Fellows often discussed his cases with his mother, who for all her talk about being only a tavern maid had good perception about her fellow man. A lifetime of carrying about ale in a public house, she said, had honed her understanding. In Fellows’ opinion, she’d have made an excellent detective if she’d been born male. Her insights had helped him see a case clearly more than once.
Those insights, unfortunately, made Catherine realize that Fellows viewed Louisa as more than a suspect, and more than simply his sister-in-law’s younger sister. He’d been careful to bury the fact that he thought about Louisa day and night, waking and sleeping. Every time he drew breath, in fact. But Fellows had learned long ago that he could never hide things from his mother.
“Let it lie, Mum.” Fellows leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“You’re every bit as good as her, you know,” Catherine said. “Your dad was a duke. Her dad was only an earl. And now her distant cousin is earl, and stingy from what I hear.”
“I’m a police detective,” Fellows said. “I’m let into the great houses by the tradesman’s entrance. That’s the end of it.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” Catherine said.
Fellows pretended not to hear, gave his mother another kiss, and departed. Back at his flat—four large rooms in a building off the Strand that had recently been refurbished—he dressed in the coat and waistcoat Eleanor had bullied him into being fitted for by Hart’s tailor. Under that was a new lawn shirt, high collar, and cravat.
On bottom . . . Fellows studied the blue and green Mackenzie plaid kilt laid out across his bed. He’d worn it before, at Christmas at Kilmorgan, feeling strange with wool wrapping his hips, air circulating his thighs. Scotsmen had to be mad.
But Fellows was a Scotsman, or at least half a Scotsman, one of the family Mackenzie. He’d spent his boyhood trying and failing to be acknowledged by them. And then he’d hated them. The hatred had wound so long and so deep it was difficult to put aside.
He was tired of anger. Anger was a poison, leeching into a man and stealing everything he was. While anger had allowed Fellows to reach great heights in his profession, he’d also jeopardized his career and even his life because of it. Now he might jeopardize Louisa.
He put on the kilt and combed his hair, or tried to. His hair never stayed put, the short strands going wherever they wished. At least he’d had time to shave.
Nothing he could do about the healing bruises and nicks on his face, though. Evidence of his fight with the Marylebone Killer was still present. The bruises were now turning yellow and green, the cuts scabbed over, but dark red.
If Isabella didn’t like them, he couldn’t help it. She’d already seen them anyway.
And Louisa? She likely wouldn’t be there. Fellows had told her not to go out until this was over, and Louisa had seemed inclined to agree. Louisa had spirit, but she was no fool.
So it was with great shock that Fellows walked into the assembly rooms to see Louisa waltzing with a handsome young man, laughing up at him, her eyes bright, joy on her face.
Chapter Nine
Fellows had entered the assembly rooms through a side door, not wanting to endure the nonsense of the stiff-necked majordomo shouting his name to all present. How bloody stupid would that sound? The Duke and Duchess of Almond Paste, the Princess of Peach Pie, and . . . er . . . Detective Chief Inspector Lloyd Fellows of Scotland Yard. The company would suppose he’d come to arrest someone.
If Fellows could clap cuffs around the wrists of the young man dancing with Louisa, he’d do it in a trice. Fellows’ eyes narrowed as he assessed him. Expensively dressed—well, he would be if he’d been invited here. Golden hair gleaming under the chandeliers, every strand of that hair in place. Handsome face, just hard enough not to be feminine, skin unmarred by bruises or cuts.
The young man danced with ease, gliding Louisa around the ballroom without missing a step. The perfect gentleman.
Louisa looked up at her partner with laughter in her eyes, talking easily with him, smiling at him. She looked relaxed and happy, not stiff and frightened as she had this afternoon when Fellows had entered Eleanor’s sitting room. And then Fellows had given up on discipline and kissed Louisa. Hard.
She’d gazed at him in anger and fear . . . no wide smile, no sparkle in her eyes. Those were reserved for the young man currently with his hand on Louisa’s waist. A fist tightened around Fellows’ heart until he could barely breathe.
Something in the back of Fellows’ mind told him to find his host and hostess, to speak to them, to pretend to be civilized. But Fellows couldn’t pull his gaze from Louisa. The rest of the ballroom didn’t matter, nor did the people in it. The only thing that existed was Louisa dancing on light feet, tiny diamonds glittering in her hair, her froth of cream and green skirts spinning around and around. She wore a black ribbon with a white cameo around her throat, which emphasized her lush femininity as well as her erotic beauty.
The splendor of her—the whole of her—was like a physical blow. As Fellows stood, alone among a sea of people, watching her, he realized what she meant to him.
Everything.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Fellows?” a voice said beside him. “You look like someone has just punched you in the gut.”
Daniel Mackenzie, Fellows’ tall nephew, had stopped next to him, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Daniel already had the hard look of his father, Cameron, though his lanky body still showed his nineteen-year-old youth.