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Right now, he needed to return his attention to the reason he was here tonight. Putting his thoughts of Bethea and Montieth aside, he faced the ballroom and sought Bryston McPherson, also a covert agent for the Crown.
Several ladies gave the ominous-looking Scot with a thin scar lashing his left cheek wary glances and a wide berth. As was his habit, Bryston had pulled his long blond hair back on the sides and secured it in a knot at the back of his head. His size and features revealed his Norse heritage.
Neither Camden nor Bryston had any particular love for King George I, but they did for Scotland. There were those only too happy to drag Scotland into another brutal war. More violence, more killing and death, more sorrow and heartache.
The King had quashed two uprisings in the last few years, but Camden feared there would always be Scots resistant to English rule. He didn’t blame them, and in truth, understood their frustration. But by damn, Scotland and her people had suffered enough.
A wound never healed if constantly picked. Scotland was very much like that.
Bryston jutted his strong chin toward the terrace, and Camden gave an infinitesimal nod indicating he understood. Casually strolling the ballroom’s perimeter, he avoided looking directly at anyone as he made his way to the exit.
Disguised as highwaymen, six men awaited him in an alley a half street away.
Unlike Camden and Bryston, these Scots hadn’t been retained for clandestine operations at His Majesty’s behest. Fearless, ferocious fighters, and utterly ruthless, the mercenaries awaiting him and Bryston fought for whatever man possessed the heaviest purse.
And because Camden acted as an extension of His Majesty, that man was him. For now.
In truth, his superior, Sir Walter Makepeace, had brought these mercenaries on board, adamant that the nature of this assignment called for men of a different ilk than trained agents or soldiers.
It still struck Camden as irregular that in all the missions he’d participated in, only this one, led by Makepeace, required hired mercenaries.
Camden wholeheartedly disagreed with Makepeace’s assessment, but wary and watchful, he followed orders nevertheless.
Tonight marked the eighth time they’d detained a coach in an attempt to catch the traitor.
Every other time, Etherington had eluded them, which was why they’d changed tactics and opted to watch the Englishman’s every move tonight. He’d sent out a decoy coach as usual, but this time, Camden was ready for his trickery.
His position with the Crown had required him to take on the persona of a smuggler and marauder. Bryston, on the other hand, had truly sailed the seas for nigh on a decade as a buccaneer. Captain of his own ship, he’d carried letters of marque sanctifying his privateering.
An intimidating man, he boasted several piercings and tattoos. When he’d left his former life, he agreed to join Camden as an agent for His Majesty, not quite ready to relinquish an adventurer’s life just yet.
To this day, Camden didn’t know what caused Bryston to leave the life of a seafarer abruptly, and he hadn’t asked. Some things a man didn’t share.
“Shall we be about it, then?” Camden said as he fell into step beside Bryston.
“Aye,” Bryston agreed with a terse nod. Lowering his voice as they approached the footmen standing at attention, he murmured, “I have men watchin’ every exit. They’ll give the signal the second that English turd pokes his beak out.”
Boot heels clacking on the charcoal gray and white tiled marble foyer, they strode toward the door. For the benefit of the crimson and gold liveried footmen standing at attention on either side of the entrance, as well anyone else watching, Camden slapped Bryston heartily upon the back. “What say ye we find ourselves a bit of real entertainment?” he said loudly.
“Aye,” Bryston chuckled and jeered. “I canna watch any more of those foplin’s and coxcombs prancin’ about like banty roosters.” One pinky in the air and his mouth pursed, he demonstrated a few mincing steps.
The corner of a footman’s mouth twitched as if he agreed with Bryston’s assessment.
Oh, to be able to see inside the mind of a servant. What tales they might tell.
Moments later, he and Bryston tripped down the immaculate front stairs. The dank, damp air encircled them as they sauntered down the cobbled lane. Camden casually glanced over his shoulder before giving a slight nod, and they slipped into the side street.
It only took a few moments to divest his evening jacket and exchange it for a black, wool coat to match those of his comrades. Wrapping a black scarf around his neck, he nodded to Bryston.
“Ye take three men and find a place to conceal yerselves along Wester Road. The others will ride with me, and we’ll do the same on Easter Road.”
They must catch Etherington before he boarded the ship at Leith, and aside from Leith Walk, those were the two main routes between Edinburgh and Leith.
Camden disregarded Leith Walk as an escape route for Etherington. The Englishman enjoyed his creature comforts too much. He wouldn’t trudge two miles on foot to the port in the fog and drizzle this time of night.
No, he’d take Easter or Wester Roads, and Camden would place his money on Easter.
He crammed a knitted cap upon his head, as did Bryston before tugging on black leather gloves. Except for their mounts and varying sizes, the men were indistinguishable from one another.
