Nineteen
At just after one o’clock, M’wallah slid silently into the drawing room of the manor house outside Needham Market. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut; it had been escalating steadily with every minute that had passed and still they’d heard nothing of Carstairs.
M’wallah’s patron, and route to greatness, paced incessantly back and forth before the windows, arms crossed, features set in an expression of cold, contained fury.
Saleem stood in the shadows by one wall, more patient, more deadly. Saleem met M’wallah’s eyes.
M’wallah allowed his glee to show.
Saleem straightened.
Alex sensed the change, whirled to face M’wallah. “What?”
M’wallah bowed low—extra low. “Oh, illustrious one, fate, as ever, has consented to shine her bountiful light on your endeavor. The young one you dispatched to fetch milk—mindful of the injunction placed on him by Saleem, he circled the town and found an insignificant inn at which they were happy to fill a jug with milk in return for our coin. The woman there was preparing a tray for a guest lately arrived—a lady traveling with a gentleman. The woman was telling her husband that the couple had no real luggage, only what they were carrying with them. She described the gentleman as tall and handsome—a military man.
“Our young one was no fool—he asked nothing, for it was clear the woman knew nothing to the point. He paid for the milk and departed the inn, but went only so far as the surrounding wood and kept watch. Shortly after, he saw Carstairs—and he is quite certain it was Carstairs—come out, mount a horse, and ride away from the inn. He did not see where Carstairs went, but he is sure the captain did not ride through the town. It seems likely the captain is headed toward Felixstowe.” M’wallah paused, then somewhat gleefully added, “The lady, however, remains at the inn.”
“Excellent,” Alex purred, expression transformed by expectant intent. “Bring me this enterprising young cultist so that I may question him and thank him personally.” Alex looked at Saleem, met his eyes, smiled in overt anticipation. “Inform my guard and saddle our horses. At last, we ride.”
Royce paused at Stowmarket to confer with his troops. They gathered in Gipping Way, the main street through the town.
Seventeen large men on horseback, with assorted grooms and others, also mounted, made for quite a show. The prisoners they’d collected, cultists with their distinctive blackscarved turbans, added an element of the bizarre.
Devil sat his huge black stallion and, grinning appreciatively, watched while Royce, exercising his authority as Lord Lieutenant of the County, persuaded the innkeeper to open the cells beneath the inn that were used to hold miscreants. Subsequently, Lucifer, Demon, and some of his grooms escorted the seven captured cultists down into the bowels.
“We must remember not to forget them,” Devil murmured as Royce swung up to his saddle.
Settling his gray gelding, Royce replied, “I seriously doubt Kent, the innkeep, will allow us that option.”
They’d all agreed that the best way to scour the area was to form a cordon of mounted men, each riding within sight and sound of those flanking him. They’d started outside Bury St. Edmunds, and swept southeast, their immediate goal Ipswich, and if they hadn’t found Rafe and the Black Cobra by then, further to Felixstowe and to the marshes where Rafe had come ashore.
They weren’t traveling as fast as they might wish, but their search was thorough. Every cottage, every farm, every barn and haystack, was checked and cleared. They’d come upon the cultists just outside Stowmarket.
Lucifer and Demon reemerged and went to their horses.
“Right,” Royce said. “So the cult has strung a line of men from outside Stowmarket to, according to our prisoners, Sudbury. They’re waiting for Carstairs to run into the line, reasoning—correctly as it happens—that his ultimate goal lies beyond.”
“If they’re still waiting for him,” Logan said, “then they haven’t yet captured him.”
“Indeed.” Royce nodded. “At this point, that’s excellent news. As we’re now inside their line, there’s a chance we’ll find Carstairs before any cultists do. But the best news is that we now know where to find the Black Cobra.” He, Charles, and Gervase had interrogated the prisoners before they’d brought them into the town. “According to our captives, the fiend is quartered at their current base—a manor house just north of Needham Market. They were dispatched from there in the small hours, and told to bring Carstairs, should they seize him, to that place.”
“So the Black Cobra’s waiting at this manor house?” Del’s eager tone matched the anticipation, the heightened expectation, that had invested every man’s expression.
“Yes.” Royce’s tone conveyed coldly focused intent. “I suggest, gentlemen, that we adjourn to this manor house, and pay our compliments to the Black Cobra.”
No one bothered even to voice agreement. Royce and Devil spurred forward; the others turned their horses and formed up in their wake.
The townsfolk of Stowmarket watched the cavalcade thunder out, and wondered who had fallen foul of that warriors’ brigade.
Patience, sadly, had never been her strong suit. Loretta strolled the lawns beyond the inn’s parlor windows, her cloak wrapped about her, her hands inside her muff, her right hand closed about the butt of the pistol.
At least she was armed. And she was alert. She scanned the woods bordering the lawn, but neither saw nor sensed any danger.
If she hadn’t come out into the cold, clear air, she would have gone quietly insane. Never had she been subject to such worry before—not for herself, but for another. For Rafe.
She knew he was capable, coolheaded, and quick-witted, that he was accustomed to keeping himself safe, yet … she still worried. Incessantly.
It was driving her demented.
At least the fresh air, spiced with woodsmoke from the inn’s chimneys, the silence broken by the occasional birdcall from deep in the wood, presented her senses with some degree of distraction. Walking briskly helped, too.
She reached the rear of the lawn and, with the chill starting to penetrate her cloak and clothes and touch icy fingers to her flesh, reluctantly turned and started back toward the front of the inn, intending to return to the warmth of the parlor. She was halfway across the lawn when a tall, willowy lady came around the front corner of the inn.
The lady saw her, smiled, and came walking toward her.
Loretta noted the pale, milkmaid complexion, the very pale blond hair, the easy, confident quality of the lady’s smile, and relaxed a trifle.
The lady halted. With a yard between them, Loretta halted, too.
The lady met her gaze, inclined her head politely. “Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Campbell. I’m staying nearby.” She waved vaguely toward the town, then smiled engagingly. “Frankly, I’ve been starved for company, but then I heard one of the servants say that a young lady had just arrived here, and I wondered if you would care to share a pot of tea?”
Loretta smiled. “Thank you. I would welcome the company.” And the distraction. She held out her hand. “Miss Loretta Michelmarsh.”
Mrs. Campbell touched fingers. “Michelmarsh? I believe I’ve met your sister, Margaret.” She smiled deprecatingly. “That would have been some time ago, however—in our first season.”
“Margaret is my eldest sister.” Which meant Mrs. Campbell was older than she looked, somewhere around thirty. Loretta waved to the front of the inn. “We should go inside—it’s getting rather nippy.”
“Indeed.” Mrs. Campbell turned and, side by side, they continued toward the forecourt. “Mrs. Shearer makes lovely scones—I took the liberty of asking her to bring some to the parlor for us, along with the tea.”
“Lovely.” Loretta shivered as they rounded the inn. “I could use some warming up.”
They entered through the inn’s front door and proceeded into the parlor to find the tea tray waiting on the small table before the sofa.
Carefu
lly laying her muff with the pistol still inside in the corner of the sofa, Loretta undid her cloak, swung it off, then draped the folds over the sofa’s arm.
Mrs. Campbell had made herself comfortable on the sofa’s other end and was already pouring the tea.
Loretta accepted the cup and saucer Mrs. Campbell offered her. “Thank you.” She sat. “I have to confess I’m in need of distraction. My escort—we’re traveling on to join friends—has deserted me for business. Until he returns, I’m very much at loose ends.”
“Men!” Mrs. Campbell smiled, then sipped. “Are you come from London, then? Have you heard of His Majesty’s latest start? ”
Loretta considered lying, but Esme always maintained that the most successful route to prevarication lay in skirting the truth. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been abroad and only recently landed. I’m expecting to spend Christmas in the country, although eventually I’ll return to London. I live with my brother and his wife there.”
“Ah, I see. So where did your travels take you?”
That topic made for easy conversation. Loretta started with Paris, followed their peripatetic route through France, Spain, then across southern France to Italy and Trieste. “Then we headed north to Buda. It’s on the Danube, so we came home largely by river—up the Danube, then down the Rhine.”
“That must have been quite an adventure.”
“It was.” Before Mrs. Campbell could ask how they’d crossed the Channel and where they’d landed, Loretta brightly asked, “So tell me—what is His Majesty’s latest start?”
Mrs. Campbell set down her cup, settled back in her corner of the sofa, and smiled engagingly. “It concerns Carlton House and the Pavilion, as so many of His Majesty’s starts do.”
Loretta smiled encouragingly, pretended to listen, and wondered how much longer Rafe would be.
Rafe rode into Ipswich, apparently nonchalantly, in reality itching to look every way at once. Since leaving the Laughing Trout Inn he’d spotted two groups of cultists, both heading back the way he’d come. Seeking to avoid their notice, he’d ridden closer to other travelers, but such camouflage hadn’t been necessary; as he’d foreseen, the cultists’ attention had been fixed on those traveling away from the coast, not, as he was, toward it.
Those sightings had kept him tense and wary, but he’d yet to spot any cultists in Ipswich.
“Ho, there! Carstairs?”
He jerked his mount to a halt. Swinging the horse around, he saw a tall, blond gentleman come striding out of a hostelry.
Rafe hesitated.
As if understanding his quandry, the man grinned. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, man—we thought we’d lost you. I’m Jack Hendon.” Striding up, Hendon offered his hand. “Allardyce and your Hassan and his Rose are in the inn over there, having lunch.”
Gripping the proffered hand and shaking it, Rafe closed his eyes, then opened them. “Thank God.” Immediately, his horse pranced. Releasing Hendon’s hand, he tightened the reins. “I hope they’re nearly finished, because I have to get back.”
“Hassan and Rose said you had a Miss Michelmarsh with you?”
Rafe nodded. “I left her at an inn on the outskirts of Needham Market.”
“Perfect.” Hendon grinned again. “That’s on the road we have to take. Let me fetch the others and we can be on our way.”
Rafe dismounted, and with Hendon walked across and down the street to the front door of the Bell and Anchor Inn. He waited ouside while Hendon went in to collect the others.
Still on edge, he was scanning the street when the inn’s door burst open and Rose rocketed out, closely followed by Hassan.
“You’re safe!” Rose flung her arms around him and hugged him.
Beaming, she released him, then Hassan was there, gripping Rafe’s hand, clapping his shoulder. “We were worried when you didn’t arrive.”
Rafe nodded. He’d been worried, too.
Hassan stepped back, making way for a tall, dark-haired gentleman with steady gray eyes.
“Christian Allardyce.” He offered Rafe his hand. “Your other guard, and like Jack, very glad to see you.”
Rafe gripped, shook. “And I’m inexpressibly glad I didn’t have to go all the way to Felixstowe to find you.”
“What happened?” Allardyce asked.
Rafe shook his head. “I’ll tell you while we ride. I left Miss Michelmarsh at the Laughing Trout Inn, just this side of Needham Market. The inn seemed safe enough, but I’ve passed two groups of cultists headed that way—I’ll feel more like talking once I know she’s safe.”
“In that case”—Jack Hendon waved them all on up the street—“let’s fetch our horses and be on our way.”
Royce and his troops located the manor house outside Needham Market easily enough. In a smooth, slick, and swiftly executed operation, they overran the cult’s nest, subduing some twenty cultists and taking control of the building.
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.”