In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (16 page)

“Sufficient unto the day …” Jaw clenching, he turned down Niddery Street and strode for the house.

He needed to learn just how the Englishman had been drawn into this. And after that, he needed to locate Eliza and her rescuer, and determine whether the silly chit needed him to step in and save her from said rescuer, or instead, whether the Englishman was Eliza Cynster’s ordained fate.

“I want to know how some Englishman learned you had Eliza Cynster in your keeping.” McKinsey sat in an armchair in the drawing room of the terrace house, his gaze resting with cool, insistent, implacable command on Scrope, who sat on a straight-backed chair facing him.

The nurse sat on a chair alongside Scrope, her back straight, her fingers nervously twining.

Since McKinsey had left the house, Scrope had gone from bafflement to belligerence. He stared back at McKinsey. “I haven’t the slightest idea. We didn’t advertise her presence.”

“Nevertheless, an Englishman assisted her escape from this house, and as we’ve heard from Taylor, an Englishman drove away from Edinburgh this morning with a lady of her description sitting beside him.”

Scrope hesitated, then said, “There’s no reason to believe that the man who took her out via those blasted tunnels is the same man who’s driving her south. She might simply have talked some likely traveler into taking her. She has no money on her, but her name would mean something to another Englishman, enough to ensure he would help her.”

McKinsey inclined his head. “All of that might be true, yet someone found out she was here and showed her how to escape. At some point someone saw her and, as you haven’t taken her outside since you brought her here, they must have followed you here yesterday.”

Scrope frowned, and McKinsey knew he hadn’t been on guard against being followed when they’d walked Eliza Cynster to the house.

McKinsey fixed his gaze on Scrope’s face. “Tell me all — every last detail — of your journey from Grosvenor Square to Edinburgh.”

“I told you.” Scrope gestured impatiently. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bear with me.” McKinsey’s response was no request. “You drugged Miss Cynster, carried her out of her cousin’s house, bundled her into a coach, and drove out of Grosvenor Square. Start from there — what happened next?”

Scrope scowled but grudgingly obliged. “We drove out along the Oxford Road, through Oxford —”

“Had Miss Cynster revived by then?”

Scrope hesitated, then replied, “Yes and no — she was still groggy. She slept much of the way.”

Scrope pretended not to notice the sidelong glance the nurse sent him.

McKinsey saw and suspected Eliza’s grogginess had been arranged. Why else hire a nurse-companion to do a maid’s job? Scrope had disobeyed his explicit orders in that, but that was now water under the bridge. “Very well — I take it Miss Cynster was too ‘groggy’ to have attracted anyone’s attention while you drove through Oxford. At what point did she become more … shall we say, compos mentis?”

Scrope ignored the implication. “She started to stir as we left York, but then she slept again.”

McKinsey had seen her dozing in York. “Very well — concentrate on the journey between Oxford and York. Go over each stage, each village and town you passed through. Was there any instance of any gentleman taking any interest at all in the coach and its occupants?”

At last Scrope stopped and thought.

The nurse thought, too.

Eventually, however, both shook their heads.

“No,” Scrope declared. “There was
nothing
— nothing for us to report. No incident of any kind.”

“No one who chatted to Taylor?” McKinsey asked. “Who lounged about and started up a conversation at any of your halts?”

“No.” The nurse spoke up. “When he’s making quick changes, Taylor rarely leaves the box.”

“And he drove straight through?”

The nurse shrugged. “It’s his job.”

Scrope shifted. “I spelled him through a few of the lonelier stretches so he could catch a few hours sleep, but we didn’t halt for any reason other than changing horses.”

That married with McKinsey’s estimation based on the time they’d passed through York. He kept his gaze steady, locked on the pair before him. “All right. So you passed through York without incident. What about the stretch from York to Middlesbrough?”

Again, both Scrope and the nurse considered; again, they shook their heads.

“You mentioned Miss Cynster stirring at York. When did she properly wake up?”

The nurse answered. “North of Middlesbrough. We spoke with her, then she dozed off again. She woke when we crossed the bridge leaving Newcastle.”

“On either occasion, either on the road north of Middlesbrough, or as you left Newcastle, did she get close to the window, or make any attempt to attract someone’s attention?”

“Not there,” Scrope replied.

McKinsey fixed his gaze on Scrope’s face. His tone was deceptively mild when he asked, “Are you telling me she did make a bid to attract someone’s attention at some point?”

Scrope’s scowl intensified. “Yes.” He waved dismissively. “But nothing came of it.”

McKinsey had grown very still. “Yet she’s escaped.”

“It had nothing to do with that. We were well out of Newcastle, only thirty miles from the border, and in wide-open countryside.”

“On the road to Jedburgh?”

Scrope nodded. “Precisely. Forests and moors, and not much else. She appeared to be dozing again, slumped in the corner, then we slowed to let a curricle past, and she suddenly sprang to life.”

“What happened?” McKinsey rapped out.

“She flung herself at the window, battered on it, screamed for help.”

“And?” McKinsey couldn’t believe he’d had to drag it out of them.

“Nothing came of it!” Scrope all but glared back. “We hauled her back from the window. The curricle was already past. I had Taylor keep an eye on it, but all that happened was that the driver turned around and looked back at the coach, then shrugged and simply drove on. Taylor kept watch for a while, but the curricle didn’t turn and follow.”

McKinsey pictured the scene in his mind. “Did either of you get a look at the curricle’s driver?”

Both Scrope and the nurse shook their heads.

“Both carriages were moving,” the nurse explained. “They’d slowed, but the driver still whisked past the window very quickly. Miss Cynster’s effort lasted no more than a moment — an instant — before we pulled her back, but even then the curricle was long past.”

“But she …” McKinsey considered the picture in his mind. “She was sitting in the corner, deep in the corner, so she would have seen the curricle driver as he approached, going the other way. She had time to see him, recognize him, and act.”

Scrope snorted. “More like that was the only curricle, or even carriage or cart that we passed. She saw the curricle and grasped what she saw as her last chance — that was all there was to it. No reason to imagine she knew the driver.”

Yet she’s gone.
McKinsey eyed Scrope but didn’t bother to point out the obvious. What Scrope thought no longer mattered.

Still, it paid to be thorough. “Other than that incident, was there any point at all where Miss Cynster could have come to the attention of a gentleman, English or Scottish or of any other stripe. Whether you saw it happen, or don’t think it did —
think
. Could she have been recognized at any point after the incident with the curricle? While walking up South Bridge, for instance?”

Scrope replied coldly, defensively, “No. There was no other incident of any possible relevance, and when we walked her here, we kept her hemmed between us with her hood over her head and pulled low. It was crowded. No one took the slightest notice.”

McKinsey stared levelly at Scrope. Had it been the curricle driver or some chance sighting in Edinburgh that had led to Eliza’s escape?

Before he could decide if there was any sense in further interrogating the increasingly hostile Scrope, a heavy knock landed on the front door.

“Taylor.” The nurse rose and hurried out into the hall.

A second later, McKinsey heard his alias being whispered as Taylor was warned that he was there. A silent moment passed, then a large man in coachman’s garb filled the doorway, his hat in his hands. Seeing McKinsey, he bobbed, then glanced at Scrope.

Scrope waved him in and somewhat peevishly demanded, “Well? Did you find her?”

Taylor halted, squared his shoulders. “I found the gentleman in the curricle that passed us yesterday, down the other side of the Cheviots.”

Scrope came to his feet, his face paling. “He was here?”

“Apparently. After I left here, I checked down South Bridge Street — didn’t have to go further than the smaller inn just down from the coaching inn we used. The ostlers said the gentleman had come in yesterday late morning, and he left at first light, along with an English lady with fair hair and a gold gown. Sounded like our package, so I sent that message back to you and gave chase.”

“And?” Scrope demanded.

“I ran them to earth this side of Dalkeith — that nice-looking black had gone lame and the pair of them were walking him on.”

“Never mind the damned horse!” Scrope yelled. “What about the woman — and the man, this Englishman?”

Taylor studied Scrope, then went on, “Looked like the same fellow we passed yesterday, far as I could make out — but I recognized that horse and the curricle right enough, so it had to be him.” Taylor transferred his gaze to McKinsey. “But the lady definitely wasn’t Miss Cynster. Soon as I saw her — the lady with the Englishman — I came racing back. I checked up and down the coaching inns along South Bridge Street — all those that service the Great North Road. No one’s seen any other fair-haired English lady. She definitely didn’t go out in any of the public coaches, nor yet the private ones that set out this morning.” He paused, then ventured, “She might still be in Edinburgh.”

McKinsey didn’t reply. Although he was tempted to ask why anyone would go to the trouble of arranging a demonstrably excellent decoy if not to deflect attention from a flight in a different direction, he had better things to do. That the English gentleman and the lady in the gold gown that Taylor had run down constituted a decoy was beyond question; how many fair-haired ladies in gold gowns were likely to leave Edinburgh on the Great North Road in an Englishman’s curricle on one morning?

The Englishman Eliza Cynster had recognized driving his curricle down the Jedburgh Road had rescued her. McKinsey didn’t know how he’d accomplished the whole, only that he had. And it was therefore now McKinsey’s role to hunt the pair down.

His present position was very much an unwelcome case of déjà vu. Just as had happened with Heather Cynster, he now found himself in the ridiculous position of being cast as a Cynster chit’s protector. He would have to find her, determine whether she was in danger or not, whether he needed to step in and rescue her or not, or whether he could with honor intact withdraw and turn his mind to what next he would have to do.

Scrope and his two assistants had been watching him, waiting for his verdict, to see what orders he would give.

He focused on Scrope. “A word.”

With a jerk of his head, Scrope sent the other two out of the room. Both bobbed courtesies to McKinsey before obeying; Taylor shut the door behind them.

“She has to still be here.” Scrope wheeled and started pacing. “We’ll scour the city —”

“She’s already left.”

Halting, Scrope stared at him. “You can’t know that.”

McKinsey looked up at him. “Ah, but I do.” Reaching into his coat, he drew out a purse and tossed it at Scrope.

Scrope caught it, knew from the weight that it wasn’t the reward he’d hoped for. “What’s this? My work for you isn’t finished.”

“Sadly, it is. I’m paying you off and dismissing you. You no longer have any role to play in this game.”

Scrope’s dark eyes flared. “No!” He stepped closer, standing over McKinsey. “I won’t —”

McKinsey rose, fluidly, gracefully. Fully upright, he looked down at Scrope. Asked, quite quietly, “What was that?”

Scrope was tall, but McKinsey towered over him. Where Scrope was well built, McKinsey was huge, all heavy bone and solid muscle.

Scrope didn’t swallow and back away, as most men would have; he was, apparently, made of sterner stuff. He did, however, moderate his tone. “This was
my
assignment, my undertaking. Until it’s finished, until I deliver Miss Cynster into your hands, it’s still mine to carry out.”

“So you believe, but I say otherwise, and, you might recall, I’m your client in this.”

Scrope nearly ground his teeth. “You don’t understand — this is my work, my profession.
I don’t fail
.”

“You have this time, but rest assured I’m unlikely to spread the word.”

“That’s not the point!” Scrope’s hands fisted, as if physically holding back his welling rage. He was all but erupting; when next he spoke, the words came through clenched teeth. “I will not be bested by a silly chit, even with some gentleman to help her. If I walk away from this, my reputation will be shredded. I will not let it — let her — go.”

McKinsey didn’t bat an eyelash. He studied Scrope’s eyes, his face; he could understand professional pride, but there was more than that at work here. “This is not about you, Scrope. It never was. Let me make myself clear. Obey me in this, and no one will ever hear of your failure. Pursue Miss Cynster further, and I’ll ensure you will never work in this town, or any other, for the rest of your days.”

He couldn’t tell from Scrope’s eyes, now so dark they seemed to burn blackly, whether the man was even taking his words in. “Do you understand?”

The answer took a moment to come. “Perfectly.”

“Excellent.” McKinsey held Scrope’s gaze for a moment more, then stepped around him and walked to the door.

Scrope’s gaze burnt a hole between McKinsey’s shoulder blades. Reaching the door, and foreseeing an eventuality he hadn’t yet countered, McKinsey grasped the knob, then glanced back and met Scrope’s gaze. “I’d wager Miss Cynster is long gone from Edinburgh, but if fate proves me wrong and you should find her in the town, I would counsel you to remember that my injunction against any harm befalling her still applies. One scratch, one bruise, and I will come for you, and I will not be merciful. If she falls into your hands, treat her like porcelain, and send word to me in the usual fashion. If you succeed in that, I’ll double the reward we previously agreed on.”