Hart knew that if he forced Gladstone to call a vote on the bill, the man would not have enough support to pass it, which would then lead to a vote of no confidence, and Gladstone’s resignation.
Once Hart was in power, he’d put forth ideas to free Ireland completely. He would do all it took to shove Irish Home Rule down Englishmen’s throats and then shove Scottish independence—his true goal—down their gullets as well.
But the newspapers printed what they wanted, and angry Irishmen, not knowing what was in Hart’s head, had started making threats.
Hart sent his footmen to search the area and round up any passing policeman, then got into his coach with David, David imbibing heavily from his flask.
When Hart reached the house after depositing David at his flat, he told his footmen and coachman not to gossip about the shooting and upset Eleanor and her father with it. Hart had experienced assassination attempts several times in his career, with the same lack of marksmanship—someone was always angry at him. He’d have policemen try to find the shooter and watch the house, but the routine wasn’t to be disrupted. However, if his household guests went anywhere, they were never to be without at least two bodyguards to protect them, and never without the carriage. His men agreed, shaken themselves.
Irish separatists were not the only possible assassins. Hart wondered, as he entered his quiet house, whether the person sending Eleanor the photographs had any connection with this shooting. The letters hadn’t seemed threatening, and there might be no connection at all. However, Hart had a renewed desire to look at the photographs and letters Eleanor had collected.
The thought of leaning over the evidence side by side with Eleanor, her sweet breath touching his skin, made his heart pump faster than it had when the bullet had sailed past him. Best not to risk it.
Hart could demand that Eleanor bring him the photographs so he could look at them alone, but he immediately dismissed the idea. Eleanor would never agree. She’d become extremely proprietary about the photographs—why, Hart couldn’t imagine. But, no matter; he’d acquire them by stealth.
The next day, Hart waited until Eleanor and Isabella were ensconced in the downstairs drawing room, planning Hart’s next lavish entertainment, Mac safely in his studio, and the earl writing in the small study, before he quietly mounted the stairs to the floor above his study and entered Eleanor’s room.
Eleanor’s bedchamber was empty, as Hart knew it would be, the maids already finished there. Hart strode to Eleanor’s small writing table and began opening drawers.
He did not find the photographs. He found that Eleanor kept writing paper neatly in one drawer, envelopes in another, pens and pencils, separate from each other, in yet another. Letters she’d received from friends—Eleanor had many friends—were bundled in the fourth drawer. Hart leafed quickly through the letters, but none contained the photographs.
Where had she put the bloody things? He knew he had only a few minutes before Eleanor or Isabella would want to dash up here for something or other.
With mounting frustration, Hart searched the tables on either side of the bed, but she hadn’t tucked the pictures into either of them. Her armoire revealed garments neatly hung or folded—plain gowns in drab colors, and not many of them. The deep drawer beneath held a bustle encased in tissue and that was all.
The chest of drawers on the other side of the room was more of a lingerie chest—the top drawers held stockings and garters; the next, camisoles and knickers; then came a drawer with a corset made of plain lawn, well mended.
Hart made himself cease lingering to imagine Eleanor in the underwear and concentrate on searching. He was rewarded when, under the corset, he found a book.
The book was large and long, the kind in which ladies pasted mementos of special occasions or memorable outings. This particular book was fat, plumped out with whatever Eleanor had thought worth preserving. Hart pulled it out of the drawer, set it on her writing table, and opened it.
The book was all about him.
Every page had been covered with a chronology of Hart Mackenzie. Newspaper and magazine articles provided the text and photographs of Hart the businessman, Hart the politician, Hart the duke’s son, and then Hart the duke. Society pages showed Hart at gatherings hosted by the Prince of Wales, at charity banquets, at clan gatherings where he reproclaimed his loyalty to the leader of clan Mackenzie.
She’d pasted in newspaper photographs of Hart speaking with the queen, with various prime ministers, and with dignitaries from around the world. The story about Hart becoming Duke of Kilmorgan and taking his seat in the House of Lords was here, including a history of the dukes of Kilmorgan back to the 1300s.
Eleanor Ramsay had collected Hart Mackenzie’s entire life and pasted it into a memory book. She’d carried the book down here from Scotland and kept it hidden like a treasure.
The announcement of Hart’s marriage to Lady Sarah Graham in 1875 occupied its own page. Eleanor had written in colored pencil next to a newspaper drawing of Hart and Sarah in their wedding finery: It is done.
The rest of that page was blank, as though Eleanor had meant to stop the book there. But Hart turned the page and found more articles about his burgeoning political career, about the festivities he and his new wife hosted both in London and at Kilmorgan.
The announcement of Sarah’s death and the death of baby Hart Graham Mackenzie was surrounded by a wreath of flowers cut from a card. Eleanor had written next to it: My heart is heavy for him.
More articles followed about Hart coming out of mourning to pursue his career even more obsessively than before. He means to be prime minister, one journalist wrote. England will tremble under this Scottish invasion.
On the page after the last article, Hart found his photographs.
Eleanor had collected fifteen so far. She’d pasted each carefully into the book and outlined them in colored pencil—red, blue, green, yellow—she’d chosen arbitrarily. Notes appeared under each: Received by hand February 1, 1884, or Found in Strand shop, February 18, 1884.
There were photos of Hart facing the camera, or with his back to the camera, or in profile; Hart in only a kilt, Hart naked, Hart smiling, Hart trying to give the camera an arrogant Highland sneer. The one of Hart in his kilt, laughing, telling Angelina not to close the shutter, had been surrounded by curlicues. The best, Eleanor had written.
Hart turned the last few pages, which were blank, ready for more photographs. He started to close the book but noticed that the back cover itself bulged. Investigating, he found that something had been slid behind the endpaper and the cover, the endpaper carefully pasted back into place. It did not take Hart long to peel the black paper down, and behind it, he found the letters.