“Thank the gods!” Alex swung around, pinned Daniel with an icy gaze. “If he hadn’t, we, you and I, my dear, wouldn’t have had the first inkling of the danger in which, thanks to Roderick,
we
now stand.”
“True. However, he now has one of the four copies and will hie off tomorrow with enough men to make sure of seizing the second from Hamilton.” Daniel inclined his head at Alex’s pointed stare. “And yes, I’ll be at his side to ensure he keeps his mind fixed firmly on what now must be our primary goal—seizing all copies of that letter.”
“Good. You, I trust. Roderick . . .” Alex’s eyes glittered coldly. “I have to confess I’m having serious second thoughts about our dear half brother.”
“Let’s wait until we have all the letters back—then, I admit, we need to rethink.” Daniel caught Alex’s cold gaze. “Just you and me . . . that would be so much easier. But eliminating Roderick now is too dangerous—not here in England. After this manic time is over and we’re back in India, safe and secure in the bosom of the cult, then we can reassess.”
Alex’s lips thinned. The silence lengthened.
Then Alex stated, voice coldly precise, “We came here to support Roderick, thinking it was only his neck at risk. Now we discover that if anyone who knows of us, of our link with him, sees that letter, even just a copy, they’ll recognize the implication and, far more than dear Roderick’s, it will be
our
heads in the noose.”
Daniel was still coping with that realization himself; he had no difficulty understanding Alex’s fury. Barely restrained savagery seemed appropriate. But . . . he forced his mind to push through the shock, to revisit the details. “We’ve been careful, you and I. I can’t think of anyone other than our sire likely to be shown the letter, copy or otherwise, who would instantly comprehend our part in the cult.”
After a long moment, Alex slowly nodded. “True.”
“If Roderick proves himself worthy of our support by retrieving all four copies of the letter, then we can be magnanimous and let him live.” He met Alex’s icy gaze. “For now.”
A tense moment passed, then Alex blew out a breath. Nodded. “For now.”
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Daniel flopped back on the bed. Stared at the canopy overhead.
Another moment passed, then Alex appeared in his line of vision, halting at his feet to look down at him.
Daniel arched his brows.
“When this is all over, Roderick will pay.”
Daniel’s smile was genuine. “Oh, he will. We’ll make sure of it.”
Alex nodded, eyes on his. “Take off your clothes.”
Daniel’s smile took on a lascivious edge. “With pleasure.”
December 20, 1822
T
hey left Oxford in good time, driving out into a constant drizzle; at least the wind had eased. As per Linnet’s plan, rather than heading direct to Bedford by the road through Buckingham and Newport Pagnell, they took the more southerly route through Aylesbury. They paused in that town for an early luncheon, and to confirm they still had their eight pursuers with them. That done, they set out once again, heading northeast to Linsdale.
Linnet sat in the carriage, her cloak snugged about her, the map open on her lap. As they bowled along, she went over her plan for the umpteenth time, but could see no further improvements she might make.
She glanced at Logan seated beside her, idly watching the scenery flash past. Charles sat opposite him, slouched in his corner, eyes closed, apparently relaxed. A pile of swords—Logan’s and Charles’s sabers and her cutlass—lay on the seat alongside Charles, together with the two finger-thin but stout ropes they’d had David buy in Oxford that morning. Deverell, already armed, was riding on the box beside David, keeping his eyes peeled for the spot she’d chosen for their ambush.
Another minor road with a signpost flashed past; turning her head, she caught the name, looked down at the map.While she’d been fairly confident the three men—enlightened as they generally were and so thoroughly focused on winning through to their mutual goal—would see the merit in her plan, she’d been far less certain that they’d follow her orders, rather than rework them.
But no. They’d liked the plan, appreciated it, and had shown no sign of taking over. They’d accepted her orders—even, apparently, accepted the part she intended to play in the plan’s execution.
They’d said nothing when, at Aylesbury, she’d taken her bag from the carriage, begged the use of a room from the landlord, and changed into her breeches. She’d wrapped herself tightly in her cloak so no one had seen the scandalous attire, not until she was safely in the coach again. Charles and Deverell had merely raised their brows resignedly.
Logan’s lips had thinned, but he, too, had made no comment, leaving her to jettison her carefully prepared defense that it was simply impossible to properly wield a sword of any kind in skirts.
“Linsdale ahead,” Deverell called down. “I can just see the bridge beyond it, but only because I’m up here.” After a moment, he added, “It looks perfect for our purposes.”
David slowed the carriage as they entered the small country town. Inside, Linnet, Logan, and Charles quickly got ready, buckling on sword belts, checking knives. Linnet doffed her cloak. Glancing out of the window, she saw the town square to one side. “It’s market day.”
“An added bonus,” Logan said. “It’ll slow the four behind us, and the other four behind them, just a bit more, which won’t hurt.” They’d confirmed at Aylesbury that their pursuers were adhering to the same pattern as the day before.
David had to tack through the crowded street bordering the square, but then he was through. Linnet, Logan, and Charles all stood, settling weapons, Logan and Charles grabbing up the two ropes as David followed his orders, whipped up the horses, and drove out of the small town to the bridge beyond as fast as he possibly could.
“Almost there,” Deverell called down, “and I still can’t see our followers.”
“Good,” Linnet replied. That was critical for their plan to succeed.
Abruptly the carriage slowed. Charles went out of one door, sword on his hip, rope in one hand. On the other side of the carriage, Deverell dropped down from the box. Linnet saw him come out of his crouch and run toward the pillar at the town end of the bridge’s stone side.
The horses lunged forward. Linnet and Logan clung to the racks as the carriage rocked across the narrow bridge, then once again David reined the horses in.
Logan met her eyes as he turned to the far door. “Good luck.”
“And you.” Linnet grasped the handle of the door on her side, opened it, stepped down onto the carriage step, waited until the carriage had slowed just enough, then dropped down to the road.
The pillar at this end of the bridge was mere paces back; she raced for it as David flicked the reins and the horses leaned into the traces again. There was a curve just ahead; David would drive on as if nothing had occurred, and halt once he was around it, out of sight of the bridge.
Under the bridge, the River Ouzel ran swiftly, full and tumbling, its noise masking all other mundane sounds. The banks sloped steeply down from the pillared ends of the bridge’s stone sides, but were thick with dock, bracken, and grasses. Beside her pillar, Linnet looked across the river and could barely see Deverell crouched by the pillar on the other side, and then only because he had his back to her.
A short whistle jerked her attention across the road. Frowning at her, Logan sent the rope he’d carried snaking across. She grabbed the end, and swiftly, keeping as low as she could, looped it around the stone pillar, then cinched it tight with a sailor’s knot. The free end in his hand, Logan sank down out of sight by his pillar.
Linnet did the same, crouching in concealing bracken. She strained her ears, trying to hear over the river’s incessant burbling.
One thing she hadn’t foreseen.
But then she heard the sharp clop of galloping hooves on the bridge’s flags. Immediately after came a shriek and a clatter.
Glancing up, she glimpsed a rider above her, looking back.
Knew before she saw his shocked face that the two cultists riding behind, sent flying from their saddles by the rope Charles and Deverell had abruptly raised, were being dispatched.
The first pair, already on the bridge, wanted to help their comrades, but the bridge was too narrow for them, riding abreast and now pushed on by their comrades’ freed mounts, to turn. They had to get off the bridge first. As she’d predicted—hoped—they yelled and spurred their horses on.
Logan jerked the rope he’d held up and tight, just high enough to pass over the horses’ heads and sweep the second pair of cultists from their saddles.
They hit the ground and their horses raced on, followed by the horses of their comrades; the cultists curled up tight to avoid being trampled.
The instant the horses were past, Logan was on the bridge, hauling his cultist up and manhandling him onto the road. The cultist yelled, struggled, but was no match for Logan. He used the hilt of his saber to knock the man out, then lifted him, swung around, and slung him toward the second cultist who, sword in hand, was facing off against Linnet.
The pair went down in a tangle of limbs. Linnet picked her moment, stepped in and with her cutlass hilt neatly clouted her cultist—the one still struggling—over the head.
Reaching the slumped bodies, Logan hefted one and turned to the river. Taking a few careful steps down the bank, he hoisted the unconscious cultist up and flung him into the middle of the swiftly moving water. The current caught the body all but instantly, swirled it, then carried it swiftly off. Turning, he found Linnet dragging the other body to him.
He lifted the limp form and sent it the way of the first. Charles and Deverell had already done the same with the pair they’d taken down. Grabbing up their rope, they came pelting over the bridge. The rope Logan had used already in her hands, Linnet turned and started running after the carriage.
Regaining the top of the bank, Logan glanced swiftly around. No blood, no mess. Nothing to trigger alarm in the other four cultists, those currently off-duty, when they shortly rode along.
Satisfied Linnet’s plan had worked like a charm, Logan grinned as the other two joined him, and they set off at a run after Linnet.
They caught her up as she reached the carriage. Logan yanked open the door, held it while she climbed up and tumbled in, then followed her.
Charles and Deverell came through the other door.
David didn’t wait for the doors to close before he whipped up the horses. The cultists’ four horses had already thundered past; it didn’t matter where the loose horses went as long as they were out of sight of the road.
Slumped on the carriage seat waiting to catch his breath, Logan knew he was grinning widely; he saw the same jubilant expression on Charles’s and Deverell’s faces. Even Linnet was smiling as she shook out the map, glanced over it, then raised her head to shout up to David, “Left—meaning north—at the crossroads in Leighton Buzzard, David—hold steady on the course we discussed.”
“Aye, aye, capt’n ma’am,” came floating down from above.
Linnet laughed, and then they were all laughing, exhilaration and exuberance bubbling free.
T
heir action—“the bridge outside Linsdale” as Charles took to calling it—proved a total success. As they rattled on through the fading light, they detected no hint of continuing pursuit.
Even after they reached Bedford and the Swan Hotel, and Charles and Deverell hung back to keep an eye on the road to see if the latter four cultists had succeeded in picking up their trail, no pursuers of any stripe appeared.
They were all in excellent spirits as they sat down to dine in the private parlor Wolverstone had reserved for them. They had a pair of large rooms on the inn’s first floor, one on either side of a corner. One room overlooked the banks of the river, the Great Ouse, while the other boasted an excellent, uninterrupted view of Bedford High Street.
They’d opted to dine early, intending to set out before dawn the next day. Although they weren’t about to celebrate what each of them knew was merely a temporary reprieve, their mood was relaxed as they satisfied their appetites with the inn’s excellent fare, then, when a well-stocked cheese platter and bowl of fruit had been set before them, and the men supplied with glasses of an excellent port, they settled to discuss the orders from Wolverstone that had been awaiting them.
“So.” Tonight Charles was doing the honors, reading from Wolverstone’s dispatch. Sitting back in his chair, he took a sip of port, then focused on the pages in his hand. “As usual, the latest happenings first, up to this morning, when Royce wrote this. Yesterday’s action at Ely resulted in Delborough and the Cynsters tripping their trap, and although Larkins, Ferrar’s man, was killed, presumably by Ferrar himself, the villain got away unseen, with Delborough’s copy of the letter, a decoy as we’d surmised.”
Logan nodded. “As I said, Ferrar’s clever, and careful never to be seen. That said, it sounds like a close call for him. It might have rattled him.”
“We can but hope.” Charles read further, then continued, “Hamilton and company reached Chelmsford last night, and will be heading north today with at least eight cultists bringing up the rear. Royce, Delborough, and the Cynsters plan to be in Sudbury by lunchtime to assist, assuming any major ambush will occur after that, on the more open stretch to Bury.”
Charles frowned. “Royce writes that he’s asked Hamilton, who is traveling with a lady, a Miss Ensworth—”
“Miss Ensworth?” Logan looked stunned.
“Who’s she?” Deverell asked.
“The Governor of Bombay’s niece. She was visiting from England—she was the lady MacFarlane was escorting from Poona, the reason he was there and found the letter—and she was the one who brought it on to Bombay when MacFarlane stayed behind.” Logan shook his head. “What the devil’s she doing with Gareth?”
Charles raised an eloquent shoulder. “Possibly the same thing Linnet’s doing with you.” He smiled at Linnet. “Got involved too far to be safely left behind.”
Linnet pulled a face at him. She was hardly some delicate governor’s niece.
“Anyway”—Charles returned to their orders—“Royce has asked Hamilton to make another copy of the decoy letter Hamilton’s carrying, so that if necessary Hamilton can sacrifice his scroll-holder plus decoy copy, but Royce and the others at Elveden will still be able to study the letter and assess its contents. With Delborough sacrificing his copy, Royce has yet to read this oh-so-important letter.”
Deverell grinned. “That won’t have made Royce happy. An ex-spymaster denied the vital piece of intelligence.”
“Indeed, but he writes that as he will have a copy through Hamilton, we can, if necessary, sacrifice our copy should there be an advantage in so doing. He notes that the Cobra appears to be behaving as expected and going after all the copies, as he can have no notion which of the four couriers is carrying the original.” Charles paused, then read on, “Our specific route tomorrow is exactly as we’d expected—from here straight to Elveden via St. Neots, Cambridge, and Newmarket. About sixty-five miles, apparently, and he advises us not to halt, but to come straight on. The Cynsters will be lurking around Cambridge and beyond, but depending on the enemy’s movements, we might not see them.”
Charles looked at Linnet. Smiled. “We’d better order a luncheon hamper.”
She raised her brows haughtily, by now unruffled by his teasing.
“That’s it.” Straightening, Charles tossed the missive on the table. “So it looks as if our notion to leave before dawn and go hard for Cambridge is indeed our wisest course.”
They all agreed. Deverell pointed out that with their early departure, their consequently early appearance in Cambridge, about thirty or so miles on, might catch the Cynsters unawares.
Charles considered, then shrugged. “Doesn’t really matter. We have to leave early—there’s no question about that—but even if we fly straight through and our escort misses us, they’re unlikely to miss any cultists who give chase.” He grinned. “Knowing the Cynsters involved, they’ll be happy to mop up.”