I only hoped Mr. Kinloch wasn’t blinded by Mr. Defoe’s money. We couldn’t outbid one of the richest men in the world.
Going by the fact Mr. Kinloch had sent a carriage to fetch Mr. Defoe from the station, however, it seemed we’d already lost.
Chapter 4
While Oscar gave our names to the butler who greeted us, I watched the cart driver unload the luggage. He’d stopped behind the carriage that had delivered Mr. Defoe and his companion. I was surprised to see it still there, since it must have arrived several minutes ahead of us. The reason became clear when the coachman stepped down from his perch. Hands on hips, he twisted from side to side, his gaze scanning the trees and bushes of the garden beyond the fence opposite. He seemed to be looking for something. Or someone.
I peered into the semi-dark, trying to determine if any of the shadows were person shaped, when I spotted movement out of the corner of my eye. A maid emerged from the steps leading down to the neighboring house’s basement service area. Her gasp reverberated around the quiet, curved street.
She stared at me, eyes wide with fear.
I smiled in what I hoped was a reassuring way, but all it did was force her back a step. The hand on the black iron railing tightened its grip.
“You’ve got nothing tae fear from them, Agnes.” Mr. Kinloch’s coachman jerked his head at Oscar and me. “They’ve just got off the train at Waverley, so it’s not them.”
Not us? What was he referring to?
Agnes’s grip on the railing loosened a little, then she ran back down the steps and disappeared into the house.
I cleared my throat in an attempt to get the coachman’s attention. It worked, but instead of a polite ‘Aye, sir?’, I received a scowl that put me back in my place. Their conversation had been a private one, and it was none of my business to intrude.
I set aside my curiosity and turned back to Oscar as Mr. Kinloch’s butler invited us to wait in the entrance foyer.
The towering fellow peered down his nose at us. “I’ll see if Mr. Kinloch’s taking callers.” I was surprised to hear he was English.
“We know Mr. Defoe is already here,” Oscar said tightly.
“Oscar,” I hissed.
Oscar drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He forced a smile for the butler. “We’ll be waiting.” He turned to me. “Gavin, ask the coachman to take down our luggage.” He indicated the valises still strapped to the top of the carriage. “We’ll leave them here in the foyer until our business is finished.”
I glanced at the coachman, only to find he was still watching me. Light from the streetlamps reflected in his eyes, making him look as though he was lit from within like a supernatural creature. The shadows cast by his craggy features only added to the devilishness.
I swallowed heavily. “Perhaps you should ask him, Oscar.”
With a shrug, he trotted back down the steps and spoke to the coachman.
The coachman said a few words in return then climbed back up to his perch. He flicked the reins, and the horses moved off. Oscar returned to me without the valises.
“Our luggage!” I cried. “Where is he taking it?”
“He’s driving around to the mews. We’re to collect them from the coach house when we’re finished with Kinloch.” Oscar ushered me back into the foyer as the butler returned.
“Mr. Kinloch will see you now,” he intoned. “Follow me.”
He led us up the staircase, past walls with rectangular patches on the wallpaper where paintings must have once hung for many years. Were they sent off for cleaning, or had he sold them? If the latter, it would seem Mr. Kinloch was experiencing financial trouble. That would make him quite desperate to get what he could for the rare book, making our task of purchasing it even more difficult. We could offer him a good sum, but not a large one. Unlike a railroad magnate.
The butler led us into a comfortable if rather old-fashioned reception room where an array of knickknacks were clustered on every inch of table surface like barnacles on the posts of a seaside pier. Seeing all the clocks, candlesticks, and little dog statues put to rest any notion that Mr. Kinloch was experiencing financial difficulty. Those would be the easiest and therefore the first to sell off.
A man approached and extended his hand to Oscar. “Good evening. I’m William Kinloch. Mr. Barratt, I presume?” His accent was an educated English one with the merest hint of Scottish brogue. His age was difficult to guess with the threads of gray through his beard but not his sandy-colored hair. The only lines on his face appeared at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, which he did throughout the greeting. He was impeccably dressed in a pin-striped suit, but the tie’s knot was a simple one and sat slightly askew. A good valet ought to have done better. Perhaps Kinloch didn’t have a dedicated one and instead had his butler or a footman perform double duties.
Mr. Kinloch shook Oscar’s hand then turned to me. “And you must be Professor Nash.”
I wondered how he’d managed to guess correctly. “A pleasure to meet you,” I said. “We’re sorry to intrude.” I nodded an awkward greeting to the two familiar figures seated on the sofa.
The beautiful woman gave a slight nod in return, as if she were barely deigning to acknowledge our presence. She sat stiff-backed beside Mr. Defoe who sprawled into the corner of the sofa as if he owned it. Indeed, as if he owned the entire place. He could certainly afford to buy the house several times over, even though it was one of Edinburgh’s finest, so Oscar had informed me when he’d learned of the address. Unlike the woman, Defoe smiled, but it didn’t improve the equine features that the thick, black sideburns attempted to soften. Indeed, somehow it made him seem condescending, as if he were smiling because he knew he’d already beaten us to the book. He couldn’t have been more than forty, younger than I expected for a wealthy magnate. Then I remembered he’d inherited his fortune, not made it.
“Thank you for receiving us like this,” Oscar said to Mr. Kinloch. “We hope we’re not too late to make an offer for the Mackenzie tome.”
