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?”

“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 around 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.”