“But why would he want her dead?” Sophie questioned.
“To ensure her silence.”
“Allow me to play devil’s advocate,” Stanwyck said. “It’s possible Fincham did not play a part in those murders. If that’s the case, he may be in danger.”
Sophie nodded. “And willing to do whatever it takes to save his own neck, including aiding and abetting Rose’s abduction.”
Stanwyck placed a hand on his wife’s arm, an instinctive, protective gesture. “In either case, the man may be dangerous.”
Sophie squared her shoulders. “We must marshal our resources and find Rose.”
Her words were like a blow. Every second they devoted to figuring out Fincham’s motives was another that Rose was in danger. If Fincham was behind her abduction, where the bloody hell had he taken her?
“But what of the actress, Miss Thomas?” Sophie mused. “She’s far too young to have been a part of their rituals.”
Stanwyck nodded. “She may be a victim in this scheme.”
The actress. The words rang in Mac’s brain. The high-and-mighty shrew is financing the play.
Mac worked through the puzzle in his mind. “Miss Thomas is not a victim. I feel it in my bones. She’s in this with Fincham up to her neck.”
“What makes you think that?” Stanwyck questioned.
“In some way, she’s tied to Portia Rathbone—the widow laid out the money for the blasted play Eleanora Thomas is performing in.”
“Could they be related?” Sophie’s forehead furrowed. “I hadn’t given it any thought, but there is a keen resemblance between the two women.”
“You could be on to something,” Mac said.
“Their hair is the same shade, nearly black. Portia Rathbone’s locks had begun to gray, but her natural hue is very dark,” Sophie went on. “Their blue eyes are both almond-shaped. Even the contours of their faces are similar.”
“There’s one problem with that notion—Portia Rathbone did not bear children,” Stanwyck pointed out.
“That we know of, Gavin. Eleanora might not be Mrs. Rathbone’s child,” Sophie said. “But I’d stake my last shilling they are kin.” She turned to Mac. “You see it too, don’t you?”
“I’d wager there’s blood between them,” Mac agreed. “With her last breaths, Mrs. Rathbone uttered the word daughter. Eleanora Thomas may be in danger. Or she may be a threat. But either way, she is the key to finding Rose.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
With the first light of day at his back, Mac arrived at the Colton Agency office. Sophie had beaten him to the place. Palms pressed flat against her mahogany desk, she studied a page from the Herald’s archives. Tapping a slender finger against what appeared to be an exceedingly brief story, she glanced up to Mac.
“I’ve found something rather interesting,” she said with her usual confidence. “Eleanora Thomas is a stage name.”
“You don’t say.” Jennie Colton looked up from the document she was examining.
“Evidently, her ambitions for a life on the stage did not sit well with her father,” Sophie went on, her energy unflagging despite the fact she’d been searching for clues throughout the night. She motioned Mac and Jennie closer. “Come…take a look.”
Mac stared down at the ink-drawn sketch on the paper. A beautiful, dark-haired young woman wearing a sophisticated gown smiled demurely from the page. Despite the grainy quality of the image on the yellowed newsprint, the woman the artist had drawn bore a striking resemblance to Eleanora Thomas.
Miss Nora Bradenmyre—piano recital. December 31.
“By Minerva’s spear, I would not have guessed it,” Jennie said.
Suddenly, Mac saw it, too. “Good God. I knew Sir Louis had a daughter. There was an estrangement of some sort—she went off to study on the Continent and chose to stay abroad. But that’s her…that’s Eleanora Thomas.”
“Were there other children?” Jennie inquired.
“A brother,” Sophie said. “But he died as a young boy, leaving Nora Bradenmyre heiress to her father’s estate.”
“Including his blasted country house.” Suddenly, it all made sense. “By God, that’s where they’ve taken Rose. Away from the city. Out of sight.”
“You believe Eleanora is in on the scheme?” Jennie’s brow furrowed.
Mac nodded. “Given the facts, it’s a reasonable conclusion.”
“Even if she wasn’t involved in his plans, Fincham might have deceived her into giving him access to the estate,” Sophie added.
“Quite so.” Jennie marched to the door and summoned her lead researcher. The dedicated gent had been working through the night to locate the information they needed. “Well done, Mr. Lang,” she said. “Now, if you will be so kind as to summon Mr. Colton from home. Tell him to bring Bertram and our best operatives.”
“You don’t need to do this. I vowed to protect Rose.” Mac pulled in a breath, calming the fury in his blood. “I meant every word.”
Jennie met his words with a gentle half smile. “You will protect her, MacAllister. If Fincham has indeed abducted Rose, our operatives will round up the vermin involved in his plot. But as for Mr. Fincham—we will leave him to you.”
…
The soft scrape of metal in the door lock roused Rose from a fitful slumber. Harriet entered quietly and placed a tray bearing food on a side table. She poured steaming hot tea into a china cup, then turned to Rose.
“You’ll find water in the basin. I’ve brought you some food to eat after you freshen yourself.”
“I do not possess an appetite,” Rose replied.
“Don’t be stubborn,” the older woman admonished. “You must keep up your strength.”
“Must I?”
“I hadn’t expected you to be childish,” Harriet snipped. “Now, do as you’ve been told.”
The door closed behind her back, and the key rattled in the lock. Rose tossed aside the quilt with which she’d covered herself and pushed herself out of the bed. Washing with the water and clean cloth Harriet had left behind, she grew a bit more awake and aware. Lifting a still-warm scone from the tray, she took a few bites, then sipped the tea.
The key jangled again. She turned to the door as Harriet entered again.
The older woman’s attention settled on the fraying tear in Rose’s skirt. Her mouth pinched with disapproval. “That gown is no longer acceptable. I’ve brought you something more suitable. Do dress quickly. He does not like to be kept waiting.”
“Perhaps if he—whoever that may be—did not send ruffians to attack women, my gown would be in far better condition.” Rose took the modest gray dress from her hands. “You’ll excuse me if I do not give a fig over whether or not my lack of haste inconveniences the man who had me drugged and dragged away from the ball.”
Her breaths coming fast and harsh, Harriet seized Rose by the shoulders. Her mouth stretched tight as she dug her bony fingers into Rose and gave her a stern shake.
“You fool—I, for one, do not wish to anger him.”
Gasping with shock, Rose studied the woman’s creased face. “Why, you’re afraid of him.”
“I know better than to cross him,” Harriet said in a hushed tone. “I must warn you to hold your tongue. It will be better for you if you say little and do as you’re told.”
Is that so? A retort danced on the tip of her tongue, but Rose held it back. Riling up this woman served no purpose. Perhaps—only perhaps—there was a chance of converting her to an ally.
“I’ll leave you to make yourself presentable.” Harriet went to the door.
Rose said as Harriet’s hand closed over the latch, “Wait—”
“Do you require assistance?” Harriet asked over her shoulder.
“Yes.”
Harriet began to unfasten the buttons that ran along the length of Rose’s back. “You shouldn’t have come back,” she murmured. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Rose pulled in a low breath, steadying her nerv
es. “I do have my regrets.”
“For years, he searched for you. His failure ate at him. Year after year. And now, you’re here.” Harriet tugged a button through its loop fastener. “If you anger him, things will not go well for you.”
A shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly air in the chamber danced over Rose’s skin. “This man you’ve referred to—he is your employer?”
“No,” Harriet snipped.
“Then who is he to you?”
“My, so inquisitive.” Harriet said, freeing another button.
“It’s evident you are afraid of him.”
“Your curiosity does not serve your interests.”
“Tell me, Harriet—why do you fear him?”
“I do not fear him. But I know the truth.” The matron smoothed Rose’s hair away from the top buttons, then eased the gown over Rose’s shoulders. “I know how he is—how he always has been.”
“You’ve known him a very long time, then.”
“Yes.” Harriet held up the dress she’d brought in. “I do believe this will fit you. And the color suits your complexion.”
“At the moment, I could not say my appearance is a concern.”
Harriet shrugged. “You are a foolish girl. I suspect you will learn the hard way.” Her hand went to the scar. “You see, my brother always had a temper. Even as a lad.”
“Your brother is the one behind this?”
Harriet’s smile might’ve been described as serene if not for the malicious glimmer in her eyes. “He is very clever. You’ll see.”
As she assisted Rose with the dress, her responses to Rose’s questions became deliberately vague.
“Quite lovely,” Harriet murmured. “All those years ago, he chose well. You were a beautiful child, even through your tears as he applied the mark.”
Her words struck Rose with the force of a slap she hadn’t seen coming.
“The mark?” The question sounded like a gasp. “You…you were there?”
Harriet nodded. “Your father offered you as a token of his loyalty to the cabal.”
Rose stared at her, wide-eyed. “My heaven.”
“Heaven has nothing to do with it.” Harriet’s thin lips curved into a smirk. “Our practices are ancient and timeless. If one is wise, one harnesses the power around them.”
Staring down at her trembling hands, Rose fought to control her emotions. Her heart thudded wildly. “What was my father’s part in this?”
“He wanted the power my brother could give him. But in the end, your father wasn’t willing…he was not a man of true conviction.” Her mouth set in a serpentine smile. “Great power requires sacrifice. But he was not strong enough to pay the price. He betrayed his vow.”
A lump seared Rose’s throat. “What…what was the price?”
“You already know the answer to that question—don’t you, dear?” With that, she strolled to the door. “Finish dressing. Ten minutes. No more.”
The door closed behind her with a quiet click.
Rose sank down upon the edge of the bed. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
He was not willing to pay the price.
Her father had not followed through on his promise to offer her to the bastards.
God above, what had been his vow?
What living hell had he mired her in?
Fear crashed over her. Knees weak, she rose. Fighting tears, she bowed her head and uttered a prayer.
With quivering fingers, she fished the bundle of reed-thin stilettos from their hiding place beneath the mattress. She lifted her skirts and secured the bamboo rods to her garter, then smoothed her petticoats and skirt back into place.
Combing her hair with her fingers, she peered into the looking glass. Strain pulled her mouth taut, and her complexion seemed unusually pale.
Have courage. Silently, she murmured a prayer for strength.
She would not crumble.
She would not succumb to her fear.
No, she would survive.
A quarter hour later, Harriet returned. She led Rose to a cavernous room lined with bookshelves and furnished in rich jeweled tones. The silver and brass pentagram upon the polished wood desk offered the only indication this chamber was not utilized by an ordinary man of means.
“Please, do make yourself comfortable,” Harriet urged, ushering her to a velveteen upholstered chair.
“Comfortable? Surely you’re jesting.” Rose didn’t bother hiding her contempt.
The woman’s tightly pinned tendrils trembled a bit as she shook her head. “I’d suggest you do as I say. Defiance will not serve you well.”
Rose envisioned the bamboo sticks secured to her leg. The mental image brought her a modicum of confidence. She prayed the weapons would buy her time to escape.
She cast her gaze about the room, taking in the scene. Brilliant, muted landscapes and portraits in gilded frames adorned the walls. Ignoring Harriet’s admonition to sit in the overstuffed chair, she wandered over to one of the paintings. The artist had beautifully captured the splendor of the quiet countryside. To its right, an amazingly lifelike work in oil drew her eye. Where had she seen the older gentleman whose piercing stare was captured in the portrait?
By thunder, she’d seen this man—in the photograph Portia Rathbone had given her. But in that image, Bradenmyre had been far younger than the artist had captured on this canvas.
Why was a portrait of the murdered man in this room?
Where in blazes am I?
“It’s quite a good likeness. Wouldn’t you agree?” A feminine, lilting voice jolted Rose from her thoughts.
Turning, she came face-to-face with the woman she’d met at Portia Rathbone’s ball. Eleanora Thomas. She regarded Rose with an assessing glint lighting her deep blue irises.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Eleanora went on.
Shock cascaded over Rose in an icy deluge. “Why…why are you here?”
The faintest of smiles lifted her mouth. “This is my home, Miss Fleming.”
Rose collected herself and met the actress’s amused gaze. “In that case, you might begin by telling me where I am.”
“In the countryside, not far from London. My father loved it here.”
“Your father?” The question left her lips in a gasp.
“Perhaps you did not know of him, given you’ve been in America. My father considered himself rather an important man. Campbell may have mentioned his name—Sir Louis Bradenmyre.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Rose’s knees wobbled. Reaching out, she gripped the back of a chair. “I would offer my sympathies on his death, but I sense they are not wanted.”
“Pishposh. What use do I have for sympathy?” Eleanora scoffed. “He was ashamed of me. My father, with all his debauchery and rituals, considered me an embarrassment for acting on the stage. But Edward ensured he did not change his will. After all, I was his sole heir.”
“Did you kill him?”
“My, you are direct, aren’t you?” Eleanora regarded her beneath a veil of lashes. “But your question does deserve an answer—in a word, no. Mr. Brock took care of that nasty bit of business.”
“But you arranged it?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t leave something of such importance to chance. Unlike my mother—consumed with her tarot cards and crystals as she was, she failed to see what was going on right beneath her pointy little nose.”
Rose studied Eleanora’s features. There was something very familiar about her expression, about the way she regarded Rose like a curiosity to be studied.
Suddenly, she knew. It became clear to her then.
“Dear God, she was your mother. I can see it now.”
Eleanora looked rather bored. “To whom do you refer, dear?”
“You are her daughter—you are Portia Rathbone’s child.”
“Is it so very obvious?”
“You have the same eyes.”
“I suppose we do.” Eleanora appeared to
mull the notion. “Clever girl. Such a pity we cannot be friends. I suspect we might have gotten along famously.”
Rose dragged in a breath. “Portia Rathbone was murdered tonight.”
A flicker of emotion darkened Eleanora’s eyes. “I do believe I shall miss her.”
“You…you murdered her?”
“She was dying. One might consider her death an act of mercy.”
Rose fought to control the fear rising within her. “Why are you doing this?”
Eleanora shrugged. “Mother had become unpredictable. Refused to be controlled.” She stared down at her hands, twisting her fingers into a loose knot. “When Mother betrayed us…when she reached out to you, she forced our hand. We couldn’t take that risk. Not even for her.”
Rose struggled for words. “You’ll end up on the gallows.”
“So very dramatic.” Eleanora waved away her words. “I thought I was the thespian.”
Behind them, Edward Fincham strode into the room. “Good morning, Miss Fleming. I trust you were able to rest.” His manner unnervingly casual, as if this were the most normal of situations, he poured himself a cup of tea from the silver pot Harriet had left behind.
“As well as could be expected.”
“I do apologize for any inconvenience. It’s been rather difficult to get you alone.” He took a drink. “Campbell and his associates tried to stand in my way. But Portia was able to manipulate you. We knew what she was up to, and we turned her betrayal to our advantage.”
“Mother didn’t have long on earth. Her hatred for Cyril Merrick made her a liability. She wanted vengeance, and she saw you as the instrument for it. We didn’t know what she would do next,” Eleanora explained. “She left us no choice.”
“The woman was insufferable.” Fincham paced over to the fireplace. “She signed her own death warrant with her little games. Did she think we wouldn’t find out what she’d given you?”
When a Lady Kisses a Scot Page 21
