, and he was the most decadent man I’d ever seen. He wasn’t even invited to the ball; he ‘crashed,’ as they say, for a wager. He made me dance with him, said I was too afraid to. He teased me and made fun of me until I wanted to strangle him. He knew it, drat him. He played me like a fish, knowing all he had to do was scoop me into his net.” She sighed. “And he did. I married him that very night.”
Beth studied the painting again. Mac might have begun the night as a lark, but it had ended quite differently. The picture was the work of a man inspired, all tenderness and soft colors. The work of a man in love.
“Thank you for showing me,” Beth said.
Isabella smiled. “You need to understand about Mackenzies. I am so happy you’ve caught Ian’s attention, but I might have done you a disservice, my dear. Loving a Mackenzie can tear you to pieces. Be careful, darling.”
Beth’s heart throbbed. She knew as she looked again at the beautiful woman painted with love by Mac Mackenzie that it was already far too late for caution.
Beth didn’t see Ian for a week after their encounter. She waited for the promised message setting up their next liaison, but nothing came. She tried not to start every time the bell rang downstairs, every time she heard a footman or maid hurrying toward her chamber. She tried not to feel the sting of disappointment as the days passed without a word. There could be a hundred reasons why he didn’t seek her out, she told herself, the foremost of which was that Ian had business to attend to. Isabella explained that Hart had Ian read political correspondences and treaties for him and commit them to memory, then alert Hart to those with particular phrases Hart told him to watch for. Ian also had great mathematical skill and kept his eyes on all the Mackenzie brothers’ investments. Like a cardsharp who knew every card on the table, Ian followed the ups and downs of markets with uncanny precision. In the years since Ian had left the private asylum, he’d nearly doubled the Mackenzies’ already large fortune.
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that was the reason Hart got Ian released from the asylum,” Isabella said when she’d explained. “That’s a bit unfair of me, but Hart does put Ian’s astonishing brain to much use. No wonder Ian gets headaches.”
Beth felt indignant on Ian’s behalf. Perhaps Ian liked working for his brother, though he’d never mentioned it. But it would explain his absence during the week.
On Saturday, Isabella took Beth to another whirlwind ball, this one at the palatial home of a duchesse. Beth danced with gentlemen who regarded her with predatory eyes. If she’d been a vain young woman, she might believe they were dazzled by her, but she knew better. Many of Isabella’s bohemian friends lived far beyond their means, and a widow with a large bank account was just what they needed. French peasants pretending to be quality, Mrs. Barrington would have said with a sniff. She’d disapproved of the entire nation of France, forgiving it only slightly for producing Beth. Beth fanned herself in a corner after a rigorous waltz with such a gentleman. He ran on about the cost of keeping a carriage and decent servants. But one has to, my dear, or one appears gauche. The sweet nothings a lady wanted to hear. A servant saved her from the conversation by bringing her a note. Beth excused herself from the spendthrift gentleman and unfolded the paper.
Most urgent I see you. Top of the house, first door. Ian.
Beth’s pulse leapt. She crumpled the note in her pocket and sped through the house and up the winding staircase. At the top she found a recessed door trimmed with gold. She opened it to an ornate little room with Ian Mackenzie in the middle of it. He scowled at a pocket watch in his hand and didn’t look up when she entered “Ian,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Ian clicked his watch closed and tucked it into his waistcoat.
“Close the door. We don’t have much time.”
Chapter Eight
Beth closed the door and stood with her back against it.
“Time for what? Are you all right?”
“Come over here.”
Beth lifted the sarin skirts of her ball gown and picked her way delicately toward him. Delicately because her feet were already swollen in her too-tight shoes, and the four story climb had left her wincing.