The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (77 page)

Devil grinned. “You’ve twisted our arms.”

They all turned to their horses. “One thing.” Royce’s words stopped them. He met Devil’s eyes. “Delborough, Gervase, Tony, and I will follow Ferrar into Bury and onward, with luck to his lair. We’ll meet you at Elveden to share what we find. However…” He looked at the eight cultists riding unhurriedly up the lane to Bury. “Ferrar has gone ahead. We’ll circle around and catch up with him, but given the distance
between him and his men, I want you to remove them without alerting him.”

Devil looked at the cultists heading north. They could still see Ferrar merrily riding ahead. “You do like to be difficult.”

“The request shouldn’t be outside your scope.” Royce glanced at Demon. “You both know the country well—they don’t, or they wouldn’t be hanging so far back, not if they’re his guards.”

Demon glanced at Devil. “The bend before the windmill?”

Devil nodded. “I was thinking the same thing.”

Less than a minute later, they were all mounted, streaming down the rise to circle to the west, to follow and overtake the band of cultists, and separate his guards from Ferrar.

Jack and Tristan caught up with the carriage a little way out of Bury St. Edmunds.

“Not a cultist in sight,” Jack reported. “They must have taken the bait, which means they should be coming up the road behind us.”

“I don’t know about you”—with his glance, Tristan included Mullins, Mooktu, and Bister—“but after all this, I’d like to be in at the end.”

“Me, too,” Jack said. “So we vote to stop at an inn in Bury, get the carriage off the road, and watch Ferrar and his flunkies go past. Then we can join the others on their trail.”

No one argued. They found the perfect inn in Westgate Street, and hired the front parlor, from which they could see back down the road up which they’d come, as well as see some distance left and right. Whichever route Ferrar took, he was likely to pass their position; they settled to wait.

Fifteen minutes later, Ferrar, alone, came jauntily riding along Westgate Street, smiling as he tacked this way and that through the late-afternoon traffic. He passed the inn window right to left. Emily seized Gareth’s sleeve. “He didn’t come the way we did.”

Jack and Tristan crowded the window, peering at Ferrar’s
back. “He must have taken that minor lane to Bury.” Tristan stared the other way, in the direction from which Ferrar had come. “Where are the others?”

For a full minute, they looked back and forth, at Ferrar’s back, then the other way, hoping to spot their comrades, who should have been on his trail.

“Damn!” Jack said. “He must have lost them.”

He and Tristan were out of the door on the words. Gareth rushed after them; Emily rushed after him. Jack’s and Tristan’s horses were still saddled. They swung up to their backs and rode out of the inn yard.

Using his major’s voice, Gareth commandeered a carriage horse. It had no saddle, but the long reins were still there. Grabbing the horse’s mane, he swung up to its back.

“Gareth!”

He looked down into Emily’s eyes.

“You can’t leave me here!”

He could. But…teeth gritted, he beckoned her closer, bent, gripped and hoisted her up to the horse’s back before him. “Hold on. But if we need to ride hard, I’ll have to set you down.”

“No, you won’t.” Locking her hands in the horse’s mane, she stated, “I have it on excellent authority that I’m a devilish good rider.”

Be that as it may…he guided the horse, a steady beast, into the traffic thronging Westgate Street. Bury was a market town; from what they’d seen, today was market day. Which was helpful—the crowds in the street kept Ferrar to a slow walk, and gave them excellent cover as they followed him. “Not that he seems at all supicious,” Gareth said. “He hasn’t looked around once.”

“Overconfident,” Emily stated. He had to agree.

He tacked around a curricle, only to have a big gray horse fall into position alongside.

Even before his eyes had reached the rider’s face, Wolverstone drawled, “I might have known.” His gaze was resting on Emily.

Gareth shot him a look that stated very clearly:
Yes, he might.

Emily ignored him. “We thought you’d lost him.” She wriggled and tried to look back. “Where are the others?”

Wolverstone regarded her for a moment, then decided not to take issue with her first statement. “Delborough, Gervase, and Tony are behind me. The Cynsters and Chillingworth remained to engage the cultists. Sadly, only eight stayed to play.”

Emily looked into his eyes, and got the impression she was treading very close to some edge. She looked ahead, nodded forward. “Jack and Tristan are closer. Do you have any idea where he might be going?”

“No.” On the word, Ferrar turned into a commercial stable. Royce angled his horse across Gareth and Emily’s, steering them to the curb. “We’ll wait here and see what he’s up to.”

Up ahead, Jack and Tristan had similarly halted by the opposite curb. They were chatting as if they were neighbors.

Royce looked at Emily, then Gareth. “If Ferrar comes out, try to keep your heads down—we don’t want him to recognize you. Although I have to admit he’s been singularly unwatchful thus far.”

Emily was too keyed up to even pretend to chat. Then Ferrar came striding out of the stable and crossed the street. He passed within yards of Tristan and Jack. They shifted to keep their faces from him, but he didn’t even glance their way.

Looking at Royce, Emily saw that his head was up, that with a glance he was collecting his men.

Ferrar strode on, oblivious, heading away from the center of the town, then without breaking stride, he turned through a wide gateway set in the thick stone wall bordering the other side of the street.

Royce frowned. “The abbey ruins are through there.”

As soon as Ferrar passed through the gateway and out of sight, they all hurried across the road, closing in on Tristan, who stood waiting in the gateway’s shadows. Jack had already slipped through.

Delborough, Gervase, and Tony joined them as they halted by Tristan’s side.

Jack reappeared. He looked faintly surprised. “He’s…wandering. Aimlessly ambling as if he had not a care in the world—as if he’s out for a stroll among the ruins, as, incidentally, quite a few others are.” He glanced back through the gateway. “I had no idea ruins in winter twilight were so much in vogue.”

Emily frowned at him. “You should read the
Ladies’ Gazette
.”

To a man, they stared at her, then Royce said, “Is he early for a meeting? Or…is he a student of ruins?”

“He stabled his horse, so his lair must be near,” Delborough pointed out. “Within walking distance.”

“Which covers the whole town.” Royce walked through the gateway, rapidly scanned the area, then came back. “Here’s how we’ll handle this.”

He directed Emily and Gareth to stroll through the gateway, then along the stone wall to where they could observe the grassy promenade that ran across the backs of the buildings built into the west side of the ruins—houses filling the arches of the old abbey, as well as the town’s cathedral built out of the old abbey’s main gate. “You’ll be able to keep your distance, but still see if he goes into one of the houses, or even into the cathedral. From there he can reach the rest of the town.” Royce looked at the others, his expression predatory. “He might have seen all of your faces, but he hasn’t seen mine. I’ll follow him directly—or as directly as I can without alerting him—while you five take the flanks. If he’s meeting someone, I want to know who.”

Everyone nodded and set off, quickly disappearing amid the huge stone blocks littering what proved to be a very large expanse, eyes scanning the deepening shadows for a glimpse of Ferrar.

“That misbegotten
idiot
!” From the top of the cathedral’s Norman tower—the tower that had once housed the abbey’s main gate and now afforded an unrivaled view of the abbey
ruins far below—Alex stared down at Roderick—and the men who were fanning out ominously in his wake. “Just
look
how many followers he’s managed to collect!”

Daniel stared in disbelief. “He doesn’t even seem to know they’re there.”

Horror-struck, they watched from above, as Roderick paused, leaned back against a large fallen stone, reached into his coat, and drew out a rolled white paper.

“He’s got it—copy or original, it matters not.” With one last deadly look over the parapet, Alex whirled and strode for the stairs. “Come on!”

As they clattered as fast as they could down the dark stone stairs, Alex thought furiously.

When they reached the bottom and stepped out into the cathedral foyer, Alex seized Daniel’s arm. After one quick glance around to make sure no one had seen them, with head lowered Alex steered them quickly out of the cathedral and along the narrow passage down the side, then leaned close and hissed, “Roderick’s gone. Nothing we can do will save him. He has the letter, and those following him know it. Did you see the men hunting him? See how they moved—see their
faces
?”

When Daniel returned a puzzled look, Alex shook his arm. “
Aristocratic
faces—the faces of men of power, of the ton, who
will be listened to
.”

They emerged onto the promenade at the back of the cathedral and swiftly crossed into the ruins. Alex’s eyes scanned the deepening shadows, the fallen stones.

Alex’s voice lowered even more. “They’re going to catch Roderick, and this time, he won’t be able to talk his way out of it—not even our sire will be able to explain why he’s got that letter in his hand. Any second, and they’ll have him.” Halting, Alex looked into Daniel’s dark eyes. “No one knows of
our
involvement. We can just walk away. But Roderick can’t. Not this time.”

Alex paused, then asked, tone colder than the descending wintry chill, “Do you think, once caught, he’ll let you and me slip away?”

Lips tight, Daniel shook his head.

“Nor do I. And I’m not about to let all we’ve worked to create with the Black Cobra be wiped out by Roderick’s insufferable belief in his own superiority.” Turning, Alex led the way deeper into the ruins. “Come on. We have one chance—only one—to escape.”

Daniel might have inquired as to how, but Alex had always thought faster than he. Much faster than Roderick. And there was Roderick ahead of them. He was ambling along, the letter—their vital missive—in one hand, tapping it nonchalantly on his other palm. He saw them, waved the letter.

Alex halted in the center of an archway, three steps above the broken floor Roderick was traversing. Daniel halted one step behind.

Roderick smiled, a smile of overweening superiority, and came on. As he neared, he said, “O ye of little faith. You have no idea how easy this was.”

He looked down as he climbed the steps.

Alex stepped forward as Roderick reached the last step. He looked up.

Just as the bells summoning the faithful to evensong started carolling.

Just as, aided by Roderick’s momentum, Alex slid a dagger past Roderick’s ribs, directly into his heart.

Daniel’s breath seized at the look of utter, astounded disbelief that washed over Roderick’s face.

Alex leaned in, thrust the knife deeper. “You fool!” Alex’s hand pivoted, twisting the knife. “They were on your heels, and you didn’t even know.”

Death started to leach all expression from Roderick’s face.

Alex stepped back, filched the letter from Roderick’s grasp, left the knife where it was. Hesitated, then leaned close to viciously whisper, “You were the rabbit leading the hounds straight to us—no escape for you this time.”

Whirling, Alex blew out a breath, grabbed Daniel’s sleeve and hauled him around. Head close, Alex murmured, “We
walk slowly, sedately. We’re just another pair of worshippers heading to the cathedral for evening service.”

Daniel glanced back, saw Roderick, ice-blue eyes wide, slump to the ground.

Roderick’s eyes glazed—and the Earl of Shrewton’s favorite son was gone.

The cathedral bells were peeling and the light was fading fast. Emily tugged Gareth’s sleeve. “Come on—we need to get closer or he could slip past us in this gloom.”

Gareth surrendered, and strolled with her along the promenade behind the buildings, searching the ruins, what they could see of them in the failing light.

Abruptly, Emily halted. “What’s that?”

He followed her gaze diagonally into the ruins, and saw…dark material spread over pale stone steps. “It’s a body.”

They rushed down the avenue, but before they reached the spot, Royce materialized. He stepped past the slumped form, up through the archway beyond, then crouched.

Delborough, Tristan, Jack, Gervase, and Tony reached the archway as they did. Royce looked up, his face unreadable. “This just happened. Did any of you see anyone fleeing?”

They all shook their heads.

Royce’s lips tightened. He rose. “Search!”

They did, until the light was gone, but found nothing. They returned to the body, all wondering, rethinking.

Hands on hips, Royce stood looking down at the body, now barely visible. He glanced at Delborough. “The dagger—it looks to be the same sort as the one used on Larkins.”

Crouching, Del inspected the ivory handle, nodded as he rose. “It’s a type the cult assassins use.”

“The letter?” Jack asked.

“Gone.” Royce glanced around at the circle of faces. “No one even vaguely suspicious?”

They all shook their heads. “There were couples leaving, and numerous worshippers heading for evening service,”
Tristan said, “but no one was rushing, hurrying, trying to get away. No one glancing around.”

Royce grimaced. They all stared down at the body of Roderick Ferrar. “So,” Royce said, accents clipped, “we have the man we were certain was the Black Cobra, but he’s been eliminated. Leaving us with two very big questions: Who killed him? And why?”

S
o we’re left with the questions of who killed Ferrar, and why.” Standing before the hearth in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, Royce glanced up as Emily returned. He’d just concluded relating the events of the day for the benefit of the assembled ladies—Deliah Duncannon, who had arrived with Delborough, Alicia, Tony’s wife, Madeline, Gervase’s wife, Leonora and Clarice, Kit, Jack Hendon’s wife, Letitia, Christian Allardyce’s marchioness, and his own duchess, Minerva, who had, he’d discovered, invited all the families of his ex-colleagues to join their family here for Christmas.

When he’d stared at her, dumbfounded, she’d smiled and patted his chest. “Your timetable runs too close to Christmas—the men can’t be sure of getting home in time, and you all have young families.”

He knew better than to argue. There were battles he could win, and ones he wouldn’t. Such, he’d learned, was the nature of married life.

Those of his ex-colleagues already there and seated about the room had no doubt learned the same. Christian and Jack Hendon were there, ready to, in a few days, play the roles assigned them. The Cynsters and Chillingworth had rejoined them, looking thoroughly pleased. They’d fulfilled their mission, and despite a number of cuts and slashes, none was seriously injured.

“I believe,” Royce said, as Emily settled on the end of the chaise beside the chair Gareth occupied, “that we have to revise our assessment of who the Black Cobra is.”

Delborough nodded. “The Black Cobra is either not Ferrar, or Ferrar was part of a larger whole.”

“I agree.” Gareth frowned. “If the Black Cobra is not
Ferrar, then presumably the Black Cobra killed him, or ordered the killing—so that still means the Black Cobra is here, in England.”

“Here in Suffolk, or close by,” Tony said.

After a moment, Delborough shook his head. “Ferrar had to be very high in the cult’s organization. He was vital to the cult’s success through his role in the governor’s office, and given his nature, I can’t see him taking any subordinate position while knowing he was the lynchpin for the cult’s fortunes.” Delborough met Royce’s eyes. “We saw Ferrar giving orders, and the elite guards, including the assassins, obeyed. I’d suggest that all we know favors the notion that the Black Cobra is a group—two, three, or more, we can’t say—but Ferrar was one. Presumably the other Englishman we saw was another.”

Royce nodded. “And that other Englishman, who appeared to be Ferrar’s equal, might have been the one who killed Ferrar, or had him killed.”

“If we accept that the Black Cobra is a multiheaded beast,” Gyles Rawlings said, “then it’s most likely the other members are known acquaintances of Ferrar.”

Royce met Gyles’s eyes, then nodded and glanced at the window, at the dark beyond. “It’s nearly evening, but I believe it’s time we paid the Earl of Shrewton a visit. If we leave now, we’ll be at Wymondham before he sits down to dine.”

They’d brought Ferrar’s body to Elveden in a dray, ready to deliver to his father at Shrewton Hall.

“What about Larkins?” Devil asked. “Did Ferrar kill him, or was it someone else?”

“From what you told me,” Royce said, “it was most likely Ferrar—it was someone Larkins trusted implicitly, so unlikely to be merely one of Ferrar’s friends. However, now that Ferrar’s dead, that’s neither here nor there, but we’ll certainly take Larkins’s body with Ferrar’s—it might help convince the earl that he needs to do whatever he can to assist us.”

There were a number of volunteers eager to help convince
the earl, but Royce kept the group to four—Christian, the other most senior peer, and Delborough and Gareth, both of whom could with authority bear witness to Ferrar’s deeds, and those of the Black Cobra, in India.

When Devil tried to insist that he, too, should go, Minerva narrowed her eyes at him. “You”—she waved an imperious finger indicating all the Cynsters and Gyles Chillingworth—“will ride back to Somersham Place immediately. None of you might be seriously incapacitated, but I can see cuts—great heavens! I can see
blood
—and your wives would never forgive me if I didn’t send you home to be tended.
Now
.”

Seven large men stared back at her. Minerva didn’t budge, didn’t bat an eyelash.

Nor did the ladies gathered around her, who, as the silence stretched, brought their gazes, too, to bear on the recalcitrant males…until they broke.

With one last dark look, Devil inclined his head. “Very well.” He glanced at Royce, who’d been studying the ceiling. “We’ll see you tomorrow, no doubt.”

“I’ll send word later tonight, once we’ve learned what we can from Shrewton and—I hope—heard from Monteith’s party. They should be at Bedford tonight.”

Devil raised a hand in salute, and led the others out.

Royce followed with Delborough, Gareth, and Christian, bound for Shrewton Hall.

The other members of the Bastion Club and Jack Hendon exchanged glances, excused themselves, and retreated to the billiard room, no doubt to mull over the happenings of the day while knocking balls about the table.

Minerva and the other ladies watched the male retreat with approval. As the door closed behind the last pair of broad shoulders, as one they turned to Emily.

“We’d love to hear of your travels,” Minerva said.

Letitia sank into the chair Gareth had vacated. “Tell all,” she advised. “Start at the beginning—when did you go to India?—and more importantly, why?”

Emily looked from eager face to interested eyes, and saw no reason not to comply.

In a cold stone room off the laundry of Shrewton Hall, near Wymondham, the Earl of Shrewton stood staring down at the body of his favorite son.

Roderick Ferrar’s body lay on its back on one of the room’s benches. The earl’s servants had laid Larkins’s body on another bench nearby, yet the earl had given no sign of even noticing Larkins. From the moment he’d led them—Royce, Christian, Delborough, Gareth, and the earl’s elder son, Viscount Kilworth—into the room, the earl’s attention had fixed on his son’s remains.

The shock on the earl’s face was there for all to read.

Kilworth, too, was visibly shaken. “We didn’t even know he was in the country.”

“Who did this?” The earl swung to face Royce. “Who killed my son?”

“A friend of his known as the Black Cobra.” Succinctly, Royce explained their interest in the Black Cobra cult and its leaders. “We were following your son because he’d fetched and was carrying a copy of a letter from the Black Cobra that the Black Cobra wants back. The original of that letter is signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark, and sealed with your family seal.” Royce indicated the seal ring on Ferrar’s finger.

Head lowering so they could no longer see his eyes, the earl said nothing.

Royce swung to the other body. “The day before, Larkins—your son’s man—seized another copy of the letter, and he, too, was killed.”

The earl made a dismissive gesture. “I want to know who killed my son.”

“They were killed with identical daggers,” Royce said, “of a type used by the Black Cobra cult’s assassins. The Black Cobra killed your son, or ordered him to be killed. So we have a common goal in that both you and I want to know who the Black Cobra is.”

Royce paused, then, including Kilworth with a glance, asked, “Do you know who the Black Cobra is?”

The earl snorted. “Of course not—I have no interest in any foreign mumbo jumbo.”

“There’s not much of that about the Black Cobra cult—they’re solely interested in acquiring money and power, and are very willing to use terror and vile deeds to gain both.” Royce kept his gaze fixed on the earl. “Do you or Kilworth know the names of any of Roderick’s friends in Bombay? Has he mentioned anyone as associate or friend, who might be involved, or might know more?”

The earl stiffened and lifted his head. “I know nothing about any cult—it’s ridiculous to even suggest my son was involved with such people.”

“Your son’s seal is on the letter,” Royce coolly reminded him. “There’s no doubt of his involvement at some level. The original of that letter, with Roderick’s seal, will be delivered to me shortly, and given the interest at the highest levels that the depredations of the Black Cobra cult has engendered, that letter will, sooner or later, find its way into the public domain. Any assistance your family can provide in identifying the Black Cobra—the man who killed your son—will, naturally, mitigate any adverse implications.”

Gareth glanced at Delborough, and Christian beside him, and saw they, too, were suppressing satisfied smiles. There was steel beneath Royce’s smooth tones, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind what would happen if the family did not assist. Yet no threat had actually been uttered.

Well versed in such subtleties, the earl heard the warning. His face mottled as he glared. “This is nonsense! My son has been killed, that’s all there is to it.” Swinging on his heel, he pushed past Christian and stalked out.

Leaving Kilworth, who even physically was very unlike his sire, a tallish, slender gentleman with dark eyes—not the pale cold blue of his father and brother—to try to smooth over the moment.

“He’s in shock,” Kilworth said, as if in exculpation, then
added, “Well, so am I.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But Roderick was his favorite, you see.” His tone made it clear that if it had been he lying dead on the bench, he doubted his father would be half as exercised. He gestured to the door. “Come. I’ll see you to your horses.”

As he walked beside Royce down the long corridors, Kilworth kept talking—he was the sort of man who did. The rest of them were happy to listen.

“We knew nothing, you see—last we heard he was off to India to make his fortune. He wasn’t one for writing letters. Well, we had no idea he’d even come home.” He glanced at Royce. “Did he just arrive?”

“He landed in Southampton on the sixth of this month,” Delborough said.

“Oh.” Kilworth’s expressive face fell, then he grimaced. “As you can see, we aren’t close—weren’t. Roderick and me. But still…I’m surprised he didn’t contact the old man.”

“You’re sure he didn’t?” Christian asked.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Kilworth saw their doubts, and smiled. “The servants never liked Roderick, but they like me, so they always tell me…things like that. None of us here knew Roderick was in England, of that I am completely sure.”

They’d reached their horses, held by grooms in a side courtyard.

Kilworth halted, waited while they mounted, then he looked up at Royce. “I doubt you’ll get anything from the old man, and the harder you push, the more he’ll dig in his heels and bluster. But…I’ll contact those of Roderick’s friends I know of here, in England, and ask if any of them have heard what he was up to in India, and if he mentioned who were his closest friends there.”

“Thank you.” Royce inclined his head. “You’ll find me at Elveden Grange until this is over.”

Kilworth frowned. “It isn’t over?”

Royce shook his head as he turned his horse. “Not by a very long chalk.”

They returned to Elveden Grange to discover that the ladies had held dinner back for them. The instant they walked into the drawing room, Minerva rose and directed the whole company to the dining room. Over a relaxing meal they reported on the earl’s recalcitrance, and the possibility that Kilworth might manage to learn more.

“The countess is long dead, and his sisters are older and have been married and living in their own households for years,” Minerva said. “I doubt they would know anything.”

“Roderick was his father’s favorite for a very good reason—father and son were cut from the same cloth.” Letitia sat back in her chair. “Whatever viciousness you detected in Ferrar, he learned at his father’s knee. Kilworth, on the other hand, is a much more gentle, rather scholarly soul. He took after the countess, much to Shrewton’s unveiled disgust. Shrewton tolerates him only because he is his heir.”

“And now his only surviving son.” Minerva rose. All the ladies followed suit.

Royce glanced at the men, saw his inclination mirrored in their faces. He pushed back his chair. “We’ll join you in the drawing room. There’s much still to be discussed.”

While the men followed the ladies down the hall, Royce’s butler approached him with a missive on a salver. Royce took it, opened it, and read the message within, then slid it into his pocket, and went on, following the other men into the drawing room.

Once they were settled in the comfortable chairs and chaises, Royce began, “When we first commenced this mission”—he nodded to Del and Gareth—“when you contacted me, and then left Bombay with the four scroll holders, we would have said that Ferrar’s death would mark mission’s end. Instead, we have Ferrar dead, and the Black Cobra still out there. This feels more like the end of Act One in a drama that still has some way to run.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Gareth said, “that with Ferrar’s death, the threat of the seal on the original letter exposing his involvement has evaporated. He can no longer reveal
who the real Black Cobra is. Yet you say Ferrar was thrilled to have retrieved a copy, suggesting there’s more in the letter than we’ve yet discerned. Regardless, if after this evening the Black Cobra doesn’t call off the cultists harrying Monteith, then we can be certain there’s something else about the letter that threatens the real Black Cobra.”