“These old lassies dinnae know the meaning of fast,” the driver said over his shoulder.
“Could you teach them the meaning for thruppence?” Oscar asked.
“I reckon they’ll learn real quick for six.”
Oscar grumbled about the cost as he handed him a sixpence. The driver urged the horses with a flick of the reins and a guttural order in thickly accented Scots.
The horses responded and we were soon passing slower moving vehicles. I settled back against the trunk and admired the handsome buildings of the city. Soot and grime had settled onto the balconies and roofs, but that only added to the gothic charm of the buildings in the old part of the city. I caught sight of the castle, hunkered on a hill like a crookbacked old man calmly surveying his flock.
“Magnificent,” I murmured. “Did you know it’s one of the most besieged places in Great Britain? Perhaps the world?”
Oscar didn’t answer. He was frowning, his gaze distant. “Do you think that was Defoe’s wife?”
So that’s where his thoughts lay. I should have guessed. “I doubt it,” I said.
“Why? Because he looked about forty, and she didn’t seem older than mid-twenties? Wealthy men have much younger wives all the time, Gavin.”
“Usually it’s their mistresses that are much younger.” I pushed my glasses up my nose to study him better, only to find he was glaring at me.
“You shouldn’t assume she was his mistress,” he said. “Not on such short acquaintance.”
Heat warmed my face. “You’re right. That was ungentlemanly of me. She may not be his mistress, but I do know she’s not his wife.”
“How?”
“I made inquiries after we saw his letter to Lord Coyle. I thought that if he was a collector of magical things, like Coyle, then others may have come across his name. One of the things I learned from an acquaintance was that Mrs. Defoe’s name is Ava and she’s aged thirty-eight.”
“Impressive. I didn’t think we’d need to know anything about the man, so hadn’t given him another thought, but you went so far as to research him.”
My cheeks warmed even more at his praise.
“What else did you learn about him?” Oscar asked. “We may need all the information at our disposal if we are to come up against him in a bidding war for the book.”
A bidding war we had no hope of winning. I didn’t say that to Oscar, however. He seemed in rather a good mood, despite everything, and I didn’t want to deflate it.
“His father made a fortune in the railroads, and John J. inherited the controlling share of the company ten years ago. He’s based in New York, and has a second house in Newport, which the family uses in the summer. Apparently, it’s modeled on the Palace of Versailles, and is quite magnificent.”
The cart turned right, away from the parklands and castle into the New Town with its warm honey-colored stone terraced houses and wide streets. I watched a lamplighter lift his pole to light the streetlamp outside a gentleman tailor’s shop. Unlike the electric lights at the station, these ones were still gas.
“What I don’t understand,” I went on, “is why Defoe is here in Edinburgh at the same time as us, heading to the house of the same man. Indeed, he had an invitation and was collected by Kinloch’s staff. Why didn’t Kinloch afford us the same courtesy?”
“Because we’re not rich,” Oscar said.
“I suppose that could be the case, but why is Defoe here at all? And why now? He wrote that letter to Coyle years ago.”
“And Coyle never wrote back. But his widow did, quite recently.”
“You think this is Lady Coyle’s doing?”
Oscar nodded. “Hope must have read Defoe’s letter after our departure and sent him a telegram. He corresponded with Kinloch then immediately booked his passage to get here in a matter of weeks.”
“We can’t blame her,” I said. “She mustn’t have realized we wanted that particular book, or she wouldn’t have contacted Defoe.”
“Ha! Of course she realized. Lady Coyle is a wasp disguised as a butterfly, with a particular dislike of India. She knows we’re working for India and she would like to see her lose for a change.” He pointed a finger in the air to make a point. “Also, I hear her late husband’s money is drying up because she’s fond of both gambling and luxury. It wouldn’t surprise me if she demanded a price from Defoe in return for information about the book. It would be so like her—” He cut himself off and cleared his throat.
I suspected he’d heard the vehemence in his voice and disliked it. I knew it wasn’t all directed at Lady Coyle. His opinion of well-to-do ladies was colored by his experience with his former fiancée, Lady Louisa. Clearly he was still bitter. Whether he was bitter about their relationship ending, or the reason for it existing in the first place, I couldn’t tell and wasn’t prepared to ask.
I faced the direction we were heading as we turned into a curved street lined with elegant terraces on one side and a private garden square on the other. Oscar was right about Lady Coyle being somewhat cruel toward Matt and India. He was also right in that she desired money, otherwise why would she have married such an awful man as Lord Coyle? She wasn’t alone in liking money, however. Sometimes it seemed the entire world wanted to acquire more of it. Even the centuries of persecution of magicians, and the recent tensions over new laws that ensured they weren’t discriminated against, boiled down to money. The artless were afraid their businesses would fail because magician-made goods would become more desired. There were no longer riots in the streets, but even someone like me, who preferred to keep their head down, could sense the tensions still bubbling beneath the surface.
