Drawing in a long breath, he started at the beginning. “Several years ago, a man—an English gentleman of noble family—went out to India and, exploiting his position in the Governor of Bombay’s office, devised and created a native cult. The cult of the Black Cobra.”
He had them call in their maids, then related the story in its most abbreviated version, alluding only where necessary and in general terms to the atrocities committed by the cult; those he deemed too ghastly to be described in polite company he left out.
By the time he finished, the sky outside was darkening and evening was closing in.
Esme had listened intently, putting shrewd questions here and there. She hadn’t been all that surprised to learn that the man Rafe and his friends were working to expose as the
Black Cobra was Roderick Ferrar, the Earl of Shrewton’s younger son.
Esme’s lips had tightened, her features growing severe. “I never did like that boy—or his father, come to that. Vicious blackguards, the Shrewtons, except for the heir, Kilworth. He’s altogether a different sort.”
Rafe took her word for that. All he cared about was bringing Roderick Ferrar to justice.
“So let me see if I have this correct.” Somewhat to Rafe’s surprise, Loretta Michelmarsh had seemed as fascinated with his mission as her great-aunt. “You are one of four … for want of a better term, couriers, who left Bombay on the same day, all heading for England by different routes. All four are carrying identical scroll-holders, but only one contains the original letter—and that original letter must reach the Duke of Wolverstone in order for the Black Cobra to be stopped.”
When she paused and opened her blue eyes wide at him, he nodded. “In a nutshell, that’s it.”
“So which do you have—one of the decoys, or the vital original?”
Rafe shook his head. “The four of us decided that information shouldn’t be revealed to anyone, not even shared among us.”
“In case this fiend of a snake seizes one of you and tries to coerce the information from them in order to concentrate solely on the one who carries the original?” Esme nodded. “Excellent idea. Don’t tell us. We don’t need to know that you’re carrying the original.”
Expression blank, Rafe stared at her, but Esme only smiled.
“The Duke of Wolverstone.” Loretta glanced at Esme. “Isn’t he something of a secret war hero? A spymaster or some such?”
“At one time. He retired some years ago, then assumed the title, but I seriously doubt he’ll have lost his lauded skills.” Esme met Rafe’s eyes. “If you’re working for Royce,
Dalziel—Wolverstone—whatever name he goes by these days, then as loyal Englishwomen it clearly behooves us to do whatever we can to aid your quest.”
Rafe inwardly blinked. If he’d known Wolverstone’s name would have such an effect, he’d have used it sooner.
“Regardless, however, now that we know about your mission and have been seen with you by people the serpent’s minions might question, then there’s clearly no option other than to join forces.” Esme smiled with satisfaction. “So no more muttering—you, dear boy, henceforth will be our courier-guide, and Hassan will be our guard.”
Esme glanced at Loretta, then looked back at Rafe. “Which makes us your charges.” Her smile was triumph incarnate.
Lips thin, Rafe nodded, then with a glance at Loretta, added, “Until we reach England.”
Two
November 25, 1822
Imperial Hotel, Buda
Nonsense, dear boy! You can’t seriously expect us to spend the day hiding like frightened rabbits. Besides, the point of you and Hassan joining us is to disguise you—even if some of these heathens spot you, as you said yourself, as long as you’re with us they’re unlikely to recognize you.”
It was the next morning, and Rafe had been summoned to join Esme and Loretta at the breakfast table in the sitting room of Esme’s suite. Meeting Esme’s animated eyes, he drew breath to reiterate that the principal imperative behind him and Hassan joining her party was to keep her, Loretta, and their maids safe.
“It’s also most unlikely,” Loretta said, speaking before he could, “that the cult people will be watching the places tourists visit—they’d never imagine you would amble out to take in the sights.”
“Just so.” Esme nodded decisively. “So you and Hassan can accompany Loretta and Rose on their expedition to Buda Castle and wherever else she has in mind.”
“The Matthias Church and the fisherman’s town,” Loretta supplied, glancing down at a sheet of notes.
“Meanwhile,” Esme continued, “Gibson and I will spend the day at the Rudas Baths, and you may fetch us in the afternoon on your way back to the hotel.” She smiled and reached for her teacup. “That sounds an excellent disposition of our day.”
Rafe glanced at Loretta Michelmarsh. Her glossy dark head nodded absentmindedly; she was busy studying her list.
Reaching for his coffee cup—he was in need of the fortification—he searched for some argument strong enough to trump Esme’s and her great-niece’s oh-so-rational intransigence, and found none.
That was rapidly becoming the story of his mission. Esme, and more quietly but equally effectively Loretta, had taken charge, and while their party continued more or less in the direction he needed to go, he had little grounds on which to deny them. They weren’t soldiers under his command. He couldn’t order them about.
All he could do was grit his teeth and bear it, as he had the previous night.
After learning of his mission, Esme—deftly supported by Loretta—had insisted he and Hassan, as their newly hired courier-guide and guard, should relocate to the hotel, to rooms just along the corridor from Esme’s suite. He’d been in two minds over the wisdom of such a move, but had been overridden. With a smile and a wave, Esme had secured the extra rooms and had dispatched hotel staff to fetch his and Hassan’s bags from their inn.
So he’d found himself sharing a dinner table with Esme and Loretta, and had had to quickly buff his rusty manners to an acceptable shine.
Then, as now, Esme had largely carried the conversation. He was still observing, feeling his way with the pair, yet last night Loretta had been strangely quiet, at least in his opinion. She’d been absentminded, distracted, her mind elsewhere, much as if she’d been composing something in her head and hadn’t wanted to be bothered by his and Esme’s chatter.
This morning, she still seemed distant, but more in the manner of planning something. Given Esme’s insistence on adhering to their day’s schedule, it was possible he might learn what.
Half an hour later, he was waiting in the hotel foyer when Esme and Loretta, with Gibson and Loretta’s maid, Rose, trailing behind, came down the stairs. Hassan followed, playing shepherd.
Rafe realized he was staring, inwardly quashed the compulsion. He’d seen fetching young ladies before. No reason one in a vibrant blue pelisse should so command his attention.
Going forward, he offered Esme his arm. “I’ve organized carriages—we’ll see you off first.”
“Excellent, dear boy.” Clearly pleased he was actively playing his assigned role, Esme allowed him to conduct her out of the hotel’s doors onto the pavement, to the carriage that waited, door open, footman at the ready.
Rafe handed her up, stepped back to let the footman hand Gibson in, then looked up at the driver. “The Rudas Baths.”
He’d learned that the baths, dating from antiquity, were renowned for their medicinal properties, and as such were a magnet for wealthy ladies from all over Europe; within such hallowed portals, Esme and Gibson would be safe.
As soon as the footman had climbed up behind, the driver cracked his whip and the carriage rolled away.
Another replaced it at the curb. The others emerged from the hotel. Rafe glanced at Loretta, then, as the hotel’s footman rushed to open the carriage door, offered her his hand.
Head high, determined to keep a rigidly proper and therefore safe distance between her
self and the too-handsome captain Esme had drawn into their circle, Loretta laid her gloved hand across his palm, felt his fingers, long and strong, close around hers—and even through the fine leather feltsearing awareness flash up her arm, streak along her nerves, surge down her veins.
She tried to suck in a breath, but her lungs had constricted. By sheer force of will she kept her feet moving and managed to climb the steps into the carriage. He released her hand and her senses snapped back into focus.
Battling a dire frown—what the devil was that?—she sank onto the seat, looking down, arranging her skirts as Rose followed her into the carriage and sat opposite.
A second later, the carriage tipped as Carstairs climbed in. He hesitated, then sat alongside her, leaving the place beside Rose for Hassan.
Carstairs’s shoulder brushed hers as he settled.
She couldn’t breathe again. Worse, her wits had scattered. As for her senses, they were flickering and flaring, not in alarm but in a most peculiar way.
Fixing her gaze forward, she forced her lungs to work. It was preferable that Carstairs sat beside her rather than opposite; at least she didn’t have him constantly before her. Bad enough that she could somehow feel him alongside her; his warmth, his solidly muscled strength, impinged on her consciousness as if every nerve she possessed had come alive and locked on him.
She was irritated and utterly mortified.
“Where to?”
The question from alongside was a rumble of thunder, a warning of impending storm.
Increasingly worried that was indeed the case, she wracked her brains, recalled. “The Matthias Church.”
Carstairs relayed the destination to their driver through the trapdoor in the roof, then the carriage rocked and started rolling.
It was perfectly acceptable for her to remain silent, to say nothing at all. She should spend the time bringing her unruly senses to heel, shoring up her defenses against the unexpected, persistent, and annoyingly strong physical attraction Carstairs evoked, and not allowing her fascinationwith his history, his mission—with him—to lead her into courting danger …
“I would have thought"—the words were on her lips, placed there by curiosity before she could censor them—"that the cultists sent to keep watch would have been provided with detailed descriptions of the four couriers.” She cast a frowning glance at her nemesis. “From what you told us, that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
He met her eyes, then looked forward. “We left Bombay unexpectedly. The Black Cobra had to rush to get his troops into the field—to spread them across Europe before we had a chance to pass through. The Black Cobra himself and presumably his closest henchmen might know the four of us by sight, but the majority of cultists won’t. Even assuming the Cobra has put men who can recognize us in charge of the various watching groups, there must be many towns—and I would wager Buda is one—where the cultists are relying on a description sent to them, not personal knowledge.”
“At Constanta,” Hassan put in, glancing at Rose, then looking at Loretta, “they did not so much recognize us, ourselves, as that we were two men of the right size and style traveling together, coming from and heading on in the expected directions. They were not sure when they approached us. It was only when we fought them off and ran that they were sure.”
“Sure that we were one of the courier groups they’d been told to intercept.” Carstairs nodded. “The cultists sent to keep watch, at least this side of the Channel, will in my case be looking for two tall men, one fair and blond, the other dark, an English cavalry officer and his Pathan companion. The descriptions they’ll have for the other three might be more specific. They spent more time than I in Bombay. Delborough and Hamilton especially were known to the Black Cobra, Monteith less so, but even he spent more time in areas where the cult was strong. Hassan and I spent most of the time we were investigating the Cobra out in the field at the edge of the cult’s territory.”
He shrugged. “The truth is that the cultists watching will most likely expect me to be wearing my uniform and Hassan his robes and turban. Without those distinguishing marks, and also not traveling alone, there’s no reason for their attention to fix on us.”
“Especially if you’re squiring ladies about.” Loretta felt a certain relief—except that it was relief for him and therefore not entirely reassuring. “So you’ve traveled through areas of India far from the major towns?” When he nodded, she asked, “What was it like—the country, the villages, the people?”
His brows rose, but after a moment apparently gathering his thoughts, he replied.
Somewhat to her surprise, the carriage drew up outside the Matthias Church before she’d grown bored.
But then she had to allow him to hand her down. With his hand hovering at the back of her waist, he perfectly correctly guided her up the steps. She was aware of him looking around, his blue eyes surveying their surroundings; she was grateful his concern over potentially watching cultists kept his attention from her.
Rallying her wits, stiffening her spine, she hauled in a breath, dragged her notes out of her reticule, and swept into the church, determined to keep her mind, and his, on the notable features of the ancient building that, despite its history of frequent and violent change, yet remained.
After one rather sharp look at her, he fell in with her lead and, hands clasped safely behind his back, dutifully followed in her wake as, with Rose by her side, she examined monuments, sculptures, and wonderful stained glass, then, under the pretext of spending a moment in prayer, sat in a pew and quickly scribbled notes to jog her memory when she later came to write her next Window on Europe vignette.
Buda Castle was their next stop—after another two incidents of Carstairs gripping her hand, another ten minutes of sitting beside him in the carriage trying to suppress her senses’ witless awareness. Yet when she stood on the pavementoutside the gates, she suspected the castle would be worth the ordeal. She eagerly followed the young scholar-monk who the custodian deputed to be their guide; informed of her specific interests, constantly pushing heavy spectacles up his nose, he led them through the massive building, showing her examples of the changes the centuries had wrought.
As an illustration of the damage so often visited upon art by politics, the castle was close to perfect.
At the last, hoping her enthusiasm had paved the way, she smiled at the young man. “I had heard that there are catacombs.”
His gaze flickered; he glanced nervously about. “You mean the labyrinth.”
“Indeed.” She caught his gaze, tried to impress him with her earnestness. “I’m really very keen to see the tunnels.”
She was sure her readers would be equally keen to hear of them, perhaps in a vignette on otherworldly, atmospheric sights. Anything that hinted at ghosts always did well in the popular press.
The young scholar hesitated, but then nodded. “This way.”
Turning to follow, she met Carstairs’s eye, saw an intent expression sharpening the soft blue, but let the look slide past as she hurried after their guide.
He led them through increasingly narrow corridors, then pushed open a heavy, iron-studded door and walked into a small antechamber. He glanced again at her eager expression, then he lit an oil lamp, turned to an archway in the wall, beckoned, and led them on.
Down. Down a stone stairway that spiraled ever deeper into the rock on which the castle sat.
“Ah … Miss Loretta?”
Rose’s disembodied voice had Loretta pausing and glancing back, not that she could see anything past Carstairs’s shoulders.
“If it’s all right with you, miss, me and Hassan will wait in the chamber at the top.”
Guessing from her nervous tone that Rose didn’t appreciatethe close atmosphere, Loretta called back, “Yes, of course.”
Avoiding Carstairs’s eyes, she turned and followed their guide on.
The stairway led down and down. Then the light from the guide’s lamp was suddenly swallowed by a vast black
ness. He slowed, and stepped away from the stair. Following, Loretta stepped down onto dust-covered rock. The air about them smelled of damp stone, although all she could see seemed dry.
The guide hoisted the lamp high, letting light sweep the walls of a large oval chamber. “This is the main entrance to the labyrinth—there are others, but some distance away.” He pointed to the black holes in the walls; Loretta counted eight. “Those are the tunnels. It is said those foolish enough to venture into the labyrinth are never seen again.” The young man shrugged. Walking forward, he shone the lamp into one tunnel. “So it is said, but we do not truly know, for no one has tried to learn the labyrinth’s secrets in recent times.”
Loretta quelled a shiver. The chamber was wonderfully gothic. She looked around, impressing as much as she could on her memory—the sense of great age, the rough-hewn walls, the eerie stillness of the air. The almost palpable temptation to walk forward and enter one of the tunnels—just a little way, just to see …
“I think we’ve seen enough.”
The low words brushed her ear. Startled, she glanced around—and found Carstairs close.
So close, she stopped breathing. In the dimness, she couldn’t read his eyes, but she could feel the heat of him down her back, feel prickling sensation wash beneath her skin, leaving warmth in its wake.
Beyond her control, her gaze locked on his lips. For an instant all she heard was her heart thudding as a wave of giddiness washed over her….
Dragging in a breath, she raised her gaze to his eyes, then stiffened and stepped away.
Recalling his words, she nodded curtly. “Indeed.” Strengthening her voice, she spoke to the guide. “Thank you. I’ve seen all I need.”
The guide returned and led the way up the stairs. Loretta followed; Rafe brought up the rear. He was grateful that with the guide carrying the only lamp, he couldn’t truly see Loretta Michelmarsh’s hips shifting this way and that before his face.