“No. Because he loves you.”

The woman was incredibly innocent. She’d seen what she’d seen in London’s slums, she’d been destitute and desperate, and yet she still looked for good in the Mackenzies. Unbelievable.

“Hart is ruthless,” Ian said. “I told you I don’t have the capacity for love. Neither does he, but he doesn’t wonder about it as I do. He will do what he needs to, even if it’s deadly, even if one of his brothers has to pay the price.” Beth shook her head, her dark hair glistening under the light. “You have to be wrong.”

Ian laughed sharply. “We’re all very bad at love, Beth. I told you we break whatever we touch.”

“Ian, in five years, have you never put aside what you saw, thought of the thing clearly, without Hart in it? Can you pretend Hart wasn’t there and decide who else might have done it?”

“Of course I have,” Ian said irritably. He ran a hand through his hair. “I have run through every scenario, every possibility from beginning to end. I thought of the other men there, of Mrs. Palmer, of the other ladies in the house, an intruder breaking in. I’ve even worried that it was me, and I simply can’t remember doing it.”

“What about Lily Martin? Why did you hide her at Covent Garden?”

“She was looking into the room, watching Hart with Sally. She swore to me she never saw Hart stab her, but I couldn’t tell whether she lied. I couldn’t risk what she’d tell the police, so I sent Curry back to get her out of the way before the constable came. But I didn’t hide her well enough.” “You think Hart found her a few weeks ago and killed her?”

“Yes.”

Beth paced away from him again. “Goodness, what a mess.”

“It doesn’t have to be. If Fellows keeps his nose out of it, we could go on.”

“No, you can’t.” Beth came back to him. “It’s tearing you apart. It’s tearing Hart apart, too, and the rest of the family. Everything you say makes perfect sense, but there’s another explanation. Hart thinks you did it. That’s why he ran out of the house, looking for you, to make sure you were gone and hadn’t done it. It must have been a dreadful shock for him when he realized you were still in the house when Sally died.”

Ian blinked, and for a second he met her gaze. He loved her eyes, so blue. He could drown in her. He looked away. “Because he believes I’m mad? He does believe I’m mad, but you’re wrong.”

“Why are the Mackenzies so bloody stubborn? The killer must have come in and stabbed Sally while Hart was with his valet. No matter how ruthless Hart is, someone else was even more ruthless.”

Memories flooded him thick and fast, memories Ian had tried to push away for two decades. The image of Hart with his hands around Sally’s neck became superimposed on an other man and woman. “I think it was Hart, because. Beth, he looked so much like my father.”

“Your very hairy father? Hart resembles him a bit, but...” He didn’t hear her. The terror of the nine-year-old Ian rose up in him, memories of crouching behind the desk in his father’s study when he heard his parents come in. They’d been shouting at each other, as they always did, and Ian would have been punished.

He’d watched his mother rush at his father, claws ready, and his father catch her around the neck. The duke had squeezed, then shake, shake, and she’d gone limp. Ian’s beautiful mother had crumpled to the floor in an unmoving heap, while his father stood over her, hands open, his face gray with shock.

Then had come the terrible moment when his father had looked around the desk and seen Ian. The watery terror in Ian’s limbs when his father had rushed at Ian and picked him up, shaking him as he’d shaken Ian’s mother.

You tell no one. Do you understand me? She slipped and fell; that is what happened. You have to lie. Do you understand?

More shaking, harder, harder. Damn you, why won’t you look at me when I’m talking to you?

Ian had been locked away in his room, and the next morning jostled into a carriage that had taken him to London and the courtroom that had condemned him as a lunatic. He’d been in the private asylum two weeks before he finally understood he’d not be allowed to go home. Ever.

Beth’s palms touched his face. “Ian?”

“He killed her,” Ian said. “He didn’t mean to. But he had the rages, like I do.”

“You mean Hart?”

Ian shook his head. “My father. He killed my mother, broke her neck with his own two hands. He told everyone she’d slipped on the rug, fell, died. My brothers didn’t believe it, but they couldn’t ask me, could they? I was declared mad, shut away, so no one would believe me if I told what I saw my father do.”

Beth laced her arms around his waist and rested her head against his chest. “Oh, Ian, I’m so sorry.” Ian held her there a moment, taking comfort from her warmth. He had a fear inside him that one day he’d lose his mind like his father had, put his hands around the neck of the woman he loved, and kill her before he could stop himself. Beth trusted him, and Ian would die if he hurt her. Beth lifted her head, tears wetting her lashes, and he kissed her forehead. “Hart is as ruthless as my father ever was. He doesn’t rage, but he is so cold.”

“I still think you’re wrong. Hart sent you to Scotland after Sally’s death to protect you, not keep you quiet.” Ian gave the ceiling a brief exasperated glance before he took Beth by the shoulders and pushed her against the high bed “I can protect you from Hart, but only if you stop. Forget about High Holborn, and never speak to Inspector Fellows again. He’ll crush you to get what he wants, and so will Hart.”