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.

Hours ticked by with an agonizing lack of speed. Beyond the window, the sun crept toward the horizon. Leaning back in the wing chair, she closed her eyes. MacAllister’s face appeared in her thoughts.

He was searching for her.

In her heart, she knew that.

And he would find her. She had to believe that.

She could not lose faith.

The key scraped in the latch. Fincham opened the door, and Eleanora stormed into the room. The first mottling of bruises marked her jaw and cheek.

She stalked up to Rose. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t lie to me, you conniving witch. You stole it.”

Rose came to her feet. “You’ve truly gone mad.”

Cool hatred glimmered in Eleanora’s eyes. “Tell me—where is the ring?”

For a heartbeat, Rose could only stare at her. So, Portia Rathbone had not lied about the mourning jewelry. Her macabre gift had been an act of protection, not malice.

“I don’t know—”

The vicious slap of Eleanora’s palm against Rose’s cheek caught her unaware. Pain rippled through her cheek. She staggered against the force of the blow.

Curbing the instinct to retaliate, Rose pulled in a low breath. While Fincham blocked the doorway, Eleanora studied her with desperate eyes.

“You’re a poor liar.” Eleanora laced the words with venom. “Without that ring, we cannot conduct the ritual. Mother knew its role. She must have given it to you. Where is it?”

Rose willed herself to face Eleanora’s fury without flinching. “Why would Mrs. Rathbone do such a thing?”

Eleanora glared at Fincham. “Do something… She knows where it is.”

“Blast it, you knew Portia was playing her bizarre little game. You should’ve stopped her.” He kneaded the back of his neck, defeat dimming his gaze. “It’s over. The ring isn’t here.”

“We will retrieve it,” Eleanora insisted. “We shall demand it as a ransom.”

“I’ve had enough,” he said. “I won’t do your dirty work anymore. Nor your father’s.”

“No,” Eleanora said, low and cold. “You can’t leave me—we have to finish this. Father…he’ll kill us all.”

Slowly he shook his head. “Your mother’s game of chess has reached its end. Check. And mate.” He lifted his hand in a mocking salute. “The widow Rathbone has had the last word. Well played, Portia.”

He walked slowly to the door.

Eleanora’s gaze turned icy. “I won’t let you go.” Silently, she slipped a small dagger from within the folds of her skirts.

As Rose cried out a warning, he turned.

Eleanora buried the blade in his chest.

Shock and disbelief filled his eyes. “Nora,” he murmured, a raw-edged sound of misery.

Gasping for air, he sank to his knees. He collapsed, still and lifeless on the floor.

Eleanora stared down at him in horror. “What have I done?”

Rose shook off her own shock. She had to get past Eleanora.

She’d have only one chance.