The Elusive Bride

Nineteen

19th December, 1822

Very early morning

My bedchamber at Mallingham Manor

They left at first light, as the dark skies turned a paler gray and a chill east wind whipped snow from the lingering drifts bordering the roads.

Inside the carriage, tucked beneath traveling rugs and with two warm bricks beneath her boots, Emily watched the winter landscape slip past, watching for any hint of cultists. Gareth, seated beside her, his hand wrapped around hers, looked out the other way. They were all on edge, on the one hand ready to repel any attack, but on the other believing that while they might be followed, the cultists were unlikely to engage until they crossed the Thames.

“Aside from all else,” Tristan had pointed out as they were preparing to start out, “the forests north of the river provide much better cover, and places ideal for an ambush.”

He and Jack were on horseback, somewhere out in the wintry chill.

They’d been traveling for hours and, according to signposts, Gravesend was close, when Emily leaned nearer the window and peered out. “I haven’t seen Jack or Tristan at all.”

“You won’t. I suspect they’re old hands at this sort of thing. They want to spot any cultists trailing us, but don’t want to be seen themselves. You might catch a glimpse when they pass us at Gravesend.”

As arranged, they halted the coach at the Lord Nelson, a large coaching inn, and went inside to take refreshments. They wasted a tense half hour over a teapot and scones, allowing Tristan and Jack to go ahead to the jetty north of the town.

When, once more in the carriage, they reached the jetty, Jack and Tristan were nowhere to be seen, but a ferryman was waiting with his ferry to take them across to Tilbury, on the north bank. He confirmed that the gentleman who bespoke his services and his companion had already crossed on another barge.

The crossing was short, but difficult, the flat-topped ferry rocking perilously, but the ferryman and his crew took the choppy, rushing river in their stride. They reached the Tilbury jetty, not far from the richly decorated watergate of Tilbury Fort, without incident.

With the coach once more on dry land, Gareth helped Emily back inside, then, shutting the door, went to help Mooktu calm the restive horses. Mullins was already on the box, checking the pistols stowed under the seat while he held the reins.

Bister had gone scouting ahead. He came pelting back as Mooktu climbed up to his position beside Mullins. Gareth paused by the carriage door.

Snapping a salute, Bister went past, grabbing the straps at the back of the carriage and swiftly climbing to the roof. “Spotted three of ’em-there might be more. They’re watching from a rise outside the town-lots of forest behind them.”

Brows rising, Gareth opened the carriage door and climbed in.

Given that news, they dallied over luncheon in Tilbury’s main inn, giving Tristan and Jack plenty of time to ease their appetites and, mounted once more, get into position behind the cultists.

After another hour had passed, Gareth, tapping the scroll holder he’d reclaimed from Watson that morning and now carried in his greatcoat pocket, followed Emily back into the carriage, and they set off.

This was the leg on which they thought an attack might come. The road wended through marshes north of Tilbury, then climbed to higher ground.

Gareth snorted as the road leveled off. “That was a perfect spot for an ambush-just as we crested that rise.”

“They might not want to be seen by others.” Emily gestured to a carriage going the other way.

“True. The further north we go, empty stretches of road will become more frequent. Maybe that’s why they haven’t yet attacked.”

However, as they traveled unhurriedly through the afternoon, often along stretches where the forest closed in on both sides of the road and other conveyances grew few and far between, still no attack eventuated. At one point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.

Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”

“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”

It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.

Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party-a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn-Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.

The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure-another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.

After settling into the room she and Gareth would share, Emily went downstairs and found Mullins waiting in the private parlor set aside for their party. Gareth appeared before she could inquire as to his whereabouts. A tea tray arrived on his heels, then Mooktu and Bister joined them, and they settled to wait for Jack and Tristan.

It was full dark, nearly dinnertime, before the door opened and Jack walked in. He smiled rather wearily in greeting, and nodded when Gareth raised the bottle of wine he’d broached.

While Gareth poured him a glass, Jack drew out a chair at the table, fell into it, and groaned. “It’s been years since I’ve spent an entire day in the saddle.”

Tristan came in, blowing on his hands. “It’s not just the hours in the saddle, it’s that damned wind.”

He, too, accepted a glass of wine. Gareth waited until both were seated and had taken a revivifying swallow, then asked, “So where the devil are the cultists?”

“Out there.” Jack pointed south. “And yes, they’re definitely there, and in surprisingly high numbers.”

“To start at the beginning,” Tristan said, “one picked up the carriage not far from Mallingham, then two more fell in once you hit the main roads. Those three followed all the way to Gravesend, then one went ahead, crossing to Tilbury. He didn’t return. We don’t think the other two crossed the Thames, but turned back after you’d got on the ferry.”

Gareth nodded. “Probably returning to keep watch on the coast.”

Jack inclined his head. “We found the cultist who crossed the river with a group of eight others-he’d carried the news to them. We were just in time to see that group send another messenger north. Which is a point to ponder, given Wolverstone’s to the north, and our route takes us north. If the Black Cobra is also in that direction…”

“It seemed those following didn’t want to intercept us,” Gareth said. “They passed up any number of excellent opportunities to ambush us.”

Tristan nodded. “They have eight-nine if their messenger returns. The coach has three outside, one inside. You’d think the odds would appeal.”

“They must have orders to follow and send word forward, but not to engage-meaning not yet.” Jack smiled wolfishly. “I do believe this is getting interesting.”

Emily frowned. “Interesting how?”

Gareth replied, “Because it seems we’re being herded again. As long as we move forward, those behind will hang back and simply follow-because there’s some force ahead of us that’s bigger, and more certain of capturing us.”

“It appears the Black Cobra isn’t taking any chances,” Jack said. “Odds are he’s planning a trap for the coach to drive into somewhere along the road tomorrow, a trap you won’t be able to escape. Or so he thinks.”

“Indeed.” Tristan’s eyes gleamed. “And would anyone care to wager that’s exactly what Royce designed his scheme to achieve? The news that the Black Cobra is lurking between us and him-in Essex or Suffolk-is going to make him very happy.”

Jack waved his glass. “No bet. That’s precisely what he would have set out to achieve.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “You and yours chose exceedingly well in appointing Wolverstone your guardian angel.”

“He’s certainly a stickler for detail.” Gareth outlined his observations from their earlier reconnaissance. “In a defensive sense, this place is ideal.”

A tap on the door heralded the innkeeper with their dinner. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins went out to the tap for theirs.

Once those in the parlor had finished their meal and the innkeeper had cleared the table, Gareth went out and invited the other three back.

They’d just settled when the innkeeper looked in. “Messenger for Lord Warnefleet.”

Jack beckoned and the innkeeper drew back to allow a middle-aged groom to enter. The man bowed, then drew a sealed missive from his pocket and presented it to Jack. Jack broke the seal and opened the sheet, scanned it.

The groom cleared his throat. “I’m to inquire, my lords, as to your situation here.”

Tristan replied in a few succinct phrases conveying their observations and their belief that they were being herded into an ambush ahead.

The groom repeated the salient points. Tristan nodded his approval.

Jack handed Wolverstone’s missive to Gareth, then looked at the groom. “You can also report that we’ll do as your master requests, and make a copy of the letter in question.”

The groom bowed. “If there’s nothing else, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”

Tristan dismissed him. The groom turned and left.

Emily had been reading the duke’s letter over Gareth’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch paper and ink, and make a clean copy.” Rising, she glanced at Jack. “Why does he want it?”

“Details,” Jack replied. “Given Delborough’s sacrificed his copy and gained something from it, then we might decide to sacrifice ours in the same way, which leaves Royce with nothing to study. He’ll want to confirm that there’s no other clue hidden in the wording. A code, even-it’s the sort of thing he would think of and know better than anyone to look for.”

“Which he can’t do”-Tristan accepted the duke’s communique from Gareth-“unless he has the letter, a good copy at least, in front of him.”

Nodding her understanding, Emily left.

“I’m just glad Delborough’s through and safe, and that Monteith’s in England, too.” Gareth fell silent.

Jack asked, “Who’s your fourth?”

“Carstairs.” Gareth glanced at Jack. “Captain Rafe Carstairs, otherwise known as Reckless.”

Tristan raised his brows. “If he’s the last one home…”

If Rafe was the last to reach England, he was almost certainly the one carrying the original letter. They all thought it, but no one said it aloud. Gareth merely nodded. “What about the watches? We’ll need to remain vigilant.”

Emily returned, bearing a ladies’ traveling writing desk with an ornate mother-of-pearl lid. She set it down on the table, opened it, and drew the lamp near. “The letter?”

Gareth drew the scroll holder from inside his coat, and under the fascinated gazes of all there, undid the complicated locking mechanism. Opening the holder, he drew out the sheet it contained, and handed it to Emily.

Smoothing the single sheet, she sat, dipped her nib, and started to transcribe.

“May I see that?” Jack nodded at the scroll holder.

Gareth smiled and handed it over.

While the others played, opening and closing the holder, and Tristan and Jack asked questions about such oriental devices, Emily kept her head down and her mind on her task.

She’d seized the chance to contribute something to Gareth’s mission-to do something, however minor, that would materially assist in bringing down the Black Cobra. Hers and Gareth’s impending happiness had made her sorrow over MacFarlane’s death more acute; she now had a better appreciation of all he’d had taken from him-by the Black Cobra.

Whatever she could do to bring the fiend to justice, she would do.

By the time she’d duplicated the Black Cobra’s mark as best she could, and had blotted off her copy, the men had decided the order of the watches. She handed his copy back to Gareth. He rolled it and slid it into the holder, then closed the holder and tucked it inside his coat. Now she knew where it rested, she could see the bulge, but it wasn’t that obvious; its presence was less obvious still when he carried it in his greatcoat pocket.

With the time for their departure on the morrow agreed upon, they all rose and retired. Mullins took the first watch. They left him sitting in a chair at the end of their corridor, looking back toward the stairs.

The first alarm came at midnight. Bister was suddenly knocking on their door. Gareth reached it first. Emily grabbed her cloak and slung it over her nightgown as she rushed to join him.

He glanced at her. “Someone’s trying to break into the parlor downstairs. Bister and I will go down-wait here.”

“Not on your life.” She grabbed the doorknob. “You two go ahead, I’ll follow.”

Gareth hesitated, but in truth he’d rather she wasn’t far from him. The cult might mount a two-pronged attack, one downstairs, the other above. Curtly, he nodded. “Just stay back.”

He pretended not to see her roll her eyes.

Jack, Tristan, Mullins, and Mooktu were already in the corridor. Jack held a finger across his lips, then mimed that he and Tristan would go down the back stairs and circle outside. Mooktu and Mullins would remain by the bedchambers in case of an unexpected incursion there.

Gareth nodded, and they silently parted.

Bister followed Gareth down the stairs. Emily followed on Bister’s heels, treading close by the wall so the stairs wouldn’t creak. Halfway down, Bister found her hand in the dark and pressed the handle of a knife into her palm. Emily gripped, nodded in thanks when he glanced back.

She clutched the knife and felt a trifle less vulnerable, but her primary concern was Gareth, slipping through the darkness of the inn’s ground floor to the parlor door. She and Bister obeyed Gareth’s signal and hung back. He cracked the door open a fraction, listened, then slowly opened it wider.

Then he disappeared into the blackness beyond.

Bister just beat her to the door. She followed him in, and through the gloom saw Gareth, a large dense shadow, waiting, apparently listening, by the window.

The substantial wooden shutters were closed and fastened on the inside. The window casement was also closed and locked, but it seemed inconceivable that the cultists could even get through the shutters.

Drawing closer to the window, straining her ears, she heard whispers, the cadences distinguishing the speakers as Indian.

Suddenly the whispering rose, then stopped altogether.

“Damn!” Gareth reached for the window latch, pulled the window open, unfastened the shutters, and pushed them wide.

In the faint moonlight, across the inn yard they saw two shocked faces turned their way-then the cultists took to their heels and fled.

Seconds later, Jack and Tristan appeared before the window, looking toward the trees through which the cultists had vanished. “What happened?” Tristan asked.

“They gave up.” Disgust rang in Gareth’s voice.

The others grunted. Hands on hips, they stared at the forest, then shook their heads, waved, and trudged back around the inn.

Gareth leaned out, caught the shutters, resecured them, then closed the window. Bister took back his knife before Gareth turned and waved Emily and Bister up the stairs.

They climbed back to bed rather less quietly than they’d come down.

Emily woke some hours later. Uncertain what had drawn her from her dreams, she lay still-then abruptly sat bolt upright.

The movement woke Gareth. He looked at her. “What is it?”

She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Smoke-and yes, I’m sure.”

Gareth was already rolling from the bed.

Scrambling into her cloak, Emily joined him at the door, but then frowned and turned back. “It isn’t so noticeable over here.”

Her side of the bed was nearer the window.

Gareth had gone into the corridor. Mooktu was on watch, sitting closer to the stairs the better to hear any sounds from below. But neither he nor Gareth could smell any smoke in the corridor or the stairwell.

The inn roof was slate-no danger there. Puzzled, Gareth returned to their room-to find Emily at the window, working the latch free.

He was on her in a heartbeat, grasping her shoulders and pulling her away from the glass. “Be careful! Your nightgown’s white-they’ll be able to see you.”

“Yes, but-”

“I know.” The scent of smoke was more definite near the window. “Let me.”

Releasing her, he closed his coat to his throat, then stepped to the window, tugged the latch free and eased the pane open.

A gust of wind blew the acrid smell of woodsmoke into the room.

He pushed the window wider, using the glass pane as a shield of sorts, until he could look down and along the inn. He could see smoke trailing from somewhere toward the rear. Following it back…through the deep gloom he could just make out three figures in heavy frieze standing staring at a pile of wood stacked against the inn wall.

They’d tried to set the wood alight, tried to train the flames back onto the wooden shutters, but it was December in England; the wood was damp. They’d managed to light a tiny blaze at the base of the stack. One crouched and blew-just as a rain squall struck, sweeping down, pelting the men and quenching the nascent fire, creating yet more smoke.

Coughing, hands waving, the three men stepped back. They muttered amongst themselves, then turned and walked away into the trees.

From above, Gareth watched them go.

“What’s going on?” Emily hissed.

The rain intensified. Gareth glanced at the now sodden stack of wood, then closed the window.

“They’re gone.” He faced Emily and Mooktu. “They tried to set the inn alight, but they didn’t try very hard.”

“You get those damned letters back-every copy, every last one!” Ice-cold fury vibrated in Alex’s voice.

In the drawing room of the house they’d commandeered in Bury St. Edmunds, Daniel looked at Roderick, waited for his response.

He and Alex had just received a nasty shock. It appeared the letter Roderick had brought them there to intercept held a far greater threat than any of them had realized. Roderick-the idiot-had absentmindedly included Daniel’s and Alex’s real names. While no one else reading the letter would recognize the connection, if the letter-even a copy-found its way into the Earl of Shrewton’s hands, their father would certainly recognize his bastards. Roderick was his favorite legitimate son. As Alex had pointed out moments earlier, if push came to shove over the Black Cobra, the earl would unhesitatingly offer up his bastards as sacrificial lambs to save Roderick-nothing was more certain.

But Roderick couldn’t function as the Black Cobra without Daniel and Alex. And he knew it.

Eyes narrowed to ice-blue shards, his face like stone, Roderick curtly nodded. “All right. I will.”

“How?” Eyes of an even more wintry, unforgiving ice blue, Alex took up a position before the fireplace. “Tell us how, brother mine.”

Roderick glanced at the copy of the letter Delborough had been carrying, which Roderick had been forced to kill his own man, Larkins, to secure. “Hamilton’s at Chelmsford. I sent eight men to follow and harry their party, to keep them in sight. Tomorrow, I’ll take a force of our elite, and join the eight. We’ll have overwhelming numbers-there’s only four men counting Hamilton, and he has the woman to protect as well. We’ll stop him, seize him and the woman, and bring them here.”

Roderick shot a venomous look at Alex. “I’ll have to leave them to your tender mercies-I’ve just got word Monteith’s in the country. And he, too, is heading this way, but from the direction of Bath, with two guards, as Delborough had, and a pirate captain in train. I’ll have to go west to keep him out of Cambridgeshire.”

“This is rapidly degenerating into the worst possible scenario,” Daniel said. “The four couriers are landing at widely distant ports. Our watchers on the coast are stretched thin. Although we’ve already lost men, admittedly we have more, but knowing where to send them in time-”

“It’s just as well,” Alex said, tone dripping superiority, “that our four pigeons are making for a single roost, and that whoever this puppetmaster they’re reporting to is, he’s nearby.” Alex cast a lethal look at Roderick. “Which is why I suggested we move up here. I’ll hold the fort-man our inner rampart-here, with M’wallah and my guard, but you two will have to take command in the field.”

Alex’s gaze shifted to Daniel. Silently, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Neither he nor Alex trusted Roderick any more than they trusted his-their-sire.

Unaware of the interplay, Roderick nodded curtly. “I’ll take Hamilton tomorrow. We’ve already got a force quartered on the other side of Cambridge-enough to deal with Monteith.” Roderick looked at Daniel. “You could-”

“No. Leave Monteith for the moment,” Alex said. “He’s not close enough to demand immediate action-we can wait for better details of his position before making our plans. As you say, we already have men in the area. Have we heard anything of Carstairs?”

“Not since he left Budapest.” Roderick ran a hand through his hair. “He’s still somewhere on the Continent, and hasn’t yet reached the coast.”

“As far as we know,” Alex dryly replied.

Daniel uncoiled his long legs and stood. “In that case, I’ll assist with Hamilton.”

Roderick inclined his head, accepting what he saw as an offer of help. “We’ll leave at first light and ride toward Chelmsford. A messenger will come north to meet us and confirm their route. With any luck, it’ll be toward us, along the road through Sudbury. Once we locate the carriage and gather our eight following it, we can pick our spot.”

Roderick glanced at Alex. “Given those riding with us tomorrow will be from our elite, I can’t see how we can fail to seize Hamilton, meddling Miss Ensworth, and the letter.”

Alex’s features had eased to their customary elegant serenity. “That sounds excellent.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes, lightly smiled. “I’ll look forward to celebrating your success.”

20th December, 1822

Still night

Our room at the inn in Chelmsford

While they breakfasted by lamplight, Gareth told the others of the attempt to set fire to the inn. “Standard practice for cultists, but to no purpose here.”

Later, while Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister readied the carriage, Gareth showed Jack and Tristan the evidence of the abortive attempt. They found three different spots where fires had been lit.

“Determined beggars, aren’t they?” Tristan spread the ashy remains of one fire with his boot. “But perhaps they achieved what they intended.”

Gareth grunted. “That occurred to me. No one could have imagined a fire would take hold long enough to do any real damage. They just wanted to keep prodding us.”

Jack gazed at the charred logs. “Anyone care to wager we’ll see action today?”

“No bet,” Tristan returned. “Given this, today is the day.”

A hoy brought them back to the front yard. For the benefit of the cultists they were sure would be watching, Jack and Tristan shook hands with Gareth, then mounted and, with cheery waves, trotted off south through the town, as if parting ways.

In reality they would circle around and fall in behind the band of cultists following the carriage, as they had the day before.

Emily was already in the carriage, snuggled up beneath a mound of rugs. His breath fogging in the sharply cold air, Gareth glanced at Bister on the roof, at Mooktu and Mullins on the box. “Be ready. Somewhere on our road today, they’ll strike.”

The expressions on the three faces turned his way mirrored his own feelings. At last!

He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and they were off.

They rolled sedately out of the town, heading north on the road to Sudbury and Bury St. Edmunds. Once they’d left the last cottages behind, Mullins flicked the reins and the horses lengthened their stride.

His hand locked around one of Emily’s, Gareth watched the winter-brown fields flash past-and waited.

He was still waiting-they all were-when the carriage rolled into the village of Sudbury. He recognized the tactic, one cult commanders often employed-make the target wait and wait and wait until, inevitably, they relaxed, then pounce-but he still felt the effects. When? was the question occupying all their minds.

After rattling across a bridge over the River Stour, Mullins drove into the market square, paused to ask directions, then headed on a short way and turned into the yard of the Anchor Inn.

Climbing down to the cobbles, Gareth took one look at the ancient inn Wolverstone had directed them to, and felt expectation leap. The inn was so old it was a hodgepodge, a conglomeration of additions made over the centuries with wings here, there, and entrances everywhere-perfect if one wanted men to slip unobtrusively inside.

Leaving Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to watch over the carriage and arrange for fresh horses, he ushered Emily through the front door.

The innkeeper popped up before them. “Major Hamilton?” When Gareth nodded, the man beamed. “Please-come this way. You’re expected.”

Both he and Emily eagerly followed the man down a narrow corridor. The innkeeper halted, tapped, then opened a wooden door that, from its solidity, dated from Elizabethan times, and bowed them in.

Emily led the way, wondering who was expecting them. The answer had her eyes growing wide.

The room was full of large gentlemen, and it wasn’t a small parlor, but one of the inn’s main reception rooms. A quick head count said ten; she was surrounded by ten men-ex-Guardsmen by the look of them-but it was the man at the center of the group, the one she found herself somehow facing, who captured and held her attention.

He was dark haired, but so were many of the others. He was by no means the tallest of the group, yet he was the most powerful.

Emily knew that without question.

His face was austere, the planes hard edged, but his mobile lips curved as she instinctively curtsied. “Wolverstone, Miss Ensworth-it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “I understand you played a key role in getting the Black Cobra’s letter to Delborough here.”

Emily glanced at the man beside the great Wolverstone, then beamed. “Colonel Delborough-I’m delighted to see you again.”

“And I you, Miss Ensworth.” Delborough bowed. As he straightened, his gaze went past Emily, and his face lit. “Gareth!”

Emily stepped aside, delighted indeed as she watched Gareth shake Delborough’s hand and share a heartfelt embrace.

As he stepped back, Gareth asked, “Logan and Rafe?”

“Logan landed at Plymouth and is heading this way. He should reach us tomorrow. Rafe…” Delborough grimaced. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know Rafe. He’s just as likely to turn up on Wolverstone’s doorstep unheralded, with smiling apologies for having inadvertently missed touching the bases he was supposed to.”

“Just as long as he makes it.” Gareth held out his hand to Wolverstone. “I’m honored to meet you, Your Grace.”

Clasping his hand, Wolverstone smiled. “Just Royce in this company. Aside from all else”-he cocked a dark brow at the man to his right-“I’m not the only ‘Grace’ here.”

“Devil!” Gareth shook hands, clapped backs, then remembered to introduce Emily. “Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives.”

Emily found herself taken on a round of introductions, as Gareth eagerly renewed acquaintance with a host of Cynsters and an earl called Gyles, and Delborough introduced them both to two men Gareth didn’t know, who proved to be ex-colleagues of Jack and Tristan, all ex-operatives of Dalziel-Royce by another name.

Her head was whirling by the time the door opened to admit the innkeeper with a small tribe of helpers laden with platters. And on their heels, Jack and Tristan strolled in, to a general and hearty welcome.

The innkeeper and his team withdrew, and their group-now numbering fourteen-settled about the table, Royce at the head, St. Ives at the foot. Royce sat Emily on his right. Somewhat to her relief, Gareth sat beside her. She’d heard enough from Jack, Tristan, and Gareth to expect Wolverstone to impress, but the reality exceeded her imagination by a significant degree.

They all passed the platters. Emily found herself pressed to try this and that, but then all attention focused on their plates. Silence descended for two minutes, then Gareth glanced at Delborough, seated opposite. “We heard that you sacrificed your letter-what happened?”

Delborough nodded, and took up the conversational reins, relating how the confusion arising from combining his party with that of a lady he’d unknowingly been elected to escort north had allowed the Black Cobra to insinuate a thief-a young and very much coerced Indian boy-into their combined households. While he, the lady, and their combined guards had defeated the Cobra’s forces and won through to their destination of St. Ives’s country home, the boy, Sangay, had stolen the scroll holder, but had then been trapped at St. Ives’s house by the recent heavy snowfall.

“We could see from the snow that no one had entered or left the house, so we searched, and eventually found him. Once we convinced him we could keep him and his mother safe, he helped us to set a trap for the Black Cobra.” Delborough snorted. “In, of all places, Ely Cathedral.”

Delborough went on to describe how the trap had been sprung, but the Black Cobra, Ferrar, had presumably struck, killing his own man to escape unseen with the scroll holder.

“However, it contained only a decoy copy.” Wolverstone looked at Gareth. “Which is why we’re here-because he’ll know that by now, and having tried for Delborough’s and succeeded, he’ll try for the holder you’re carrying, too. Nothing is more certain.”

Wolverstone let his gaze travel around the table. “Which is exactly what we want, because we need to reduce the cult’s forces, especially in this area. My scheme is designed to have Ferrar racing back and forth across these counties, losing men at every turn. Delborough accounted for fourteen. I hope we can take out a similar number today, and Monteith and those with him, more again tomorrow.”

Gareth murmured, “So Rafe…?”

But Royce only smiled.

“You don’t need to know what you don’t need to know.” Jack caught Gareth’s eye. “That’s the way it always goes.”

“Indeed.” Royce pushed aside his empty plate. “So let’s see what we can accomplish today.” He looked inquiringly at Tristan and Jack. “What’s our situation?”

“They’re here, and in force.” Jack straightened in his chair. “We’ve been following a group of eight who’ve been tracking the carriage since Tilbury. Today they were joined by a larger force, another ten, just north of Braintree. That lot rode down from the north, by the way. And of special interest to us all, two of the ten aren’t Indian, but English. I don’t know Ferrar, so can’t say for certain, but I assume one is him. The other’s of similar build, darker hair.”

“They’re friends, not mere acquaintances,” Tristan put in. “And the other isn’t any servant, but an equal. You could tell from the way they interacted.”

Royce’s brows had risen. “That’s news. So we have another potential…lieutenant, let us say. And he’s English. If any chance offers, we need to catch him.” He looked at Tristan and Jack. “So by Braintree they were eighteen against a carriage with four men. What happened? Braintree is what? Twelve or more miles from here?”

“About that,” Jack said. “I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversations, but my best guess is that the dark-haired one wanted to attack, but Ferrar refused and had the whole lot of them shadowing the carriage, more or less flanking it all the way to Sudbury.”

“Once the carriage crossed the bridge into Sudbury, they peeled away and skirted the town.” Tristan tipped his head to the north. “We left them waiting on a rise from where they can watch the Bury and the Lavenham roads.”

Royce nodded. “They’ve guessed from Delborough’s destination that the carriage will head north, but they don’t know exactly to where. So they’re in position to pick up the carriage when it leaves here.” He glanced down the table. “Any guesses as to why they put off an attack?”

All eyes turned to Demon Cynster. “My guess is that Ferrar, having some familarity with the area, knows that the stretch from Sudbury to Bury, or Sudbury to Lavenham, is better for mounting an attack.”

“Did someone bring a map?” Royce asked.

Vane Cynster had. He drew it from his pocket and unfolded the large map, which showed most of the Eastern Counties. Various hands helped smooth it out and anchor it in front of Royce and Gareth.

Demon leaned forward to point. “Here’s Sudbury. This”-he pointed to a position just to the north-“is where Ferrar’s waiting.”

Royce studied the map. “If you were he, where would you choose to ambush the carriage?”

Without hesitation Demon placed a finger on the map. “Here-just a little way past the lane that leads to Glemsford and Clare. There’s also a country lane that leads up to Bury, just a little way along that lane. In terms of position, that spot is close to perfect.”

“Remember Ferrar and the cult tend to rely on overwhelming force.” Del looked at Demon. “Can he attack with all his men from there?”

Demon nodded. “There’s plenty of cover in stands of trees back from the road, but just there the usual hedges fall back and the road has wide, shallow ditches, open and clear, excellent for approaching a halted coach. All he’ll need to do is send men across the road to halt the coach, and then it’s trapped and at his mercy.”

“So we let him do that, commit his force against the coach, then we fall on them from the rear and wipe them out.” Devil Cynster smiled. “Easy.”

There were sounds of eager agreement all around.

“Yes, but is that the best we can do?” Royce murmured.

All talk ceased.

Devil looked up the table at him. “What now, o ye of devious mind?”

There were grins all around, including from Royce, but then he sobered. “The truth, as many of you have guessed, is that this entire scheme is designed not just to get the original copy of the Black Cobra’s letter into my hands, but if at all possible to provide further proof-more direct and damning proof-of Ferrar’s guilt. Ideally, I’d like to catch him with a scroll holder literally in his hand-have more than one of us see him so there’ll be multiple witnesses. If I have to accuse him with only the letter as proof, I will, but I’d far rather have something more-something less easy to destroy-as evidence.”

A moment of general cogitation followed, then Del waved at the map. “Do you think there’s a chance we could wrest that sort of proof from today’s situation?”

Staring at the map, Royce slowly nodded. “I think it’s possible, if we can only figure out how.” He looked at Gareth. “Where is your scroll holder?”

Gareth reached into the pocket of the greatcoat he’d draped over his chair and pulled out the holder. He stood it on the map, just south of Sudbury.

“All right.” Royce nodded. “So we have Ferrar here-the first thing we need. We have the scroll holder-the thing we want in his hand. If we go forward into the attack he has planned, Ferrar won’t show his face, he’ll sit back and watch the action. When we triumph over his forces, he’ll turn and ride away. Even if we’ve witnessed him sending the cultists to attack the carriage…” Royce shook his head. “That’s far too easy to explain away. He’ll deny all connection to the cult, and without the letter-even with the letter-it’s possible he, or more likely his father, will prevail, and he’ll go free. So doing the obvious-merrily going forward and letting them attack-will let us reduce cult numbers, but will not gain us the greater prize.”

When Royce fell silent, Devil prompted, “The alternative being…?”

Royce frowned. “We have to get the scroll holder into Ferrar’s hands. If we can somehow convince the cultists to take it in some way that won’t make them or Ferrar suspicious, they’ll take it back to him-and then we’ll have him.” He looked at the scroll holder. “But how do we innocently give the damn thing up after Hamilton and his men have fought so hard to get it here?”

That undoubtedly was the question.

The men leaned forward, making suggestions, expressing opinions, evaluating options.

After a moment, Emily eased back her chair-easing herself out of the ensuing discussion. She had an idea, but she needed quiet to think it through, enough to hear her own thoughts.

Gareth glanced at her the instant she moved, smiled vaguely, and drew back her chair.

She thanked him and retreated to the window seat across the room. Sitting in the alcove, she looked out at the view beyond and methodically worked through her notion.

The men had reached the point of considering ways to lose the holder “accidentally,” when she rose and headed back to the table.

The Cynster called Gabriel shook his head. “Accidentally losing it won’t work. The instant you try that, they’ll know it’s a decoy, and therefore of no worth-otherwise you’d never lose it, not after all this time-and also, ergo, that it’s bait. And bait means a trap, so they might well turn tail altogether, and then we’ll lose even the chance of reducing numbers.”

Royce grimaced. “If we can’t make the loss appear believable-”

“I could do it.” Emily halted behind the chair she’d occupied.

All the men looked at her, then Gareth asked, “Do what?”

She looked at him. “I could leave the scroll holder in a hedge for the cultists to take in such a way that it would appear unthreatening, unsuspicious.” She glanced at Jack and Tristan, then looked back at Gareth. “As if you, and Jack and Tristan, too, if they know about them, don’t know I’ve left it.”

It was Royce who asked, “How?”

Emily drew in a breath, reached out and picked up the scroll holder, then, still standing, lightly tapping it in her hand, she talked them, walked them, through her plan.

None of them liked it, of course, but…all had to admit that it was so unexpected, it just might work.

“And you’ll all be there, within hailing range at least,” she pointed out with exemplary patience. “Not that anything is likely to go wrong. There’s no reason to imagine I’ll be in any real danger.”

Many still looked like they wanted to grumble, but then Royce looked at the map. “Assuming we do this, where, exactly, would we stage this charade?”

“We need hedges,” Demon said, “so that means before the point where the attack is most likely-which is just as well.”

Gareth rose from his chair, caught Emily’s sleeve. When she arched her brows, he took her elbow and steered her across to the window seat.

He halted facing the window, his back to the room, with her beside him. His face felt like stone. “You can’t do this.” He kept his voice low, but even he could hear the tension in his tone. “It’s too dangerous.”

Head tilting, she regarded him for a moment, then quietly said, “Yes, there’s an element of danger involved, but only because we can’t predict everything. On balance…this is our best way forward, and you know it.”

“I may know it, but that’s not the point.” He shifted restlessly. “You know what we discussed-our future. You know how much you mean to me-”

Emily cut him off with a hand on his arm, even though the words were music to her ears. “I know what we discussed. Trust. Partnership. Sharing in all things.” She waited until he glanced her way, caught his gaze and held it. “I have to do this, Gareth, for myself as well as to help you and the others, and you have to let me do it. This time you have to support, not lead. You have to support me so I can do what only I can.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I told you-our life together has already began. We’ve already started a life partnership, and, in this, you have to honor it.” She gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel the muscles beneath the fabric all steel. “Honor is the guiding principle you live by, and today, in this, honor dictates you let me knowingly take a calculated risk.”

“I don’t like being forced into…some kind of test.”

She inclined her head. “No more do I. This situation isn’t by my choice, but the Black Cobra and his machinations have brought us to this. All our travels, all the attacks, all the fighting and escapes-they’ll mean little if we don’t see it through to the end, and wring everything we can from the final hand we’ve been dealt.”

His eyes searched hers; she sensed his resistance wavering.

Letting her lips curve in wry affection, she leaned closer. Eyes still locked with his, she murmured, “You’re strong enough to do this, and so am I-and we’ll never forgive ourselves if we don’t try.”

He held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed. Lips still tight, he nodded. “All right.”

They returned to the table to find the point for her excursion had been settled as just beyond the turnoff to Glemsford and Clare, just before the stretch Demon had described as perfect for an attack. “It’s likely,” Demon said, “that they’ll be in a stand of trees just here, and so be able to see you clearly.”

Emily looked at the map, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Then she looked at the faces around the table. “Time is passing, gentlemen-shall we get on?”