Ian took Beth’s elbow and steered her back up the stairs to the drawing room. He slammed the doors behind him, and Beth walked away from him, holding her arms tight across her chest.

“Don’t trust him,” Ian said, voice grating. “He’s been harassing Hart for years. Have nothing to do with him.” “It’s a bit late for that.” Beth made no move to sit down, but she didn’t pace either. She stood very still, save for where her thumbs moved restlessly on her elbows. “I’m afraid the good inspector knows many secrets.”

“He knows far less than he thinks. He hates my family and will do anything to discredit them.”

“Why on earth should he?”

“I don’t know. I never did know.”

Ian scrubbed his hands through his hair, his frustrated rage boiling to the surface. He hated that rage, the one that had so infuriated Ian’s father and had earned young Ian many beatings.

It rose in him when he wanted to explain things but couldn’t find the words, when he couldn’t understand the nonsense everyone around him was babbling. As a child he’d done the only thing he could—lashed out with fists and screaming until two footmen had to hold him down. The screaming would stop only when Hart came. The little boy Ian had worshiped Hart Mackenzie, ten years his senior.

Ian was old enough now to control his impulses, but the anger still came, and he fought the demon of it every day.

He’d fought it the night Sally Tate had been murdered.

“I don’t want you to be part of this,” he repeated. Beth simply looked at him. Her eyes were so blue, her lips lush and red. He wanted to kiss her until she forgot all about Fellows and his revelations, until that look in her eyes was gone.

Ian wanted her under his body, his heat meeting hers, to hear her gasp when he fitted himself inside her. He needed the oblivion of coupling with her until they both dissolved with the passion of it. He’d wanted her as his refuge ever since he’d seen her sitting next to Lyndon Mather at Covent Garden Opera House.

He’d taken her away from Mather by betraying the man’s secrets. Mather had been right that Ian had stolen her, and Ian didn’t care. But now Beth knew lan’s secrets, and she was afraid.

“It should be simple enough to establish that you committed neither crime,” she was saying. “Surely your coachman and valet and so forth can account for your whereabouts.” She thought it was so, so simple.

Ian went to her and cupped her cheek, loving her petal soft skin beneath his palm. “I don’t want you to know about this. It’s base and dirty. It will soil you.”

He wasn’t certain what all Fellows had told her, though he could guess. But Fellows had dug up only the barest part of the incident. The reality went miles deep, secrets so nasty they could ruin all of them.

Beth waited, expecting him to clear it up in a sentence or two, to reassure her. Ian couldn’t, because he knew the stark truth. His damned memory wouldn’t blur, wouldn’t let go of what he’d seen, what he’d done. Both ladies had been involved, and they’d both died. Would Beth?

“No,” he said sharply.

“Ian.”

Her whisper cut him to the heart. Ian released her, the shaking rage pouring to the surface again. “You shouldn’t have anything to do with Mackenzies,” he said harshly. “We break whatever we touch.” “Ian, I believe you.”

Her fingers closed on his sleeve and held tight. He wished he dared stare into her eyes, but that was impossible. Beth spoke rapidly. “You’re afraid that Fellows turned me away from you. He hasn’t. He obviously has a bee in his bonnet. He said himself he had no evidence, and there was never a case against you.”

That was partly true, but would it were that simple. “Let it alone,” he snapped. “Forget.”

Ian wished he could forget, but he forgot nothing in his life. The events were as vivid to him as was sitting here playing the piano with her this morning. As vivid as every “experiment” the quack doctor had performed on him in the private asylum.

“You don’t understand.” Beth let go of his sleeve only to close her hand on his arm. “We are friends, Ian. I don’t hold friendships lightly—goodness knows I’ve had few enough of them in my life.”

Friends. Ian didn’t think he’d ever heard that term applied to him. He had his brothers, no one else. Courtesans liked him and liked him well, but he was under no illusion that they’d like him if he didn’t give them so much money. Beth’s gaze was intense. “What I mean is, I will not flounce off in a huff because Inspector Fellows turned up and made accusations.”

She still wanted him to clear it up, to declare his innocence at the top of his voice. Ian had difficulty with lies, not understanding the point of them, but he also knew that the truth was tricky.

“I didn’t see Sally Tate die,” he said, his gaze fixed on the door frame. “And I didn’t drive the scissors into Lily.” “How did you know it was scissors?”

He darted his gaze over her face, watching her eyes sharpen. “I saw her that night. I went to visit her and found her dead.”

A swallow moved in Beth’s slender throat. “You didn’t report this to the police?”

“No. I left her and caught the train to Dover.” “Inspector Fellows says a witness saw you go to the house.”

“I didn’t notice anyone there, but I didn’t look. I had the train to catch, and I didn’t want to draw a connection between me and Lily and High Holborn.”