The Duke’s Perfect Wife (MacKenzies & McBrides #4)(51)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“Thank you.” Fellows nodded once and turned to leave.

“Wait, Fellows. I need to ask you a question.”

Fellows turned back, trepidation in his stance. He wanted to be elsewhere, that stance said, but he waited politely.

“How would you trace a letter?” Hart asked. “Find out who sent it to you, I mean?”

Fellows blinked at the question, then considered. “I’d have a look at the envelope. Find the postman who delivered it, trace the letter’s steps backward. Why? Have you been receiving threatening letters in the post?”

“No,” Hart said quickly. Fellows’s eyes narrowed, scenting the half lie. “Suppose I know the city from which the letter originated? Edinburgh, say?”

“Ask questions at the post office there. Station yourself outside said post office and watch to see if that person returns to send another.”

“Sounds tedious.”

“Most policing is tedious, Your Grace. Tedious, hard work.”

“So it seems. Thank you for your help, Fellows. And when you receive Isabella’s invitation to my wedding, for God’s sake, answer that you’ll attend.”

Fellows gave him a mirthless smile. “I long to say no, and watch the fireworks go off around you.”

“They’d go off around you too. Don’t think they wouldn’t. The ladies would be disappointed, and you’d never hear the end of it.”

“Hmm. Then I’ll respond correctly.”

“See that you do.”

Fellows nodded again, and took his leave.

The High Holborn house was as quiet and dusty as it had been a few weeks ago when Hart had found Eleanor there. He conceded that Eleanor was right about the fact that the house might hold a clue to whoever was sending the photographs. That did not mean, however, that he’d let her back in here.

Hart stole a few hours away from election hysteria a few days after his meeting with Fellows to take his coach to High Holborn and enter the house alone.

Ian wanted Hart to tell Eleanor all about his life here. Hart realized that was why Ian had let her come here in the first place. She should know all of Hart, Ian had intimated, down to the bottom of his grimy soul.

Hart stood in the bedroom filled with jumbled furniture, where Eleanor had busily searched. He remembered her red gold hair under the pillbox hat, the veil that drooped over her eye, her maddening but warm smile.

“I can’t do it, Ian,” he said out loud.

Hart was not ashamed of his proclivities, or what he’d done in games of pleasure. But he thought of how Eleanor had looked at him on the canal boat, with desire in her eyes, and trust, and languid delight. He needed nothing more, he thought.

Why shouldn’t that be enough, Ian Mackenzie?

You need to show Eleanor the house. Once you tell her everything about it, you will know.

No. Ian was wrong. Some things were better left buried.

He quickly made his search, discovered nothing, quit the house for Bond Street, and bought Eleanor the largest diamond necklace he could find.

Eleanor’s wedding day dawned fair and clear, a soft Scottish April morning, the only clouds well beyond the hills surrounding the Kilmorgan estate.

Eleanor stood in her room while Isabella, Beth, and Ainsley dressed her from the skin out in wedding finery. Silk camisole and drawers, new corset with pretty pink bows down the front, a long bustle to hold the many yards of wedding satin, a silk bodice that hugged Eleanor’s shoulders and buttoned snugly up the back. Seed pearls and lace adorned the bodice, and yards and yards of cascading ruffles and lace spilled down the front of the skirt. The skirt caught in a gentle pouf over the bustle, with roses, both silk and real, adorning it. From there the fabric flowed to the ground, ending in a three-foot train covered with seed pearls and lace.

Maigdlin smiled as she put another pin into Eleanor’s glossy red hair. “You’re pretty as a picture, lass—my lady. Pretty as a picture.”

“Absolutely beautiful.” Isabella stood back, hands clasped, and surveyed her work. “I want to throw my arms around you and eat you up, but I spent two hours getting you to look like this, El, so I will refrain.”

“Hugs afterward,” Ainsley said cheerfully. She sat on the bed, doing last-minute sewing on Eleanor’s veil. “And wedding cake—a nice, tasty one with plenty of currants and candied orange. On the happiest day of your life, you should enjoy your cake.”

The happiest day of her life. Eleanor’s throat was dry, and a cold pain had formed in her stomach.

She’d barely seen Hart since the heartbreaking morning in the canal boat, and the happy celebration with the family and the Romany later.

Hart had returned to London immediately with David to overturn Parliament while Isabella had swept Eleanor, Beth, and Ainsley into the most hurried, intense, and agitated planning Eleanor had encountered in her life. No expense to be spared, nothing too extravagant—but tasteful, everything had to be perfectly tasteful. Nothing ostentatious or vulgar for the new Duchess of Kilmorgan.

Eleanor had seen Hart alone only once since then, when he’d returned to Berkshire for a day and given her the ring. Eleanor twisted it on her finger now, the diamonds and sapphires catching the light, the same ring he’d given her the first time. She’d thrown this at him in the garden of Glenarden the day Eleanor had sent him packing.

“I thought you’d given this to Sarah,” she’d said as Hart slid the cool band onto her finger.

Hart’s voice had gone quiet, his warm hand cradling hers. “I only ever gave it to you. I bought a new one for Sarah. This ring belonged to my mother.”

“Like the earrings.” Those reposed in Eleanor’s jewel box, wrapped carefully in tissue.

“Exactly. She’d be pleased with you.”

Eleanor thought of the gentlewoman who must have felt lost and alone in the family of unruly boys and men. At least the duchess would have had no shame in her sons, had she lived to see them grow up.

“I’m happy to wear it for her,” Eleanor said.

“Wear it for me too, damn it.” Hart turned her hand over and kissed her fingertips. “Try to look happy that we’re marrying at last.”

“I am happy.” And she was. But…

Hart had grown so distant. He was busy and preoccupied, true, because of everything happening in London. But she’d thought, that rainy morning on the bank of the canal, that she’d at last reached the real Hart buried under layers of pain and heartache.