In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (17 page)

McKinsey considered Scrope for a long moment more, then evenly said, “You believe Miss Cynster is still within the town. I believe otherwise, so let’s put it to the test. You look for her here, I’ll look elsewhere. If you prove correct, as I said, I’ll double the reward.”

Lips pinched, his gaze burning darkly, Scrope offered nothing in reply.

McKinsey opened the door, stepped into the hall, and shut the parlor door softly behind him.

Seconds later, he was striding up Niddery Street.

Crossing High Street, he plunged into the warren of closes and wynds, ducked through passages and alleys so narrow he had to turn sideways to pass through. The erratic path ensured that no one — Scrope, for instance — followed him.

Once he was striding along more genteel streets, his mind meandered back to Scrope. Could he trust the man to desist in his pursuit of Eliza Cynster?

While he was reasonably certain Scrope had circumvented his instructions regarding Eliza’s treatment on the long journey north, by and large the man had stuck to the letter of the orders he’d been given.

Now McKinsey had not just challenged him but he’d also made it very much worth his while to remain in Edinburgh and search for Eliza Cynster there.

While McKinsey was sure she’d already quit the town — there was no point in sending out a decoy if one wasn’t going to act at the same time — the chance that she hadn’t, Scrope’s own conviction that she hadn’t, plus the sizeable potential reward should serve to keep the man safely tethered.

McKinsey had to admit he hadn’t liked the odd, almost fanatical look in Scrope’s eyes, but on balance, he felt that Scrope now had sufficient incentive to remain in Edinburgh — not least the prospect of proving him, Mc Kinsey, wrong.

McKinsey turned up the street in which his own house stood.

He’d done enough, dangled bait enough, to ensure that Scrope toed his line.

eremy’s respect for his brother-in-law and his Bastion Club colleagues was increasing by the minute. How did one remain outwardly calm when disaster was looming nearer and nearer?

It was nearly noon and they’d only just reached Kingsknowe.

A wheel on the cart they’d been riding in had split, tipping the cart sideways, almost into the ditch. Quite aside from disentangling themselves and recovering from the shock — and, on his part, subduing the unruly impulses evoked by being tossed on top of Eliza — they’d felt obliged to dally to help the poor farmer get the cart horizontal again. Then the farmer had taken his horse and ridden off to find a blacksmith, leaving the pair of them to walk on.

Worse, on reaching Kingsknowe they’d inquired at both the small town’s inns, only to discover that while each had had a gig for hire, both conveyances had already been in use. Neither inn had had any other suitable equipage available. Nothing that would have traveled faster than an unladen farm cart.

That, once again, had been their only option. That, or hiring horses again, but one look at Eliza’s apprehensive expression had put paid to that idea.

They’d been directed by the stableman at the second inn to a farmer who would soon be traveling on. The farmer had just ordered an early lunch in the inn’s tap; he was going as far as Currie and had readily agreed to let them ride in the back of his dray.

Although they’d had food in their saddlebags, Jeremy, starting to think ahead, had suggested that, as they had to wait for the farmer to finish his meal, they might as well let the inn feed them, too.

Which was how they came to be sitting at a corner table in the small tap, plates bearing the remains of a decent game pie pushed to one side, with the map Cobby had given them spread out between them … and carefully not talking about the single issue that unquestionably loomed largest in both their minds.

Tracing their path thus far — more than five hours gone and so few miles covered — Jeremy tried to find the right words to address the near certainty that, given their slow progress, they would be forced to spend at least one night on the road, together, alone … but his mind simply balked.

After trying for several minutes and advancing not at all, he abandoned that subject and concentrated instead on getting on. “We’ll have to replan — that’s all there is to it.”

Eliza grasped the straw of distraction. “This was the way we were going to go, wasn’t it?” She traced the route to Carnwath, then east across to Melrose and Jedburgh before turning south across the Cheviots. “Perhaps we can shorten the journey by heading east earlier? Perhaps taking this road here.”

Jeremy followed the tip of her finger, grimaced when it reached the Great North Road. “No — we can’t do that. All that will accomplish is to take us in a wide sweep around Edinburgh and put us on the Great North Road only a few miles out of the town — more or less in exactly the spot where Scrope and company will search.”

Eliza wrinkled her nose. She peered more closely at the map. “There are so few other roads east.”

“It’s the Pentland Hills. Once they rise on the left of the road, which follows the western flank of the hills, there’s no road that crosses them, not until we reach Carnwath.”

“So we have to stay on this road until then.”

“Unfortunately, yes.” Another aspect of their original plan that, in hindsight, could have been improved. Given the possibility of pursuit, it would have been helpful to have had useful alternative routes sooner, closer to Edinburgh, than later. As it was, the first viable alternative way forward didn’t eventuate until Carnwath. Jeremy tried to sound positive. “So Carnwath it is. We’ll just have to be especially careful until then, but on the bright side, we’ll definitely be able to hire a carriage there. We can check in the villages we pass on the way, too.”

Eliza looked into his brown eyes, plain brown but warm, a color she associated with rich caramel, or perhaps expensive, well-aged brandy. At the pace they were going, even if they managed to find a faster cart, they still had no hope of reaching even Carnwath that night. Which meant they would have to find shelter, and that might prove problematical in more ways than one.

Another apology hovered on her tongue, but rather than utter the useless words she resolved instead not to make his life harder. They didn’t need to discuss how they would spend the night until they knew what their choices might be. Sufficient unto the hour the problems — and they had problems enough to deal with as it was.

Noticing the farmer rising from his table and looking their way, she raised her hand in a manly salute and reached for the map to fold it away. “Also on the bright side,” she said, determined to do her part to keep their mutual spirits up, “we haven’t yet had Scrope on our heels.”

“Or the mysterious laird.” Having seen her salute and repacked his saddlebag, Jeremy stood.

She rose, too. He started to extend a hand to help her, then remembered and let his arm fall.

Catching his eye, she smiled.

His lips curved lightly in response, then he tipped his head toward the door. “Our carriage awaits.”

She led the way and he followed. Minutes later, they were seated side by side in the back of the dray, boots swinging over the rear edge, the road unraveling like a ribbon beneath their feet as the farmer’s cart rumbled along, down the road to Carnwath.

The city’s bells had just rung the noontime peal when the laird presently calling himself McKinsey walked into the third of the string of stables located below the Grassmarket.

The decoy Taylor had discovered along the Great North Road strongly suggested that Eliza Cynster and her gentleman-rescuer had left town by another route that morning. Given that their ultimate destination was unlikely to lie deeper in Scotland, the laird had dismissed the roads to the north or northwest. Likewise, he felt certain they wouldn’t have headed east or southeast; those roads lay too close to the Great North Road; indeed, some even branched off it.

That left the road directly south, or those to the southwest. From either initial direction, the fleeing pair could circle around and pick up the Jedburgh Road. If it had been him, he would have tried for that border crossing; given they’d elected to avoid the Great North Road and its crossing north of Berwick, the Carter Bar crossing south of Jedburgh offered the nearest, most open, and uncrowded route into En gland.

The prospect of remaining unobserved by hordes of other travelers would, he imagined, appeal to his fugitives.

He’d toyed with the idea of trusting to his instincts, riding south to Jedburgh, waiting there for his quarry to come past, then falling in on their heels. However, there was an outside chance the pair had decided to make for the Vale of Casphairn, to the far southwest in Galloway, to — as Heather Cynster and her rescuer, Breckenridge, had done — seek refuge with Richard Cynster and his wife there.

Given he needed to observe Eliza Cynster and her rescuer, to determine what manner of man said rescuer was and what the relationship between the pair might be in order to decide his own next move, he couldn’t afford to risk losing them. Hence, he had to follow them, whichever way they’d gone.

The stableman saw him darkening his doorway and came forward. “Good day, my lord. Can I help you with a horse?”

The laird smiled. “No, not a horse. Two travelers. I’m looking for an English gentleman and a young lady, also English. They left town this morning, most likely early. They were going to hire transport — a fast carriage or horses — but I’m not sure which road they intended to take. Did you see them, or better yet hire to them?”

Wiping his hands on a rag, the stableman shook his head. “No lady and gentleman, not English, least ways. Two of my regular couples came in midmorning, locals wanting gigs for the day, but no other ladies.”

The laird inclined his head. “Thank you. I’ll continue searching.”

He was turning away when the stableman said, “Funny, though — I did have two English here at the crack o’dawn, but it wasn’t any young lady.”

“Oh?” The laird turned back, one black brow rising.

“A young gentleman and his tutor. They hired two fast horses and headed for Carnwath.”

“Did you speak to the younger man?”

The stableman shook his head. “Didn’t even get a good sighting of him, now I think of it. It was the tutor came in and selected the mounts and tack, and saddled up both horses. The younger one hung about out there”— with his chin, the stableman indicated the narrow yard at the front of the stables —“holding one of the saddlebags, until the tutor took the mounts out to him, then they mounted up and trotted off down the road. Mind you, I don’t know how fast they’ll go — the young one was that stiff in the saddle. No horseman, that one. I remember thinking that perhaps that was the reason the tutor had them up so early — just to reach Carnwath will likely take them the whole day.”

Head rising, the laird stared unseeing across the stable for a moment, then refocused on the stableman and smiled. “Thank you.” Fishing a coin out of his waistcoat pocket, he flipped it to the man, who eagerly snatched it out of the air.

“Thank you, m’lord.” The stableman saluted. “Sure you don’t want that horse?”

The laird laughed. “I thank you, but no. My own mount would be jealous.” So saying, he strode out of the stables and up to the Grassmarket.

Climbing swiftly back to High Street, he strode for his home, his stables, and Hercules. His quarry might have nearly six hours’ head start, but he had no doubt that, mounted on Hercules, he would easily run the pair down.

“There.” Scrope dropped two pouches on the kitchen table. “We’re square.”

Seated at the table, Genevieve and Taylor took one pouch each. Scrope waited while both opened the pouches, upended them, and counted the coins. “Your full payment as agreed.”

About them, the terrace house was silent and still, the curtains drawn, all trace of their recent sojourn removed. All three had packed; each had their traveling bag on the floor beside them. This would be their last meeting before they went their separate ways. Although Scrope had worked with the other two as a team before, they were individual practitioners, hiring out their services job by job.

He waited impatiently, eager to leave.

Sliding the coins back into his pouch, Taylor looked up. “But we lost the girl.”

Scrope forced himself to shrug. “McKinsey terminated our services. He made it very clear he didn’t want us to pursue the matter — or the young lady — further.”

Taylor looked his surprise. “He paid the full reward?”

Scrope expended considerable effort not to grind his teeth. “No. He didn’t. But he paid us enough for our services to this point. We can’t complain.”

Taylor’s expression had shifted from surprise to incredulity. “So you’re just letting her — and the money — go?”

Not a chance.

Scrope drew a steadying breath. “As McKinsey pointed out, he was our client, and providing services to our client is the nature of our business. Doing everything the client wants is the overriding standard we have to meet, and, in case it escaped your notice, McKinsey, or whoever he is, is not the sort of gentleman any sane man would cross. Not this side of the border, anyway.”

“Nor even on the other side.” Genevieve tugged the strings of her pouch tight. “You’re right. McKinsey’s in charge. If he says leave her, we leave her.” With a shrug, Genevieve stood. “I’m off.” She looked at Taylor. “You coming?”

After staring at Scrope for an instant more, Taylor nodded and lumbered to his feet. “May as well.”

Scrope inwardly railed at the note of derision he detected in Taylor’s tone. His reputation was already being questioned, and not just by Taylor. Genevieve’s agreement had come far too quickly, too pat. Both would wonder; eventually, both would talk. Word would get out —

But he would put a stop to that.

Bags in hand, the three of them left the house. Scrope locked the door, turned to the others. “I’ll take the key back to the agent.”

Genevieve nodded. “Until next time.” She turned away and started down the street.

Taylor saluted Scrope, then followed her.

Scrope turned and climbed up the street, turned right onto High Street, then lengthened his stride.

The agent’s office was along his way; leaving the key there took less than a minute.

Five minutes later, he was sitting in a small coffeehouse staring out of its dingy window at one of the major stables on the north side of Auld Town.

He’d never managed to follow McKinsey back to his house, but by sheer luck, he had, a week ago, discovered where the man stabled his horse.

McKinsey would hunt for the girl; of that Scrope entertained not the slightest doubt, and, realistically, such a man had advantages over a nonnative like Scrope when it came to extracting information from the townsfolk of Edinburgh.

McKinsey would turn every stone to find the Cynster chit’s trail. Why bother searching himself when McKinsey insisted on doing the legwork for him?