Chapter Sixteen

The stark tension in Rose’s voice cut through Mac. Her tone was even, but an undercurrent of apprehension touched each word. As she kept her gaze on the brooch, her top teeth grazed her lower lip. The very sight of it appeared to disturb her. Was that fear glimmering in her dark green eyes?

What did she know about the bizarre bit of ornamentation?

“Rose, who gave this to you?” he asked.

She met his eyes, displaying no trace of evasion. “When I went to the theater, I encountered a woman named Portia. She presented it to me.”

Good God. It had been a while since he’d heard that name. The hairs raised at the back of his neck. If his suspicions held true, this was not good news.

Jennie’s eyes widened slightly. “Portia—you met with the Widow Rathbone?”

“I do believe that was her.”

“You’re not certain?” Mac pressed.

“I could not attest to it under oath, but I am reasonably sure of her identity.”

Jennie let out a low breath. “I must say, I had not anticipated that.”

“Bloody hell,” Mac muttered. “I presume you were in America when her name dominated the London papers.”

Rose shot him a little scowl. “I’m far too tired for clues. Please tell me what you’re getting at.”

“One might say she’s rather infamous,” Jennie said.

“I had not encountered her before that night at the theater. I know very little about her…only what she chose to tell me. What did the woman do that’s so very sinister?”

Mac met Rose’s eyes. “A few years ago, Portia Rathbone stabbed her lover to death.”

“The woman I met in that theater is a killer?” Rose scoffed.

“Yes.” Mac was blunt. “She didn’t deny the act. She was caught literally red-handed, knife in hand, his blood covering her fingers. The killing was the scandal of London.”

“Her motive was the only question. Was it murder? Or had she acted in self-defense?” Jennie added.

Rose’s features drew tighter with tension. “The woman I met at the theater did not appear to possess the ability to walk on her own, much less kill a man with a knife. It’s simply not plausible.”

“At the time of the killing, Mrs. Rathbone was not in a wheelchair,” Mac explained. “She suffered a fall down the stairs of her mansion not long afterward. Her injuries were severe. She was not expected to survive.”

“But she defied the grim prognosis,” Jennie said. “I’m told Mrs. Rathbone still possesses the ability to walk, but with great effort. She bears a pronounced limp. As such, she utilizes a wheeled chair when she is in public.”

Rose laced her fingers together, as if to steady her hands. “Tell me this—if the woman I met at the theater is a murderess, how is it that she was sitting in a luxurious private box, taking in a play?”

“She accused her lover of attacking her in a fit of jealous rage. As such, she’d had no choice but to defend herself,” MacAllister said.

“Her lover died before investigators could ask him any questions,” Jennie said. “Mrs. Rathbone bore a few faint bruises, marks the police inspectors theorized might have been self-inflicted.”

“There were signs of a struggle, but the detectives suspected the scene might have been staged. But there was no way to confirm their doubts. The case did not go to trial.”

“Could she have been telling the truth?” Rose said.

“That is indeed a possibility.” Jennie stood, smoothing out the creases in her skirts. “But there is something else you should know. The man who died at her hands was her late husband’s business partner. His name was Jacob Merrick.”

Rose stifled a gasp. “Merrick?”

“Cyril Merrick’s older brother followed their father into the family business. Over the years, he invested their wealth in numerous enterprises. A few years before his death, Jacob Merrick entered into a partnership with Mrs. Rathbone’s late husband to expand his business into a passenger transport endeavor—steamships crossing the ocean, catering to travelers who wished for a luxurious voyage. They named the company Neptune-Atlantic Enterprises.”

A glimmer of understanding darkened Rose’s eyes. “I sailed on one of their vessels.”

“Someone within the company might have discovered you were on that ship and notified Portia Rathbone,” Jennie said.

“When her husband died, Mrs. Rathbone inherited his interest in the firm,” Mac added. “After she killed Jacob Merrick, she was able to take full control.”

“Dear God, she benefited from his death.” Rose’s mouth parted in shock. “But how did she take control? What of the man’s heirs?”

“Jacob Merrick’s wife predeceased him, and they had no children,” Mac said. “He bequeathed his share of ownership in the company to Mrs. Rathbone.”

“His relatives came forward, claiming his will was a forgery. But they were unable to prove their accusations,” Jennie added. “Oddly enough, Cyril Merrick remained silent throughout the battle. Rumor has it he was in league with his brother’s killer.”

Rose pressed her fingertips to her temples. “This is all so very confounding. I feel as if I’m trapped in a labyrinth.”

“A man like Merrick is not capable of family loyalty,” Mac said.

“I don’t doubt the snake was incapable of giving a fig about his flesh and blood. But why would Portia Rathbone ally herself with the man? When I spoke with her, she made it clear she detested Cyril Merrick.”

“You believed her?” Jennie questioned gently.

Rose stared down at her fingertips. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“Why did she give this brooch to you?” Jennie pressed.

“I don’t know…well, that’s not entirely true. She’d employed it as proof of her connection with my father.”

A light rapping tore Mac’s attention to the door. Bugger it, this was no time for interruptions.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but a courier has arrived with a package for Miss Fleming,” Irene Pearson called through the still-closed panel.

“Do come in,” he replied.

The agent entered quickly.

“You recognized the courier?” Mac asked.

“Yes, it was Jim,” Miss Pearson said. “The same agent-in-training who transported Miss Fleming’s belongings from the hotel. He stated it had been screened by our trained hounds—they detected no trace of explosives.”

Jennie glanced toward the brown-paper wrapped parcel. “Very good. We cannot be too careful.”

“Still, I should examine this,” Mac said, taking the package from Mrs. Pearson’s hands. “I’ll ask you all to stand back.”

With a nod to Mac, Jennie led Rose into the corridor. The women peered through the door as he peeled away the paper, revealing a small silver box.

Examining the exterior of the container, he searched for any sign of explosives or hidden blades. Satisfied that the box had not been rigged to cause harm, he slowly tipped up the lid.

An ornate ring lay upon a bed of burgundy satin. A golden topaz gem gleamed against black-enameled gold. Gold flakes surrounded the stone, resembling the sun’s rays. Carefully, he lifted the ring from the box. A tiny glass compartment had been molded into the back of the ring. A slender lock of reddish blond hair rested within it.

The ring had been crafted as an act of mourning.

Lifting the band to the light, he read the initials engraved within the band. RMF. Rose’s mother had been named Rowena. Had this ring been commissioned upon her death?

Turning the enameled circle between his fingers, he spotted a tiny symbol etched into the underside. A falcon, outlined in gold against the matte black surface.

Good God. Had this ring been designed by someone in the throes of mourning? Or was it intended to torment Rose with fear?

“Evidently, the blasted box is not going to kill us all,” Jennie called from the doorway. “What do you have there?”

He hesitated. When Rose saw the ring—and the hieroglyph of a falcon carved into the enamel—she’d likely find it a shock to the system. But she needed to see it. She needed to know if this ornate ring symbolized a threat against her.

“Come see for yourself,” he said, motioning the women to return.

“The box is quite lovely.” Jennie frowned as she peered into the container. “Pity the ring is rather macabre.”

“Rose, do you recognize this?” he asked, removing the band from the box.

For a long moment, she stared at it. Eyes wide. Mouth pulled tight at the corners. Her face betrayed her instinctive response to the ring.

“Oh dear God.” Her near-whisper cut through the silence.

“What is it, Rose?” Jennie came closer, studying the delicately etched item.

She trailed her fingertip over the initials engraved in gold. “I had not expected this.”

“Was this ring commissioned after your mother’s death?” he asked with as much gentleness as he could muster.

“No.” Her teeth grazed her bottom lip as she held it up to the light, examining the underside of the band. “This…this thing was not made as a memento of my mother.”

She thrust the ring at Mac. “I don’t want to touch this.”

“Rose, what has upset you?” Jennie asked.

“Look at it,” Rose whispered. “It’s like something out of a nightmare.”

“What do you make of this?” He handed the ring to Jennie.

“I suspect this came from Mrs. Rathbone. I think it’s high time she answered a few questions.” She touched a fingertip to the intricate rendering of a falcon. “Rose, tell me what this means. You know, don’t you?”

Rose gave her head a miserable shake. “I don’t know who had this made. Or why.”

“You said this ring was not made in memory of your mother. Then who might it be?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t know.”

“But those were your mother’s initials. Perhaps this ring was made as a token after she died,” Mac suggested.

“That cannot be.” A light sheen glistened in her eyes. “My mother’s name was Rowena Ruth Fleming. R.R.F. Not R.M.F. And her hair was dark, like rich brown chocolate.”

Sickening understanding plowed into Mac like an unseen brawler’s fist. “Then whose hair is beneath that glass?”

“MacAllister, do you remember my middle name?”

“Yes.” Margaret.

R.M.F.

Bloody hell.

Rose held his gaze, her voice steady. “I believe that lock of hair was taken from me when I was a child. That mourning ring has been crafted for me.”

…

Rose paced the floor, nervous energy sparked by fear infusing every step. “It’s clear someone wishes to frighten me. I’d say they’re succeeding.”

“We need to question the agent who delivered that ghoulish piece of jewelry.” Despite MacAllister’s cool, rational tone, tension filled every word, every movement.

Jennie frowned. “By all accounts, the agent is a very level-headed and trustworthy sort. The package might have been placed in Rose’s hotel room by someone on the hotel staff.”

Irene studied the mourning ring under a powerful light. “Whoever crafted this possesses a high degree of skill. The image is quite intricate—rather remarkable given the exceedingly small canvas.”

MacAllister gave a thoughtful nod. “Mrs. Rathbone has ample funds to pay a skilled craftsman.”

“She’d likely know who to turn to for such a task,” Irene went on. “I have a source within the Yard who is extremely interested in Portia Rathbone’s activities in the antiquities market. She’s suspected of trading forged artifacts. Evidently, someone connected with her company sold a scepter to a prominent museum. The piece was supposedly crafted in the eleventh century, but unfortunately for the buyer, the scepter was scarcely older than me.”

“Forged antiquities, very much like these bizarre brooches.” Mac pondered the connection. “That might tie in with this investigation.”

“I have it on good authority that Mrs. Rathbone is throwing a grand ball tomorrow night to celebrate the acquisition of a certain queen’s crown by the British Museum,” Irene said. “It’s expected to be a grand affair.”

“Odd that I hadn’t heard,” Jennie said.

“Evidently, the event is a rather spur-of-the-moment idea,” Irene explained. “Mrs. Rathbone commandeered the use of the ballroom at the Downeyfield Hotel from an American tycoon’s daughter who’d planned to hold a charity ball there at the same time. I’m told the widow offered the manager a tidy sum to cancel the American’s reservation. The manager indicated that Mrs. Rathbone’s guest list is a well-guarded secret, but I may be able to convince him to confide what he knows to me.”

A sly little grin played on Jennie’s mouth. “MacAllister, I know where you will be tomorrow evening.”

His brow furrowed. “I dread to ask—what do you have in mind?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Jennie smiled. “You will escort Miss Fleming to the ball. Her very presence might unnerve Mrs. Rathbone. With any luck, the widow might well make a mistake. A bit of liquor is known to loosen lips, as is nervous tension. If she suspects a journalist is investigating her activities, she may well become unnerved by the prospect.”

“You know how I abhor those functions,” he shot back. “All that forced merriment is enough to create dyspepsia.”

“We need you there, Campbell.” Jennie flashed a challenging gaze. “Mrs. Rathbone is no doubt well aware of your position at the Herald. Your very presence may trigger a sense of alarm that could lead the woman to betray a secret or two. You will be far more effective than another agent she does not connect with the press.”

“Have you considered that we do not need to draw attention to Rose’s presence in London?”

“At this point, the villain who’s targeted her knows she’s still in the city,” Jennie said. “If there were any doubts, her attempt at a rendezvous with Mr. Crabtree erased them.”

MacAllister set his jaw, seeming to ponder Jennie’s words. “I will not be a part of a plan that does not ensure Rose’s safety,” he countered. “At this point, the wisest course would be for her to leave the city.”

Rose studied him beneath her lashes. The caring in his voice was very real, and it touched her heart. But she would not scurry off and hide like a frightened child.

“I’ve no intention of leaving London,” she spoke up. “I won’t lie to you—Mr. Crabtree’s murder stunned me. But I must see this through.”

He turned to her, heat warming his dark eyes. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I will not run, MacAllister. Even if I wanted to escape the danger, there is nothing to stop the threat from pursuing me. We both know my secret is out. Whoever is behind these attacks is well aware that I am alive. Hiding—whether behind four walls or an ocean away—would be futile. I intend to see the scoundrels who put my aunt in her grave brought to justice. I won’t rest until they’re behind bars. Or dead.”

“Indeed,” Jennie agreed. “We need to lure the vermin out of the holes in which they lurk. It is high time Rose Fleming makes her presence known throughout London.”

MacAllister’s eyes narrowed. “You’re suggesting she abandon her alias?”

“That is precisely what I am saying,” Jennie said.

“And what of the risk? If we are going to pursue this strategy, we must have a plan in place to ensure her safety,” he said. “We cannot assume anyone on the hotel staff or any of the guests are beyond suspicion.”

“Quite so,” Jennie agreed. “We will assign our top agents to infiltrate the premises. There is also the matter of your invitations. I will see that the two of you, as well as Miss Pearson and Jeremy, are added to the guest list.”

Rose edged closer to MacAllister. His nearness calmed her racing thoughts. This was all proceeding at a lightning-fast pace.

Rose sighed. “I never intended to draw you into what is essentially my battle.”

MacAllister drew his fingertips over her cheek. When he spoke, his gravel-edged tones gave her hope she hadn’t realized she possessed.

“Rose, this is our battle.”