In Pursuit of Eliza Cynster (8 page)

The bustle in the High Street, if it was that, was considerable. Caught up in the melee, by the time her captors turned her down a narrow, descending street she’d lost sight of the mouth of the elevated street — the one that led south and eventually back to the Great North Road and England.

Glancing back at the last moment, she caught a glimpse of the spire of the big church and calmed herself with the thought that she could use that as a landmark if she needed to find her way later; the elevated street, South Bridge she thought it was called, ran down one side of that church.

Facing forward, she discovered, to her surprise, that the cobbled street they were leading her down was lined with new houses. The stone facing was crisp, the window glass gleaming, the paintwork glossy. The entire right side of the street was occupied by a newly built terrace, rising three stories above the cobbles.

She was so surprised she forgot Scrope’s injunction on leaving the coach, forbidding her to speak. “I thought all of Edinburgh was ancient.”

Scrope cast her a sharp glance. “Except for the parts that burned to the ground not so long ago.”

“Ah. I remember now.” The town had been devastated by a massive fire in … “Five years or so ago, wasn’t it?”

Scrope, ever the conversationalist, nodded.

Two paces on, he halted before one of the new houses, before the steps leading up to its narrow porch and glossy green front door. Pulling a keychain from his coat pocket, he mounted the steps. An instant later, he had the door open. As he walked inside, Genevieve urged Eliza to follow.

Climbing to the porch, instinctive reluctance mounting, she swallowed. Lecturing herself that she had nothing to fear, that Jeremy would have followed, and that any of the rooms in such a new house that they might lock her in would surely have a window through which she could escape, she clung to her veneer of obedience and stepped over the threshold. Not that she had any real choice with Genevieve and Taylor at her back.

Scrope had halted in a small front hall, in the doorway of what Eliza guessed would be the drawing room. With a gesture, he waved Eliza and Genevieve to the left. Genevieve guided Eliza forward, past Scrope and down a short corridor. A glance back showed Taylor blocking the front doorway and her view of the street as he paid off the porter.

Genevieve steered her into the room at the end of the corridor; it proved to be the kitchen. But instead of halting before the table that filled the center of the room, the nurse, using her grip on Eliza’s arm, turned Eliza to face a door in the wall.

Scrope had followed them; he reached past and opened the door, revealing a set of narrow wooden stairs leading down.

Lifting a lantern from a hook alongside the door, Scrope lit it, adjusted the flame, then went quickly down the steps. “Come along.”

Eliza’s feet turned to lead. If they put her in the basement —

“Get moving.” Genevieve emphasized her order with a sharp jab to Eliza’s back. “Console your pampered self with the reflection that it is a new basement, and our orders are to keep you in comfort, if not style.”

Eliza heard Taylor’s heavy tread as the coachman-cum-guard joined them. She had no choice but to do as they said.

Slowly, step by step, she descended, eventually stepping onto a solid stone floor. Scrope had halted a few yards away, the lantern held high enough to shed a wide circle of light.

That light illuminated a short corridor and another door. This door looked even thicker than the one through which they’d just passed, and possessed a heavy iron lock fitted with a massive key.

Turning the key, Scrope pulled the door open. He half bowed and waved her in. “Your quarters, Miss Cynster. Not what you’re accustomed to, I fear, but at least you’ll have to spend only one night in such spartan surrounds.”

Scrope raised the lantern, letting the beam wash through the doorway into the small room beyond. Roughly thirty feet square, the sparsely furnished room contained a narrow bed and a rickety washstand, with a tiny mirror on the wall above. A threadbare runner ran beneath the bed and across the stone floor. In one corner, a small screen stood angled, presumably hiding a chamber pot.

The best that could be said of the room was that it was clean.

Forced to the threshold by Genevieve, Eliza glanced at Scrope. She refused to quiver or show her reaction; the truth was that reaction was more anger than fear. Catching his eye, she asked with quiet dignity, “May I at least have a candle?”

Scrope’s dark eyes held hers for an instant — no doubt while he tried to imagine how a single candle might help her escape — then he looked toward the steps; Taylor had remained at their top, in the kitchen. “Light a candlestick and bring it down.”

Turning back to her, Scrope nodded toward the room.

Inclining her head haughtily, she moved into the small space. Walking the few paces to the side of the bed, she unlaced the rough cloak they’d given her and swung it off her shoulders.

Taylor appeared in the doorway and offered a candlestick bearing a single lighted candle.

She took it. “Thank you.”

As Taylor stepped back, she looked Scrope in the eye. “You may go.”

Scrope’s lips pinched; the thinly veiled insult had hit its mark.

He closed the door with a barely restrained thud.

The key grated loudly in the lock.

Eliza listened to the footsteps recede, then set the candlestick on a corner of the washstand, sat on the bed, clasped her hands in her lap, and stared at the door.

At the solid timber panel that stood between her and freedom. That was the only way out of her basement room, the modern dungeon they’d locked her in.

She couldn’t think of any easy way for Jeremy to get her out of there, but he’d already surprised her with his ingenuity, his willingness to attempt things she hadn’t thought it likely he would try; she wouldn’t, she lectured herself, give up hope yet.

But she couldn’t quash the sliver of doubt that whispered through her mind. Did he even know where she was?

She didn’t know, she couldn’t tell, and that was the worst of it. The situation required her to have blind faith, not something she would readily accord anyone.

The weight of the pendant between her breasts impinged on her awareness. She reached for it, clasped the crystal through the fine silk of her bodice, and tried to tell herself she wasn’t totally alone.

Tried to believe it.

She was grateful for the illusory warmth of the steady candlelight.

Her fingers around the pendant, her gaze fixed on the door, she waited.

Jeremy leaned against the area railings of a house across Niddery Street and three doors down from the one Eliza and her captors had entered. He lounged as if waiting for a friend, and pondered the newness of the terrace opposite and what that almost certainly meant.

He’d heard about the great fire from Cobby and Hugo, and also much about the subsequent rebuilding. Matching that information with what he saw before him raised an intriguing prospect, one, he decided, he should definitely pursue.

Eliza and her three captors had entered the house more than twenty minutes ago. He was about to push away from the railings and head for Cobby’s house when the door of the kidnappers’ house opened.

The man in charge — Scrope, Eliza had named him — stepped out onto the porch, closed the door, then descended the steps and strode back toward High Street.

His gaze on the house, Jeremy hesitated, evaluating the risks … reluctantly concluded that the coachman-guard and the nurse were still inside, one too many for him to have any reasonable chance of overcoming.

Should he follow Scrope?

He glanced after the man and discovered he’d already lost his chance there. Scrope had quickened his purposeful stride and had already merged with the thronging masses in the main thoroughfare. Although readily recognizable when on his own, there was nothing about Scrope that would make him stand out in a crowd.

Had Scrope gone to summon the laird? Eliza had said they planned to hand her over the next day — not today — so presumably Scrope had gone to send word that they had her there, in Edinburgh, in their keeping.

Eliza needed to be out of the house and away before tomorrow morning.

Looking back at the house, Jeremy raised his gaze and studied every window on the upper floors, but saw no face peering out. He wondered if Eliza had seen him, if she knew he was there and so would know help was coming.

He didn’t like to think of her imagining she was alone.

Pushing away from the railings, he walked back up the street. He knew Eliza’s location; it was time to start arranging her rescue.

Reaching High Street, he turned right along the Royal Mile, toward Cannongate and Cobby’s house in Reids Close.

everal hours later, Jeremy — garbed in a dun surveyor’s coat that reached to his knees, his dark brown hair parted in the center, brushed back and slicked down, a pair of spectacles and two pencils showing in the coat’s top pocket — followed his friend Cobby down the steps of the house next door to the one Eliza was being held in.

It had taken more than three hours to get everything organized and underway. His first action had been to stop at a courier office and send a letter to Wolverstone posthaste. Not knowing Eliza’s parents’ direction, he’d left it to Royce and Minerva to spread the word, confident they would convey his information to Eliza’s family with all speed.

They had to be desperate for news of her.

He’d written explaining how he’d stumbled upon her, related what he’d learned of the kidnappers, and concluded with an assurance that he was presently arranging her rescue without allowing her identity or her time spent with her captors to become public knowledge. He’d closed with the information that he and Eliza would seek refuge at Wolverstone Castle, that being the nearest place of assured safety, as soon as they possibly could.

With the missive dispatched, he’d gone on to Reids Close and had been lucky enough to find not just Cobden Harris — scholarly scion of the Harris clan, known to all as Cobby — with his feet up before his hearth but also the Honorable Hugo Weaver keeping him company. Jeremy, Cobby, and Hugo had become firm friends during the five months Jeremy had spent in Edinburgh working for the Scottish Assembly, cataloguing various old works in their collections, some of which had been acquired by Alexander I and not looked at since. While Cobby was a scholar of ancient Scottish writings, Hugo was a scholar of ancient legal works, of laws, parliaments, and governance. The Assembly had invited the three of them to form a team; the result had been an association that had overflowed from the professional to the personal, and continued long after Jeremy had returned to London.

Naturally, the instant he’d told them — Cobby, Hugo, and Cobby’s wife, Margaret, more commonly known as Meggin — his news, they’d been eager to throw themselves into the project: “The Rescue,” as Hugo had dramatically dubbed it.

“That should do it.” Consulting the ledger he held in his hands, Cobby — a few inches shorter than Jeremy and slightly more rotund, and presently dressed similarly — paused on the pavement and made a show of comparing the ledger entries with the notes on the papers attached to the board Jeremy was carrying.

When Jeremy had described the house on Niddery Street, the three locals had immediately confirmed his suspicion. Which was why Jeremy and Cobby, disguised as council inspectors, were currently inspecting the houses along the street, their aim to determine exactly where in the house Eliza was being held, while Hugo, who had a long association with all things thespian in the city, after suitably dressing the pair of them for the outing, was out searching through the wardrobes of the various theaters and otherwise arranging for all else they would need to pull “The Rescue” off.

Leaning closer, Cobby more quietly asked, “Ready?”

By way of answer, Jeremy nodded to the door of the next house. His disguise was good enough; he doubted Taylor would recognize him.

Swinging around, Cobby marched up the steps, raised his fist, and beat a smart tattoo on the door.

A moment later, it opened, revealing Taylor. He glanced at Cobby, then at Jeremy, then looked back at Cobby. “Yes?”

“Good morning.” Cobby was all breezy officialdom. “We’re from the town council, here to make an inspection of the works.”

Taylor frowned. “The works?”

“Why, yes.” Cobby gestured broadly. “The building. As per the new regulations instituted in the wake of the fire, every new structure must be inspected to ensure that the works are in keeping with the new town ordinances.”

Taylor’s frown hadn’t abated. “We’re not the owners — we’ve just leased the house for a few weeks. We’ll be leaving any day.” He made to shut the door. “You can come back —”

“Oh, no, no, sir.” Cobby halted him with a raised hand. “The inspections are mandatory and cannot be put off. The owner would have been notified by the town clerk. If the owner failed to inform you of the pending inspection, you must take that up with him, but you must not impede us, officers of the council, in any way. As I’m sure you understand, in the aftermath of the tragic fire, public anger against poor building standards reached fever pitch, and the council cannot be seen to be wavering in this regard.” Cobby gestured back along the terrace. “We’ve already completed the survey for most of this section and must finish here today, so if you will allow us entry, we will endeavor to accomplish our task and be out of your way as soon as possible.”

Still holding the door, Taylor hesitated; shifting his weight, he said, “My master’s out, but should return shortly. If you could come back in an hour —”

“Sadly, no — we are on a tight schedule.” Cobby briefly paused, then offered, “If it will help, the police station isn’t far. We could command the presence of two constables to lend gravitas to our demand, if that would help your standing with your master?”

Looking down, Jeremy squelched the inclination to smile. He’d rehearsed Cobby in what to say; his friend was very good at making people think him the soul of reasonableness.

As he’d expected, the option of having constables in the house made Taylor’s decision much easier. The man’s face blanked, then he shrugged. “If you won’t be long, I don’t suppose it matters.”

He opened the door, and Jeremy followed Cobby inside.

They started their “inspection” in the attics, consulting the various forms they’d concocted, making notes, and steadily working their way through the house, room by room, cupboard by cupboard. When they reached the ground floor without detecting the slightest sign of Eliza’s presence, they insisted on checking under the stairs, then Cobby dallied at their foot, supposedly making more notes, in reality ensuring that no one smuggled anyone — Eliza for instance — back upstairs while Jeremy embarked on a determined progress through the various ground-floor reception rooms.

All to no avail.

But Eliza had to be in the house. Them moving her in the few hours he’d been away, yet remaining there themselves, didn’t make sense.

He also knew there was more to the house than was apparent from outside.

Eventually collecting Cobby, they again made a show of comparing notes, then Cobby led the way down the short corridor to the kitchen.

The dark-haired woman Jeremy had seen with Eliza — Genevieve, the nurse — was sitting at the deal table sipping from a cup when they entered. She looked shocked, then shot a surprised and concerned look at Taylor.

Almost imperceptibly, the big man shook his head and reported what they’d told him of their business.

Given the woman’s reaction, Jeremy felt certain that Eliza was there, most likely in the basement room. Their inspection of the house next door had confirmed that the houses in the terrace had such a room, and all of the houses appeared identical in construction.

Under Taylor’s and the woman’s guarded gazes, they dutifully inspected the kitchen, paying special note to the chimney flue, and the construction of the back door and its frame. Then, after they’d conferred in hushed tones, Cobby pointed to the door in the wall to the left of the door through which they’d entered. “Right then. Just the basement and we’re done. If you would unlock the door?”

Jeremy mumbled to Cobby, drawing his attention away from the door to some point in Jeremy’s notes, making their expectation that the basement door would be unlocked without fuss transparent.

Across the deal table, Taylor and Genevieve exchanged a long look.

Jeremy gave them a minute to think — took the same time to think through the possibilities of the next moments himself — then he stepped back, releasing Cobby, who turned to Taylor and the basement door.

Seeing that Taylor had made no move toward the door, Cobby raised his brows. “Is there a problem?”

“Ah …” Taylor, his eyes again meeting Genevieve’s, raised a hand to lift a key from a hook on the wall. “You might think so. We can let you down into the basement, but the owner’s left the basement room locked, and we don’t have the key. We assume he’s put all his valuables down there — it wouldn’t look good if we tried to force the lock.”

“Oh, well.” Cobby glanced at Jeremy. “That is unfortunate …”

“Perhaps”— seeing the danger, Jeremy stepped in, imitating Meggin’s lowland Scots accent —“as it’s hardly your fault the owner has done as he has, we should examine what we can, and then make a note for the clerk to deal with it.” He glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall, then, lowering his voice, leaned closer to Cobby and said, “If we don’t get on, we’re not going to be able to meet the others at the pub.”

Cobby glanced past him at the clock, then nodded decisively. “Right.” He turned back to Taylor. “Perhaps if we just look down the steps so we can show we’ve done what we could.”

Moving slowly, Taylor fitted the key to the lock, turned it, then opened the door.

Thinking furiously about what might happen next, Jeremy realized that if Eliza sensed that someone other than her captors was near, she might cry out, trying to attract their attention … if she did, Taylor and Genevieve would do all they could to ensure he and Cobby didn’t leave the house.

Taylor’s smile was forced as he held the thick panel open. “You can’t see much — just the steps and that bit of corridor.”

Jeremy sensed the rising tension; the woman behind him had stiffened and shifted her weight, ready to spring up and help Taylor push both him and Cobby down the steps.

Cobby stepped to the threshold and peered down.

Keeping his voice low so that while Cobby and Taylor would hear him, Eliza, if she was behind the basement door, wouldn’t, Jeremy quickly said, “We don’t need to see more. Those steps look safe enough — same as in the other houses.”

Picking up the urgency in his tone, Cobby glanced back at him, then looked again down the steps at the short corridor and the heavy door they could just make out in the gloom. “Yes, you’re right.” Taking his cue from Jeremy, he spoke softly. After an instant more of peering into the deep shadows, Cobby stepped back and waved Taylor to shut the door — which he did far more quickly than he’d opened it.

Moving to Jeremy’s side to look down at his notes, Cobby read, then nodded. “That should be sufficient.”

“Good.” Setting the key back on its hook, Taylor turned to usher them out.

With a polite nod to the woman, they left.

A minute later, they were out on the pavement again.

“Next house,” Jeremy said. “They’re watching through the window.”

“We need to check the basement, anyway.” Cobby led the way on, marching up to the next house’s door and knocking briskly.

The old woman who lived there argued querulously but eventually let them in. Their inspection of her house was more cursory, but they still went from attic to basement, just in case Taylor or Genevieve thought to ask the old biddy what they’d done.

They’d hoped to get a good look at the basement room, especially its floor, but when the old lady pulled open the door, disappointment awaited them. The old woman had clearly moved from a much larger house and had kept all her furniture. It was stacked, packed, into the basement room; barely five square inches of floor were visible.

“Ah — yes.” Cobby stared at the hotchpotch, glanced briefly around at the walls, then nodded. “Right. That’ll do.”

He turned to thank the woman, pouring on the Scottish charm. They left her almost smiling.

The instant they were back on the pavement and the door had closed behind them, Jeremy stated, “We need to know if we’re right about the basement.”

Cobby waved him on. “Next house, then. This close to High Street, they’ll all be the same.”

The next door was opened by an elderly gentleman, a retired soldier. He was gruffly genial and, leaning on his cane, happily conducted them about his house, chatting about this or that the whole time.

They humored him and were amply rewarded when he showed them into his basement room. “Same as all the others, of course.” Setting the door open, he waved them in. Cobby lifted the lantern he held, playing the light over several pieces of old furniture stacked in one corner. Otherwise, the room was empty, the floor bare.

Both Cobby’s and Jeremy’s gazes lowered, following the lantern’s beam as Cobby visually searched the stone floor.

Beside them, the old soldier chuckled. “Aye — it’s the same as in all the other houses along this terrace. I wondered if you knew to check for it.”

His gaze on the wooden trapdoor set into the floor, Jeremy nodded. “We’ve seen it in some, but in other places — for instance in the old lady’s house next door — we’ve been unable to confirm it or examine it ourselves.”

“Go ahead.” The man nodded at the heavy bolt set into the trapdoor’s surface. “Just pull that back and you can take a look.”

Eager to do so, Jeremy pushed past Cobby, who shifted the lantern to focus on the trapdoor. Jeremy wriggled the bolt loose, pulled it back, then lifted the panel. While it was inches thick and heavy, it was nicely weighted on good hinges; it opened easily enough.