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

by Tara Kingston

  Without warning, strong hands seized her from behind.

  As the unseen man restrained her, the man in the balaclava wrenched the weapon from her hand. She clawed at him, tugging at the knit covering his face. Tearing at her throat, his rough fingers coiled around the pendant she wore over her heart.

  The chain snapped.

  He yanked it away and dangled the necklace before her like a bandit’s prize. His laugh was a raw, crude sound. “You won’t be needing this where you’re going.”

  “You bastard,” she hissed.

  The man behind her pressed a cloth to her face. Over her eyes. Her nose. Her mouth.

  Struggling frantically, she fought against his hold. If she inhaled, she’d take in the chemical which infused the rag.

  She drove her heel into his shin.

  Useless.

  He grunted in pain, but didn’t release her.

  She couldn’t give in.

  Need air.

  Instinct took over. She had to survive. She had to breathe.

  Resistance gone, her lungs pulled in air.

  The world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “MacAllister, they’ve got her.”

  Sophie’s words plowed into Mac like a brawler’s fist. While he’d been pursuing a man who might as well have been a blasted phantom, he’d left Rose vulnerable.

  By hellfire, what have I done?

  As he paced the floor in the Stanwycks’ chamber at the hotel, Mac glanced toward the settee where Miss Pearson lay with her eyes closed. The Colton Agency physician’s examination had revealed no lasting trauma following the assault that had rendered her unconscious. Thank God. To her right, Jeremy Quinn sat on a chair, hunched over his knees, his expression morose.

  “The bastard got me from behind,” Quinn said, rubbing his temples.

  “It’s not your fault,” Sophie said. “It’s a miracle you weren’t more seriously injured. If you’d tumbled down the steps…well, there’s no point in even thinking about it, is there? Do you remember what happened?”

  “Not a blasted thing. One minute I was heading to the staircase, and the next, I was coming to.” Quinn looked up, his mouth a taut line. “Damn it, Campbell, I shouldn’t have let my guard down.”

  Mac shook his head. “The bastards intended to distract us. They anticipated our every move. This was a trap from the start.”

  “MacAllister’s right,” Sophie said. “We’ve got to muster our forces and find Rose.”

  Gavin Stanwyck entered the room, closing the door behind him. “One of our agents spotted a man bundling an unconscious woman into a carriage waiting in the alley. Agent Fields attempted to give chase on foot, but the coach driver fired upon him. Based on his description, we believe the gunman was Arthur Brock.”

  The invisible brawler’s fist plowed into him again. “The agent…he is alive?”

  “Agent Fields suffered a wound to the shoulder, but it isn’t believed to be life-threatening. And there’s something else you need to know.” Stanwyck’s expression was grim. “Fincham’s gone. He left soon after the carriage we suspect transported Rose. An agent took the liberty of following him.”

  Sophie’s brow furrowed. “Fincham could be a party to the scheme to abduct Rose.” She sighed. “But then again, his departure could be meaningless.”

  “That is a possibility,” Stanwyck said. “The agent reported that the coach returned to his town house, and Fincham entered his home.”

  A muscle in Mac’s jaw clenched with tension. “It’s high time we had a talk with the man.”

  “Gavin and I will go,” Sophie said.

  “The hell you will.” Mac scowled. “I won’t have you putting yourself in danger. Rose trusted me. And I failed her.”

  “You’re too close to the case,” Sophie protested. “If Fincham is involved, it won’t do for him to know he is a suspect. Gavin and I will employ an indirect approach.”

  “She’s right,” Irene agreed in a weak voice. “Any attempt to question him will arouse Fincham’s suspicions, but Sophie can throw him off the scent.”

  “We will handle it,” Gavin said. “Trust us.”

  Mac let out a harsh breath. “There isn’t much choice, is there?”

  Gavin cocked a brow. “A true vote of confidence, I must say.”

  Sophie went to the door. “Come, Gavin, we must hurry.”

  Gavin turned to Mac. “The agents will keep you apprised of any developments among the guests. For now, we’ve managed to keep Mrs. Rathbone’s death a secret from the public. Only the necessary authorities have been notified.”

  “Very good,” Mac said. “And Stanwyck, do watch out for Sophie. These bastards are ruthless.”

  How well he knew the truth of his words. As the door closed behind the Stanwycks, Mac stalked over to the window, peeled back the curtain, and stared down at the street below, his thoughts swirling in torment.

  Be brave, my sweet Rose.

  I will find you.

  …

  “So you are awake. I was becoming concerned.”

  The silver-haired matron pursed her lips as she placed a tray on a marble-topped table. She skimmed her palms over her plain blue and white cotton dress. Rose struggled against the fog clouding her mind. Who is this woman? Why is she here?

  Here. The word echoed in Rose’s thoughts.

  Where precisely was here?

  Flashes of memory startled her. Portia Rathbone’s lifeless body. A man in black. A brutal assault. A sickening chemical smell.

  Where the devil am I?

  Her hands bunched the fabric of a cotton quilt between her fingers. She was on a bed, lying atop the bedcover. Around her, a gas lamp illuminated a spacious chamber, richly appointed in deep jewel tones.

  Not the hotel.

  Dear heaven, what’s happened?

  Jarred back to reality, she pushed herself up against a wooden headboard. A jagged tear marred the silk of her evening gown, but no other damage had been done to her clothing. Someone had removed her shoes while she was unconscious. They sat neatly beside the bed, as if she were an ordinary guest in this home.

  “Cat got your tongue, miss?” The woman’s mouth pinched even more. “You’ve no need to fret. No one has harmed you. Not a single hair on that pretty head of yours.”

  “Where am I?”

  The woman went to the window, pulling the curtains more tightly closed. From this angle, Rose saw the thick scar running from below her ear to the curve of her jaw. What—or who—had inflicted the mark?

  “You’re where you should be, dear. And to think, all that time, we thought you were dead.” Her lips peeled back in what seemed a mere imitation of feeling. “Imagine our relief when we learned the truth.”

  “That is not an answer.” Rose slid her hand along her calf. The holster was gone. Her heart sank.

  “Now why would you be looking for something there?” the woman taunted.

  “You know what I was looking for. You took it.”

  “We certainly couldn’t leave that puny little pistol on you, especially given your current state.”

  Biting back an epithet, Rose struggled to sit up. “Where did they take me?”

  “You’re safe here, Rose. And now, you won’t have to prance about on a stage to earn your keep,” she said, an ugly smile pulling her mouth wide. “Finally, you’re going to receive your due.”

  Rose slid her legs over the edge of the bed. “Who are you?”

  “A friend of your father’s.” A frown touched the woman’s lips. “You may call me Harriet.”

  “I will do no such thing.” Rose reached for her shoes, but the spinning in her head nearly sent her toppling to the floor.

  “Good heavens, are you trying to injure yourself?” Harriet lightly scolded. “He won’t like it if you’ve been hurt. Not one bit.”

  “Tell me why I’m here.”

  “My, you are an impatient one, aren’t you? So very much like your father.” Harriet frowned. �
�It won’t be long, I promise you.”

  “And if I decide to leave?”

  “That would not be wise. You’re very unsteady. The drug hasn’t entirely left your system.”

  Rose stared at her, not quite trusting her own ears. “You knew I was drugged?”

  “Of course. How else were they to get you here?” Harriet regarded her as if pressing a chloroform-laden rag over one’s nose was not an unusual occurrence.

  Irene. Quinn. Images of their unconscious bodies jolted Rose from the fog. Her stomach clenched. Had they been injured?

  Had they survived?

  “I won’t stay here,” Rose said, pressing her fists into the soft mattress. “You’re as vile as those murderers.”

  “Nonsense,” Harriet said in that vile, grandmotherly tone of hers. “I’ve never used violence against anyone in my life.” A sly smile—far more genuine than the others—touched her lips. “Now Mr. Brock, on the other hand—he enjoys hurting people. It seems a bit of sport to him.”

  The words spurred a touch of panic in Rose. “I have to get out of here. I will not stay confined in this place with the likes of you.”

  Harriet’s blue eyes narrowed to icy slits. “I would suggest you do as you’re told. Things will go easier for you if you do.” She pointed to the tray. “I’ve brought some biscuits and tea. Do eat something, dear.”

  “I do not have an appetite.”

  “Perhaps later that will change. In the meantime, I suggest that you rest. It’s still dark out. In the morning, you’ll see things more clearly.” Turning on her heel, she went to the doorway. “Get some sleep, dear,” Harriet said softly as she closed the door behind her.

  Metal scraped against the latch. She was locked in.

  Not that it mattered. Not at the moment, at least. The walls spun around her, and she sank wearily against the pillow. How could she get away from this place when she could scarcely hold her head up?

  In the morning.

  Harriet’s words played in her thoughts. Again, and again.

  Yes, in the morning, she would see more clearly.

  She would escape.

  Mustering her strength, she skimmed her palms over the silk of her dress. Her captors had not thought to search her beyond stripping the revolver from her holster. Thank God.

  She slid her fingers along the edge of her corset, locating the concealed seam along the stitches. With a quick pull of a deliberately loosened thread, she tugged the pocket open and carefully removed a slender bamboo rod from within the corset ribs. She extracted yet another thin rod, then repeated the action.

  Each stick was the length of her hand from the tip of her middle finger to the base of her palm and bore a hook-like notch at one end and a small rounded cap at the other. With her thumb, she flicked away the covering on one of the sticks to reveal a dagger-sharp point. The bamboo stiletto would certainly disable a man.

  Recapping the slim rod, she removed a silver ring from her finger and used it to bind the stilettos together. Carefully tucking them beneath the pillow, she lay back and closed her eyes.

  She pictured MacAllister’s dark eyes, adoring and heated with desire. In her mind, she heard his gravel-edged rasp. The very thought of his tenderness, of his passion, comforted her and gave her courage.

  She’d lived a lie for so very long.

  When she was free again—when she got herself away from this dreadful place, she would go to MacAllister. And she would tell him the truth he deserved to hear.

  She would confess what was in her heart.

  All of it.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  MacAllister had always considered himself a patient man. But his instincts demanded he do something—anything—to find Rose. Standing outside this blasted ballroom, decked out in his kilt and finery like some blasted dandy, he should be moving heaven and earth to find her. Damned if he was about to idly bide his time while the Stanwycks questioned the man they suspected was behind Rose’s abduction.

  He stalked back to the ballroom, willing himself to discipline his words and actions as he hunted for some clue that would lead him to Rose. Tension dug into his insides like unseen talons. Damnation, how could Rose’s abductors have slipped away unseen while hundreds of guests filled the place?

  Every note the orchestra played pounded discordantly in his ears. Portia Rathbone’s guests milled about, chatting and laughing and dancing, unaware their hostess lay lifeless in a room directly above their heads. With a trained eye, he scanned the crowd. Mrs. Rathbone’s bodyguard and likely killer had managed to escape without rousing the attention of her guests. The attack on the widow had been no crime of impulse. The killer’s route had been planned to avoid detection. A carriage had been waiting to spirit Rose away from the place.

  Like gullible fools, they’d walked into the trap.

  As had Portia Rathbone.

  Who would’ve wanted the woman dead? Had she been killed because of what she knew? Had Rose’s abductor wished to silence her?

  The bodyguard had not worked alone. Had his accomplices all fled? Or had some lingered about, hiding in plain sight?

  His gaze swept over the thinning crowd, lingering on faces he’d spotted earlier in the night, searching for something—anything—that seemed out of place.

  His attention lit on the actor who’d appeared to be currying Fincham’s favor earlier that evening. Willard Nash was renowned for his interpretation of Shakespearean heroes. But judging from his current state, he was far less capable of holding his liquor. Unsteady on his feet, he’d propped an elbow against the wall, regaling a bored-looking society matron with boasts of his triumphs on stage.

  Where was Eleanora Thomas? Nash had been the actress’s escort earlier that night. Now, he saw no sign of the dark-haired beauty.

  Approaching the pair, he caught Nash’s eye. The actor stopped in mid-sentence. Seeing her opportunity, the matron murmured a polite excuse and took her leave.

  “Bloody hell, you’re still here,” Nash said with a scowl. “I thought Eleanora had wandered off with you.”

  “She’s left you?”

  “She pleaded a headache, but I saw the look in her eyes.” He tipped the glass in his hand to his mouth. “I know that gleam. Given the way she’d looked at you, I thought she ran off for a tryst.”

  “That might well be the case, but not with me.”

  Nash took another drink. “I should’ve known better… I don’t have enough bloomin’ tin to suit her.”

  “You’re certain she’s not here?”

  “I don’t know where the blasted hell she is. Since she’s not with you, she probably went after that bastard, Fincham. She’s made a blasted fool out of me. Again.”

  “Fincham, you say?”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at her. He’s had his eye on her.” Nash dropped his gaze to his drink. “Bloody bastard.”

  “You know the man?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. He’s the biggest jackal in London. Makes his blunt saving rotters from the hangman. He’s saved the necks of cold-blooded murderers, I tell you. Our esteemed hostess is one of them. If her coffers hadn’t been overflowing, she would’ve swung years ago.”

  “Portia Rathbone?” Mac played along, drawing out as much information as the sot was willing to offer.

  “None other. She’s a no-good murderess. Only her tin saved her.”

  Mac cocked a brow. “Why are you here tonight?”

  “The high-and-mighty shrew is financing the play. When you’re invited to a patron’s function, you attend. If you’d like another opportunity, that is.”

  “The production at the Larkspeare?”

  Nash flashed another scowl. “The play was written for Eleanora. Specially commissioned, as I understand it.”

  “Mrs. Rathbone commissioned it?”

  “Most likely. Or one of the fools Eleanora’s wrapped around her lovely little finger.”

  “Like Fincham?”

  “Possibly,” Nash said. “The li
ttle viper will endear herself to anyone—male or female—who might do her some good.”

  “Sounds as if you’ve dodged a bullet, my friend.”

  “Ah, but there were times…” Nash gave his head a rueful shake.

  “How long since you’ve seen Miss Thomas?”

  Nash pressed two fingers to his temple, as if to massage an ache. “I’ve lost track of the time… An hour ago. Two at the most.” He lifted his glass and took another drink.

  “Take it easy on that,” Mac advised. “You’ll regret it in the morning.”

  “I already do,” Nash said. “Where’s your lady? You’re in the same predicament as me, aren’t you?”

  “No. I wish it were that simple.” Mac turned toward the door. “I’m off to find her now. You’ve been more helpful than you know.”

  Since the first time Sophie Stanwyck had walked into his office at the Herald, Mac had found her features easy to read. Her expression tonight did not prove an exception. As she returned to her room at the hotel, the grim set of her mouth betrayed her concern.

  “Fincham’s butler claims the man is not in residence,” she began directly. “If he is in his home, Fincham has instructed his household staff to deny it.”

  “He’d have no reason to refuse to speak to us,” Gavin Stanwyck added. “The butler stated Fincham has been in attendance at Mrs. Rathbone’s ball since earlier in the evening. Given his manner, I don’t believe the man is lying.”

  “I’d wager Fincham was not the man spotted in his carriage,” Sophie said.

  “He may have used a decoy,” Mac said. “After the conversation I had with Willard Nash, I believe it’s likely Fincham wasn’t alone when he departed the ball. He may have used another conveyance.”

  “Nash spoke with you?” Sophie said.

  “The man was deep in his cups and in the mood to talk.”

  Gavin nodded his understanding. “I take it the evening did not go well for the bloke.”

  “He suspects Miss Thomas left him to be with Fincham.”

  “They’re engaged in an affair?” Sophie appeared intrigued.

  Mac kneaded an ache in the back of his neck. “It’s possible. Nash seems to think so.”