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.
Now Beth wanted comfort; she’d learned how to run a houseful of servants, and she’d perhaps have the chance to have the children she’d always longed for. Her first marriage nine years ago had produced none, but then, poor Thomas had died barely a year after they’d taken their vows. He’d been so ill, he hadn’t even been able to say good-bye. The opera had begun by the time they settled into Sir Lyndon’s box. The young woman onstage had a beautiful soprano voice and an ample body with which to project it. Beth was soon lost in the rapture of the music. Mather left the box ten minutes after they’d entered, as he usually did. He liked to spend his nights at the theatre seeing everyone of importance and being seen with them. Beth didn’t mind.
She’d grown used to sitting with elderly matrons and preferred it to exchanging inanities with glittering society ladies. Oh, darling did you hear? Lady Marmaduke had three incites of lace on her dress instead of two. Can you imagine anything more vulgar? And her pleats were limp, my darling, absolutely limp.
Such important information.
Beth fanned herself and enjoyed the music while Mather’s aunt and her companion tried to make sense of the plot of La Traviata. Beth reflected that they thought nothing of an outing to the theatre, but to a girl growing up in the East End, it was anything but ordinary. Beth loved music, and imbibed it any way she could, though she thought herself only a mediocre musician. No matter, she could listen to others play and enjoy it just fine. Mather liked to go to the theatre, to the opera, to musicales, so Beth’s new life would have much music in it.
Her enjoyment was interrupted by Mather’s noisy return to the box. “My dear,” he said in a loud voice, “I’ve brought you my very close friend Lord Ian Mackenzie. Give him your hand, darling. His brother is the Duke of Kilmorgan, you know.”
Beth looked past Mather at the tall man who’d entered the box behind him, and her entire world stopped. Lord Ian was a big man, his body solid muscle, the hand that reached to hers huge in a kid leather glove. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad, and the dim light touched his dark hair with red. His face was as hard as his body, but his eyes set Ian Mackenzie apart from every other person Beth had ever met.
She at first thought his eyes were light brown, but when Mather almost shoved him down into the chair at Beth’s side, she saw that they were golden. Not hazel, but amber like brandy, flecked with gold as though the sun danced on them. “This is my Mrs. Ackerley,” Mather was saying. “What do you think, eh? I told you she was the best-looking woman in London.”
Lord Ian ran a quick glance over Beth’s face, then fixed his gaze at a point somewhere beyond the box. He still held her hand, his grip firm, the pressure of his fingers just shy of painful.
He didn’t agree or disagree with Mather, a bit rudely, Beth thought. Even if Lord Ian didn’t clutch his breast and declare Beth the most beautiful woman since Elaine of Camelot, he ought to at least give some polite answer.
Instead he sat in stony silence. He still held Beth’s hand, and his thumb traced the pattern of stitching on the back of her glove. Over and over the thumb moved, hot, quick patterns, the pressure pulsing heat through her limbs. “If he told you I was the most beautiful woman in London, I fear you were much deceived,” Beth said rapidly. “I apologize if he misled you.”
Lord Ian’s gaze flicked over her, a small frown on his face, as though he had no idea what she was talking about. “Don’t crush the poor woman, Mackenzie,” Mather said jovially. “She’s fragile, like one of your Ming bowls.” “Oh, do you have an interest in porcelain, my lord?” Beth grasped at something to say. “Sir Lyndon has shown me his collection.”
“Mackenzie is one of the foremost authorities,” Mather said with a trace of envy.