He had a substantial income, a lavish house on Park Lane, and he was received by the highest of the high. His manners were impeccable, and he charmed everyone he met. Mather had a pure profile, a slim, athletic body, and a head of golden hair that ladies longed to run their fingers through. 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. “I want to know if she’s exquisite porcelain or a fake.” Curry winked. Ian ran his fingertips lightly over the box again. “Oh, aye? Why are we so interested in the right bastard’s fiancee?” Ackerley, a widow now betrothed to Sir Lyndon Mather. “Find out everything you can about a Mrs. 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. “I wanted this piece.” “You do have a way of getting what you want, no mistake, m’lord. Why even have truck with him?” Ian caressed the box. “I know it ain’t me place to say,” Curry said from the opposite seat as the carriage jerked forward into the rainy streets. He could feel the bowl inside, round and perfect, filling a niche in himself. Once in his carriage, Ian set the box beside him. Lord Ian Mackenzie, brother to the Duke of Kilmorgan, socially outranked him, and Mather was acutely aware of social rank.

“I will see you at the opera.” He didn’t shake hands on his way out. “No ‘arm done, sir.” Ian lifted his glass and swiftly drank down the brandy, then took up the box. “Does he do that often?” Mather asked as Ian rose, leaving Curry to blot the paper.Ĭurry’s cheekbones stained red. Ian signed his name painstakingly, feeling the weight of Mather’s stare. He dipped the pen again and handed it back to Ian, holding the nib down so Ian wouldn’t see the ink. Curry turned the bankbook toward him and wrote the draft in careful capitals. Ian looked into the homely face of his manservant, a young Cockney who’d spent his boyhood pickpocketing his way across London. “I’ll write it out for you, then, m’lord?” The droplet fell down, ‘down, down to splash on the page, gone to its death in a splatter of black ink. He had no idea how long he’d sat there studying the droplet of ink until he heard Mather say, “Damnation, he really is mad, isn’t he?” If his brother Mac could paint something this exquisite, this beautiful, Ian would treasure it.

He wished he could savor its perfection forever, but he knew that in a second it would fall from the pen and be lost.

The madness of lord ian mackenzie read