It hung there. Hart’s muscles tightened as he held on to the door frame. Eleanor remained ramrod straight, looking into the hazel eyes that were now red-rimmed and haggard.
He will never ask, she realized. Hart Mackenzie commands. He does not beg. He has no idea how to.
And there they always battled. Eleanor was not meek and obedient, and Hart meant to dominate every person in his path.
“Sparks,” Eleanor said.
Heat flared in Hart’s eyes. Hunger and anger.
They would have stood there all day, Hart and Eleanor facing each other, except that a large carriage rattled up to the front door. Franklin the footman, in his post outside, said something in greeting to the guest who stepped down from the carriage. Hart didn’t move.
He was still standing there, facing Eleanor in tableau, when his youngest brother, Ian Mackenzie, ran into the back of him.
Hart jerked around, and Ian stopped in impatience. “Hart, you are blocking the way.”
“Oh, hello, Ian,” Eleanor said around Hart. “How lovely to see you. Have you brought Beth with you?”
Ian prodded Hart’s shoulder with a large hand in a leather glove. “Move.”
Hart pushed away from the door frame. “Ian, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be at Kilmorgan.”
Ian came all the way in, swept a gaze over Eleanor, ignored Hart, and focused his whiskey-colored eyes on a point between Eleanor and Lord Ramsay.
“Beth told me to send her love,” he said in his quick monotone. “You’ll see her at Cameron’s house when we go to Berkshire. Franklin, take the valises upstairs to my room.”
Eleanor could feel the fury rolling off Hart, but he would not shout at her with Ian standing between them.
Trust Ian to diffuse a situation, she thought. Ian might not understand what was going on, might not be able to sense the emotional strain of those around him, but he had an uncanny knack for controlling any room he walked into. He did it even better than Hart did.
Earl Ramsay was another who could diffuse tension. “So glad to see you, Ian. I’d be interested to hear what you have to say about some Ming dynasty pottery I’ve found. I’m a bit stuck on the markings—can’t make them out. I’m a botanist, a naturalist, and a historian, not a linguist.”
“You read thirteen languages, Father,” Eleanor said, never taking her gaze from Hart.
“Yes, but I’m more of a generalist. Never learned some of the specifics of the ancient languages, especially the Asian ones.”
“But we are going to Scotland,” Eleanor said. “On the moment. Remember?”
Ian started for the staircase. “No, you will stay here in London until we journey to Berkshire. All of us. We go every year.”
Hart, breathing hard, watched his brother go up. “This year is different, Ian. I’m trying to force an election.”
“Do it from Berkshire,” Ian said, and then he was gone.
“It sounds the best arrangement,” Alec Ramsay said with his usual cheerfulness. “Franklin, take our baggage back upstairs as well, there’s a good fellow.”
Franklin murmured, “Yes, your lordship,” scooped up as many bags as his young arms could carry, and hurried up the stairs.
“My lady?” One of the housemaids came in from the vestibule, looking calm, as though Eleanor and Hart hadn’t started a row in the middle of the front hall. “Letter’s come for you. Delivery boy gave it to me.”
Eleanor thanked her and took it, making herself not snatch it out of the maid’s hand. Aware of Hart’s breath on her cheek, Eleanor turned over the envelope.
For Lady Eleanor Ramsay, staying at number 8, Grosvenor Square. Same handwriting, same paper.
Eleanor burst past Hart and through the vestibule before he could stop her, and ran outside into a cold wind. She looked frantically up and down the street for a sign of the delivery boy, but he had already disappeared into the traffic of the morning.
Eleanor sought Ian an hour later and found him in Hart’s study. Hart had left the house already, bellowing at Marcel to make him decent before he’d banged out to his club or to Whitehall, or wherever he’d gone. Hart never bothered telling anybody.
Ian sat at the desk, writing, and did not look up as Eleanor entered. His large frame filled the chair, his kilt flowing over his big legs. Across the room, his valet, Curry, stretched across a divan, snoring.
Ian did not look up when Eleanor approached the desk. His pen went on moving, swiftly, evenly, ceaselessly. Eleanor saw as she reached him that he wrote not words, but strings of numbers in long columns. He’d already covered two sheets with these numbers, and as Eleanor watched, Ian finished a third paper and started a fourth.
“Ian,” Eleanor said. “I beg pardon for interrupting…”
Ian continued to write, his lips moving as his hand roved down the page.
“Ian?”
Curry yawned, moved his arm from over his eyes, and sat up. “Give up, yer ladyship. When ’e starts with the numbers, there’s no talking to ’im until ’e’s finished. Fibrichi’s sequences or something.”
“Fibonacci numbers,” Ian corrected him without looking up. “That is a recurrence sequence, and I do those in my head. This is not one.”
Eleanor pulled a straight-backed chair to the desk. “Ian, I very much need to ask you a favor.”
Ian wrote more numbers, pen moving steadily, without pause. “Beth isn’t here.”
“I know that. She couldn’t help me with this anyway. I need the favor from you.”
Ian glanced up, brows drawing together. “I am writing Beth a letter, because she isn’t here.” He spoke carefully, a man explaining the obvious to those too slow to keep up with him. “I’m telling her I arrived safely and that my brother is still an ass.”
Eleanor hid her smile at the last statement and touched the paper. “A letter? But this is all numbers.”
“I know.”
Ian redipped his pen, bent his head, and went back to writing. Eleanor waited, hoping he’d finish, look up again, and explain, but he did not.
Curry cleared his throat. “Beggin’ your pardon, your ladyship. When ’e’s at it like that, you’ll not get much more from ’im.”
Ian didn’t stop writing. “Shut it, Curry.”
Curry chuckled. “Except for that.”
Eleanor drew one of the finished pages to her. Ian had written the numbers in an even, careful hand, each two and five and six formed in an identical manner to all the other twos and fives and sixes, the rows marching in exactitude down the page.