In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (14 page)

Her eyes narrowed. “Believe me, no one knows that better than I. Regardless, despite the rest of the family’s obsession with the beasts, I’m not terribly fond of horses. I would never choose to ride — I never do in the country. Naturally, given my family, I can sit a horse and manage well enough to walk through streets and slowly canter in the park. But …” She gestured helplessly. “That’s the limit of my equestrian abilities. I can’t ride well enough to gallop.”

Seeing their wonderful plan crumbling before him, Jeremy shifted and sat beside her on the grass. Arms resting on his knees, he stared across the road. “You should have told me.”

“I tried — at the stables.”

“I meant before, when we were discussing the plan at Cobby’s.”

“I thought we were going to drive — that you’d hire another curricle, not two horses. You never mentioned riding.”

He thought back, grimaced. “Sorry — you’re right. I didn’t say. I just assumed …”

Eliza plucked at the grass between them. “No. It’s my fault. I should have spoken up at the stables, but I thought being dressed as a youth and riding astride instead of sidesaddle might do the trick. I thought perhaps I could manage, and I didn’t want to ruin your plan …”

And she hadn’t wanted him to know of what she saw as her weakness, a weakness she usually managed to hide or avoid altogether. She dragged in a tight breath and let it out with, “I didn’t want you to know I’m such a weak and helpless female that I can’t even manage a horse.”

“There’s lots of women — lots of men if it comes to that — who can’t manage strong horses. It’s just bad luck you were born into such a horse-mad family.” His tone was even, that of a professor relating known facts. “Not being able to ride well is no real reflection on you, or on your no doubt extensive other abilities.”

She shifted. “But my not being able to ride, at least not fast enough, has ruined your plan, hasn’t it?”

“Not ruined — just forced an alteration.”

The biggest of which, Jeremy realized, was that they couldn’t possibly reach Wolverstone in one day, not even if they traveled through the night … not unless they found other fast transportation.

The emphasis being on fast.

“Come on.” Rising, he reached down, grasped both her hands, and hauled her to her feet. He looked into her face for a moment, then smiled encouragingly. “All is not lost — far from it. We’ll go on at a slow trot as before, then, when we get to the next town, we’ll do as you suggested earlier and hire a curricle. It’ll be a race like no other, but we should still be able to reach Wolverstone tonight.”

She searched his eyes, studied his face, then tentatively smiled. “All right.” As he released her hands and she drew them from his, she added, “And thank you.”

He was puzzled. “What for?”

“For understanding.”

He made no reply, simply held her horse until she was settled in the saddle, then mounted his and brought the bigger chestnut alongside her smaller mount. “Slateford is the next town along. It shouldn’t take us too long to get there.”

She nodded and they set off, slowly trotting along.

“Tra-lee, tra-la! We’re in the wilds of Scotland!” Hugo finished the song with a wild flourish of his wig.

Grinning, Cobby nodded ahead to where roofs were visible between low hills. “That must be Dalkeith.”

“It is, it is.” Hugo pointed to a sign that flashed past. “One mile on, apparently.”

“We’re making excellent ti — oh!” Cobby fumbled the reins as Jasper the Black suddenly mistepped, then slowed, his gait awkward. “Damn!”

Both Cobby and Hugo peered around the sides of the horse.

“He must have picked up a stone in his off-side hoof,” Hugo declared.

They drew horse and curricle to a halt, climbed down, and examined the hoof in question. There was indeed a stone; they winkled it out with a penknife, but it was instantly apparent that Jasper was favoring the hoof.

“Double damn!” Hugo said. “The hoof’s tender.”

Cobby swore, then patted Jasper. “This is Jer’s favorite horse. He’ll never forgive us if we let him come to harm.”

Hugo sighed. Raising his head, he looked down the road toward the distant roofs. “So we’ll have to walk. We can stable Jasper in Dalkeith and get another horse put to.”

“One mile.” Cobby shrugged. “It shouldn’t take us long.”

Hugo bowed before Jasper, waving him on. “Come along then, Jasper m’lad — let’s amble on and get you comfortable, before we set off again.”

The two men and the horse started walking, the empty, well-sprung curricle rolling easily in their wake.

After a moment, Cobby said, “We haven’t even come five miles.”

Hugo shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. It’s still so early I can’t imagine Scrope would have even discovered Eliza’s disappearance, much less be hot on our trail. We’ll be off again long before anyone comes pounding along.”

“You encountered no difficulties?”

“None at all.” Scrope led McKinsey down Niddery Street. “We didn’t halt for longer than it took to change horses until we’d reached Jedburgh on the night before last. We brought her here yesterday.”

“She’s given you no trouble?”

“None. Once I warned her of the tale you’d told us to use, she accepted there was little she could do.”

“And her health?”

“Once the drug wore off, she hasn’t complained, nor appeared to be sickening in any way.”

McKinsey shot a shrewd glance at Scrope’s too-bland expression. He’d been in Grosvenor Square himself, watching from the shadows as Scrope, his coachman-cum-guard, and the nurse he’d hired had removed Eliza Cynster’s limp form from the back parlor of the Cynster mansion.

He’d followed the coach out of London, seen it head up the Oxford Road, then, deeming the most dangerous part of the kidnapping successfully accomplished, and his order that Eliza Cynster was not to be harmed in any way sufficient to keep her safe, he’d ridden north by a different route. He’d been in York, sitting on the steps of the minster, when the coach had passed. He’d glimpsed Eliza Cynster inside; she’d seemed to be dozing.

The time at which the coach had passed by had told him that Scrope had adhered to his instructions not to halt but to continue steadily along the route they’d agreed on. Accepting that Scrope had done exactly as requested, McKinsey had mounted his horse, Hercules, followed the coach long enough to ensure it was taking the road to Middlesbrough, then ridden cross-country, eventually traveling via the Great North Road to Edinburgh and his house near the palace.

He knew Edinburgh well; he had eyes and ears in many places. He’d been informed within ten minutes of Scrope and his party arriving.

He could have come for the girl yesterday, but he hadn’t wanted Scrope to guess how carefully he’d watched him; he’d seen enough of the man to sense he’d be touchy about not being trusted to do his job. He wanted no argument with Scrope at this juncture, so, deeming twelve or so hours neither here nor there, he’d waited for Scrope’s summons.

Once it had arrived, however, he’d seen no reason for further delay; he’d met Scrope just as Auld Town had been waking to the new day.

He would take Eliza back to his house, then take her north; all lay in readiness for the trip. Soon she would be in his hands, and through her, the goblet he had to regain would be within his grasp once more.

“This is it.” Scrope halted outside a neatly painted front door. The entire terrace was new, replacing houses burned in the fire five years before.

Unlocking the door, Scrope pushed it wide. He stepped back as if to wave McKinsey in, then abruptly halted.

Looking past Scrope, McKinsey saw a woman dressed in black, the nurse, standing in the shadows of the hall and all but wringing her hands.

“What is it?” Scrope demanded.

The nurse’s gaze had gone past him to McKinsey. She moistened her lips, then looked at Scrope. “She’s gone. Disappeared. She wasn’t in the basement when we opened the door.”

Scrope rocked back on his heels. His face was expressionless. “But … the basement door was locked when I came down this morning.”

“Inside.” His own face showing nothing of his erupting fury, McKinsey all but pushed Scrope ahead of him. Stepping into the hall, he shifted to keep both Scrope and the woman in his sights.

The woman shut the door, then whirled to face Scrope. “
Both
basement doors were locked, as they should have been. You were the one to lock them last night, and you were the first one down this morning. Taylor and I came down at the same time, and both doors were locked then. Besides, there’s no sense either of us taking the girl.” She glanced briefly at McKinsey, waved at him as she looked back at Scrope. “We clearly haven’t handed her over.”

“She must be there!” Scrope said. “She must be hiding — you’ve missed her.”

“Go and look!” The woman waved down the corridor. “When we couldn’t find her we locked both doors again. The keys are on the table.”

Scrope strode down the corridor. The woman turned and followed.

McKinsey walked slowly in their wake. He already had a very good idea of how Eliza Cynster had got out of the basement.

What he didn’t yet know was where she’d gone, or who, if anyone, had helped her get free.

Entering the kitchen at the end of the corridor, he saw Scrope swipe up two heavy keys.

“Where’s Taylor?” Scrope demanded.

The nurse was standing back, holding her elbows, her expression angry and defensive. “As soon as we found her gone, he raced off to check the stables and coaching inns that service the Great North Road. He thought that regardless of how she got out of here, that’s where she would go, trying to flee back to London.”

Scrope snorted and turned to fit the key to the basement door.

McKinsey caught the nurse’s eye. “A sensible move on Taylor’s part.”

The woman thawed a fraction. McKinsey knew better than to terrify people from whom he might later need information.

Scrope hauled the door open, grabbed the lantern, and went quickly down the steps. McKinsey followed more slowly, ducking to pass through the doorway. In the short corridor below, he found Scrope, the lighted lantern at his feet, unlocking the second, even thicker, door.

“It’s impossible!” Scrope muttered. “She couldn’t have got through two locked doors.”

“She didn’t.”

“What?” Scrope glanced at him.

“Never mind.” McKinsey waved at the basement room door. “Open up and let’s see.”

Hauling in a breath, Scrope pulled open the door. Stooping, he picked up the lantern; holding it high, he stepped across the threshold, playing the light around the room.

It was instantly apparent that there was nowhere any young woman could be hiding. The room was spartan, but, McKinsey reflected, halting just inside, sufficiently comfortable for one night.

“I can’t believe …” Utterly bewildered, Scrope swung the lantern around, desperately peering in every corner.

McKinsey looked down at the floor. After a moment, he stepped forward, crouched, caught the thin rug and drew it aside, exposing the stone flags. Then he glanced under the bed. “Ah.”

Rising, he walked to the bed, lifted the end, and dragged it away, half across the room.

Both Scrope and the nurse watched, baffled.

McKinsey walked to stand looking down at the patch of floor that had been hidden by the bed. He pointed. “That’s how she got out.”

Scrope and the nurse moved to peer over the bed.

“A trapdoor?” Scrope’s tone said he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“All the houses in this terrace — and in other similar terraces built after the great fire — have them.” McKinsey crouched and grasped the bolt. He lifted the panel, revealing a stout, permanent wooden ladder leading down to a dusty floor. “Note that this was unlocked.” Lowering the panel, he shot the bolt home, then smoothly rose.

“Where does it lead?” The nurse looked up at him.

“Into the vaults — the spaces between the bridge supports and the tunnels that link them.”

“But …” Scrope looked at McKinsey. “How could she have known?”

“I doubt that she did. Which means she must have had help.” In the lantern light, he caught Scrope’s gaze. “Did she have any chance to contact anyone?”

Scrope shook his head. “I can’t see how.” He looked at the nurse.

She, too, shook her head. “She hasn’t spoken to anyone. No one at all. Only the three of us.”

McKinsey stood for a long moment, letting nothing of his thoughts, much less his emotions, show. “Your coachman — Taylor — may yet gain some word of her. Until then —” He broke off, head rising; a distant tapping was followed by a bell jangling in the kitchen.

“That might be Taylor now.” Scrope looked at the nurse. “Go and see.”

The woman hurried from the room. Her shoes pattered up the steps.

Scrope shifted, then cleared his throat. “Sir — my lord — I know —”

“No, Scrope. Not yet.” McKinsey made the statement absolute. “Let’s see what we can learn, how far we can trace Miss Cynster, before I make any decision.”

The last words carried enough power to silence Scrope.

A moment later, the nurse was back. “That was a messenger from an inn near the one where we left our coach. Taylor says our package left there with an English gentleman, who drove away in a curricle down the Great North Road at first light. Taylor’s hired a fast horse and is giving chase.”

McKinsey nodded. He glanced around, then walked to the door. “I take it that Taylor’s armed but knows I wish no violence of any kind to be visited on anyone in relation to this business?”

“Yes, my lord.” Scrope followed him out of the door.

The maid had already retreated up the steps. McKinsey followed, wondering how much trust he could place in Scrope’s last answer. He also had no idea how strong Scrope’s control over Taylor was.

Regardless …

On reaching the kitchen, he paused, his fingers lightly drumming the kitchen table. “Clearly we’ll need to wait to hear what Taylor discovers, to learn whether he returns with Miss Cynster or not. Meanwhile, however, there are other inquiries I can make which will perhaps help determine who this unexpected Englishman is, and whether it was he who helped her escape.”