In Pursuit Of Eliza Cynster

by Stephanie Laurens

  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.

  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.”