When a Lady Kisses a Scot (Her Majesty's Most Secret Service)

by Tara Kingston

  The woman’s mouth spread into a sly smile. So, she’d deduced Rose’s thoughts.

  “Ah, you are a clever girl. Just like your father.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rose heard the lie in her own voice.

  “You’ve figured it out, haven’t you?”

  The temptation to lace her fingers together to steady them was strong, but Rose resisted it. “Why did you give me a photograph of yourself…with my father?”

  “It will lead you to the truth.”

  Invisible talons clawed at Rose’s throat. “Tell me now—who are you?”

  “An old friend.” Bitterness dripped from her words. “Your father and I were very close. Until he betrayed me.”

  “Betrayed you?” Rose kept her voice to a whisper. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about that, at least.” Her eyes narrowing, she studied Rose. “You look so very much like your mother. Rowena was beautiful. And so very trusting. That was her greatest weakness. She couldn’t see the truth.”

  “Are you telling me you were his mistress?”

  A delicately arched brow shot up at Rose’s words. “Mistress? What an inadequate word to describe the nature of our connection. I never forgave him for betraying me…for betraying all of us.”

  Gripping the arm of the chair, Rose dug her nails into the upholstery. Whatever this woman would reveal about her father, it was likely to upend everything she’d ever believed.

  Once she knew the full truth, everything would be changed.

  Her pulse raced. “Tell me who you are.”

  The woman idly ran the tip of one fingernail over the back of her own hand. “You may call me Portia.”

  Rose held the matron’s gaze. “Why are you here?”

  “I am dying.” Her voice was even, perhaps serene. “I don’t have long now. I grow weaker by the day.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Rose said, restraining her emotion. “But I don’t understand. Why would you want to see me in this circumstance? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you better than you think.” Portia’s gaze hardened. “I see him in you. You have his eyes.”

  “My father did not speak of you. Nor did I read your name in his journals.”

  Portia’s lips thinned as she seemed to ponder Rose’s words. “I can’t imagine he’d give me proper credit. There’d been a time, not so very long ago, when he’d thought me brilliant. And I must admit, I could not get enough of him. John Fleming was by far the most intriguing man I’d ever met. Imagine my disappointment when—” She glanced away, as if torn by a painful memory. Letting out a sigh, she waved her hand, seeming to dismiss the thought. “Enough of that. I did not summon you here to indulge in maudlin sentiment.”

  The bittersweet notes in the matron’s voice offered a subtle warning. “Precisely how did you know my father?”

  “I first met your father when he was a student at the university. He and my brother were the closest of friends. And I…well, I became enamored of him, of his intellect.”

  Rose’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded against her ribs. “My God…you were in love with my father.”

  “I won’t deny there was passion between us—my apologies if I’ve shocked you. But there was more between us…so much more. Cyril Merrick introduced us to certain theories, notions beyond the realm of what is typically believed possible, matters well beyond the ken of science.”

  Icy fingers grazed the back of Rose’s neck. “Theories?”

  “Perhaps I’ve said too much.” Portia dropped her gaze to her black-gloved hands. “We intended to prove the existence of certain forces…beyond the physical realm. We were not content to settle for an understanding of the ordinary forces that rule the physical world. We delved into the mastery of the arcane arts.”

  Rose steadied herself as her stomach churned. None of this made sense. The woman was lying. She had to be. Her father had been a merchant, a man of business. He’d often cast ethics into the refuse pile when dealing with smugglers and thieves to procure the antiquities and treasures his clients had been willing to pay steep commissions to acquire, but still, he’d been a good man.

  “I am disappointed you would summon me here to spew vile nonsense.”

  Portia’s mouth tipped up at the corners, sly and knowing. “If you truly believe what I am saying is nonsense, you would not be wringing your hands so very tightly.”

  “You are a liar,” Rose murmured.

  “You want to believe that. But in your heart, you know I speak the truth. After all, the clues have been there all along.” Pressing a hand to her mouth, the matron pulled in a labored breath. “Why else did you run away, my dear Rose?”

  Unlacing her fingers, Rose drank in a slow, calming breath. “Then tell me why—why did my father pursue such a study?”

  “Why do men do what they do? He wanted control over his own fate.” Portia sighed. “Perhaps, someday, Mr. Merrick will have the pleasure of telling you the truth—all of it.”

  The taste of bile rose to the back of Rose’s throat. Rising, she turned to the door. “I wish I could say this has been a pleasure, but I’m sure you would see through such a blatant falsehood.”

  Portia drummed her long fingers against the gleaming wood of the chair. “As you can see, I cannot stop you from leaving. Even if I were so inclined, I am sorely unsuited to the task. But I will tell you this—there is much you need to know. Much I could tell you if you did not allow impulse to rule your actions. I want to help you, Rose.”

  How cold her name sounded on the woman’s lips. “Help me? Or is this nothing more than a deception—a final act of vengeance against my family?”

  “Vengeance?” Portia scoffed with a soft flick of her hand. “Nothing so dramatic as that. I’ve no need for revenge. God knows, Cyril has seen to that.”

  “Tell me the truth—why was my family targeted?”

  “You are the reason. But then again, you already knew that, didn’t you?”

  If the woman had lifted her lace-gloved hand and slapped her across the face, Rose might’ve been less stunned.

  “You’re lying.”

  Cruelty danced in Portia’s eyes. “Am I?”

  Rose gulped a breath. “I’ve no interest in your poisonous lies. I was seventeen when my father was killed…when Merrick came after our family.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, dear. Cyril Merrick did not want your family. He wanted you.” Portia slowly shook her head, her serpent’s smile broadening. “You bear the mark, my dear. You cannot deny that.”

  Memories that had haunted Rose’s nightmares flashed through her mind. Strangers surrounding her, drunk on her terror. Hideous laughter ringing in her ears. A symbol wrought in ink, permanently etched into her skin. Staring down at her hands, she prayed for composure.

  “How do you know that?” Rose choked out the question.

  The woman reached for one of the crystal glasses that had been placed on the table between them.

  “Sherry, dear?”

  “No.” She felt the word grind between her teeth. “Answer my question.”

  Portia poured a splash of ruby liquid into the glass. “You’ve no need for such trepidation in your eyes. He had no interest in you…warming his bed, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” She lifted the vessel to her lips. “He had his choice of women. He didn’t need a slip of a girl.”

  “Then why… What did he want with me?”

  “Your destiny and Merrick’s are intertwined. Your father made sure of that.”

  “I don’t understand. Nothing you’re saying makes sense.”

  “It will. In time.” With what seemed a deliberate lack of haste, Portia sipped the sherry. “Your father made a pact. Pity he betrayed us.”

  Her eyes widened, and she stilled. Suddenly, she gasped, pulling in short, desperate breaths.

  “I’ll summon a physician.” Rose rushed to the door.

  “No.” Por
tia’s whisper-soft command stopped her. Reaching out, she clasped her bony fingers over Rose’s hand.

  Rose shook her head. “You need help.”

  “Leave me be.” Steadying herself, Portia took another sip from her crystal tumbler. “My time in this realm is nearing its end. There is nothing a physician can do.” The liquid seemed to revitalize her, and her color returned.

  “What is it that you want from me?”

  “I intend to see Cyril suffer for his sins.” The viper’s smile returned. “When your opportunity arises—and I suspect it will—I want you to kill him.”

  Rose bit back a gasp. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “It is too late for me. But you…you do not deserve the fate the die has cast. Do whatever it takes to defeat him.”

  Beneath her sleeves, gooseflesh peppered Rose’s arms. “You’ve gone a bit mad.”

  “Just a bit? My dear, you’ve no need to mince words. Of course I’m mad, just as our friend, Mr. Merrick, is. He will stop at nothing. Believe me, I know that truth all too well.” Hands sheathed in black lace went to her throat. With some effort, Portia unfastened the choker and removed the cameo brooch connecting the pearl strands.

  Rose stared down at the brooch in the woman’s outstretched hand. Somehow, she knew that piece. She’d seen it before, a very long time ago.

  “You will need this.” Portia’s softly spoken words were edged with steel. “Take it.”

  A fresh chill ran along Rose’s spine. “I want no part of it.”

  “You don’t remember this piece, do you?”

  Rose pinned her with a glare. “You enjoy being cruel.”

  “Not nearly so much as Merrick does.” The matron laughed softly. “Your mother was wearing this brooch when she died.”

  “That’s not…possible. I would have remembered this.”

  Portia slowly shook her head. “What reason would I have to lie to you, my dear?”

  “Why?” The word sounded like a gasp to Rose’s ears. “No—I don’t believe you. My mother would not have adorned herself with such a grotesque image.”

  “You’re wrong, my dear. Your father wanted to bury this brooch with her. But I could not bear to part with such a unique piece. It’s far too valuable, in ways you cannot yet fathom.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Portia hiked a brow. “If I am, cast it away. Toss it to a beggar on the street. But you won’t.” Her thin mouth curved. “Deep inside, you know I’m telling the truth.”

  “No.” Rose spat out the word as she rose to her feet. “I’ve had quite enough.”

  “Remember what I said—when your chance to kill Cyril Merrick arises, take it. Do not hesitate.”

  Apprehension traced the length of Rose’s spine like unearthly fingertips. Clasping the brooch tightly, she rushed to the door and yanked it open, not caring if she made a scene.

  “And Rose, do be careful,” Portia called after her. “He is…everywhere.”

  Chapter Four

  A shiver swept over Rose, a specter’s breath against her skin. As she hurried along the corridor, she hesitated. Had she been followed? Was she in a killer’s sights? Her heart pounded. She needed to be away from this place, far from the woman whose presence stirred a warning of evil Rose could not dismiss.

  Good heavens, she was being a goose. She’d returned from America in response to her aunt’s plea, only to find she was too late. But Aunt Helen’s murder would not go unpunished. She would find Merrick, and she would learn the truth—why had he destroyed everyone who cared for her, who’d protected her?

  A sharp, fleeting pain jarred her, and she winced. The pin on the brooch had pierced her skin. A tiny crimson bead formed on her palm. An urge to recoil whipped through her. Dash it all, it wasn’t as if the blasted brooch had a will of its own.

  She rushed to the landing. Hiking her skirts, she navigated the marble staircase, her heels tapping against the steps. A little voice urged her to board the first steamer out of the city, return to New York, and stay there, away from the people and places that had brought her nothing but pain.

  But she could not give in to the fear. She’d come this far.

  She would not rest until Merrick and his thugs paid for their sins.

  She’d hire the finest detectives, and she wouldn’t hesitate to line the palms of informants. Her life in America had been one of opportunity. Of good fortune. She possessed ample funds to finance her quest.

  She’d have to steel her spine and get on with it.

  There really was no choice. Now that her decade-long charade had been exposed—now that Merrick knew she still lived and breathed—he wouldn’t rest.

  He wanted her dead. Eventually. When he was finished with her—for whatever reason.

  Not knowing why he wanted her under his control was as frightening as the thought that he might actually succeed.

  Reaching the foot of the immense staircase, she swept her gaze over her surroundings. Seeing no sign of the dark-haired stranger who’d followed her after she’d left the hotel, tension ebbed from her body. Of course, the man might’ve chosen to break off his pursuit and lurk in the shadows, knowing he would not blend in with the elegantly attired crowd. She’d have to be on her guard, her pistol at the ready.

  With any luck, her driver would be at the appointed place, a short walk from the theater. Thank heavens she’d had the presence of mind to arrange for a carriage and a reliable gent on the driver’s bench before she’d arrived in London—before she’d known the danger that pursued her.

  Maneuvering through the crush in the lobby, she found her way out of the theater. The night air cooled her skin. She inhaled deeply, drinking it in.

  Keeping her attention on her surroundings, she walked briskly toward the street where her driver had been instructed to wait. The moment the enameled ebony coach came into sight, the taut set of her shoulders eased. Soon she’d be in a comfortable room behind a sturdy, locked door. The Trevalyn Hotel bustled with guests and staff, and she wanted no part of isolation. If she’d been followed, she preferred to be where someone might come to her aid.

  Rest would serve as a tonic for her weary mind. She’d scarcely slept in days. Sheer exhaustion would enable her to sleep, and in the morning, she’d be able to think clearly again. Perhaps then she’d puzzle out the meaning of Portia’s cryptic words and the photograph of her father she had not wished to see.

  Picking up her pace, she approached the carriage.

  Where was the driver?

  She peered inside the coach. Empty. Ominous shadows surrounded her, but she refused to let childish fear get the better of her.

  Examining the emblem on the lacquered ebony door, she confirmed this was indeed her carriage. Perhaps the driver, a wiry, white-haired man named Phipps, had stepped into a pub. After all, she was a bit earlier than expected. The driver had no reason to anticipate she’d return so soon.

  “Excuse me, miss, I’ve come to drive ye tonight.”

  Startled, Rose turned to face a neatly dressed man with a full head of curly blond hair. He met her shocked reaction with an expression as bland as porridge.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten ye, miss,” he said. “The old fellow, well, he wasn’t feeling quite himself. One too many ales at the pub, if ye take my meaning.”

  Looking into his dull brown eyes, she regretted not removing her pistol from her bag, even as her rational mind assured her that she had nothing to fear.

  “You haven’t told me who you are.”

  He went to the door and opened it. “My name is George. I’ll take ye to your hotel now.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She hesitated. “I’m very tired. We cannot arrive at The Barrington soon enough.”

  With a nod, he motioned her to enter the coach. “I’m told the rooms are grand. More tin than this bloke can afford.”

  Rose took a step in retreat, then another. She’d boldly lied about the hotel where she’d been staying. Surely Phipps would’ve conveyed that
important detail to his substitute driver?

  Thinking fast, she glanced down at her velvet bag. “Oh dear, I’ve lost my fan.” She turned on her heel, putting a few strides between them. “I need to pop back into the theater. I must have left it there.”

  “I’d be willin’ to retrieve it for ye and bring it to the hotel.” He flashed a crooked smile. “Perhaps I might even earn an extra coin for my trouble, if ye’d be so inclined.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t mind walking,” she called over her shoulder, her legs rustling the fabric of her skirts as she put distance between them.

  “Am I to wait for you?” he inquired, sounding bored.

  “If you’d be so kind.” She paused to look at him. He appeared to be utterly unfazed by the fact she was leaving him. Perhaps she’d overreacted.

  Perhaps there was nothing to fear.

  “Don’t worry—I’ll be sure to compensate you for your time,” she added.

  “Good enough, miss.”

  Rounding the corner, she darted toward the theater.

  Her gaze lit on the black-haired man who’d followed her from the hotel. He headed straight for her.

  Her heart thudded against her ribs. The city seemed to close in on her. She’d hadn’t felt so vulnerable in a very long time.

  Suddenly, a stranger stepped into her path. Tall, with dark eyes and pale hair, he wore a patrolman’s uniform.

  Pulling in a calming breath, she met his inquisitive gaze. “What’s this about?”

  “Miss, ye left somethin’ behind.” Extending his hand, he uncurled his fingers to reveal an engraved gold locket.

  “Thank you, but that does not belong to me.”

  “Ye dropped it when ye were walkin’ away.” He reached for her hand, as if to press it into her palm, but she jerked away.

  “That’s not possible,” she said, retreating a step.

  “Now, is that any way to talk to a copper who’s tryin’ to help ye?” As his long, steely fingers clamped over her upper arm, he stared down at her with cold, calculating eyes.

  “Take your hands off me!”