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

by Tara Kingston

  He turned to her, his gaze skimming over her figure like a sensuous touch. “Every eye in this place is going to be fixed on you.”

  “I would not be so sure of that,” she said. “If you’re in the market for a tycoon’s daughter, I believe you may be in luck.”

  “I’ve no need for an heiress.” He reached out to her, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “I’ve found all the riches I need.”

  His attention wandered to the edge of the ballroom. A cluster of society types had gathered around a portrait in oil displayed on an easel, an image of Portia Rathbone as a young woman.

  “Mrs. Rathbone has arrived,” MacAllister said. “Over there, just beyond the crush.”

  Rose spotted her. Portia sat in her high-backed bamboo wheeled chair. A diamond-crusted tiara adorned her upswept salt-and-pepper hair.

  MacAllister kept his gaze on the woman as he lightly clasped a hand over Rose’s arm. “We’ll make our presence known soon enough. But we need to show restraint, not tip our hand too soon.”

  “Agreed.”

  Rose swept her gaze over the ballroom, settling on a small group of guests gathered near the musicians. A woman with flowing honey-gold hair stood out from the rest. Her elegant sapphire blue gown, embellished with touches of lace and braid, was sophisticated and beautiful. The man at her side was tall and broad-shouldered, his light brown hair worn a bit longer than his peers.

  The blonde turned toward them, meeting her gaze. Was that Sophie Stanwyck, the daring journalist who’d so rivetingly chronicled her travels in Egypt? Her accounts had been printed in the New York papers, and Rose had devoured every word.

  A look of recognition brightened the blonde’s eyes. Moments later, the couple crossed the ballroom.

  “Sophie, it’s good to see you,” MacAllister greeted the woman, confirming Rose’s suspicion.

  Following an exchange of pleasantries, Sophie lowered her voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Jennie requested that Gavin and I attend tonight’s function. Given Mrs. Rathbone’s fascination with antiquities, securing invitations was not a challenge.”

  “Indeed. She’s approached me several times to acquire the Egyptian artifacts we recovered on our expeditions,” Stanwyck said.

  “A bribe?” MacAllister inquired.

  Stanwyck nodded. “She does not like to take ‘no’ for an answer. Fortunately, I’ve no need for her money.”

  Rose had read accounts of Sir Gavin Stanwyck’s expeditions throughout Egypt, rousing tales of exploration with his wife by his side. Every article made a point to mention Sir Gavin’s reputation as a well-known rogue—that is, until Sophie Atherton had tamed her wicked paramour into marital bliss. But the press had mentioned neither the good humor in the archaeologist’s eyes nor the buoyant charm in Sophie’s smile.

  A bit of conversation followed, until Sophie spotted a break in the circle gathered around Mrs. Rathbone. “Well, there’s my cue,” she said brightly. “Shall we find out what the old girl is up to, dear husband?”

  “Ah, I do live for these moments,” Stanwyck said with a feigned weariness, even as his gaze settled on Sophie’s sweetly rounded face and his eyes lit with adoration.

  With a swish of her skirts, Sophie Stanwyck wove through the crowd to the spot where Portia Rathbone held court, her husband close by her side.

  “She’s a fascinating woman,” Rose observed.

  “Sophie’s adventures could fill two volumes. I’ve encouraged her to publish her memoirs.”

  “I am curious—how did she and Sir Gavin come to marry?”

  “She was in the midst of an undercover investigation—he damned near blew her cover.”

  “Now that is a story I’d love to hear.”

  MacAllister gave a slight smile. “Definitely.”

  “I suppose we should make contact with Mrs. Rathbone soon after the Stanwycks finish their questioning.”

  “If I had my way, we’d get you far from here—away from that blasted woman.” His voice was calm and even, even as his jaw hardened.

  “Mrs. Rathbone does not intend to harm me. If anything, she may be the key to solving all of this.” Rose glanced at the group centered around their hostess. “She hated Merrick.”

  “Her feelings toward Merrick do not lessen her threat to you.”

  “I can’t puzzle out her motives for communicating with me.” She glanced around the ballroom. “For now, I’d rather find a few moments of enjoyment in this night. Shall we dance?”

  He cocked a brow. “Do I have a choice?”

  “MacAllister, would you deny me a dance?”

  He let out a low breath. Without another word, he took her hand and escorted her to the dance floor.

  The orchestra’s precise notes swelled around them as chandeliers cast a lovely glow over the dancers gliding across the floor. The soft rays brought out the reddish tones in MacAllister’s dark brown hair and flickered over the planes of his face. He’d always been handsome. Now, a man seasoned by life and experience, his features were more precisely carved, the tiny lines around his eyes and mouth adding a sense of character. How was it possible he’d grown more attractive over time?

  He lightly rested one hand at her waist, the other clasping her fingers. This close, she drank in the subtle scent of sandalwood soap. Easing into the waltz with an instinctive grace, he shed the reserve he typically displayed. A sense of delight filled her heart.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman in this room,” he said in a husky rasp.

  “I presume you are aware Henrietta Jones is present?” she quipped, referring to the renowned actress whose beauty drew adoring crowds to her performances on the London stage. “She’s very lovely—a diamond of the first water, I’m told.”

  He shrugged. “She is beautiful.” He leaned closer, murmuring against her ear. “But she isn’t you.”

  The whisper of his voice triggered a shiver of pleasure. She focused her gaze on something—anything—other than the man whose every word set her heart pounding faster. She had to keep her head about her.

  “I could not stop thinking about you.” He dipped his head low, his breath warm against her skin. “I wanted to push away the pain of losing you. But it was a battle I couldn’t win.”

  Rose eased in closer, drinking in every sensation, every sound, every touch. “I never dreamed we’d meet again.”

  He splayed his hand against her waist. What she wouldn’t give to feel the heat of his touch without the barrier of layers of clothing. “Fate does have her sly ways, doesn’t she?”

  Suddenly, Portia Rathbone’s gaze locked with hers from across the room. Unwavering. Unfeeling. Rose’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Oh dear,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to look over his shoulder. “Mrs. Rathbone has spotted us. Truth be told, staring daggers would be more to the point.”

  “Let her look as much as she’d like. For now. When she discovers you have someone to stand by your side, she will not be nearly so bold.”

  A raw protectiveness flavored his words, faintly primal and utterly masculine. Her heart soared. For an eternity, she’d been on her own. She’d developed friendships in New York—good people like Fanny, the woman who’d offered a shy lass with scarcely a penny to her name, a roof over her head and a start in the world, and Seth, her trusted bodyguard—but she’d had to stand on her own two feet. She’d survived all these years without a husband, without a man, without even her true name.

  It felt good to have MacAllister at her side, watching over her. Just this once.

  “The Stanwycks are no longer chatting with her,” Rose said. “Shall we pay her a visit?”

  He shook his head. “In due time.”

  “You’re so calm,” she said. “I wish I could be.”

  His hand slipped over hers, a subtle gesture, yet so very comforting. “This is all new to you, while this is hardly my first investigation.”

  As he spoke, Sophie and Gavin Stanwyck approached. “Well, that was interest
ing,” Sophie said, sipping champagne from an elegant crystal flute.

  “Mrs. Rathbone has friends in high places,” Stanwyck commented. “Were you able to access the list of invited guests?”

  “Miss Pearson was able to obtain some of the names,” MacAllister replied. “What have you learned?”

  “Portia Rathbone boasted about her connections within Her Majesty’s circle of advisors. She’s expecting Edward Fincham to arrive at any moment,” Sophie said as a flash of vibrant blue and black feathers caught Rose’s eye.

  Rose glanced toward the front of the ballroom. Irene entered on Jeremy Quinn’s arm, radiant in a flowing gown of cobalt blue silk and velvet headpiece topped with an array of ebony plumes. For his part, Quinn had chosen an elegant gray frock coat, accented with a vibrant blue waistcoat and white cravat, and ebony trousers. They made a handsome couple, and given the genuine smile on Quinn’s face, he wasn’t putting on much of an act.

  Irene paused, scanning the cavernous chamber. Spotting Rose, she gave a small, inconspicuous nod, then made her way with Quinn to the opposite side of the ballroom.

  “That’s him.” Excitement brightened Sophie’s voice as she pointed out the tall, distinguished man with silver-gray hair who’d entered the ballroom unaccompanied.

  “What business might Edward Fincham have with a woman suspected of dealing with thieves and smugglers of the worst sort?” Stanwyck mused.

  Rose’s pulse raced. “I’ve seen that man before—he’s in the photograph.”

  “Bloody hell, that confirms our suspicions,” MacAllister said.

  Sophie’s brow furrowed. “Photograph?”

  “Mrs. Rathbone gave me an image of my father and herself when they were quite young. I’m positive Edward Fincham is also depicted in that photograph.”

  “Interesting.” Sophie frowned. “It would appear their ties go back decades. Do you recall making his acquaintance?”

  Rose shook her head. “I don’t know if he associated with my father after I was born.”

  “I suspect he did.” MacAllister tugged at his necktie. “I do detest these blasted things. They serve no earthly purpose.”

  Stanwyck slanted his wife a speaking glance. “With a bit of imagination, one would be surprised at how useful they can be.”

  “Oh, Gavin.” Sophie playfully swatted him with her folded fan. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel.” Stanwyck flashed her a devilish grin.

  MacAllister purposefully cleared his throat. “It would appear Miss Pearson and Quinn are keeping an eye on Fincham. As they have matters well in hand, shall we pay Mrs. Rathbone a visit?”

  “I suppose it is time.” Rose flicked open her fan and cooled herself with it. “Suddenly, something feels amiss. My nerves are getting the better of me.”

  “We’re here for you,” Sophie said gently. “You are not alone.”

  MacAllister glanced across the ballroom. “That must be Portia Rathbone’s bodyguard—that big, slack-jawed gent with the slicked-back hair.”

  Rose peered over MacAllister’s shoulder. A behemoth of a man with ginger hair and a Van Dyke beard towered at Portia Rathbone’s side.

  “I don’t recognize him,” she said. “That night at the theater, I thought it rather peculiar that she was waiting there for me, alone and defenseless.”

  MacAllister shook his head. “The widow Rathbone is never without a defense.”

  “She is armed?”

  “I am told she carries a revolver with her at all times. I’d also wager her bodyguard—if that is indeed who he is—was waiting on the sidelines in the event of an incident.”

  Rose mentally assessed the size of the bodyguard’s fists. “He looks as if he could snap a man’s bones without so much as a blink.”

  He shot her a teasing scowl. “Somehow, that does not sound like a vote of confidence in me.”

  “I have full confidence,” she said. “I also would like to see you end this evening in one piece.”

  “I assure you, I’ll do my best.” Reaching under his jacket, MacAllister repositioned a compact club like the ones she’d seen in the hands of the local constable. “Now, my dear Rose, it’s high time we became reacquainted with Portia Rathbone.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Navigating through the crush, Rose prepared herself to encounter Portia Rathbone. The very sight of the woman had set her on edge. While the widow had not physically harmed her, their last meeting had jarred Rose out of any sense of security. The sight of her father engaged in some unholy ritual had shaken her to the core. All along, she’d known Father was deeply involved in some shady business with Merrick. She’d long suspected a darker element to their dealings, but Portia Rathbone’s insinuations spoke of an element of evil she could scarcely fathom.

  Mrs. Rathbone had moved away from her position at the periphery of the ballroom. Spotting the bodyguard standing guard outside a small, dimly lit room, MacAllister led Rose to the chamber.

  As they entered, Mrs. Rathbone’s mouth pulled tight into a seam. Her loosely pinned hair framed her face, while intricately cut crystals sewn into the bodice of her stark ebony gown brought out the icy blue of her calculating eyes. Slowly, she uttered a mockery of a greeting. “My, this is an unexpected pleasure. It’s rather peculiar, really—try as I might, I cannot recall inviting either of you.”

  “An unfortunate oversight,” MacAllister responded drily.

  “One you took the liberty of correcting,” she replied.

  The bodyguard shot MacAllister a threatening glance. “Is there a problem, Mrs. Rathbone?”

  She gave her head a demure little shake. “Everything is fine, Damien.” She pointed a bony finger toward the door. “We require a bit of privacy. If you would be so kind as to leave us. Please, do close the door.”

  The man kept his eyes on MacAllister. “If you need me, I’ll be in the corridor.”

  As the door closed behind him, Mrs. Rathbone regarded Rose with a pensive expression. “It is good to see you, my dear. I see you’ve brought a companion this time.”

  “You’re looking well, Mrs. Rathbone,” Rose said smoothly. “I trust you are feeling better than at our last meeting.”

  “I might say the same of you.” Her words dripped with velvet-covered malice. “I take it you’ve gotten over the little surprise I had for you.”

  “I’d be lying if I told you I’d fully recovered from the shock to my system. But one must carry on, as you well know.”

  “Oh yes, what choice is there in life?” Portia appeared to mull her words. Her gaze settled on MacAllister, lighting with predatory interest. “Mr. Campbell, it is indeed a pleasure.”

  “Indeed,” he said with a bland detachment that did not match the icy contempt in his eyes. “I understand you have information of interest to us.”

  “Really?” She studied him. “And what might that be?”

  His jaw hardened. “If you know of any threat to this woman, it would be to your benefit to tell us what you’ve learned.”

  The widow’s bony shoulders lifted and fell. “Threats? I know nothing about anything of the sort.”

  “What do you know about Cyril Merrick and his schemes?”

  “Merrick is dead.” A melancholy tone marked her voice. “I found the news rather disappointing. You see, I’d hoped to do the deed myself.”

  “Now why would you want to do that, Mrs. Rathbone?”

  “You know what they say, Mr. Campbell. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’”

  “What did the man do to you?” Rose gentled her tone, in contrast to MacAllister’s cool approach.

  “I took care of some rather nasty business for him, and then, he betrayed me.” The widow pursed her lips, appearing deep in thought. “You see, I ensured he would inherit his father’s estate.”

  “By killing his brother?” Rose asked.

  “Yes.”

  Struggling to conceal her horror at the revelation, Rose steadied her
voice. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “In many ways, we were two of a kind. Over the years, Cyril and I developed…shall we say…a bond.”

  “You were lovers?” MacAllister pressed.

  “At times. When it suited us.” Her tone was detached, almost casual, as if she discussed which variety of tea she preferred for breakfast. She slanted Rose a look that spoke louder than her words. “My dear, you look shocked.”

  Rose laced her fingers together and glanced away. “I can’t say that I am.”

  “I took my pleasure whenever and with whomever I pleased.” A wisp of a smile curved the widow’s painted mouth. “My husband was old enough to be my father. Suffice it to say our marriage served both of our purposes—he wanted an heir, and I required a man who would not inhibit my pursuits. He’d no knowledge of the measures I took to avoid being burdened with his brat.”

  MacAllister cupped a hand over Rose’s elbow, reassuring her. “You said Merrick betrayed you,” he said. “He was responsible for your injury?”

  “Yes.” She stared down at her velveteen lap blanket. “Cyril hired a man to kill me. As you can see, he did not succeed. But in the struggle, I fell down the stairs, and he left me for dead.”

  MacAllister regarded her without so much as a flicker of emotion on his face. “Who is behind the attacks on Miss Fleming?”

  Portia met his steely eyes. “I do not know.”

  MacAllister bristled. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “What you believe is of no consequence to me.”

  “If you are involved in these attempts to harm Miss Fleming, I will ensure that you take your last breath behind bars.”

  The matron shrugged. “In that case, you do need to hurry. My time in this realm is short.”

  Rose pulled in a breath. “Mrs. Rathbone, why did you summon me to the theater?”

  “You won’t believe me, but I truly did want you to find him. I had hoped you would kill him.”

  “I need you to tell me what you know, Mrs. Rathbone,” MacAllister said. “We must find the blackguard who intended to abduct Miss Fleming.”

  The widow drummed her long, elegant fingers against the arm of her wheeled chair. “As I told you, I do not have the information you need.” She gazed up at Rose, malice gleaming in her blue eyes. “But even if I did, I would not be moved to help you.”