Viscount Breckenridge to the Rescue (10 page)

They all drained their mugs and handed them over, but one thought to say, “Here—thought you was out of work.”

“I am.” Gathering the mugs, Breckenridge stood and grinned down at them. “But it’d be a hard day when a man can’t share a drink with like-minded souls—what’d be the point of working at all if you couldn’t at least do that?”

They all vociferously agreed. Crossing to the bar, he leaned on it while the barman refilled the mugs. Most of those in the tap appeared to be locals, not inn guests; although he’d assumed he and Heather would be at the inn for only one night, if he needed to, extending his stay wasn’t likely to be hard.

Swinging around, he glanced back at his table of ready friends. In the edge of his vision, he could see Fletcher and Cobbins, talking quietly over their beers. He toyed with the idea of approaching them, but if they did remain here for more than one night, then putting in the time to establish his bonafides as a harmless solicitor’s clerk—one accepted by the locals—might bear better fruit than a more direct befriending.

“There you be.” The barman placed the last of the four refilled mugs on a tray.

“My thanks.” Breckenridge remembered just in time to pull out some coins and pay, rather than simply expect the man to put it on his slate. Unemployed solicitor’s clerks were unlikely to be afforded credit.

Carrying the tray back to the table, he set it down and sat, then he and the other three all reached for their mugs. Silence reigned as they all sipped. It was in fact a quite palatable brew.

Then one man commenced a tale of a local drover whom the Customs and Revenue men stationed in Gretna had halted before he could cross the border. “He’s having to prove all the steers are his.”

One of the other men snorted. “I’d like to see him do that—everyone round about knows he ‘finds’ his stock up in the hills. Just amble along and join his herd, they do—least to hear him tell it.”

There was general laughter, and the conversation continued, addressing various aspects of local life.

Trays of ale came and went. After a time, the man sitting next to Breckenridge nodded down the room at Fletcher and Cobbins. “Any notion who they be?”

Along with the others, Breckenridge shook his head.

“Well, then,” said his companion, well-flown with ale, “let’s see if they wanna come and join us. Be friendly like.” Raising his voice and his mug, he called down the room, “Here—you two over there. Come join us and drink.”

Demonstrating, the good fellow drained his mug, then smacked it down onto the table.

Breckenridge watched Fletcher and Cobbins exchange a look, a few words, then both pushed back their chairs, picked up their mugs, and, dragging their chairs over, came to join the table.

Introductions were made. The youngest man of the four already seated, Breckenridge waited. Helpfully, one of his unwitting allies waved at him and said, “And this here’s Timms. A solicitor’s clerk up from Lunnon, he be, but sadly out of work and headed up Glasgow way to look for a new post.”

Breckenridge nodded to Fletcher and Cobbins and shook their proffered hands. Beyond that, however, he made no further overtures, allowing Jim, Cyril, and Henry to carry the conversation. They, naturally enough, were curious as to what had brought Fletcher and Cobbins onto their patch. When they inquired, Fletcher glibly related the tale Heather had told Breckenridge about. If previously he’d harbored any notion that said tale would be easy to contradict, hearing Fletcher smoothly explain it all eradicated any such hope.

Fletcher was totally believable. He presented exactly the right persona for a man acting as hired agent for some ageing lordling.

In his role as Timms, Breckenridge nodded sagely. “Lots of young girls run away when they think their guardians are too strict. Saw it all the time in London. Lots of girls find themselves in trouble there.”

He let the conversation swirl on, satisfied with his now established role, with the way Fletcher no longer studied him but now viewed him as one with the others. Not the same, yet indistinguishable, unremarkable.

The barman finally thumped the counter and told them he was closing up. “Just leave those mugs there—the girls’ll fetch them in the morning.”

They all exchanged glances, then drained the dregs of their ale. Setting down their mugs, they lumbered to their feet. Breckenridge was grateful for his earlier years of dissipation, of drinking spirits into the small hours; at least he was steady on his pins.

Between him, Fletcher, and Cobbins, they got the other three out of the front door. The landlord thanked them, threw the bolts, and wished them a hearty good night.

Breckenridge headed for the stairs. Fletcher followed, Cobbins laboring in the rear.

At the head of the stairs, Breckenridge paused and glanced back at Fletcher. “I was going to head on to Glasgow, but I’ve an old wound in m’side”—he pressed a hand to his right side and grimaced painfully—“and it’s twingeing something awful. Probably from driving all this way in my rattle-trap of a gig.” Raising that hand, he saluted them as he turned away. “So I might see you tomorrow, or I might not. But good luck to you anyway.”

“And you,” Fletcher called after him.

Without looking back, Breckenridge gave an acknowledging wave and strode on down the corridor. Smiling.

H
eather crept down the stairs of the Nutberry Moss Inn, clinging to the balustrade to keep from stumbling. While the upstairs rooms had been darkly dim, the well of the stairs and the foyer below lay in Stygian gloom. Reaching the last stair, she stepped carefully down onto the stone flags of the foyer; turning to where she knew the reception counter to be, she saw with considerable relief that the narrow door behind it stood ajar, outlined in faint, wavering candlelight.

Crossing the floor, she slid around the counter, then eased open the door.

Breckenridge was sitting on a narrow bench that ran along one wall beneath a rack of coat pegs, presently empty. He looked up as the door moved; elbows on his knees, hands clasped with his chin resting on them, he raised his head and nodded at the door. “Close it,” he murmured, “and come and sit.”

Clad in her customary outfit, this time fashioned from the coverlet off her bed cinched at her waist with her silk shawl, she did as he said.

He rose as she turned from the door, swirled the cloak from his shoulders, and solicitously draped it about her, overlapping the front edges. Grateful for the additional warmth, holding the voluminous cloak close, she sat. “Thank you. It’s rather chillier here.”

“Hmm.” He resumed his position on the bench, beside her. “So what have you learned?”

He’d spoken in a muted whisper. She did the same, leaning close, nearer his broad and distinctly comforting shoulder. That was one thing she was learning to appreciate that she hadn’t previously admired; his size was reassuring. “First, as to the question you asked—whether Fletcher and Cobbins had spent much time in Glasgow. According to Fletcher, they’ve made it their base for the last two or more years—several, he said.” She studied Breckenridge’s unshaven and strangely more ruggedly handsome face. “So what does that tell you?”

He hadn’t been looking particularly happy—she was starting to be able to see through his mask—but on hearing her words, his lips set in an openly grim line. “It suggests that this laird of theirs might well be more than that.” He met her gaze. “You know that a laird simply means someone who owns an estate?” When she nodded, he went on, facing forward once more. “If their laird had been of the lower gentry, he would have had an accent, and if Fletcher and Cobbins had been in Glasgow for more than a year, they should have been able to pick it as either lowland or highland. Glasgow is the second-largest city in Scotland, and the largest port. Scots from all over the country congregate there. Hearing the different accents and learning to distinguish them, given Fletcher’s and Cobbins’s trade, would have been something they would have learned to do, almost as second nature.”

He paused, then continued, “In fact, if you think about what Fletcher said, he specifically said they
couldn’t
pick where the man was from—so they’d tried, had expected to be able to tell, but couldn’t.”

“Yes, that’s true. But what does that mean?”

“It means we’re not dealing with a laird who hails from the lower gentry.” He glanced at her. “Scotland has excellent schools, in Edinburgh and elsewhere. If this laird was a nobleman’s son, he would have been sent to one for his schooling. He would have been schooled in English by En-glishmen, and encouraged to lose his accent the better to be regarded as civilized when south of the border. I’ve brushed shoulders with a few noble Scots in my time, and they speak as if they’d been to Eton.”

She grimaced. “So our laird isn’t just any old landowner but most likely, if not certainly, a member of the aristocracy?”

He nodded. “That’s how I’d interpret that.”

She sighed, then said, “He’s coming here to collect me, as if I’m some package.” Feeling Breckenridge tense beside her, she hurried on. “However, Fletcher and Martha both said that he won’t be here for several more days—two more at least.” Glancing at Breckenridge, she met his stony gaze. “Apparently it’s going to take him that long at least to reach here, even though they sent their message on the night mail from Knebworth. If he’s still not here and won’t be for at least two more days . . .”

She watched while Breckenridge did the same calculations she had.

Watched as he pulled a very unBreckenridgelike face.

“A highlander. He’s got to be a highlander. That message would have reached Edinburgh two days later. Even allowing for it having to be passed on by someone, it’s still been too long. I can’t imagine this laird, whoever he is, would have set this kidnapping plan in motion, and then gone off on a trip somewhere. He would have been waiting for word, and would surely set out as soon as he’d received it.”

After a moment, Breckenridge met her gaze again. “There’s no other way to reasonably account for the delay. He must be a highlander.” He shook his head; when he spoke, his tone was faintly disgusted. “A highland nobleman. Who knows what ancient bones he might have to pick with the Cynsters?”

She’d heard that her late uncle Sebastian and her long-dead grandfather Sylvester had both acted for the Crown in Scottish affairs at various times. Slowly, she nodded. “That might well be it—I’ve heard the Scots have long memories, especially about the wars and the clearances.”

“Indeed.” After a moment, Breckenridge went on, “Regardless of his reasons, the fact he’s chosen this place, of all places in Scotland, to have you brought to and held until he arrives can’t mean anything good.”

He glanced at Heather, drank in her profile, sensed the uncertainty and the instinctive aversion her expression didn’t truly show. She simply looked pale, a trifle haunted.

As for him . . . the situation was significantly worse than he’d anticipated. If the laird truly was a Scottish nobleman, then while Breckenridge was in Scotland, even as Breckenridge, heir to the Earl of Brunswick, he would have a hard time countermanding the enemy. The Scots, understandably perhaps, had a habit of paying more attention to their own nobles, and too often taking any opportunity to bring the arrogant sassensachs down a peg or three. As he’d mentioned, he’d crossed a few Scottish lairds in his time; they tended to fight for keeps. The warrior and strategist inside him usually appreciated their tenacity, but not when Heather was in any way involved.

Her safety was, and would continue to be, his paramount concern.

“I think,” he said, catching her eyes as she lifted them to his face, “that you should leave with me now and return to London.”

Slipping a hand free of his cloak, she laid it on his arm. He fought not to tense, to react in any way; it was almost as if she didn’t truly register what she’d done but drew comfort, perhaps reassurance, from the contact.

“I’ve definitely considered doing just that, but . . .”

He mentally gritted his teeth; of course she would have a “but.”

Squeezing his arm lightly, she looked away, then retrieved her hand. Perversely he wanted her to put it back.

“The laird won’t arrive tomorrow, and they’re not expecting him the next day, either.” Glancing up, she met his eyes. “So we have two more days in which to drag something—anything—from Fletcher and Cobbins that will allow us to identify the man, this mystery laird, and . . .” She drew breath, held his gaze. “I thought if we timed my escape to just before he arrives, then we might dally in the vicinity long enough to get a glimpse of him.”

When he just looked at her and didn’t immediately reply, she put her hand on his arm again and leaned closer. “We’ve managed to come this far without any real difficulty—neither Fletcher, Cobbins, nor Martha has any inkling you’re here to rescue me, and I’ve been deliberately lulling them into thinking I’m resigned and helpless. With a few more days, who knows what we might learn, especially now we’ve reached Fletcher’s destination, so he might start to relax, at least in respect of what he lets fall?”

All he needed to look at was the set of her chin to know he had no chance of dissuading her. As he also had no right to order her or insist—at least none she would recognize, let alone accept—his options were severely limited. Causing any sort of scene was out of the question. He’d worked out a plan that would allow him to save her with her reputation intact and unblemished, but a public fracas would put an end to that . . . and between them, the damage was already done, the die cast, the matter settled and sealed, and a few more days would alter none of it. Regardless, he put off agreeing, capitulating. Asked instead, “What questions do you think to pursue?’

“I had thought to press them over where they’d sent their message, the one from Knebworth. How they had been instructed to contact this laird. Of course the message would have been sent to someone else to pass on. If this laird is careful enough to give them a false name, then he’s certainly not going to give them his address. So.” She exhaled, then went on, “My other questions have to do with what the laird knows of my sisters, my cousins, and me—what did he tell Fletcher and Cobbins? He clearly told them enough to allow them to find and follow me, but what else do they know?” She met his gaze. “The answers might shed light on who this laird is—is he someone we meet in London occasionally, who goes about within the ton? Or is all his information of the sort anyone with an interest could have learned, even from a distance?”