In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (15 page)

He looked at Scrope, then the maid. “You two wait here. I’ll be back within the hour.”

The nurse nodded in ready acquiescence. Scrope, however, still looked stunned.

It had been, Jeremy now realized, a serious flaw in his planning. He hadn’t thought of, let alone assessed, her abilities, nor what his plan as originally formulated would require of her. He hadn’t really thought of her at all, not as an active participant.

He’d thought of her more as a manuscript to be fetched.

Seated beside him in the back of a dray, a pile of cabbages separating them from the farmer perched on the front axle guiding his horse, Eliza sighed softly. “I’m sorry. I know you expected to go much faster than this.”

His gaze on the road reeling out behind them, he shook his head. “No — don’t apologize. If you do, I’ll have to apologize back.” He shot her a smile he hoped was encouraging. “I should have explained our plan better and asked for your opinion. If I had, we could have hired a curricle and pair instead of the horses, and all would have been well.”

They’d left the horses at Slateford. Even at a slow trot, Eliza had been growing more and more tense and, he suspected, more fearful she would again lose control and be thrown — which would have most likely ensured that she would have been.

By the time they’d reached the village, that fear had infected him, too. Broken bones or worse wouldn’t aid their flight. But the tiny tavern had had no carriages for hire, not even a gig, but the farmer had been about to set out and had offered to take them on to the next town. The farmer was going as far as Kingsknowe and felt sure they’d be able to get a gig there.

At least the farmer had already delivered most of his cabbages and his horse was strong; they were rolling along at a steady clip, a touch faster than a slow trot.

So they’d improved their circumstances — the speed at which they were traveling — but not by much. Against that, however, Eliza was no longer in danger of taking a spill, and both of them were a lot less tense.

At least on that account.

He was still finding it difficult to ignore her — or rather the effect she had on him — in her new incarnation, still having to force himself not to ogle her long, breeches-clad legs.

The tension that caused …

Dragging his mind from that distraction, he refocused on the immediate problem. The morning was full about them; it was pleasant enough rolling along in the cart, especially with Eliza beside him, but going at such a slow pace, exposed and unable to take evasive action, if pursuit came charging toward them, they would be the equivalent of sitting ducks. Pulling out his fob-watch, he glanced at the face.

Eliza leaned closer to look, too.

The fresh scent of her hair — rose and lavender — wreathed through his senses; the suddenly closer, distinctly feminine warmth, grabbed his awareness and wouldn’t let go.

“Nine o’clock, near enough.” She straightened, shifting away.

He wanted her back, close. Squelched the thought. “Yes.” The word was weak. He cleared his throat. Looked down at the watch in his hand …

What had he been thinking?

He frowned, tucked the watch back into his pocket. “It’s taken us three hours to get … not very far. We’ll need to find a gig and drive like the devil. We’ll probably need to readjust our plan, too, but we can’t make any decisions until we know what our options are.”

He felt her gaze on his face and turned to meet it.

Eliza smiled. “You’re being very understanding. I appreciate it.” He hadn’t railed or ranted; he hadn’t made her feel responsible, or made her feel even worse than she already did, about disrupting his plans.

He hadn’t even made her feel stupid — more stupid — about not being able to ride well. He’d accepted both her and her shortcomings, and was reworking his plan without even a hint of contempt or sarcasm.

“Whatever we do, I’ll do the very best I can not to slow us down.”

He inclined his head, then looked back along the road. “I just hope our decoy is faring better than us and has drawn all pursuit far away.”

After trading inventive expletives for the first ten minutes of their enforced trek, Cobby and Hugo were trudging along in silence, one on either side of poor Jasper, when the thunder of approaching hooves had them halting and looking back along the highway.

Several carriages and the early mail had lumbered past them, but this was the first rider to come their way.

They glimpsed the rider, coming on fast on a largish horse, before a dip in the road hid him from view.

Cobby viewed Hugo critically. “Your wig’s askew.”

On the verge-side of their equipage, Hugo righted the wig, then flipped up the cloak’s hood and stepped closer to Jasper, so that the horse largely hid him from anyone on the road.

The horseman crested a rise a little way back.

Studying the rider, Cobby stiffened. “He’s got a pistol.”

“In a holster or out?” Hugo kept his head down.

“In his hand.”

The horseman came down on them in a flurry of heavy hooves. Hauling back on his reins, he waved the pistol at them both. “Hold hard! Don’t move!”

Cobby spread his arms, palms empty. “We’ve already stopped. Who the devil are you?” He did his best imitation of Jeremy’s voice.

The horseman frowned. Pistol still in his hand, but not pointed anywhere in particular, he quieted his prancing horse, then looked searchingly at Cobby, then at Hugo, then raked the curricle with a knowing eye.

Frown deepening, he fixed his gaze on Cobby. “You take this curricle from the Rising Sun Inn on South Bridge Street?”

“Yes.” Cobby nodded pugnaciously. “What of it? It’s mine.”

The horseman eyed him for a moment, then looked hard at Hugo. Lastly, he looked at Jasper, then shook his head. “Never mind. Thought you were someone else.”

“Indeed?” Cobby set his hands on his hips. “Is that any reason to come bailing us up waving a pistol? As you can see, our horse has gone lame —”

The rider swore, kicked his horse around, and took off back toward Edinburgh.

Cobby stood in the road and watched him go.

Once the rider disappeared back over the crest, Hugo came around Jasper and joined Cobby.

The rider reappeared further along the road, riding hell-for-leather back to Edinburgh.

Cobby grimaced and reverted to his own voice to say, “Well, that didn’t take long.”

Putting back his hood, Hugo removed the golden wig and scratched his head. “I really thought our decoy mission would last longer — distract them longer — than just a few hours. I assume that was Taylor, the coachman-cum-guard.”

“Do you think he recognized Jer’s curricle?” Cobby turned to pat Jasper’s long neck. “Or Jasper here?”

“He might have, but as they don’t know who Jer is, they can’t make anything of that.” Hugo considered. “Most likely they’ll just discard us as an unconnected coincidence — nothing to do with Eliza.”

“When Taylor gets back with the news, they’ll search again to see if they can pick up Jer’s trail.”

“No,” Hugo said. “They don’t know Jer exists. Or if they do, they think he’s you. But they’ll quarter the town for Eliza, or any sight of her, which, with luck, won’t get them far.”

Cobby shifted. “So what now for us?” He glanced across at Hugo. “What should we do?”

Both cogitated, then Hugo said, “I’d feel much more comfortable if I knew Jer and Eliza had got well away. Perhaps”— he swung around and looked down the road toward Dalkeith —“we should go on and get a fresh horse as planned, then drive back to Edinburgh and check with Meggin, and, if she’s heard nothing to the contrary, check with the Grassmarket stables, too. If all seems to have fallen out as per Jer’s plan, then we can drive out again along the Great North Road and still be at Wolverstone before him.”

Brows raised, Hugo turned back to Cobby.

Meeting his gaze, Cobby nodded. “Good thinking. That’s what we’ll do.”

It took McKinsey some time to locate the particular urchin he wanted, then another half hour for the urchin to seek and report back.

“Three flash gents h’escorted a lady through the tunnels last night. Well, h’early this morning, to be h’exact.” Rabbit, so called because of his ears and his ability to scamper quickly through the vaults, added, “Three of the Dougan lads acted as guides-like. Said one of the gents paid them well.”

Perched on the remnants of an old stone wall not far from the mouth of the South Bridge vaults — the tunnels weren’t built for men of his size — McKinsey received the news with outward patience. “Did the Dougan lads say anything about the three men? Or the lady herself?”

“Just that the lady had bright gold hair. She had a cloak on, and put up the hood, but they saw her hair afore she did.”

“And the men?”

“Seems they were well spoken, sort of quiet-like — not the usual roisterers come looking for a lark. Serious men. From how they spoke, two were from here — h’Edinburgh — but the other, the man who paid, he was h’English. Fer certain.”

“Did anyone see where they went after they came out?”

“Nah.” Rabbit nodded toward the town. “Just went out into the night, they did.”

“In which direction? Palace or Castle?”

“Palace. Confident like — they seemed to know where they was going.”

“Excellent.” McKinsey reached into his pocket, sorted coins in his palm. “You’ve done well.”

Rabbit — who knew exactly who McKinsey really was — straightened to attention and tugged his lank forelock. “Thank you, m’lord.”

McKinsey held out several coins.

Rabbit received the small hoard in his dirty palms. “Always a pleasure doin’ business with you, m’lord.”

McKinsey laughed. He smiled at Rabbit, then rose to his feet. “Goodbye, Rabbit.” He resisted the urge to ruffle the boy’s dark hair. “Take care of yourself and your mother.”

“I will, m’lord.” Slipping the money into the inside pocket of his ragged jerkin, Rabbit snapped off a jaunty salute. “Until next time, m’lord.”

McKinsey watched Rabbit scamper back into his burrow, then turned and climbed a short slope and stepped back into the world of the city’s streets. He headed for Niddery Street.

It was now midmorning and while, courtesy of Rabbit, he’d confirmed how his package had escaped the house, when, and with what escort, he still didn’t know where she’d gone subsequently, or who, exactly, had come to her aid.

Given the social imperatives, however, he wasn’t the least surprised that she’d set off back to England as quickly as she’d been able. Assuming, of course, that she was the lady who had left in some Englishman’s curricle at first light. He wondered whether that Englishman was the same man who’d escorted her through the vaults in the wee hours.

What continued to puzzle him was how anyone had known where she was. Was it significant that one of the rescuers was English, and that she might well have fled south with him? The answer to that had to lie with Scrope and his people, even if they didn’t realize it.

He refocused on what waited for him in the house in Niddery Street.

Since he’d left an hour ago, instinct had been nagging; finally considering why … it was Scrope’s stunned bewilderment that had surprised him. The woman, the nurse, her reactions he’d understood, but Scrope’s … the man was supposed to be a consummate professional, yet he’d been knocked totally off-balance and had shown no signs of quickly righting himself.

McKinsey had expected Scrope to be quick to reengage, to reassess and rejig his plans. To accept what had gone wrong and swiftly revise, replan, and be ready to move forward in whatever new direction was required to reach their ultimate goal.

Instead, Scrope had given an excellent imitation of a stunned mullet.

Comparing Scrope’s behavior at the house with his reputation … according to the latter, Scrope had never failed in any of his questionable endeavors. Perhaps it was simply the looming reality of his first-ever failure that had so rocked the man?

McKinsey snorted. Coping with plans gone awry was something he was becoming, as far as he was concerned, too expert at. He could certainly give Scrope lessons in the futility of raging against fate. One simply had to take the cuffs she handed out and roll with them. Then get back up, reassess, and come at the desired goal from some other direction.

The truth was, stubbornness combined with doggedness rarely failed. Not in the end.

So he had found.

Which brought him to where he was now, the situation he currently faced.

All things considered, all possibilities weighed, he had a lurking suspicion fate, that fickle female, was once again playing games with him. That she was, in a roundabout way, setting him up to fail again.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t yet tell which outcome awaited him at the end of this act — triumph or defeat. Until he learned who had spirited Eliza Cynster away, until he knew what her view of her rescuer was — whether, as with her elder sister, Heather, there was, or would soon be, more between damsel and rescuer than mere mutual regard — he wouldn’t know what his role in fate’s current production would be.

He’d set the stage, then opened the curtain, but fate had taken over and was now running the show.

Reaching High Street, he strode along.

One way or another, Eliza Cynster had to come out of this with a husband; the social imperatives he’d brought into play would permit no other outcome. The only question he had on that point was whether said husband would be him — allowing him to go forward with his plan to reclaim the vital goblet from his mother — or the Englishman.

If the Englishman — until he learned otherwise, McKinsey would assume it was he who had rescued Eliza — proved to be a man of worth, one whom she wanted as her husband, and who wanted her, then honor, that quality McKinsey was determined to cling to no matter his mother’s demands, would force him to draw back and let the pair escape.

Back over the border, and presumably to their wedding.

Where that would leave him, he didn’t want to think. Literally did not wish to consider, not until he was forced to.