The Reckless Bride (49 page)

They isolated the man in charge, and sat him at the kitchen table. While the others moved through the house, searching and examining, and grooms kept watch over the rest of the captured cultists, trussed and deposited in the cellar, Del, Gareth, and Logan stood against the kitchen wall and watched while Royce, Charles, and Deverell interrogated the commander.

Who seemed very low on the cult’s tree.

“The Black Cobra is gone—that is all I can tell you.” The man’s eyes bulged. There was little doubt as to his fear.

“Yes, but …” Charles—one very real source of the man’s fear—tested the edge of his hunting knife. “You must know where your leader’s gone. It really would be in your best interests to tell us.”

The man shook his head. “You do not understand. We here are only foot soliders of the cause. The illustrious one would never tell us, share with us, such things. The Black Cobra is all-knowing and all-seeing. We follow wherever the illustrious one leads.”

Royce grimaced. “More fool you.” He rose, looked at Charles and Deverell. “He’s telling the truth. They don’t
know …” He looked back at the man. “How long ago did your leader leave?”

“An hour ago—not more.” The man’s relief at being able to tell them something was palpable.

“How many men all told?” Deverell asked.

The man hesitated, as if realizing he was revealing useful information, but then he shrugged. “The guard—now twenty men. Plus M’wallah, the illustrious one’s advisor, and Saleem, the guard captain.”

“So including the Black Cobra, twenty-three, correct?” Royce held the man’s gaze.

Resigned, the man nodded. “Twenty-three rode away.”

Royce looked at his head groom, gestured to the cultist. “Take him down and put him with his fellows. Then lock and bolt the cellar door, and barricade it with that dresser as well. We’ll leave them here for the moment.”

The burly groom nodded. “Aye, Y’r Grace. I’ll see to it.”

Lucifer appeared in the doorway leading into the house. “There was a woman here—you only need to look at the bedroom. Silks and scents and candles all over.”

Royce held up a hand, halting the groom and the prisoner he was leading away. “This woman—what happened to her?”

The cultist looked at him strangely. “Gone. Left.”

Royce frowned. “With the Black Cobra?” Deverell had only asked about men.

The man hesitated, but then nodded.

“Do you know this woman’s name?” Charles asked.

The man shook his head.

“I’m assuming,” Royce’s voice took on a lethal edge, “that you don’t know the Black Cobra’s name.”

Rapidly, decisively—fearfully—the cultist shook his head. “We are only foot soldiers. The name of the Cobra is not for us to know.” He hesitated, then, as if seeking to placate and convince them of his honesty, he said, “We knew one name—Ferrar. The other two … that was not for any to know, not even the guards who guarded them.”

Royce’s brows rose, then he nodded to his groom. “Take him down.”

He turned to Del, Gareth, and Logan.

“None of those we’ve captured here are assassins,” Del said.

“Given how many the three of us each faced, there have to be more,” Gareth said. “Presumably they’re among the twenty guarding the Black Cobra.”

Logan grimaced. “We should probably anticipate that the Cobra’s guards are all assassins, or at least of the group known as the elite—the better-trained fighters.”

Royce nodded. “We can discuss strategy as we ride, but given the Black Cobra is only an hour ahead of us, and presumably headed to some particular place, then I want to get on the group’s trail immediately.”

No one argued. Royce led the way to the front door. Stepping out into the forecourt, with his gaze he sought Demon among the remounting riders. “With the condition the roads are in, a group of twenty plus riders shouldn’t be hard to track.”

Demon raised his brows. “That many?” He grinned, saluted. “I’ll take point.”

He urged his bay gelding onto the drive, moving to a jogtrot as the others formed up and followed.

They’d barely got one hundred yards from the house when an older man, by his attire and manner a neighboring squire out for a bit of game with his shotgun crooked over his arm and a pair of spaniels at his feet, stepped out of the woods lining the drive and hailed them.

Royce drew his mount to a halt.

Before he could say anything, the man bluffly declared, “I say—glad to see you’ve got those heathens in hand. Dab bit of work, capturing them like that—I was watching from the woods.” The man squinted up at Royce. “You from the Lord Lieutenant, then?”

Royce looked down at the man, then inclined his head. “Wolverstone. I am the Lord Lieutenant.”

“Oh! Well, then … glad you’re keeping up with trouble on your patch.”

“Indeed. But perhaps you can help us—have you seen their master?”

“Never set eyes on the beggar.” The man raised his hand to shade his eyes as he looked up at Royce. “Did see her, though—the lady who’s with them. Spoke to her earlier while I was on my way past—she saw me and came out to speak with me.”

“Indeed? What did you speak about?”

“She wanted to know about the Laughing Trout Inn. It’s a little place—a fisherman’s inn tucked away in the woods a couple of miles southeast of here, on the other side of Gipping Way. Off the beaten track, but the Shearers keep it nice, and Mrs. Shearer’s cooking is magic. Seems like the lady was after a good meal—said it sounded like just the place to satisfy her appetite.”

Behind Royce, Charles leaned forward. “Did she tell you her name?”

The squire frowned. “Strange, now you mention it—she didn’t. Very easy to talk to, she was, so it didn’t strike me at the time.”

“Did she say or ask anything else?” Royce asked.

The squire shook his head. “Just thanked me and went inside. I went on my way, but only minutes later I heard them ride out. A whole gaggle of ‘em—don’t know exactly how many, but through the trees I saw her, with a hard-looking heathen on her right and an old one with a long black beard riding on her other side.” The squire frowned. “Vicious-looking lot. Don’t know what a nice, civilized lady like her would want with such people.”

Royce’s brows rose. “That is indeed a mystery.” He saluted the old man. “Thank you for your help.”

The old man raised a hand in acknowledgment.

Leaving him calling to his dogs, Royce rode on. He glanced at Devil, equally sober beside him. “Down to Gipping Way with all speed, but after that, we’ll have to go carefully.”

He and Devil urged their mounts on, pushing to catch up with Demon, who was now well ahead.

They left their horses in a clearing just south of Gipping Way and, shadows slipping through shadows as the winter afternoon waned, went into the woods on foot.

Locating the inn wasn’t difficult, but the instant he saw the large number of horses tied up out of sight at the rear of the stable, Royce signaled a withdrawal.

They gathered in a small clearing between the one in which their horses were tethered and the inn.

Royce spoke quietly. “It’s possible they have pickets posted. We need them removed.”

Charles, Deverell, Gervase, and Tristan held up their hands. Royce nodded. “Take a quarter each. Return here when you’re sure all’s clear. Go.”

The four large men faded into the woods.

“Once we’re sure all’s clear, we need to secure the area.” Royce nominated who would go where and watch what. “Next, we need to get what information we can on who is inside and where exactly they are—how many and who in each room.”

Vane, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Richard Cynster volunteered to visually search the house.

“Team up with the others when they get back, search, then report back here.” Royce looked at those still undeployed. “Meanwhile, the rest of us will remove those horses, so no matter what happens no assassins will ride away.”

By the time they’d quietly moved in and removed all twenty-three horses from the rear of the stable, the teams sent to remove pickets and scout the house were drifting back to the small clearing.

Walking back from the further clearing where they’d left all the horses, Del frowned. “I would have expected twenty-four horses, but there were only twenty-three, and one had a lady’s sidesaddle.” He glanced at Royce, striding alongside. “The cultist at the manor seemed very definite—twenty-three men.”

“I wondered the same thing,” Royce admitted, “but perhaps one of the riders who left the manor rode on to Felixstowe or somewhere similar to carry some message on.”

Del nodded. “Yes, that’s likely.”

They returned to the small clearing where all the others now waited.

Charles reported first. “No pickets. No one watching from the house, either. It’s as if they’re sure they’re safe.”

“If you think of it from their perspective,” Vane said, “they have no reason to think they aren’t—to imagine we’re even following them, let alone so close.”

Royce nodded. “So what’s going on inside the inn?”

“The Closed sign is up in the window of the tap,” Vane said. “There’s no sign of life in the front room—the one that faces east to the lane.”

“Nothing much clearly visible along the north face,” Lucifer said. “The front door is shut, but through the two windows beside it I can see what I suspect are cultists in the front hall. Perhaps five or six. They seem to be standing guard, not moving about. Other than that, the windows of the bedchambers on the first floor are all curtained.”

“There’s more cultists in the rear rooms of the inn.” Gabriel sounded grim. “I had to get around the stable, and slip across the yard to the laundry, but from there I got a glimpse into the kitchen. There are definitely cultists there.” He nodded at Del and Gareth. “They may be your assassins—they looked significantly more capable than any cultist I’ve yet seen. They have what I assume are the Shearers—a couple and a boy who looks to be their son—tied to chairs around the table.”

“Alive?” Logan asked.

“The woman appears unharmed, but both men have been beaten. That said, beyond bruises, cuts, and black eyes, they may well be all right—they don’t look to be in serious pain.”

“That’s something, at least.” Royce glanced at Richard, who’d scouted the last, southern, face of the building.

Richard met his eyes, then glanced at the others. “I think
you’re going to need to see this. I found a good spot well screened by firs that gives a good view into the side parlor. Inside are two women—I’m assuming one is the lady from the manor. But there’s a section of the room I can’t see, not from anywhere. There could be someone else in there, but if there is, the women are ignoring him.”

“What are the women doing?” Devil asked.

Richard met his gaze. “Taking tea.”

They all looked.

“Anyone you recognize?” Royce asked Del.

Peering past a branch of spruce, Del shook his head. He looked at Gareth and Logan, but they shook their heads, too. Del turned to Royce. “We’ve never seen either of them anywhere—which means they could be either hostages or accomplices.”

“There’s another possibility,” Logan whispered, his gaze on the parlor window and the unlikely sight beyond it. “We know Rafe was traveling with some young lady. Is one of those two Rafe’s lady? And if so, where’s Rafe?”

“Or are both of them simply hostages, or accomplices, or whichever, and Rafe and his lady are somewhere else entirely?” Devil shook his head. “There’s no way we can tell.”

“But what are they doing?” Gyles asked. “And where’s the Black Cobra? Have we sighted any man who might be him?”

The collective answer being a resounding no, they concluded the Black Cobra was very likely in the parlor with the ladies—hostages or accomplices, whichever they happened to be—but because of the angle and the position of the window, he was hidden from their view.

“All right,” Royce said. “What we have is the principal force of the Black Cobra—the central nest of vipers, as it were—here at the inn. Presumably they’re here for a reason—it could be that they’re waiting for something or someone, perhaps for Rafe, who’s been captured and is being brought to them. Why here, we don’t know. Why the
ladies, we also don’t know. But with the ladies in the parlor and the Shearers in the kitchen destined to be the first casualties if we attack, we can’t make a move. As things stand, all we can do is watch and wait, too.”

He glanced around, saw nods, heard no arguments. “But the one thing we can do is ensure that no matter what happens, not one of the bastards in there gets away.”

Ten minutes later, a tight cordon of fighting men encircled the inn, ringing it with steel and well-trained muscle.

Satisfied, Royce settled alongside Devil to keep watch on the parlor, on the ladies within—who gave every appearance of amiably chatting while they daintily consumed scones and sipped tea.

R
afe couldn’t explain the sense of urgency that gripped even tighter, sank its talons deeper, as he turned down the lane to the Laughing Trout Inn.

Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce flanked him. Immediately behind them rode Hassan, with Rose up before him.

Hidden within the woods, the inn was still a hundred and more yards further on when two men stepped out from the trees bordering the lane and waved them down.

Rafe recognized one and hauled on his reins. “Cynster!”

Grinning fit to burst, Demon signaled him to silence and waved him to dismount, reaching for the bridle of his prancing mount.

Rafe swung down to the ground, slapped his hand into Demon’s palm, and had it wrung. They briefly embraced; of all the Cynsters, Rafe had been closest to Demon. His gaze ranging ahead toward the inn, Rafe demanded, “What’s going on?”

They all gathered around. The other gentleman who’d been waiting tipped a salute Rafe’s way. “Tristan Wemyss, another of Wolverstone’s colleagues.” Rafe shook hands as Tristan continued, “We have the inn surrounded.”

“Why?” Christian Allardyce asked. He and Jack Hendon were as puzzled as Rafe.

Tristan exchanged a look with Demon, then said, “Because we believe the Black Cobra’s inside.”

“What?” Rafe paled. His gaze locked ahead. “Loretta’s in there.”