The Reckless Bride (50 page)

“Oh, great heavens!” Rose clutched Hassan’s arm. “The fiend himself has her.”

Demon waved placatingly. “She’s safe at the moment.” He glanced at Rafe. “Which one is she—the blond, or the dark-haired one?”

Rafe frowned. “Loretta’s dark-haired. But she was the only lady in the inn when I left, and Mrs. Shearer has brown hair.”

“Mrs. Shearer’s in the kitchen with her menfolk. Two ladies are in the parlor taking tea—presumably the dark-haired one is your Loretta. Also in the inn are the Black Cobra’s guard, according to your colleagues mostly assassins, and we believe the Black Cobra himself, and his closest advisor and the captain of his guard, are also inside.” Demon met Rafe’s eyes. “They appear to be waiting for something, and at a guess that something is you.”

Rafe nodded. “I need to get closer.”

“I’ll remain on guard,” Tristan said. “Leave your horses here.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Jack Hendon said. “We need to make sure no innocent accidentally stumbles into the action. The rest of you go on.”

They did. Demon led them through the woods, then at a point where a stand of fir gave them better cover, they crept closer to the inn, to where, from behind a large tree, four men kept watch on the forecourt of the inn, its front door, and the front hall’s lead-paned windows.

Rafe was welcomed with immense relief, not least by his close friend and fellow-courier Logan Monteith. Gabriel Cynster, another old friend, smiled and slapped Rafe’s back. While Gabriel continued the watch, Rafe was introduced to Gervase Tregarth and Tony Blake, another two of Wolverstone’s men.

Every impulse Rafe possessed was screaming at him to
rush in and seize Loretta, to keep her safe; contrarily, every experienced instinct was warning that rushing in without knowing the situation might prove fatal, for them both. He nodded at the inn. “So what’s afoot?”

Logan drew him into a crouch alongside Gabriel, from where they, too, could scan the front of the building. “Ferrar’s dead.”

“What?” Rafe stared at his friend.

Eyes on the inn’s façade, Logan grimly nodded. “Larkins—Ferrar’s man—you remember him?” When Rafe nodded Logan went on, “Ferrar sacrificed him in order to get away with Del’s copy. Then Ferrar himself took Gareth’s copy—we’ll explain how later. He was taking it somewhere, presumably back to his lair, when he was killed, too, and the letter taken.”

“The copy was taken?”

Logan nodded. “Those here realized, then, that there was something else in the letter, not just the seal, that the real Black Cobra, whoever he is, didn’t want to reach Wolverstone. But even though Wolverstone had had Gareth make another copy, so we’ve had the words to study, no one can see what the crucial point is. No names leap out at anyone, yet we’re all now sure the Black Cobra is named in the letter. Yesterday, the Black Cobra sacrificed another man—Daniel Thurgood. He was Ferrar’s half brother, who’d come after me and had seized my copy.

“Which brings us to here and today.” Logan nodded at the inn. “It seems the Black Cobra wants every copy of that letter, and he’s in there waiting for you to come back and hand the last—the original—over to him.” Logan looked at Rafe. “Where is it?”

Eyes on the inn, Rafe replied, “I left it in the inn’s parlor, on top of the dresser.”

Gabriel glanced at him. “The parlor where we think the Black Cobra’s waiting with the two ladies?”

“The parlor directly across from the front door. The window looks over the lawn on the opposite side of the inn.”

Gabriel nodded. “That’s the one.”

Rafe’s mind raced, considering, assessing. “I need to know exactly what’s going on in the inn—who’s doing what and where.”

Gabriel glanced back. “Tony did the last circuit.”

Tony Blake crouched on Rafe’s other side. “We have men watching all four faces of the inn. There appears to be no one in the rooms facing the lane. As you can see”—he nodded at the façade before them—“there’s men—cultists, most likely assassins—stationed in the front hall, but we can’t tell how many. There have been sightings of people moving in the rooms upstairs—not looking out, but possibly searching. At the rear of the inn, in the kitchen, the innkeeper, his wife, and son have been tied to chairs, and are being guarded by at least five assassins. On the far side of the inn, the only room occupied appears to be the parlor. Royce, Devil, Del, and a few others are keeping a close watch on that room, but they can’t see the area to the right of the window. They can see the sofa on which two ladies are sitting—your dark-haired Loretta and another with pale blond hair. Both appear English, both are taking tea, nibbling scones, and chatting—to all appearances oblivious of anything being wrong.”

“So they may not know there are cultists in the inn?”

“We think the blond-haired lady arrived with the cultists,” Tony said. “We’re working on the assumption that she’s a hostage taken from a nearby manor.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is it possible your Loretta could feign supreme indifference to the cult, to the Black Cobra himself?”

Rafe nodded. “If it seemed the best thing to do.” He frowned. “Mind you, I would have thought it more likely that she’d be arguing, giving him, or whoever else is in there, hell.”

“We’re not sure there is anyone else in the room with them. They don’t seem to be interacting with or acknowledging anyone else.” Gabriel looked at Rafe. “You know
the room—could there be someone in the area we can’t see through the window?”

Rafe visualized the parlor. “There’s another armchair on that side of the sofa, and further back along the side wall, a sideboard, and then the hearth and the area before it, so yes, there’s a significant section of the room that must be out of sight.”

Tony cursed beneath his breath. “That’s what we feared. We have to assume that the Black Cobra’s in the room with them, possibly even with some of his assassin-guards.”

After a moment, Rafe asked, “So what are we doing?”

Gabriel shifted. “We’re sitting here watching, waiting for them to move.”

“But they’re waiting for me to arrive—they’re not going to move until I do.” His gaze on the inn, Rafe rose. “I’m going in.”

“No—wait!” Logan stood, grabbed his arm. “You can’t just go walking in there.”

Rafe nodded. “You’re right. I’ll have to go back and get my horse. No need to tip them off that you’re all out here.”

He turned to march back through the trees.

“Wait!” Tony hissed. “You can’t simply”—he gestured at the inn—“recklessly barge in there.”

Rafe arched a brow, then looked at Logan. “Loretta’s in there, very possibly trading insults with the Black Cobra. I’m not
not
going in.” He glanced at Tony. “With all of you out here, no matter what happens, the Black Cobra is finished, and while the cultists don’t realize you’re here, the advantage remains with you. But we’ve reached a stalemate—one there’s no benefit to us in prolonging. The longer we wait, the more risk one of them will see something and realize they’re surrounded, and then the situation will rapidly deteriorate, especially for Loretta and the other lady.”

Rafe looked at Gabriel, then at Christian. “At some point I have to return and walk into that inn as if nothing untoward
is going on. It’s better I go in now than wait. None of us—Loretta, the rest of you, or I—gain anything by waiting. Once I appear, the Black Cobra will be distracted dealing with me—he and his men in that parlor especially will be concentrating on me. For those minutes, I’ll be at least equally in the driver’s seat as he.”

A second of silence ensued, then Christian nodded. “As much as I’d like to say there’s a better way, there isn’t. You’re right. We need to bring this to a head, the sooner the better, and to do that, you need to go in.”

“But,”
Tony said, exchanging an exasperated glance with Christian, “Royce will have our heads, or worse, if we act without warning him and the others.”

Rafe glanced back at the inn, pulled out his watch. “Five minutes.” He glanced at the watch, then at Tony. “You have five minutes to reach Wolverstone, then I’m riding in.”

Tony went.

Rafe exhanged a glance with Hassan and Rose, then turned and strode back through the wood.

On the opposite side of the inn, Royce was crouched alongside Devil behind a ridge formed by an old fallen branch, watching the action, or lack of it, in the inn’s parlor, when Deverell appeared at his elbow.

Royce arched a questioning brow.

“Viscount Kilworth is here, asking to see you urgently.” Deverell looked toward the inn. “Apparently Minerva heard his story and sent him on with one of your grooms. They ran into our pickets, who brought Kilworth on. I left him in the small clearing, but he’s adamant about speaking with you.”

“Minerva sent him.” Royce had to wonder why.

“There’s nothing happening here,” Devil pointed out. “You may as well go and hear what Kilworth has to say.”

After a second’s consideration, Royce nodded and rose. Leaving Deverell to watch beside Devil, he made his way back through the wood.

Kilworth heard him as he stepped into the clearing. The viscount whirled. His face lit with relief. “Thank God!”

“Indeed. What is it?”

Kilworth grimaced. “Well, that’s just it, you see. I’m not sure it’s anything important at all, but Her Grace, Lady Letitia, and Lady Clarice all insisted I had to come and tell you.” He spread his long arms. “So here I am.”

Royce hung on to his temper. If Minerva
and
Letitia and Clarice thought he needed Kilworth’s information. … “Just tell me what you told them.”

“Well, that’s another problem. It’s …” Kilworth met Royce’s eyes, then drew a quick breath and let it out in a rush of words. “It happened long ago and I have no idea whether it’s true or not …”

His expression like stone, his temper reined with steel, Royce waited.

“I was at a ball,” Kilworth said. “Years ago, when I was much younger. Looking about, you know, and I saw this young lady across the room, and she saw me and … well, I asked m’mother to introduce us, but Mama took one look, then scoffed and said that there was no more point introducing me to that one than in introducing me to Lavinia. Lavinia’s m’youngest sister. I thought that was a strange thing to say … well, I understood the implication, but I knew m’mother exaggerated things, especially things to do with m’father. So at another ball I approached the young lady and asked her for a dance. She just looked at me—she really didn’t need to do anything else, you see—then she smiled slyly and said she really didn’t think that was a good idea.”

Royce frowned. “Why didn’t she need to do anything else but look at you—and from all of that, what did you deduce?”

“It was the eyes, you see.” Earnest animation filled Kilworth’s face. “Same as Roderick’s—same as m’father’s. No mistaking those chill blue eyes. But that’s all I know—not exactly proof, is it? And there’s no point asking the old
man, because he won’t say, but all in all, I’m fairly certain she’s another of m’father’s bastards.”

He was missing something. Royce knew it. “Kilworth, why are you telling me this now?”

Kilworth looked at him. “Didn’t I say? Her name is in that letter of yours.”

“Your father denied he had any other bastards named in that letter.”

“Bastard
sons.
He only mentioned sons. She’s not a son. Well, he only focuses on his sons at the best of times, but a bastard daughter—”

“What’s her name?” Royce managed not to roar.

Kilworth snapped to attention. “Mrs. George Campbell—Alexandra Middleton as was.”

“Aside from her eyes, what does she look like?”

“Tallish, slender. Hair like Papa and Roderick—very pale blond.”

Royce swore, swung on his heel, and raced back through the wood.

Rafe tucked his watch back in his pocket and reached to take the reins of his horse from Logan. He met Logan’s eyes. “Wish me luck.”

Handing over the reins, Logan slapped his arm. “You’ve that and more.” He waited while Rafe swung up, then settled in the saddle. Looking up, Logan grinned. “Reckless rides again. Just take care.”

Rafe dragged in a breath. They both knew walking into the Black Cobra’s arms was literally dicing with death—especially for him, the last and vital courier. Jaw setting, Rafe inclined his head. Turning the horse, he nudged the gelding into a trot and started schooling himself—his expressions, his reactions—to those he would have had were he simply returning from conducting some business; that was the story he and Loretta had settled on to explain his absence.

He’d ridden into danger many times in his life, beneath
cannonades where one errant shell could blow a man to kingdom come. He’d faced death in foreign lands times beyond counting. That he might face death in an inn parlor in the quiet English countryside had never featured in his expectations.

As he trotted up the inn’s drive, the sound of the horse’s hooves on the gravel a sharp tattoo ringing clearly in the otherwise unbroken quiet, every instinct he possessed was awake, alive, alert—and screaming of danger. In the field he’d always had a type of sixth sense as to where, in which direction, immediate threat lay—and it was insisting imminent danger lurked beyond the inn’s front door.

He wasn’t looking forward to meeting it. He was a cavalryman; all his battles had been fought on the field with space enough around him to move. Fighting in constrained spaces, in a room with furniture and, worse, helpless innocents, was not all that far removed from his worst nightmare.

Regardless, he neither showed nor felt any hesitation in riding into the forecourt, slowing the horse, and swinging down to the ground.

He was being watched from multiple vantage points in the inn. He glanced around as if expecting a groom to appear and take the horse, then shook his head and tied the reins to the post not far from the front door.

He had little fear of dying. He never had had. One couldn’t be reckless if one feared. He’d been a soldier all his life, and that’s what soldiers did—gave up their lives if that’s what was needed.

But this time he didn’t want to die. This time, he actively wanted to live, desperately yearned to survive because now he had a reason for living, a future worth living.