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 little 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.”

Sophie’s brows rose. “You suspect Fincham had something to do with Mrs. Rathbone’s murder?”

Mac envisioned the image of Edward Fincham and Mrs. Rathbone in their youths. “I’ve no proof, but there’s no denying the connection between them. The photograph Rose possesses proves Merrick, Bradenmyre, and Rose’s father participated in some sort of ritual with Fincham and Mrs. Rathbone in their youth. He’s the last survivor.”

“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.”