In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (9 page)

Cobby stepped closer and shone the lantern down the gaping hole. The edges of the trapdoor were solid and sound; a neat, newish wooden ladder led down to the floor of the corridorlike space beneath. “Yes,” Cobby said, “this is just like the last house where we could check, a few doors up the terrace.”

“Oh, aye.” The old soldier nodded sagaciously. “This whole terrace was built by the same builder — all the houses are as close to identical as makes no odds. Clever fellow left every house with an escape route in case of another big fire. Wouldna have been so many people died if they hadn’t blocked off the access to the old tunnels there. Easy enough to go down, along, and out.”

Jeremy smiled and looked across the open trapdoor at Cobby. “What a wise and helpful builder, indeed.”

Genevieve, with Taylor at her back, shook Eliza from a sound sleep.

Shielding her eyes from the glare of the lamp Taylor held, Eliza blinked awake. A glance at the cold puddle of wax, all that was left of the fresh candle they’d given her when they’d come to take her luncheon tray away, suggested she’d been asleep for some time.

She struggled onto her elbows, watching as Genevieve set a faintly steaming pitcher on the washstand. “What time is it?”

“Seven o’clock.” Genevieve turned to her. “Scrope’s decided you should join us for dinner. Easier than making up a separate tray.”

Setting a lighted, two-armed candelabra on the washstand, Taylor snorted. “It’s the last night we’ll be babysitting you. More like Scrope wants to celebrate.”

“Regardless”— Genevieve nudged Taylor back toward the door —“we’ll leave you to wash and tidy yourself. We’ll come back in fifteen minutes to take you upstairs.”

They went out and shut the heavy door again. Pushing upright, Eliza swung her legs over the side of the bed, listened, and heard the key turn in the lock. Sitting on the bed’s edge, she tried to imagine what ulterior motives might lie behind the unexpected dinner invitation, then decided that whatever they were, she didn’t truly care. Getting out of the tiny basement room even for a few hours wasn’t a boon she was in any mood to refuse.

After her days in the coach, she’d welcomed their brisk walk through the town, but being incarcerated again in such a small room had made her long for wide and open spaces. Which felt strange given she wasn’t overly fond of such places.

Rising, she paused for an instant, confirmed, to her very real relief, that the last vestigial traces of the laudanum had worn off. Her mind was her own, and so was her body.

Going to the washstand, she lifted the pitcher and poured the warm water into the basin.

Stripping off her much-abused ball gown, pushing the rose quartz pendant around so it hung down her back, out of her way, she quickly washed.

Briskly shaking out the golden gown, she donned it again, then turned to the mirror to do what she could to tidy her hair. The elegant style of honey-gold curls artfully arranged to tumble from a knot on the top of her head to form a shining crown was now a disarranged disaster. Swiftly plucking pins, she released the long tresses, used her fingers to comb the mass out, then plaited it into two braids, finally winding both around her head to form a coronet, and anchoring the ends with the pins.

Finally, she pulled the pendant back to hang between her breasts; she debated about leaving it on show, but the rose quartz clashed with the gold of her gown. “Better not to flaunt it, anyway.” She tucked the pendant beneath her bodice, straightened the necklace from which it hung, rearranged her fichu and collar as best she could, then dipped and weaved before the mirror, checking the result.

It was better than she’d hoped, which made her feel more confident. More like the Cynster female she was, less like a bedraggled kidnap victim.

She was, she realized, looking forward to the dinner, to seeing what more she might tease from Scrope and his minions. As long as she didn’t dwell on the vexing questions of whether Jeremy knew where she was, and how he might rescue her, assuming that he did, she would manage.

Hearing footsteps beyond the door, she swung to face it. Taylor pulled the door wide; he grinned when he saw her. Standing in the corridor, Genevieve looked irritated. She beckoned. “Come on. Scrope’s waiting.”

They conducted her up the steps into the kitchen, then along the short corridor to the dining room.

A rectangular table had been set for four. Scrope was standing before a tantalus by the wall, a glass of red wine in his hand. He turned as she walked in. His gaze took in her appearance, then he half bowed, playing the gentleman. “Miss Cynster. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

Although his expression remained uninformative, Eliza sensed he was in a distinctly good, if not mellow, mood. “No, thank you, but I would like some water.”

“In that case.” Scrope waved to the table and came forward. Setting down his glass beside the place at its head, he came around and held the chair to his right for her.

Playing along — she saw no reason not to — Eliza sat, graciously inclining her head in response to his gallantry.

Taylor, mimicking Scrope, held the chair opposite Eliza for Genevieve. With both ladies seated, the men took their seats, and the meal began.

There were no footmen to offer the dishes, but everything had already been set on the table, large enough to accommodate six. The first course was a pea and ham soup, rather heavy for a dinner, but Eliza was starving. She made short work of emptying her bowl.

A fish course followed, supplanted by guinea fowl and partridges accompanied by various side dishes, before the silver dome was lifted from a platter of roast venison. With her appetite more than appeased, she dabbed her lips with her napkin and set herself to learning what she could. “I can see that this is, indeed, a celebratory feast — and a last supper of sorts for me.” Lifting her water glass, she met Scrope’s dark gaze. “I take it that, as you foreshadowed, McKinsey will come for me tomorrow?”

Scrope and his minions had been distinctly closemouthed, but presumably anything they told her now would no longer matter.

His dark gaze steady, Scrope considered her.

She sipped and did nothing more than faintly arch her brows.

Eventually, he nodded. “Your supposition is correct. I sent word to McKinsey, or whoever he is, before midday. I don’t know how long it’ll take to reach him — the delivery is not, you’ll understand, direct — but he led me to believe he would be in Edinburgh, waiting for you to arrive.”

From the other end of the table, Taylor, busy with a large helping of venison, flicked a glance at Scrope. “So we don’t have to wait for him to ride down from Inverness?”

“Inverness?” Eliza looked back at Scrope.

Scrope’s lips tightened, his dark eyes narrowing on the hapless Taylor.

Glancing back at the now wary coachman-cum-guard, Eliza airily said, “We already knew McKinsey is a highlander.” She shrugged. “Knowing he comes from Inverness is nothing new.”

Inverness was the southernmost large town in the highlands.

Scrope looked down at his plate and all but growled, “He doesn’t come from Inverness.” He flung another irate glance at Taylor. “Inverness is just the place through which the message I sent to him before was routed.”

Eliza considered that reply, then ventured, “You followed a message sent to him?”

Scrope turned his narrow-eyed gaze on her. “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

She nodded. “Understandably. Did you learn anything more of his identity?”

“No.” Scrope’s frustration assured her that he spoke the truth. “The man’s as slippery as any damned highland nobleman ever birthed. The message vanished from the office in Inverness, and no one seemed to have the faintest clue as to where it went.”

“Hmm.” Eliza found Scrope’s tale revealing. She, Heather, and Angelica had discussed and speculated on the character and person of the mysterious laird for many hours. Given such telltale acts of power, the sort of power Cynsters intuitively recognized and understood, combined with the picture the various snippets of physical description had drawn of him, there was no denying that the figure the laird cut was one of considerable elemental and visceral attraction.

At least to Cynster females.

Nevertheless, despite her curiosity, Eliza had no wish to meet the man, at least not on his terms. Being hauled into the wilds of the highlands did not feature on her list of desirable diversions.

As for what he intended for her,
that
she was determinedly refusing to dwell on; Jeremy would rescue her first, so there was no need to imagine herself into a panic.

Eventually, Genevieve rose and, assisted by Taylor, cleared the table.

Scrope, reverting to his role of considerate host, offered Eliza a small glass of orgeat, which, on consideration, she deigned to accept.

“Tell me,” she said, seizing the moment when the other two were elsewhere, “why do you, who I assume was born a gentleman, take … jobs, for want of a better word, such as this.” She met his dark eyes. “I’m curious as to what drives you.”

Whoever had arranged the dinner menu had known the basics of gentle living; she was quite sure it wasn’t Genevieve, a lowly companion-nurse, who had chosen the dishes and arranged for them to be delivered in their warming pans and chafing dishes, as she assumed they must have been.

Scrope, she deduced, harbored gentlemanly aspirations. In her experience, gentlemen, if approached correctly, always liked to talk about themselves.

Sipping from the wineglass he’d kept filled throughout the meal, Scrope considered her, then, after flicking a glance toward the corridor door, quietly said, “I might have been born and schooled as a gentleman, but by a twist of fate I was left with no way of supporting myself as such.” He met her gaze. “Some men in that situation take to the tables, hoping to find their salvation in the cards. Me …” His lips lightly lifted. “Fate sent me an opportunity to perform a singular service for a distant acquaintance … and I discovered a profession at which I excelled.”

“Profession?” She arched her brows, faintly supercilious.

“Yes, indeed.” Scrope took another healthy swallow of the wine; she felt certain it was assisting with the sudden loosening of his tongue. “Would it surprise you to know that there’s a well-established trade in the professional services I offer?” When she made no reply, Scrope actually smiled. “I assure you there is. And there’s a ladder of achievement within that profession, too.”

Taking another swill of his wine, he eyed her over the rim of his glass, then lowered it and said, “And you, Miss Eliza Cynster, will take me, Victor Scrope, to the very top of that ladder.” With his glass, he saluted her. “Handing you to McKinsey will raise me to the dizzying pinnacle of my professional tree.”

She said nothing; Scrope had clearly set aside his usual, impenetrable demeanor. As witnessed by this celebratory dinner, he was beyond confident of success — of succeeding in handing her over to McKinsey tomorrow morning.

In that instant, she was looking at the man behind the coolly professional, impassive mask.

Scrope leaned forward, dark eyes fixing intently on her face. “So you see, my dear, it’s not solely the money that motivates me, although to give McKinsey credit, he has in no way skimped on my fee. Our highland laird placed a very high price on your head. But that’s not the most valuable boon I’ll secure when I hand you to him tomorrow. Put simply, Miss Cynster, you will be my salvation. You’ll give me my future as I wish it to be. With McKinsey’s money, and even more with the fame your successful kidnap will bring me, I’ll be assured of a wealthy and comfortable gentlemanly life for the rest of my days.”

Leaning back, a gloating, almost manic smile on his lips, Scrope raised his glass to her once again. “To you, Miss Cynster — and to what tomorrow will bring.”

Scrope downed the wine in one gulp.

Eliza stared and fought to suppress a shiver.

A sound at the door had them both glancing that way.

“Trifle or apple pie.” Genevieve carried two dishes to the table.

“And there’s clotted cream, too,” Taylor said, setting a smaller bowl down and retaking his seat.

“So.” Silver serving spoon poised, Genevieve looked from Scrope to Eliza. “Which will you have?”

“Both,” Eliza said. She needed to take her mind off what she’d glimpsed in Scrope’s eyes, and dessert was the only distraction available; it would have to do.

All three of them escorted her back to her prison not long afterward. Scrope allowed her request for fresh candles; he glanced around the room as if assuring himself she had adequate comforts, then he waved Genevieve outside and closed the door.

The last sight Eliza had of her captors was Scrope’s face, demonically lit by a candle from below, his dark eyes glinting, and fixed on her.

Once the door shut, she allowed herself the instinctive shiver she’d until then suppressed. Almost as if someone had walked over her grave.

Shaking the sensation and all thought of graves aside, she finally turned her mind to what might happen next.

She had no assurance that Jeremy even knew where she was. He might have lost the trail of the coach, or he might have missed their route through Edinburgh. She had to be realistic and at least
try
to think of some way to escape if he didn’t rescue her that night.

After pondering the likely opportunities, she realized her first decision had to be whether to try to escape Scrope’s clutches, or wait until she was handed over and then try to escape from the laird.

It wasn’t, she reasoned, a question of which one would be easier to outwit, so much as which one was more likely to make a miscalculation and give her the opportunity to flee.

Scrope had yet to give her any opening at all. And no matter how overconfident he was, how certain he would successfully hand her into the laird’s keeping, no matter how overweening his gloating, she couldn’t imagine him stumbling at the last hurdle.

Conveying her into the laird’s hands tomorrow would be a carefully orchestrated and tightly monitored event. Scrope would not make any mistake, not with so much money and pride riding on the outcome.