The Brazen Bride

Sixteen

From the mouth of an alley on the opposite side of Bedford High Street, Daniel Thurgood watched his assembled cultists carry out his orders with their customary zeal. Mounted atop his black horse, he watched the flurry of activity about the hotel with growing anticipation.

An hour ago, he’d ridden into the camp near Eynesbury to discover that his careful planning had borne fruit. While the men following Monteith and his guards had lost their trail, the man he’d stationed in Bedford had already ridden in to report that the major, some woman, and the major’s two guards were passing the night at the Swan Hotel.

He’d brought his own guard of twelve-eight assassins and four fighters, all more experienced than the general run of cultists-with him. Although they’d lost men in their pursuit of Delborough and Hamilton, and many were still scattered along the south and southeast coasts, and Alex retained a significant number to deploy in the east, plus a personal guard much like his, he had more than enough cultists in Bedford that night to accomplish his mission-to seize Monteith and his scroll-holder.

His guard were restless, keen to join in any fun. All twelve were currently on foot behind him, concealed in the deep shadows of the narrow alley. The rest of the cultists, working in groups of eight, had surrounded the hotel, situated at the end of the block, and on the three sides-the street front, the side facing the river, and the rear that gave onto the mews-had set smoking fires flanking every door, and below every window.

Even now the smoke was thickening, billowing up to engulf the building.

He held no illusions of burning the place down-solid stone and slate wouldn’t burn. But it was winter in England; there’d been plenty of split wood and coals neatly stacked in sheds at the hotel’s rear. And all he and his men needed was smoke.

Enough smoke to cause panic and have everyone in the hotel rushing out.

Scenting victory in the smell now permeating the air, thin lips curving in cruel anticipation, Daniel lifted the black silk scarf he’d wound about his neck, resettling it so it concealed his features, and watched the clouds of dirty gray and dense white swell and swallow the hotel.

A hundred yards further up Bedford High Street, further away from the river and the Swan Hotel, Alex, ahorse, hugged the shadows at the corner of a lane and studied the activity along the hotel’s front façade.

In jacket and elegant riding breeches, wrapped in a heavy coat, with a hat pulled low and a thick muffler obscuring all features, Alex managed the large chestnut M’wallah had commandeered without conscious thought, all attention locked on the front door of the hotel as it slammed opened and confused and panicked residents poured out.

Considering those in nightshirts and robes now flapping and coughing in the street, noting the way the smoke was rushing in through the opened front doors, Alex wondered if Daniel had stationed men at all the hotel’s exits. Looking up and, despite the darkness, seeing billowing plumes rising on the hotel’s other two accessible sides, Alex’s lips curved approvingly. Daniel hadn’t overlooked the secondary doors.

Assessing Daniel’s plan, gauging the likely outcome, Alex increasingly approved. It appeared that this attack, in Daniel’s more capable hands, would succeed.

Regardless, Alex’s purpose tonight wasn’t to assist.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Cloaked in darkness, closely observing the action, Alex’s sole aim was to make certain that, this time, nothing went wrong.

It was the attack Logan had feared, yet he couldn’t see the point. Not even deluded cultists could imagine they could turn the Swan Hotel into a raging inferno.

He and Linnet had raced around the first-floor gallery, knocking on doors as they’d passed. Linnet had rushed on down the corridor, knocking and yelling, leaving him to rouse their friends.

Reaching Charles and Deverell’s room, he thumped on the door, yelled “Fire!” then went into the room he and Linnet had shared. Rummaging through his bag, he grabbed the scroll-holder, tucked it into his belt at the back so it rode along his spine, hidden by the fall of his coat. He already had his dirk in his boot. He buckled on his saber, loosened the blade, then grabbed Linnet’s cloak and her cutlass, and strode out.

The gallery was filling with smoke and disoriented people, jostling and coughing, some shrieking. Logan turned to the others’ door just as it opened and Deverell came out, followed by Charles, both fully dressed and armed.

They swiftly looked around, didn’t bother asking what was going on.

Hotel staff appeared from below, while others stumbled down from the attics above. All were panicked, but did their best to hurry patrons downstairs and out of the front door.

Someone had flung the front double doors wide, allowing more smoke to rush in and up the funnel of the stairwell. Stepping to the gallery’s rail, Logan squinted down through the gushing clouds, saw more smoke pouring through the doors of the dining room and the hotel’s front parlor, adding to the thickening miasma now filling the foyer, and rising.

Coiling and billowing, and with every new gust of air gushing up to fill every available space.

Linnet returned, coughing, nearly choking. Glancing at the thick cloud below, she dragged her kerchief from her neck, quickly folded it, and retied it over her nose and mouth.

The others did the same, not that it helped much.

Linnet accepted her saber and cloak from Logan, buckled the first on, threw her cloak over her shoulder. “Come on.” She started around the gallery.

Logan and the others followed. He was still thinking, assessing, trying to see…

Reaching the stairs, Linnet went to step down, and he suddenly knew-suddenly saw the danger. “No!”

Grasping her arm, he drew her back.

Surprised, Linnet let him. “What?”

Behind his kerchief, his expression was grim. “That’s what this is for-to flush us out. There’s no real threat of fire-there can’t be.”

Deverell joined them. “They’re using smoke to panic people into rushing ouside. They’ll be waiting for us to appear.”

“Exactly.”

They looked around, listened. Most people had already gone down. A few stragglers stumbled past them and hurried down the stairs. They could hear rushing footsteps on the ground floor, and shouts and wails from outside.

“Let’s take a look outside.” Going to the door of a room overlooking the front of the hotel, Charles threw it open and strode straight to the window.

The smoke was roiling and boiling upward, casting an increasingly dense pall over the street.

“They must have men feeding the fires beneath that,” Deverell said.

“Presumably close against the building.” Logan squinted down. “We can’t see them from this angle.”

“No-but we can see the archers on the roofs across the street.” Charles pointed. It took a moment to distinguish the shapes against the night sky, but the fluttering ends of the scarves about the figures’ heads left little doubt as to who and what they were looking at.

“Ambush of a different sort,” Deverell said. “We need to reconnoiter before we move. Charles?”

Charles nodded, and the pair left the room.

Linnet stayed beside Logan, peering down at the scene below. Beneath the shifting clouds, the hotel’s patrons and staff were milling about in confusion. Townsfolk, roused, were bringing flares, creating an eerie golden glow beneath the thickening pall. “When they try to put the fires out, they’re only going to create more smoke-at least in the short term.”

Logan nodded. “That’s assuming the cultists will give up their fires without a fight.”

“They’re actually down there, aren’t they-in full view.” She’d spied darker figures through gaps in the smoke.

“Yes, and that means this is an all-out assault. They’re going to do anything and everything necessary to catch us and take the scroll-holder.” Logan considered the scene, then tugged her arm. “Come on.”

They stepped into the smokier gallery.

Charles appeared from their left. “There’s no way out on this side-the hotel abutts the next building. No alley, no windows.”

Deverell emerged from a room along the right-hand side of the gallery. He shook his head as he came jogging up. “They’ve men along the riverbank, too. Under the trees, watching like hawks, plus others feeding fires against the walls on that side.”

Around them, the smoke was steadily thickening, rising and filling the upper levels of the hotel. They all coughed; Linnet’s eyes were stinging.

Deverell shook his head. “Regardless of the absence of flames, we can’t stay here.”

“Smoke can kill just as easily as fire.” Charles tightened his kerchief.

Grimly, Logan nodded. “Let’s see if we can get out the rear entrance.”

Coughing, doubled over, they ran around the gallery, trying to avoid the worst of the smoke. Logan found the back stairs and started down, Linnet at his back, Charles and Deverell behind her.

They descended half a flight into rising smoke, then Logan abruptly halted. He nodded at the window set into the wall beside him. “Look.”

From his tone, Linnet knew what she would see when she did. He stepped down; she did, too, letting Charles and Deverell look out as well.

Cultists were ranged behind barrels and carts in the inn’s rear yard. She counted ten.

Grimly shaking his head, Charles straightened and met Logan’s eyes. “I don’t fancy those odds. We might be able to best those we can see, but if there are more within hailing range, which seems likely, we’ll be in big trouble.”

And they had Linnet with them.

Logan heard the unsaid words loud and clear; they were already ringing in his head. He looked past Charles to Deverell. “Charles said the building against the fourth side abutts the hotel, so it’ll have to be the roof.”

No one argued.

Deverell turned around. “I think the hotel is the highest building in the area. With luck, the archers across the road won’t be able to see us.”

As quickly as they could, they went back to the first-floor gallery. “This way.” Linnet took the lead, heading for the door through which the hotel staff had come down from the attics. Beyond the door they found the attic stairs, blessedly less smoky. They climbed quickly up and Deverell shut the door behind them.

Once in the attics, they spread out, searching. The air was clearer, but the smoke seeped steadily in. From the street below, they heard shouts, then yells, a building ruckus. Linnet tried to look out of the attic windows, but the balconies below blocked her view.

“Sounds like a melee,” Deverell said. “As if the townsfolk have taken exception to foreigners setting their hotel alight.”

“More power to their right arms,” Charles replied. “Unfortunately, we can’t risk going out and joining in.”

Logan finally found the right door. “This way.”

He waited until they were all assembled. “We go up and out, and with luck, there won’t be any cultists waiting, but be prepared-they might have thought of the roof.”

Logan turned and climbed the stairs. Linnet moved to follow, but Charles caught her shoulder and drew her back. “Ladies to the rear, this time.”

He pushed past her, and so did Deverell, before she could think of any reply. With a humph, she seized the moment to swing her cloak about her shoulders and tie it firmly at her throat, then she loosened her cutlass in its scabbard, and followed.

Logan opened the door at the top of the narrow flight, gently eased it wide, giving thanks to whoever had kept the hinges oiled. Silent as a wraith, keeping low, he slipped out, through the drifts of smoke scanned the roof. It was largely flat, with no protrusions of sufficient size to hide a cultist.

And it was empty.

“All clear,” he murmured, straightening as Charles joined him. The noise from what sounded like a pitched battle below would mask any sound they made.

Charles glanced back as Deverell, then Linnet emerged. He pointed to the side of the roof away from the river-the side beyond which the adjoining building lay.

Swiftly, they crossed to the waist-high stone parapet. The air was somewhat clearer, slightly fresher there, and now the thick smoke worked to their advantage, wafting up the hotel’s walls and screening them from watching eyes.

Deverell had been right. The neighboring building was shorter than the hotel, its roof lower, but thankfully not too low. And that roof, too, was empty of cultists.

“They’ve positioned all their archers across the street,” Charles murmured.

“Luckily for us.” After one glance at the archers, Logan took advantage of a thicker gust of smoke to swing one leg over the parapet, then the other, then he dropped lightly down to the lower roof.

Charles and Deverell helped Linnet to do the same, then they followed.

Keeping low-they were now at a level where, if they stood upright too close to the edge, the archers on the roofs opposite might see them-they scouted, but could find no access to the building below. No way to get down.

Logan signaled. “Next one along.”

The next building’s roof was lower still, but this time by barely a step. Even more carefully, they spread out and searched its roof for some way to get inside, but neither it, nor the next two adjoining buildings, all of similar height, had any direct way to get into the buildings below.

Moving on, they looked down at the roof of the next building, which was smaller and lower, two storeys but with a many-gabled roof. From above, they studied it, searched, then Linnet pointed. “There-that covered porch.” A small, single-storey structure, it was built onto the back of the building. “We can go down that waterpipe from the roof, onto the porch roof, and then down into the little yard at the rear.”

The building beyond the one with the gabled roof was significantly higher; climbing up to its roof would be a problem. Logan glanced back. They were sufficiently far from the hotel to risk going down into the lane that ran along the rear of the buildings. More, the small square yard into which they would drop didn’t open directly to the rear lane, but was joined to it via an alley some ten yards long. Unless a cultist came to the alley’s mouth and looked in, their party wouldn’t be seen by the cultists watching in the lane.

And the longer they remained on the roofs, the more risk that they’d be seen.

He nodded. “Let’s go.”

Although the smoke was still thickening about the hotel, it was much thinner, a bare veil, where they now were. The flares in the street were largely concentrated outside the hotel, but every now and then some townsman would run past with a brand, on their way to join the fracas outside the hotel, throwing light up onto the wall down which they had to climb.

They tried to pick their times, dropping down to the roof one after another, then making their way cautiously over the gables to the pipe that let them ease down to the porch roof.

Within ten minutes, they were within reach of the ground.

Daniel cursed. “Damned meddling gits! Why couldn’t they keep their noses out of things?”

None of the men at his back volunteered an answer.

Still cloaked in the alley’s shadows, they watched as the fight in the street swelled to an all-out brawl. More townsmen came charging up to join in; as the minutes ticked by, more of those arriving waved weapons-pitchforks, spades, whatever they could lay hands on.

He’d overlooked the fact that the common English were not the same as the run-of-the-mill Indian-that they were more likely to react with belligerence than cower. His fault, his mistake; he knew it.

The instant the gathering townsfolk and those flooding out of the hotel had comprehended that the source of the fires threatening the building was a group of foreigners, who were continuing to diligently feed the flames, they’d cursed, bellowed, and fallen on the cultists’ backs. For their part, the cultists expected anyone whose house they were burning down to cower; they’d struck back, expecting instant victory. Before Daniel could think of any way to intervene, battle had been joined.

There were enough cultists to keep the smoke billowing and roiling up, but the ranks of the good townsfolk of Bedford were constantly increasing.

A shot rang out.

Daniel jerked his reins tight, caught his horse before it could bolt. Astride its back as it pranced, he cursed some more. The cultists hated guns-as fighters that was their one true weakness. Even the men at his back, far better trained, had flinched. Their edgy tension had ratcheted up several notches.

More shots sounded, more than likely fired over the crowd.

An instant later, three cultists fled past the alley mouth, heading away from the fight.

Daniel ground his teeth. “Where the devil is Monteith?” Despite all distractions, he’d kept his eyes on the hotel’s front door. He had men stationed all around the building, watching every exit. If Monteith had gone out any other way, he should have heard of it by now.

Should have been informed that the troublesome major had been seized. Heaven knew he’d assembled enough men to be sure of accomplishing that.

Could Monteith be thinking to hole up in the hotel? As soon as the smoke faded sufficiently, Daniel would send in his assassins to scour the place.

His mount stirred, as restless as he. Another local man came running down the street from the left, a flaming brand held high, a pitchfork in his hand; the light drew Daniel’s gaze.

Up above the street, the light from the brand fleetingly silhouetted an object-one that fell from one roof to the next. A man-sized object; a crouching man. Daniel stopped breathing, watched. The man didn’t come to the front of the roof. He must have gone…

“With me!” Daniel snapped out the order. Loosening his reins, digging in his heels, he plunged out of the alley. Wheeling left, away from the melee before the hotel, he thundered up the road.

His assassins running as a group just behind, Daniel could almost taste success as he rounded the block, drew rein, drew his sword, and turned into the lane than ran along the rear of the buildings.

Logan dropped to the cobbles in the narrow yard. He swiftly scanned the cramped space. Stacked crates and empty barrels clogged the entrance to the alley leading to the rear lane. The yard was dark and relatively quiet, the high walls all around cutting off much of the sound and fury from the street. Even the smoke had barely penetrated there.

Straightening, he reached up and helped Linnet down. While she untied the ends of the cloak she’d knotted across her waist, he checked the scroll-holder, resettled it against his spine.

While Charles, then Deverell, joined them, Logan found the back door tucked inside the porch and tried it. Not only was it locked, it was also solidly bolted from inside. No access, no even temporary place to hide.

He looked back down the alley. The walls were plain brick, unadorned, and vertical all the way to the neighboring roofs, no doors or windows. He glanced up and around. There was no other way out.

“At least the archers across the street can’t see us.” Catching the others’ eyes, he tipped his head down the alley. “We’ll have to go that way.”

They nodded, resettled their coats and weapons, then he led the way forward, Charles behind him, then Linnet, with Deverell bringing up the rear.

They’d barely cleared the stacked crates and stepped into the alley proper when a dense shadow loomed at its end. As one, they halted.

The shadow resolved into a horseman in a black coat, breeches, and riding boots, astride a black horse.

Men moved behind the horse, forming up two by two and following the rider as he walked his mount slowly, clop by clop, down the alley toward them.

The sound echoed eerily off the alley’s high brick walls, a portentious drumbeat.

As if responding to the drama, the moon sailed free high above; it beamed down into the alley from behind them, bathing the approaching figure and his retinue, highlighting every line in icy-cold silver light.

Silver light that glinted on multiple naked blades.

The rider wore a black scarf wound about his head, concealing nose and chin; his eyes coldly observed them from above its upper edge as he halted-just far enough away to be safe from any attack from Logan or Charles, now standing shoulder to shoulder across the entrance to the small yard. Both had drawn their sabers. Logan couldn’t remember doing so; the hilt had suddenly been in his palm, his fingers locked in the grip, the blade held down by his side.

His every sense, every instinct, remained locked on the rider, even when two of the cultists moved up to stand on either side of the black horse.

Both cultists, like their fellows behind them, held naked blades in both hands.

“Those,” Logan murmured, “are cult assassins.”

“Ah,” Charles replied, and uncharacteristically left it at that.

Linnet, behind Logan, heard the exchange. Looking over his shoulder, she finally comprehended just what had driven him and his friends to battle so hard, for so long, to face so many dangers to bring it down. To defeat it.

True evil.

It stared back at her, not from the cult assassins’ dark, unflinching eyes but from the shadowed eyes of the rider. He… somehow, he made the hair on her nape lift, made her skin pebble and crawl; when his gaze found her, and, as if intrigued, rested on her, she had to fight to quell a wholly instinctive shiver.

An instinctive reaction.

An instinctive fear.

He wore a black coat, he rode a black horse, he had black hair. Yet it was his soul that was blackest; she knew that to her bones.

Her cutlass was already in her hand; she tightened her grip on the hilt. Not a single thought-not even a fleeting one-of fleeing entered her head. She’d come to fight alongside Logan and she intended to do just that.

Yet the odds… were by any estimation hopeless. That didn’t mean they couldn’t be overcome. She counted twelve assassins, but the biggest threat was the mounted man. He carried an unsheathed sword, held lightly balanced across the front of his saddle.

If they could get rid of him…

The rider had shifted his gaze to Logan. After another long, studied silence, he said, “At last we meet, Major Monteith.”

His voice was educated, very English, his diction only lightly muffled by the scarf.

When Logan said nothing, the rider’s eyes smiled. “I believe you know what I want. Please don’t waste time by telling me you haven’t got it-that you aren’t carrying it on your person at this moment.”

Opportunity. Possibility… Leaning forward, Linnet whispered to Logan, loudly enough for the rider to hear, “Give it to him. It’s no use to us if we’re dead.”

She knew it was a decoy, no use to anyone anyway. But the rider didn’t know that, and if he could be fooled into taking it and leaving, they had a chance of surviving even this attack.

Logan shifted, frowned. Made every show of reluctance, grateful to Linnet for giving him that chance. Whoever this man was, he’d know immediately that the letter was a decoy if Logan simply offered it up.

He waited, hoping that the man would make some threat-preferably against Linnet-to further excuse his surrendering the document he’d fought to ferry over half the world.

But the rider’s gaze remained locked on him and didn’t again shift to Linnet. Eventually, the rider arched a brow, as if growing bored.

Who the devil was he? He wasn’t Ferrar, yet from the color of his hands he’d been in India, and not long ago. He clearly commanded cult assassins, so he was, at the very least, a close associate of the cult leader. Coat, breeches, boots, and the horse were all of excellent quality, and the rider wore them, rode the horse, with the unthinking air of one long accustomed to such luxuries.

Logan allowed his frown to deepen. “Who are you?” He saw no reason not to ask.

The rider’s gaze took on an edge. “My name is not something you need to know. All you need to understand is that I am, in this moment, in this place, the Black Cobra.”

“The Black Cobra’s Ferrar.”

“Really?” The rider’s smile returned; he seemed genuinely amused. “I believe you’ll discover you’re mistaken. However”-his voice hardened, along with his gaze-“the one thing you should note is that I am here, Black Cobra or not, to retrieve the letter that inadvertently fell into your hands.” His gaze flicked to the others, then returned to Logan’s face. “And I’m willing to barter for it-your lives for the letter.” When Logan didn’t reply, the rider drawled, “Word of a gentleman.”

Logan managed not to scoff. Not to react at all. The offer was the best he could hope for, not that he believed it; he knew better than to trust the Black Cobra in whatever guise. Still… moving slowly, he withdrew the scroll-holder from the back of his belt, held it up for the rider to see.

The rider’s gaze turned superior. “Yes, but is there anything inside?”

Letting his saber hang from its lanyard, Logan slowly opened the holder, then tipped it so the man could see the parchment inside.

The rider sighed theatrically and beckoned. “Give me the letter itself-I’m not going to cede you your lives in exchange for a plain sheet of paper. You can keep the scroll-holder as a souvenir.”

Inwardly, Logan sighed, too. He didn’t expect the rider to allow them to live, to call off his assassins-no one from the Black Cobra hierarchy would ever be so forgiving-but if the rider had taken the scroll-holder and ridden off, they might have had a fighting chance.

While reaching into the holder and drawing out the rolled parchment, he was planning, plotting, evaluating the closest assassins, imagining how a fight would commence; the opening minute would be crucial.

Drawing out the letter, he tossed it to the nearest assassin. The man caught it in his right hand and passed it up to his master.

Logan kept the empty scroll-holder, its brass end open and flapping, in his left hand, slid his right hand into the guard of his saber, gripped the hilt.

Beside him, he felt Charles shift slightly, also tensing for action.

The rider had, as Logan had feared he would, unrolled the parchment. He angled it to the moonlight; it was bright enough for him to confirm the letter was a copy.

The rider flipped the parchment over, confirming the absence of any telltale seal, and once again the skin at the corner of his eyes crinkled in a smile.

Logan blinked. A smile ? It was a decoy copy. The rider, if he’d been the one directing the campaign to keep Logan from reaching Elveden, had lost countless men-and all for a copy? He should be furious.

If anything, the rider’s smile lines deepened as he folded the letter, tucked it into his inner coat pocket, then he looked up, inclined his head. “A pleasure doing business with you, Major.”

Raising his reins, the rider backed his horse. His men parted to let the beast through, but they didn’t fall back; they held their ground, reforming as the horse retreated beyond them.

Once free of his men, the rider turned his horse; the alley was just wide enough to allow it. Then he walked the horse up the alley.

For one instant, Logan wondered… yet he still couldn’t believe it.

The rider halted in the mouth of the alley, looked back at them, over the heads of his men saluted them. Then what they could see of his face leached of all expression, and something coldly sinister took its place. “Kill them.”

The order was given in a flat, even tone.

Instinct prodded, and Logan called, “I thought you were a gentleman.”

The rider laughed, a chilling sound. Abruptly he sobered. “I was born a bastard-I’m simply living up to my birth.”

With that, he spurred away.

At the first clack of hooves, the assassins attacked.

Alex had been about to turn and flee the debacle Daniel’s plan had degenerated into when Daniel had suddenly spurred out of his hiding place down the street, opposite the hotel, much closer to the writhing mass of cutlists and townspeople. Alex had drawn back into hiding, watched Daniel ride up and turn down the opposite half of the same street Alex hovered in. A little way along, Daniel reined in, unsheathed his sword. With his guard close behind him, he proceeded slowly down the lane behind the buildings facing the street-the lane that, Alex felt sure, ran all the way along the block to the back of the hotel.

What had caught Daniel’s attention? What had he gone to take care of?

Alex hoped, sincerely hoped, the answer was Monteith.

But as the minutes ticked by with no further sign of Daniel, and the melee down the street increasingly turned the townspeople’s way, the compulsion to quit the scene grew. Alex didn’t want to be caught there-a stranger watching the action, and at such an hour. Difficult to adequately explain.

Alex dallied, and dallied-was lifting the reins, about to leave, when Daniel rode out of the lane. Sheathing his sword, he looked up, but he couldn’t see Alex tucked deep in the shadows across the road and further down the side street.

Alex watched Daniel walk his horse back to the High Street. Halting, he tugged down his scarf and looked back down the street at the now faltering melee. Then he smiled.

Slowly, Alex smiled, too.

Daniel, his expression tending toward triumphant, turned his horse away from the fight and rode unhurriedly out of the town.

Back in the shadows, Alex relaxed, felt tension drain from muscle and tendon. Daniel had succeeded. He’d got Monteith’s letter, and that was all that mattered.

In increasingly buoyant mood, Alex toyed with the notion of riding after Daniel, catching him up, and joining him in a jubilant race back to Bury, but… how to explain? Daniel wasn’t a fool like Roderick had been. Daniel would instantly see that Alex’s secretive presence in Bedford demonstrated a very real lack of trust.

Which it did. But letting Daniel know that wouldn’t serve the cause.

After several moments’ cogitation, Alex realized that Daniel’s guard, all twelve of them, had yet to come out of the lane. Which almost certainly meant they were engaged-which suggested Alex should leave before some worthy citizen stumbled on some grisly sight and raised a hue and cry.

Urging the chestnut into a slow trot, Alex headed up the High Street, taking the same route Daniel had.

The chestnut was a stronger, more powerful beast than the black Daniel was riding; easy enough, at some point along the way, for Alex to overtake Daniel without him seeing, and so reach Bury ahead of him, to be there, ready and willing to be graciously rewarding, when Daniel arrived, victorious, to lay his prize at Alex’s feet.

Smiling in anticipation, Alex rode on.

The fighting in the yard at the end of the alley was fast, furious, bloody, and desperate.

Somewhat to Logan’s surprise, he, Linnet, Charles, and Deverell were all still alive.

Cut, bruised, scraped, slashed, yet still alive, still on their feet.

They’d managed to turn the alley’s narrowness to their advantage. The instant the cultists had moved, Charles and Deverell had whipped their pistols out. They’d fired at close range, and the first two cultists had crumpled.

The smoke from the pistols hadn’t even dissipated-the other cultists hadn’t recovered from their instinctive recoil-when Linnet had caught his belt and yanked. “Get back!”

He’d stepped back, and she’d sent a pile of crates tumbling half across the end of the alley. Charles had seen, and done the same on the other side.

Knowing it would mean death to leave the higher ground to the assassins, Logan had leapt up to the top of the crates and wildly slashed at the cultist who’d been scrambling to climb over his fallen comrade’s body to claim the advantage.

He hadn’t held back his swing, so that cultist, too, had joined the debris before the crates.

Charles had claimed the top of the crates on the other side, hacking at the cultist who’d come at him. Deverell had worked with Linnet to shore up the wobbling crates with others, until both Logan and Charles had had solid platforms from which to work.

The advantage was incalculable. Added to that, their longer swords, greater reach, and the narrowness of the alley, which meant that no more than two assassins could face them, come at them, at once, meant they had a chance.

They fought to make the most of it.

To Logan’s utter relief, Linnet didn’t try to claim a place on the crates. In such a confined space, the strength behind each blow, behind every block, was critical; she couldn’t face opponents like this, in such a place.

She remained behind him, not safe but safer, yet by no means cowering. When an extra assassin pushed in alongside the one fighting Logan and slashed at his legs-with both saber and dirk engaged, he couldn’t block the strike-Linnet caught the assassin’s blade with her knife before it reached Logan’s thigh, then her cutlass flashed forward, striking hard and deep across the cultist’s exposed wrist.

Blood spurted. The cultist’s blade fell. In the turmoil, Logan couldn’t see what was happening to the assassin, but he doubted the man would live to fight further.

Then he took a thrown dagger in his upper arm. Deverell tapped him on the shoulder and they smoothly changed places.

Before Logan could think, Linnet grabbed him, seized the dagger, yanked it out, clamped her fingers around the wound, staunching the flow, then, wadding her neckerchief over the cut, she slid a belt-her cutlass belt-up around his arm, then cinched it tight.

He looked into her face, saw on it the same expression he knew would be on his. In battle, you stayed alert, did what needed to be done, and pushed all emotions deep.

She arched a brow at him.

He flexed the arm. As a field dressing, it would do. He nodded. “Thank you.” Then he turned back to the fight.

He replaced Charles when he took a slash to his thigh, not incapacitating but bad enough to need tending.

Regaining the top of the crates, Logan dispensed with the assassin responsible. It was touch-and-go, no time for science, just quick, hard, bloody work, going for the kill in any way that offered, but with luck and skill…

He and Deverell finally put paid to the last pair of cultists.

They swayed on the top of their makeshift platforms, staring down at the bodies tumbled and jumbled, blocking the alley.

Then Charles tapped them both on the shoulder, waited until they stepped back and down, then he went over the barricade and walked the alley with his saber in his hand, making sure none of the assassins they’d downed got up again.

His heart thundering, his breath sawing in and out, Logan slumped on an upturned crate. Deverell slowly let himself down against the yard wall.

Charles returned, clambering up and over, then he sat on the edge of their makeshift platform. “That was…” He paused to draw breath. “More action than I think I’ve ever seen-not in such a short space of time.”

Deverell lifted his head, smiled the ghost of a smile. “It’s the closeness-the tightness. You can’t move, can’t find any rhythm, get any real swing. Much harder, fighting so constrained.”

Logan leaned his head back against the crates, looked at Linnet, the only one of them standing, albeit propped against the side of the small porch. The action had been so fast, so intense, he hadn’t had a chance to be frightened for her. Now… relief had never felt so blessed, so utterly swamping. He caught her gaze, after a moment wearily smiled. “Yet we’re all still alive.” Almost giddy with the emotions coursing his veins, he tipped his head toward the alley. “And they’re all dead.”

“True.” Charles heaved a sigh. “However, our night-or rather, morning, this being the next day-is not yet over.” He looked at Logan. “Any idea who he was?”

There was no need to specify whom he meant. Logan shook his head. “I’ve never set eyes on him before.” Pushing away from the crates at his back, he stretched. “That said, he may well have been what he said, or at least implied-someone who wielded the authority of the Black Cobra.”

“So a very trusted lieutenant at least,” Deverell said. “He was well dressed, well spoken, well educated, from his tan had been in India recently, and commanded a large body of the cult elite.” He looked at Charles, then Logan. “Which means we should follow him.”

Logan nodded. “He was so trusted he knew about the letter, about the seal being the important part, although why he was so pleased to retrieve a mere copy I have no idea.” He got to his feet as the other two men got to theirs. “Aside from all else, although he may not be the Black Cobra, there’s an excellent chance he’s taking our copy-”

“To the real Black Cobra. Indeed.” Charles tossed aside two crates. “Let’s go.”

The stables behind the hotel appeared to be deserted. From what they could hear, the fighting was continuing in the street, and less actively on the riverbank. The cultists they’d seen by the stables must have gone out to aid their fellows.

However, as they approached, they saw one lone cultist, a thin, shivering figure crouched beside a cart, clearly left to watch the back of the hotel. He was staring at the back door so intently that they were nearly upon him before he realized.

“Aiiee!” He leapt to his feet, brought up his sword.

He was more boy than man. His sword wavered; he was scared out of his wits.

Charles, in the lead, heaved a huge sigh, abruptly stepped and lunged, and with one quick flick sent the boy’s sword flying off into the stable. Charles looked at the boy. “Boo!” The boy jerked; trembling, he just stared. Charles took another step, waved his arms, his bloodied sword. “Go! Run away! Off!”

With a strangled shriek, the boy turned and fled.

He bumped into, caromed off, another larger figure as he rounded the corner to the riverbank path. The figure halted, glanced back at the fleeing boy, then came on.

The four of them had melted into the shadows of the stable before the man-friend or foe they couldn’t tell in the darkness-came trudging up. He paused just outside the stable door to peer up and down the lane, then turned inside-and found Charles’s sword point at his throat.

David yelped and staggered back, but then he saw who they were and his face split in a huge grin. “You’re all right! Praise the Lord.” He looked at Deverell. “I’m right glad to see you hale and whole, m’lord. M’lady said she’d skin me alive if’n I brought you back any other way.”

The thought-of what poor David could possibly have done to avert Deverell’s death at the hands of the assassins they’d just faced-made Linnet laugh. And then the four of them were laughing. David just stood there, simply pleased to have made them smile.

When they recovered, they made plans.

They decided that delaying to explain to the local authorities just what had taken place, and their part in it, especially the carnage in the alley, would see them stuck in Bedford for days.

Logan and Linnet sneaked back upstairs to retrieve all their bags for David to take in the carriage. Deverell had already told David the route they’d been intending to follow. “Stick to that.” Deverell handed over a purse. “You can pay our shot here, then go on to Elveden. Tell the manager that the horses we’re appropriating will be returned safe and sound within four days, and if you run into any problems, just say you’re operating under orders from the Duke of Wolverstone.”

“That name,” Charles put in, “is guaranteed to get you out of any tight spot.”

They found four decent horses. Charles and Deverell saddled them up. “Astride all right for you?” Charles asked Linnet.

She nodded. “Please.”

Charles didn’t argue, just obliged. There was a lot to be said, Linnet thought, for well-conditioned gentlemen.

And then they were away. They’d got no sleep, but their blood was still up from the fight. It would be a while before any of them calmed enough for slumber; they might as well do what they could to track the one responsible.

If he led them to the Black Cobra so much the better.

They headed out of town and, under the light of the waning moon, took the most direct route to Cambridge, a secondary road that cut through the fields and fens. While they couldn’t be certain of their quarry’s route, they assumed the Black Cobra was lurking somewhere beyond Cambridge, in the general direction of Elveden.

A few hundred yards past the last cottage of Bedford, Logan, who had been studying the surface of the road, pointed to tracks ahead, visible where they broke through a hardening crust of frost. “Two riders, not long ago.” He slowed to look more closely. “One first, then the other. Separate, not together. Both large, powerful horses going at a steady gallop.”

“What are the chances one of them’s our man?” Charles said.

“Excellent, I’d say,” Deverell replied. “Who else would be out riding in the wee small hours in this icy weather?”

“But who’s the second rider?” Linnet asked.

“No idea.” Lifting his head, Logan looked across the flat, open fields. In the faint moonlight, it was a chill and somewhat eerie sight. The skies were inky black, cloudless; the cold was steadily intensifying. The morning would be crisp and clear. “A guard, perhaps. It doesn’t matter. With this frost thickening, if we keep a steady pace, with luck we might come up with our man. Or even better, follow him to his lair.”

They resettled their coats and cloaks, then shook their reins and rode on, buoyed by the knowledge that, regardless of all else, they were nearing journey’s end.

Daniel had ridden from Bedford in wild triumph. Once out of the town, he’d let the black have its head and the first mile had flashed by. But then caution reasserted its hold. Even though it was the small hours, no one needed to remember a madman thundering past.

So he eased the horse back to a steady gallop.

He crossed the Great North Road and continued on between the flat, empty fields toward Cambridge. His most direct route to Bury, and Alex, lay via the university town, then through Newmarket beyond.

As the euphoria of relief combined with success slowly faded to an inner glow, he reassessed, yet the relief and the jubilation of success still lingered. He wondered how many of his men had been killed or captured-taken up by the people of Bedford and handed over to the authorities. Alex wouldn’t care how many cultists-assassins or foot soldiers-he’d lost, just as long as he had the letter to show for it. And none of those who’d been with him, not even his guard, knew his name, let alone Alex’s.

Most had known Roderick’s name, but with Roderick dead, that no longer mattered.

He glanced back once, wondering when his guard would rejoin him, but they’d doubtless be a while yet. He’d noticed the woman-had heard confused reports that Monteith was traveling with one in his train, along with a ship’s captain who had caused untold problems for the cultists patrolling the Channel-but other than his two guards, Monteith had had only the woman with him… but she’d been carrying a cutlass, and had been wearing breeches under her cloak.

After a moment, he shook his head, shaking aside the questions, along with imagined visions of what his guard were very likely, at that very moment, doing in the little yard. He would have liked to have spent an hour or two learning more about the woman, from the woman, all in front of Monteith, but duty called. His guard would doubtless enjoy doing the job in his stead; they would report to him later.

Roderick had been vicious, but in a plebian way. He-Daniel-was much more inventive, much more imaginative.

Alex, however, could trump them both.

Their relationship, although close, was, beneath all, a battle for supremacy-they were their father’s get. With the letter resting comfortably in his coat pocket, Daniel rode on through the night, lips curving lasciviously as he plotted what he would claim as his due for the night’s success-what he would make Alex do to suitably reward him.

A lex hung back at a safe distance and followed in Daniel’s wake. Knowing where he was ultimately headed meant Alex had little fear of losing him. Meanwhile, by keeping in his wake, Alex could watch for any signs of pursuit.

As of that moment, with the spires of Cambridge rising out of the fens ahead, dense shadows against the night sky, there’d been no hint of any followers. And the further they got from Bedford, and the more hours passed, the prospect of active pursuit became progressively less likely.

Regardless, Alex continued to play safe, to ride a watchful distance behind. No matter their relationship-and not even Alex could specify exactly what that was-no matter that Alex could rely on Daniel, appreciated him, valued him, and didn’t want to lose him, nevertheless Alex would not permit even Daniel to risk Alex’s neck.

When Daniel slowed, Alex slowed. From the shadows of a copse, Alex watched as Daniel unwound the black silk scarf from about his neck and stuffed it into a pocket before lifting his reins and riding on.

Alex approved. Even though there would be few awake and aware at that hour, there might be some-and no one needed to see a gentleman like Daniel sporting the cult’s principal insignia.

After a moment of silent debate, Alex opted to skirt the town and pick up Daniel as he emerged again, on the road to Newmarket. Riding around via the darkened country lanes, Alex calculated that it would be some way further-Newmarket itself or better yet beyond-before an unexpected appearance on horseback could be passed off as a welcome party, as if Alex had ridden out in eager anticipation of meeting a returning, victorious Daniel.

Until then, there was little to do but hang back and watch.

Daniel halted at a tiny tavern in a village east of Cambridge, on the road to Newmarket. The tavern had just opened and he needed a hot drink to dispel the chill that had started gnawing at his bones-and he might as well watch for pursuers while he drank.

Huddled in the front corner of the taproom, low-ceilinged and smoky, with the innkeeper poking at the fire in the hearth, Daniel kept one eye on the road through the window and sipped a mug of steaming cider. The scalding liquid warmed as it went down. As the glow spread, he turned his mind to what came next.

He wondered if Alex was still at the Bury house, or whether a new headquarters had been found. That had been Alex’s intention when he’d left for Bedford; it was possible they’d already moved. Regardless, Alex would either leave word, or wait and meet him. He would wager on the latter; the letter he’d retrieved had been as much a threat to Alex as to him.

Alex would definitely want to see it as soon as possible, then would want to watch it burn.

Despite the early hour, there was traffic on the road-the occasional wagon heading to market, the occasional rider off to Newmarket, or going the other way to Cambridge. A few coaches lumbered past, one a night mail coach. There was, however, no sign of pursuit.

Somewhat to Daniel’s surprise, there was also no sign of his guard. Then again, even though they would ride faster than he had and so by now should be close-even allowing for the time they would have spent torturing the four in the yard-they also knew to stay off the main roads in this area, to keep to the fields and, if necessary, rest in some barn during the day.

His guard were among the best of their fighters, surpassed only by Alex’s guard; they would be along soon enough.

Draining the mug, he set it down, rose, threw a handful of coins on the table, and walked out. He looked back down the road toward Cambridge. There was no pursuit; he felt increasingly certain of that. Remounting, he rode on.

There was no reason he needed to ride through Newmarket itself. Operating as it did to the schedule of racehorse training, even though it was early, the town, the heath, and the numerous stables surrounding it would already be alive and busy. Indeed, as he approached the outskirts of the heath, he saw strings of racehorses being ridden out in the predawn light. The narrow streets of the town would already be awash with riders and gigs; it would be faster to avoid it.

He gave the scattered stables a wide berth, too.

As he rode on through the crisp, gray morning, he imagined owning a racehorse or three. The sport of kings; the prospect should appeal to Alex, and they were more than wealthy enough to indulge. Indeed, now he thought of it, once they’d destroyed all four copies of Roderick’s unfortunate letter, what better camouflage than to remain here in England for a while? They could send the cultists home, dispatch their most senior men to keep things ticking along in India-arrangements could be put into place to allow him and Alex to enjoy their spoils here in England, at least for a while.

The prospect of lording it over so many, of using their wealth to satisfy all the fancies they’d had before they’d left for India but, back then, had never had the capital or the associated power to indulge, definitely appealed.

And then his horse went lame.

He cursed, tested the black’s paces, but there was no going on. Dismounting, he looked around. A large stable lay ahead, in a wide, shallow dip in the heath. He was viewing it side on, toward the rear; he couldn’t see the front doors, but as he watched, a long string of horses streamed out and rode away.

Out across the heath for their morning’s exercise.

There would still be horses left in the stable-those of the jockeys, for a start, but almost certainly others, older racehorses, or ones being rested. The notion of trying out such a beast had him striding, as swiftly as the lame black would allow, down to the stable.

He took the black with him; the sight of a man striding about Newmarket Heath without a horse was too strange to avoid notice.

There was a set of back doors; he quietly tried them, but they were latched and bolted. Circling the stable, he found the big front doors propped wide open and not a soul in sight.

Smiling, he walked boldly in, through a large clear space and down a long central aisle with stalls to either side. It was a very large stable, and there were, as he’d hoped, occupants in quite a few stalls, and a selection of hacks tied up at the rear-presumably the horses the jockeys had ridden in.

He tied the lame black with the jockeys’ hacks, then spent some time evaluating the horses in the stalls. He’d been out of England for years, but still recognized prime horseflesh when he saw it. And some of these horses were beauties. He settled on a big roan, then fetched his saddle and bridle from the black, opened the roan’s stall, and went in.

Crooning to the horse, he took a few minutes to admire the gelding’s lines, then slipped on the bridle and saddled up.

He was tightening the saddle girth when a sound at the stall door had him glancing that way.

An old man, slightly stooped, with big, gnarled hands, stood in the aisle beyond the doorway, regarding him through bulging eyes. “Here! What do you think you’re doing? These are private stables.”

“Indeed?” Smoothly turning the roan, Daniel led the horse out. “In that case, I’ll be on my way.”

“Here-no! You can’t just take one of our horses.” The old man seized Daniel’s sleeve.

Daniel lashed out and back with that arm, his forearm colliding with the old man’s face. Releasing the roan’s reins, he pivoted, plowed his right fist into the old man’s gut, then followed up with a sharp blow to the head.

The old man went down; gasping, groaning, he fell to the straw-strewn earthen floor, curling in on himself. Daniel looked down at him, then coldly drew back his boot and kicked the old man viciously once, then again, and again in the ribs.

After gasping sharp and hard at the first kick, the old man had fallen silent.

Daniel straightened, settled his coat, grasped the roan’s reins. He’d missed the fun at Bedford; he’d been owed a little violence.

Reassembling his mask of gentlemanly boredom, he walked up the aisle, paused to mount in the cleared space just inside the doors, then, with the roan shifting and prancing beneath him, clearly anticipating a long ride, Daniel lifted the reins and trotted out of the stable.

Seconds later, he was cantering out onto the open heath.

Carruthers swore beneath his breath-he couldn’t catch enough breath to curse aloud. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed. He managed to get his feet under him, then caught hold of the slats of a stall door and hauled himself up.

Hunched over, he shuffled as fast as he could, clutching the stall doors to keep from falling. Reaching the open space at the end of the aisle, he drew in a slow, pained breath, let go of the last stall, and propelled himself forward. Forced his legs to move.

Eyes locked on his goal, he made it to the side of the open door, gasped as he lunged and grabbed the rope dangling from the stable bell. It clanged as he slumped against the door frame. Clanged again as, his grip weakening, the rope tugged free and he slid slowly down to collapse on the floor.

With his ear to the ground, he heard the sound he’d hoped for-the heavy thud of flying hooves. Smiling was beyond him, but he smiled inside.

It seemed like only seconds, then Demon was there, crouching down beside him, hard hands gentle as his employer helped him up to sit against the door frame.

Demon peered into Carruthers’s eyes, saw he was in pain, but conscious. “What the devil happened?”

Other horses thundered up; the string had followed Demon back to the stable.

Carruthers wet his lips. “Was in the tack room. Heard a sound. Came out and found some blighter saddling up The Gentleman. Asked him what he was about-told him he had to leave. I tried to stop him when he led The Gentleman out. He lashed out, struck me. Couple of times.”

Demon took in the contusions forming under Carruthers’s mottled skin.

“Then when I fell, he kicked me.”

“What?” Demon stared, then swore. “Never mind-I heard. Stay here and get better. Leave the bastard to me.”

Swinging around and rising, Demon pointed to Jarvis, Carruthers’s lieutenant. “Take care of him.” Demon was already moving, grabbing up the spyglass kept in a holder by the door; it was usually used to watch horses training.

Striding outside, he put the glass to his eye, scanned the heath in the direction the horse thief had to have gone; he hadn’t passed Demon or the string coming in, so he had to have gone toward Bury.

The heath appeared flat, but in reality was full of gentle dips and rises, an ocean of green with low, widely spaced waves. A rider might be quite close but momentarily hidden, then reappear as they rode up the next rise.

Even as he picked out the smoky hide of The Gentleman, happily galloping east over the heath, Demon was inwardly connecting possibilities. What chance his horse thief had something to do with the mission he and his cousins were assisting with? Ferrar, thought to be the Black Cobra, had been found murdered in Bury just yesterday.

Demon shifted the glass, adjusting to bring the rider into sharper focus. Wolverstone and Devil would flay him-verbally at least-if he didn’t at least try to get a good look at the man’s face…

There . Rider and horse had to turn slightly, the rider coming into full profile. For one instant, through the glass, Demon got a good view. And managed at the last to get a glimpse of the man’s hands. They were deeply tanned.

Demon lowered the glass, then whirled back to the stable. “Go!” He pointed and waved the string on. “Get after him-follow him. Grab him if you can. I’ll catch up.”

The jockeys, shocked and furious at the treatment meted out to their old trainer, needed no further urging. In a thunderous clatter of hooves, they set off.

Back in the stable, Demon grabbed the reins of his mount. He’d left the gathering at Somersham Place and had come over for the training session; because his wife, Flick, hadn’t been able to get over for the last few days, he’d taken out her usual mount, The Mighty Flynn. The Flynn loved Flick, but would tolerate-make do with-Demon. Although retired now, the big horse was a stayer. Demon couldn’t have picked a better mount for riding down a horse thief.

Yet looking at Carruthers, now in the hands of Jarvis and two stableboys, he paused.

Carruthers saw him looking and glared as well as he could. “What’re you waiting for? Go get the bastard, and bring The Gentleman back!”

Demon grinned, saluted, vaulted to the saddle, and went.

Daniel was pleased with his new mount. A very good horse, with very nice paces. Despite the impulse to flee in a flat-out gallop, he was too wise to attract attention like that, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by locals on very fast horses.

Locals who, for all he knew, might recognize his stolen horse.

But keeping to a nice steady pace would soon put miles between him and the stable, and few around there paid any attention to a mounted man riding easily by. It would probably be an hour, maybe more, before the old man was found. Daniel hadn’t looked back, but he’d listened intently and had heard no hue and cry.

He’d already passed two strings out exercising, and hadn’t even been glanced at.

Entirely pleased-first the letter, now this excellent horse-everything seemed to be falling into his lap-he smiled and rode on.

From a vantage point on one of the higher rises some way ahead-a significant distance east, and a little to the south from where Daniel now rode-concealed by a twiggy copse, Alex watched the scene unfolding on the heath through a spyglass.

Horrified. Barely able to believe it.

All had been going so well, then Daniel’s horse had gone lame. But he’d done the sensible thing and slipped into a stable to exchange it.

Alex had used the opportunity to get well ahead, then had patiently waited, and sure enough, not too many minutes later, Daniel had ridden out on a different horse.

All well and good, but… something had happened to alert the stable’s people off exercising the horses, and had brought the trainer and his jockeys flying back to the place.

Alex had no idea what had summoned them, but the man who’d led the charge back, a gentleman by his dress, had all but immediately come out again, with a spyglass.

The man had located Daniel.

Daniel was no longer wearing his black silk scarf. His face was bare, naked, there for anyone to see.

The man with the spyglass had stood outside the stable, and looked, looked-looked for far too long to have only been interested in identifying his horse.

Alex knew without a shadow of a doubt that Daniel’s face had been studied and noted.

And now a thundering herd of men and horses was charging after Daniel-and he still hadn’t reacted. Hadn’t glanced around, hadn’t heard… Alex realized why. The wind, a nice stiff breeze, was blowing directly in Daniel’s face, pushing his dark locks back.

Alex wanted to shout and point, but Daniel was still too far away to hear. And he’d been seen. He would be recognized.

The mob of horses was coming up fast, amazingly fast, but was still some way away; the man who had wielded the spyglass was now following, too, on a massive horse whose long strides seemed to eat the distance.

By the time Daniel heard them coming well enough to distinguish the sound from that of the other exercising strings he was passing, it would be too late.

He wouldn’t escape them. He’d be taken up as a horse thief.

Bad enough, but he had the letter-copy or original-on him.

What odds that vital document would find its way into the hands of the puppetmaster, that nebulous man Alex was learning to respect, and more, fear?

Alex’s mount shifted restlessly. Eyes desperately scanning the heath, Alex reined it in without thought. Had no thought to spare.

What to do? What to do?

There! One chance, just one, one way forward, and no other.

If Alex was game to grasp it.

If…

With a vicious curse, Alex set heels to the chestnut’s sides and raced down the rise on a course that would intersect with Daniel’s at one particular spot. A place just beyond another rise, a little higher than most, that sheltered a wide dip hosting a short line of firs and pines with thick, heavy branches-one of the few effective screens on the winter heath.

Daniel’s line of travel would see him pass a little way beyond the northern end of the line of trees.

Alex reached the east side of the trees with just enough time to calm, to settle the chestnut, ease its prancing edginess. To breathe in, out, and plaster on a welcoming, expectant expression.

Daniel appeared beyond the end of the trees.

Alex hailed him and waved.

Hearing, seeing, Daniel smiled confidently and wheeled his stolen mount.

Alex waited, outwardly calm and assured, as Daniel slowed, then walked his horse nearer, eventually halting alongside the chestnut.

His knee brushing Alex’s, Daniel smiled. “I got it.”

“I know.” Lips curving in response, Alex held out an imperious, demanding hand. “I can tell by your smile.”

Daniel laughed. Reaching into his coat, he drew out the letter and laid it across Alex’s palm.

Alex flicked it open, checked. “The same as the other two-a copy.”

“Which means there’s only one more to seize. The original Carstairs must be carrying.”

“Indeed.” Folding the letter, sliding it into a pocket, Alex looked up, into Daniel’s eyes. Smiled brilliantly. “Excellent.”

Reaching up and across with one elegantly gloved hand, Alex cupped Daniel’s nape and drew his face near.

Kissed him.

Lovingly, lingeringly.

Bit Daniel’s lip lightly as the blade slid between his ribs, directly into his heart.

Alex drew back, released Daniel, left the knife where it was.

Met his eyes, the velvety brown already clouding.

Saw death sliding in to claim him.

The look on Daniel’s face, the utter shock and disbelief, pricked even Alex’s conscience.

“You’d been seen. They’re after you-can’t you hear? I couldn’t allow-”

Daniel slumped forward, over his saddle.

The roan shifted, getting nervous.

Face tightening, Alex grabbed Daniel’s hat-it had his name on the band-stuffed it into one of the chestnut’s saddlebags, gathered the big horse’s reins, then paused.

Paused.

Reaching out one gloved hand, Alex gently, for the last time, ruffled Daniel’s black hair.

Then, lips thinning, features shifting into a granite mask, Alex drew back, sharply slapped the roan’s rump, and sent the horse leaping.

The instant it sensed the odd weight in its saddle and found its reins free, it took off, heading south.

Alex drew in a quick breath, blew it out. Refocused and listened, gauging the escalating thud of the pursuing horses’ hooves; they were nearing the rise to the west.

Following impulse, Alex spurred the big chestnut on, heading north, cutting directly across the oncoming riders.

Alex cleared the trees and was fifty yards further on when the mob broke over the rise, and slowed.

Alex kept riding north unhurriedly, outwardly unconcerned.

Heard the jockeys’ voices as they circled on the rise, searching for their quarry. With luck, the trees would conceal the roan’s flight for some considerable way.

Then another voice, a deeper, more authoritative voice, joined the chorus.

It took Demon a good minute to accept what his men were telling him. The Gentleman and his rider were indeed nowhere to be seen.

Another rider, a man wrapped in a heavy winter coat, with a fashionable hat pulled low and features protected from the wind by a muffler, was cantering along on a big chestnut just north of where they milled.

If the horse thief had gone this way…

“Hello!” Demon raised his voice, raised a hand in salute.

The other rider glanced back, slowed, raised a hand to show he’d heard.

“Did you see a man-dark coat, dark hat, dark hair, tanned features-riding out on a roan?”

The rider hesitated, then turned and pointed to the east of northeast. There was another rise that might have concealed the rider some way on.

“Thank you!” Demon swung The Flynn in that direction and thundered down the rise. His jockeys and their mounts followed.

The rider watched for a moment, then continued unhurriedly on.

Stone-faced, Alex rode on, listening until the thunder of hooves faded.

Soon, the silence of the wide and empty heath returned.

Alex embraced it.

After a while, thought impinged on the odd emptiness in Alex’s mind, rose up through the unexpected shock.

Survival, after all, was reserved for the fittest.

After further cogitation a plan formed. Head north for a little while longer, enough to get well and truly out of the way of any further searching, then circle around, stop at Bury long enough to alert those left there, then head on to the new house-the new cult headquarters-that M’wallah and Creighton between them had found.

Creighton might be a problem now his master was dead, but M’wallah and Alex’s guard were exceptionally good at resolving all problems Alex faced. Creighton could be left to them.

As the sun slowly rose, Alex, alone, cantered steadily on.

Just after dawn, Demon finally halted.

They’d reached a strip of heath still crisp from the frost, and it was transparently obvious no rider had crossed it that morning.

“We’ve lost him.” Turning The Mighty Flynn, he pulled out the spyglass, and scanned all the heath that he could see.

“But how could we have?” one of the jockeys asked. “We was on his heels-well, a few minutes behind at most-and then… he just wasn’t there.”

Frowning, Demon thought back. Shutting the spyglass, he slipped it back into the saddle pocket. “You had him in sight until he went over the rise where you stopped-the rise where we asked the other rider?”

All the jockeys nodded.

Demon knew every dip and hollow on the heath; he’d been riding there since he was a child. He closed his eyes for a moment, envisaging… if that other rider had been mistaken, or…

Opening his eyes, he wheeled The Flynn back toward Newmarket. “Let’s head home, but we’ll spread out in a line north-south, and go at a slow canter. Yell if you see any sign.”

The horses were tiring, skittish; they needed to get back to their stable, into the warm, and be tended. The run had broken their usual routine.

Demon directed his men into a line, and they started back.

He wasn’t sure what to think. He was deep in weighing up the possibilities when Higgins, to the far south of the line, gave a hie.

“Over there! Isn’t that The Gentleman?”

Demon reined in, hauled out the spyglass, and put it to his eye.

And there was The Gentleman-with a suspicious-looking lump in the saddle. The Gentleman was well to the south, reins dragging as he lazily cropped coarse grass, then ambled on a little way, the lifeless lump on his back swaying with his gait.

Demon drew in a breath, let it out on a sigh. Stuffing the glass back in his saddlebag, he nodded. “That’s him. Let’s go.”

As one, he and his men changed course, and closed on the wandering horse.

The Gentleman’s head came up as they neared, but then he scented his stablemates and went back to his grass. The lump on his back didn’t move.

“Hold up.” Demon waved to his jockeys to rein in a little way away. Their horses sensed the wrongness of the slumped form on The Gentleman’s back and grew yet more skittish.

At a walk, Demon approached The Gentleman. The Flynn was an old hand; he would trust completely and go wherever Demon steered him.

But, yes, that was a dead body. It looked like their horse thief had met his end.

Glancing back at the restless, high-spirited horses, Demon waved them off. “Go on to the stables. I’ll be behind you. No more training this morning. They’ve had a good run. Get them inside and rubbed down.”

The younger jockeys had paled; they nodded and went. The older ones hestitated, but then nodded and headed in.

Leaving Demon to draw closer to The Gentleman, lean down and grab the trailing reins, then edge nearer and, without any real hope, check for a pulse at the side of the man’s neck. Finding none, he bent low and peered at the dead man’s face-enough to confirm that, yes, he was their horse thief.

And judging from his hands and the tanned line at his throat, until recently he’d been somewhere sunny, like India.

Straightening in his saddle, Demon frowned at the corpse. “Who the devil are you? And what the hell’s going on?”