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

by Tara Kingston

  “Portia trusted you,” Rose choked out the words. “And you betrayed her.”

  “Trust?” Fincham chuckled under his breath. “In her whole life, Portia Rathbone did not trust a soul.” He glanced at Eleanora. “With one exception.”

  “She never forgave Cyril for the injury that confined her to a wheelchair. She was convinced he’d tried to kill her.” Eleanora wrung her hands together. “I didn’t want it to be this way. But she would not listen to reason.”

  Fincham pinned Rose with an icy gaze. “None of this would have been necessary if you’d remained in America.” A vein pulsed in his forehead. “You should’ve stayed dead.”

  Rose met his scowl with a look of defiance. “If you had not threatened my aunt, I would have lived out my days across the ocean. Why did you have to hurt her?”

  Slowly, Fincham shook his head. “We had no part in her murder. We didn’t even know Helen Kirkdale still lived and breathed…not until Cyril got it into his blasted head to go after you.”

  “Edward, we both knew it was a matter of time before he began to search for her again. It should not have come as a shock,” Eleanora said. She slanted Rose a look. “Cyril never believed you’d died. He sensed you were still alive. Not surprising, really. You bear the mark—we share a powerful connection.”

  Dear God. Had Eleanora also been marked?

  “You bear the symbol…the falcon?”

  “My mother had me tattooed when I was a very young girl. I can still recall the pain,” Eleanora replied, each word low and hushed. “You do know what it means, don’t you?”

  Rose shook her head. “I know only that it is evil.”

  “Evil?” Eleanora scoffed. “Perhaps it might seem so to you. You have not been enlightened in our ways. In a sense, your father betrayed you as well. You see, he was part of a secret society of alchemists. Bradenmyre pledged his loyalty, as did my mother and father.”

  Rose considered her words. “Sir Louis was not your father?”

  A sly smile pulled at Eleanora’s mouth. “When I was conceived, my mother was unmarried. Her family would have disowned her had they known what she’d done. She concealed the pregnancy with a well-timed sabbatical on the Continent, and when she returned, Bradenmyre and his wife passed me off as their own.” Her eyes gleamed with an innate maliciousness. “Would you like to know the truth—would you like to know my true father’s name?”

  Dread crept over Rose. “I suspect I already know.”

  “Ah, I knew you were clever.” Eleanora’s eyes flashed with perverse delight. “Cyril Merrick is my father.”

  “I presume he knew of your existence,” Rose said.

  “Yes, but he and my mother agreed Bradenmyre and his wife—she was quite wealthy, the heiress to a fortune—could offer me certain advantages they did not possess. As Merrick’s daughter, I was promised to the cabal. You and I…we each bear the mark, though we have different destinies to fulfill. I am fated to someday take my father’s place as their leader.”

  Disgust clawed at Rose. How could her father have been a part of such madness?

  “I do not intend to play any part in your society. I am leaving this place at once.” She marched to the door.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible,” Eleanora said, her voice tightly controlled.

  Rose met her steely blue gaze. “I want no part of your rituals and schemes.”

  “Your father should have told you the truth—your destiny was set the day you were born.”

  “All this talk of destiny is madness.”

  Eleanora gave her head a reproachful shake. “You’ll understand when you know the truth. The day of your birth was one of great significance. An eclipse darkened the sun, and in the night sky, a rare conjunction of the planets occurred. You are very special, Rose. And your father vowed you would join us.”

  Fincham shot her a glare. “That’s enough, Nora. We wouldn’t want to alarm Miss Fleming now, would we?”

  “It’s not as if she’s going to carry tales,” Eleanora retorted. “She has a right to know. Pity her father kept her in the dark all these years. If she’d known…if she’d accepted her honored place in our society, none of this would’ve been necessary.”

  “Honored place?” Rose studied Eleanora’s face, desperate to understand her confounding words. “I have nothing to offer you—I do not intend to become a part of this evil.”

  “Oh, Rose, soon, you will understand. You will not be leaving.” A subdued madness lit Eleanora’s eyes. “Not until we are finished with you.”

  “If you intend to hold me prisoner, you won’t succeed. MacAllister will track you down.”

  Fincham leaned against the fireplace, lines of discontent marking his handsome face. “If he does, we are prepared to do whatever it takes to prevent his—and anyone else’s—interference.”

  The cold gleam in Eleanora’s eyes intensified. “My father has waited a very long time to claim what’s rightfully his.”

  Fear rippled over Rose’s flesh, chilling her. “Your father…is dead.”

  With a serpent’s smile, Eleanora turned to the archway behind them. “My dear, you’ve been misinformed.”

  As she followed the path of Eleanora’s gaze, Rose’s breath caught. She bit back a little cry.

  The icy gray eyes she’d once stared into as the tattoo was being inflicted on her skin locked with hers.

  Dear God!

  Cyril Merrick stepped from the shadows. “You’ve grown to be a beautiful woman.”

  Shock crashed over her with such force, the floor tilted beneath her feet. Or was that a trick of her own perception?

  “You’re alive.”

  “Such would appear to be the case,” he said blandly. “The man who died in that fire was my groundskeeper. Conveniently, we were of similar height and build.”

  Rose stared at him, unable to conceal her horror. “You killed him?”

  “The smoke accomplished that. I merely ensured he lost consciousness before I set the fire.”

  Closing the distance between them, he reached to trace a fingertip over the curve of her face.

  She recoiled.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “As you wish.” His eyes hardened as he took her in. “Your mother was also defiant. She turned your father against us. I had her killed.” His mouth twisted. “You look shocked. Surely you did not believe the tumble she took down the stairs at the concert hall was a mere mishap.”

  His words were a dagger strike to her heart. Her beautiful mother, murdered by this vile madman. “My God, you’re a monster.”

  “Not a monster.” Slowly he shook his head as his fingertips danced over her unbound hair. “Merely a man who will not tolerate betrayal. Your father learned that lesson, and your aunt—Helen, I believe her name was—had it beaten into her. It would be a shame to break you, Rose. I actually rather like your spirit. But I will do whatever it takes to ensure you honor the vow made in your name.”

  Rose forced her chin higher, fighting the cold terror burrowing into her bones. “I will do nothing of the sort. You can all go to hell.”

  “My dear Portia is likely already there,” he replied. “She should not have betrayed me. Those brooches are a source of great power. She had no business offering them to you—a woman who knows nothing of their value.”

  “Portia despised you.” Rose forced herself to meet his gaze.

  “She loved me—enough to kill a man who trusted her, but she could not forgive me for breaking her back.” Clenching one hand into a fist at his side, he gave his head a rueful shake. “She was supposed to die. Unfortunately, that accident was not executed as flawlessly as the fall that eliminated your mother’s interference.”

  The dagger in Rose’s heart twisted again. “If you’re trying to frighten me into cooperating, you’re wasting your time. My hatred of you is far greater than fear.”

  “Evidently, you’ve misunderstood my intentions.” Merrick coiled his finger and thumb aro
und a lock of her hair with enough tension to cause a twinge of pain. “I don’t give a damn about your cooperation. Or lack of it. I will take what I need. And if you defy me, I will make you suffer to your last breath.”

  Chapter Thirty

  They’d brought her here to kill her. The truth of it swept over Rose’s skin like fingers from a grave. Merrick and his followers would not let her leave this place alive.

  A peculiar calm filled her. Had the shock of Merrick’s revelations numbed her to reality?

  Merrick wanted to terrorize her. He craved her fear and the power it offered. Damned if she would display the silent, icy terror creeping through her veins.

  “If you wanted me dead, why go to the trouble of bringing me here?” she questioned, defying him with the steadiness of her voice. “The ruffian you’ve hired to abduct me was capable of murder.”

  “You were destined to be here.” Eleanora’s eyes were lit with an evil excitement. “What did my mother tell you…about your birth?”

  Behind her, Fincham paced restlessly. Was he having second thoughts? Was he a weak link in their scheme?

  “She told me nothing about the circumstances. But you have enlightened me as to the astronomical phenomena which occurred. I’d wager I’m one of countless souls born during that eclipse.”

  “But the others did not have your father’s blood,” Eleanora said. “They were not bound by the mark.”

  “Surely you do not believe some rare power flows in my veins.”

  “Your blood is the key element in our sacrifice,” Merrick said, as matter-of-factly as if he were a schoolmaster explaining how the sun rose and set.

  “Sacrifice.” The word came out in a gasp. “My father would never have agreed to such a thing.”

  Fincham briefly met her gaze. “In the beginning, we believed a small amount of blood—a minute quantity that would cause no harm—would suffice. But we were wrong.”

  “Our attempts to summon the spirits failed,” Merrick explained. “We realized blood alone would not suffice. The goddesses demanded the life force of the offering.”

  She pressed her palm to her mouth, stifling a gasp. “My father was not a murderer.”

  “John Fleming was weak,” Merrick said, his words thick with contempt. “He didn’t have the stomach for it. When he discovered what we had planned—what we had to do—he betrayed us.”

  Bile rose in the back of Rose’s throat, but she choked it back. “You killed him?”

  “The fool chose your mortal life over immortality. His betrayal could not be forgiven,” Merrick said. “When we came for you, your brother and your aunt had taken you away.”

  “Over the years, we’ve experimented. Again. And again. Light-skirts. Orphans. Women who would not be missed.” Vile excitement glimmered in Eleanora’s eyes. “But none of them possessed the power bestowed on you by the circumstances of your birth and the sacred mark.”

  The evilness of their words sickened her. “Oh dear God.”

  “We’d nearly given up. It all seemed quite hopeless,” Eleanora went on. “And then, one of Edward’s associates returned from New York carrying tales of a beautiful performer on the Manhattan stage. When we saw the handbill he’d brought back with him, we knew we’d found you. We hired a detective who obtained the proof we needed.”

  Rose steadied herself. “And then, you had Bradenmyre killed… Why?”

  “The coward wanted no part of scandal. After all, that might have compromised his standing as a high-and-mighty member of Parliament. He tried to convince me to leave Edward. He threatened to go to the press,” Eleanora said without emotion. “All in all, he sealed his own death warrant.”

  “You are pure evil.” Rose could not hold back the words.

  “Not evil, my dear. Merely practical,” Eleanora said. “So tell me—why did my mother give you the cameos? They’re quite rare and precious.”

  “I don’t know her reasons for wanting me to have them.”

  “She had the brooches crafted as a symbol of our allegiance to our calling,” Eleanora said as Merrick strolled casually to the window. “I received one upon the occasion of my sixteenth birthday.”

  “The other was intended for you,” Fincham added. “But your mother tore it away from your father and cast it into the rubbish. After that, we knew she could not be allowed to stand in our way.”

  “Those cameos are in the possession of the authorities,” Rose said. “The brooches will lead them to you.”

  “Everyone believes Portia was an eccentric old woman who wanted to scare you away from her secrets,” Fincham said. “They cannot trace the brooches to us.”

  The slight hesitancy in Fincham’s tone contradicted his confident demeanor. He was nervous. And he had good reason to be. Merrick and Eleanora would throw him to the wolves to save their own skins. If she could stir the apprehension in Fincham’s mind, she might persuade him to abandon Merrick’s scheme. She had to kindle his fear to inspire a betrayal.

  “Mrs. Rathbone did not explain the meaning behind the brooches. But she gave me something else—something that will link all of you to your crimes.”

  “You’re bluffing,” Eleanora said.

  “Am I, now?” Rose steeled her tone. “Your mother gave me a photograph of herself with my father. At the time, they were young. Mr. Fincham is in that image as well, shoulder to shoulder with Bradenmyre and Merrick, garbed in exotic robes.”

  “A meaningless photograph,” Fincham countered. “It proves nothing.”

  “Three of the people in that image are now deceased. As far as the authorities are concerned, Merrick is also dead and buried. Only you still survive.” She pulled in a steadying breath. “You made a mistake when you arranged Sir Louis Bradenmyre’s murder. His death has drawn the attention of the Home Office. And now, hours after you were prominently visible at Portia Rathbone’s ball, the widow is dead, and I have been abducted.”

  Color drained from his face. “Hundreds of people attended that ball.”

  She held his surly gaze. “Who told you to go to the function? Who arranged for you to be seen with the victims?”

  Fincham turned to Eleanora. “You…you set me up.”

  “Of course not, darling.” Her mouth pulled taut. “Why would you listen to her? She’s desperate. Lying through her teeth.”

  “What have I said that isn’t true?” Rose questioned Eleanora. “I suspect you know about that photograph. Mr. Fincham will be the one to take the blame for the murders. After all, the authorities believe Merrick was killed. Scotland Yard cannot chase down a dead man.”

  Fincham’s throat tensed. “No one can prove a blasted thing.”

  “Are you prepared to take that chance?” Rose goaded him. “Believe me, the photograph has already aroused suspicion.”

  A vein pulsed in his temple. “Who has it?” he demanded.

  She steadied her voice. “I turned it over to the Colton Agency.”

  At the mention of the name, Fincham slammed his fist against the wall. He turned to Eleanora. “Did you know Portia was going to do this?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. Why would I keep such information from you?”

  “Why indeed?” he ground out between his teeth.

  “Killing Bradenmyre has put you in a very bad position. By now, rumors of the rituals you’ve conducted have most likely made their way to the Home Secretary’s ears.” Rose’s heart thudded in her chest. If she could spur him to toss aside his allegiance to Merrick and Eleanora, she might have a chance. “Perhaps if you had a character witness—someone who would testify that you saved her life—you might escape the hangman.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked, his fury rearing its head. “You planned this, didn’t you, Eleanora?”

  “Please, Edward…you must not give your temper free rein.” Eleanora placed a hand on his shoulder. “You know—”

  “Liar.”

  “Edward, please—don’t do this.” Eleanora shot Merrick a glance. He stood by the
window, observing the scene dispassionately.

  “Enough!” With a violent movement, Fincham shoved her hard.

  Propelled backward, she staggered to stay upright. Her heel caught on her skirt.

  With a cry, she fell.

  Her head struck a marble-topped table with a sickening crack.

  Fincham’s eyes widened with shock. He rushed to the unconscious woman’s side. “Nora, wake up.”

  Rose’s stomach roiled. Choking back the bitter taste in her throat, she bolted to the door.

  Merrick seized her from behind. Dragging her back, he spun her around.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  She pictured the carved stilettos strapped to her thigh. If she managed to get to them, she could injure him. But she could not aim the strike.

  Better to wait.

  Kneeling by Eleanora, Fincham glared at her, hatred gleaming in his eyes.

  “Get this harpy out of here,” Merrick said coldly as his fingers dug into Rose’s upper arms.

  Fincham scowled as he came to his feet. “You’re a bastard, Merrick. If you think I’m going to the gallows for you, you’re wrong.”

  “At this point, you should be more concerned about living another day.” With his free hand, Merrick drew a revolver from his pocket. “I should kill you where you stand.”

  “My God—what’s happened?” Harriet rushed through the doorway.

  “We’ve had a complication,” Merrick said, clutching Rose’s upper arm with punishing force.

  He thrust Rose at Fincham. “Escort Miss Fleming to her room.” He settled his gaze on Rose. “I’ll send for you later. Don’t think to deceive me—if you try to escape, I will show you no mercy.”

  Sitting by the barred window of an immaculate yet Spartan room, Rose picked at the seam of her skirt. Stitch by stitch, she created a small opening. Working her fingers through the gap, she practiced accessing the carved stilettos secured to her thigh. She’d need them soon enough.

  Satisfied with her efforts, she scoured the chamber, searching for anything she might employ as a weapon. What she wouldn’t give for her small cudgel. She’d tucked it away in her reticule, but the velvet bag had been confiscated by her captors.