She waited.
After a moment, Del shook aside the darker memories, refocused, then smiled again. “You’ll meet them—the six cousins. Apparently they’re all at Somersham with their wives.” That he was waiting to see. The idea of those hellions brought to heel by a pack of ladies…he wasn’t quite sure he believed it, but he was certainly curious, and looking forward to meeting the ladies involved. “They—the whole family—always gather at Somersham for Christmas, but this year the six families came early so the men could assist with Wolverstone’s plan. They know the other three couriers who are ferrying in the scroll-holders almost as well as they know me.”
“So it’s a reunion of sorts?”
He nodded. “A reunion with the benefit, at least for the Cynsters, of seeing some action again.”
“I wonder how their wives feel about that?”
He wondered, too, but didn’t reply to the faintly caustic question. “The only other couple who will be there, at least that I know of, is Gyles Rawlings, the Earl of Chillingworth, and his wife. Gyles, Devil, and I were all at Eton in the same year. Devil and Gyles were the friendly foes, and I was the peacemaker.”
Deliah glanced at him—an assessing, slightly cynical, but affectionate glance.
He pretended not to notice. “But to answer your question, the reason we consider the Place a safe house, one where no attack is likely after we’ve settled there, is because once Ferrar or Larkins gets the slightest inkling of the number of ex-military men in the house, they’ll pull back. The original idea was to use it as a bolt-hole—a safe place for us to run to once we’d engaged with the cultists, hopefully drawing them along, snapping at our heels, straight into the Cynsters’ arms. Whether we manage that or not—” He broke off, lightly shrugged.
After a moment, he went on, “Wolverstone’s waiting on one of his estates conveniently nearby, so the Place is ideally situated to be a secondary barracks of sorts. We’ll learn more when we get there.”
Deliah paused to take mental note. It seemed she was shortly to meet a duchess, a countess, and at least five other ladies of their circle, all most likely a few years younger than she. Certainly a lot more haut ton than she. At least, courtesy of their visit to Madame Latour’s salon, she had a suitable wardrobe.
Dismisssing the distracting thought—she’d deal with the ladies when she met them—she refocused on the here and now, on Del and his mission.
With a better picture of the wider plan taking shape in her mind, she murmured, “So once we reach Somersham Place, any chance of the cultists mounting an attack on us will be past?”
Del nodded. Folding his arms across his chest, he volunteered nothing more.
He didn’t have to; she could read his hopes and fears with ease.
They hadn’t sighted a single one of the Black Cobra’s own men, except perhaps for the man she’d seen in Southampton, the one Del thought was Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman. Despite their plans for the day—plans she now realized were a final throw of the dice—Tony, Gervase, and even more so Del, were tending glum.
They felt they were failing in their mission—in their decoy’s task of drawing out the enemy and reducing his numbers. She could imagine how they were going to feel tonight if they reached the Place without incident.
If they failed to tempt the Black Cobra into the open, into risking his cultists against them.
Relaxing against the seat, she faced forward and thought of their strategy, and of the time they had left.
They were deep in the countryside with signposts to Royston flashing past at every crossroads when she said, “This isn’t going to work.” Turning her head, she caught Del’s eye. “Not if you want to draw out however many of the cultists are following us.”
Arms still crossed, he frowned. “We’re in slow carriages overburdened with females and luggage, and traveling on increasingly less populated byways. At some point, Ferrar—or Larkins, more likely—will risk his hand. He’ll feel he has to.”
“Not if he hasn’t that many men, and he knows about Tony and Gervase.”
He didn’t immediately reply. He studied her eyes, then, still frowning, asked, “What do you mean?”
“I mean that at least one of the Black Cobra’s men is English—Larkins. It wouldn’t have been that hard for him to discover through watching Grillon’s that there are two other gentlemen who are also of our party—who breakfasted and dined with us, but who otherwise weren’t seen with us. On top of that, we know someone searched our rooms. I think it very likely—indeed, we should assume—that the Black Cobra knows about Tony and Gervase, and if he’s as colossally clever as you say, he’ll have seen through that trap. We should assume he knows that if he attacks our apparently tempting little convoy, he’ll have Tony and Gervase to deal with as well.”
She paused, assembling her arguments. “You mentioned that the cultists won’t use pistols. That puts them at a disadvantage when facing opponents who will.” She looked pointedly at the pistol Del had placed on the seat between them.
“That won’t deter the Black Cobra. He’ll sacrifice foot soldiers without a blink….” Del’s voice died away, his eyes widening slightly.
Deliah nodded. “That’s my point. He might not yet feel he’s in a position to sacrifice any, because he might not yet have enough in the country. You said he—Ferrar—arrived with only his manservant, this Larkins, and only a bare week ahead of you. None of his men on your ship survived. Others presumably would have arrived by now, but surely he’s had to spread them about, keeping watch for the other three couriers. He knows who they are, but not where they are, or where they might land, or where they’ll go after that, or when. And now we’ve moved out of London, his men have to follow us, too.”
Shifting on the seat, she faced Del. “He won’t be able to hire locals for that purpose—which is what we wanted, but conversely, his numbers may well be limited to the point that he’ll feel forced to hold back, at least while he knows Tony and Gervase are with us.”
Pausing, she frowned, putting herself in the Black Cobra’s shoes. “On top of that, he doesn’t know where the scroll-holder is. That’s why someone searched our rooms at Grillon’s.” She met Del’s eyes. “Until he or one of his men actually sight it, Ferrar can’t even be sure you have it with you. That you still have it, decoy or not. It might be with Tony or Gervase. You might have left it in safekeeping in London. If he chances his men now, against our three carriages, it might well be for nought. He knows he’ll lose some men, at least, and he might not as yet be able to spare them, especially if he gets no return.”
Increasingly convinced she was right, she sat back. “If I’m correct, and he doesn’t have enough men to waste on an attack that might prove a worthless trap, when he doesn’t even know if the scroll-holder is with us, available to be snatched, then…” Eyes narrowing, she went on, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but if all is as I surmise—that he’s following us with a limited number of men, and knows Tony and Gervase are near—then the only way for him to successfully get the letter from us is if he swoops in quickly, grabs the letter and runs…but he doesn’t even know that the letter is definitely with us, let alone which carriage it’s in.”
She met Del’s gaze. “At present, you have him stymied. Frustrated, certainly, which is to our advantage, but as he’s so clever, he won’t make any move. He can’t. The odds aren’t in his favor—they’re too great that he’ll lose vital men and gain nothing in return.”
Del couldn’t fault her analysis. Slumping back against the seat, he closed his eyes, softly groaned. “You’re right.” After a moment, he opened his eyes. “In reality we have no chance of luring him into mounting an attack.”
An instant of silence followed, then Deliah said, “I didn’t say that.”
He took a moment to consider, then, feeling his features harden, turned his head and met her gaze. “If you’re about to suggest that, in extremis over this, I should countenance you putting yourself in danger—for
instance by acting as bait to lure Ferrar or Larkins into the open—then I suggest you think again.”
Her brows rose haughtily; she all but looked down her nose. “I wasn’t intending to suggest anything of the sort.”
She said nothing more, simply held his gaze.
Waited.
Lips thinning, he asked, albeit grudgingly, “What, then?”
With an air of superior nonchalance, she told him.
He didn’t like it all that much more, but given their total failure to date, and their otherwise likely failure that day, it was worth a try.
December 15
Royston, Hertfordshire
Still not entirely convinced, he decided to sound out Tony and Gervase over lunch. Reaching Royston, they drove through the town with all due fanfare, then halted at the last inn on the road leading to Godmanchester.
They pulled into the inn yard, and all clambered down. The innkeeper was delighted to see them, and even more so when Del ordered the horses to be taken from the shafts and rested.
Cobby, Mustaf, Janay, and Kumulay all sensed a change in the wind. Del paused to tell them to hold themselves ready for a variation in their plans, but meanwhile to take their ease in the taproom with the womenfolk, then he followed Deliah and the innkeeper inside.
She’d already commandeered the small private parlor, and was giving orders for a repast for four—cold meats, bread, cheese, fruit and ale, with tea for her, to be served as soon as possible.
When she turned to him, Del nodded, took her arm and escorted her into the parlor. There were a few curious locals in the tap, but otherwise the inn was perfect for their purposes.
They settled in the parlor. Deliah drifted toward the window. He called her back. “I don’t trust Larkins. If you saw him, he must have seen you, and the Black Cobra is well known for vindictiveness.”
She raised her brows, but didn’t argue, instead sinking into one of the armchairs by the hearth. The parlor was on the opposite side of the inn to the yard; they couldn’t see any arrivals. When the door opened to admit two maids with their meal, Del stepped out of the parlor, scanned the patrons and spotted Tony and Gervase just settling at a table at the rear of the tap. He openly beckoned.
They eyed him for a moment, then rose and joined him.
Tony’s brows quirked. “What’s happened?”
Del tipped his head to the table being set for four. “Join us and you’ll hear.”
The maids bustled out, and the four of them sat.
At his suggestion, while they ate, Deliah repeated her rationale of why their original plan was unlikely to work, why it probably wouldn’t draw the cultists out and give them a chance to thin the ranks.
He then outlined the plan he’d developed to meet her stipulations of what they needed to do to lure the Black Cobra from hiding, to tempt him to strike.
Tony and Gervase listened to the whole impassively.
When Del fell silent, Tony nodded. “It’s worth a try. We’ll be at Somersham tonight, and from all Royce has said, the chances of an attack once we’re there aren’t high. Yet reporting to him without having accounted for even one cultist doesn’t appeal. So I vote we try your lure.”
Gervase likewise nodded. “There’s no harm in dangling it. He’ll either bite, or he won’t.”
Del glanced at Deliah; she raised her brows as if to ask what more he was waiting for.
Suppressing a grimace, he rose, and went out to arrange their departure.
The first carriage—the one he and Deliah were traveling in—was brought around to the front of the inn. Cobby was on the box, the reins in his hand, with Kumulay beside him. Cobby had formed a high opinion of Deliah’s bodyguard’s abilities, and in such matters, Del trusted Cobby’s instincts.
The other two carriages remained in the inn yard, with the six women, Janay, Mustaf and the boy all making a noisy show of reorganizing the luggage. Del stood at the end of the inn’s front porch, hands on hips, impatience radiating from him, and watched.
Deliah walked out of the inn’s front door and across to join Del. She looked at the two carriages, at their obvious disarray, then sighed and looked at Del. “Do we have to wait?”
They didn’t know how close the Black Cobra’s men might be, or if they could read lips.
Del frowned. He studied the two carriages again, then stepped down. He crossed the yard to Mustaf and held out one hand. “Give me the scroll-holder.”
Mustaf looked at him, then reached under his baggy white shirt and drew the cylinder from the leather pouch strapped around his waist.
Taking it, Del turned, used the holder to wave a farewell as he walked back to Deliah, calling, “We’ll see you at Somersham. Don’t take too long.”
“We’ll be after you in no time, sahib.” Mustaf turned and, with a frown, chivvied the women on.
Del hoped the Black Cobra was listening. In reality, instead of following his and Deliah’s carriage, the other two carriages, now much less well-defended, would head to Somersham via Cambridge, a slower and longer, but much more populated and therefore much safer, route.
Reaching Deliah, Del took her arm. “Come on—we may as well get started. They must have given up and”—he glanced back at the inn’s tap—“the other two will be along soon enough.”
Gervase’s and Tony’s horses stood tethered just inside the open stable door, in plain sight.
“Good.” Deliah allowed him to lead her to their carriage’s door. “I can’t wait to have a proper cup of tea.”
He helped her climb in. She smiled at Tony and Gervase, slouched low beneath a traveling blanket on the rear-facing seat, then sat. Del followed her in, closing the door behind him. Picking his way between the others’ long legs, he sat beside Deliah. “Go!” he called, and Cobby flicked the reins.
The carriage lurched, then rolled slowly away from the inn. After turning into the road, it picked up pace.
Once they were clear of the town and bowling along, Gervase and Tony carefully eased up. They remained slouched, back in the shadows and away from the windows, minimizing any chance of their being spotted, even by someone with a spyglass trained on the swiftly moving carriage.
“According to the innkeep,” Gervase said, “the most likely stretch for fun and games is, as we’d thought, between Croydon and Caxton. We’ve got five miles before Croydon.”
“If they wait that long.” Shifting carefully, Tony drew a pistol from one pocket. Two long-barreled pistols already lay on the seat between him and Gervase, with another on the seat between Del and Deliah. Tony checked his smaller pistol, then grinned at the others. “Anyone care to wager on the number they’ll send against us?”
Deliah guessed eight, Tony nine, Gervase eleven and Del fourteen. Deliah told Del not to be so pessimistic, but as matters transpired, both she and he won the wager.
As the innkeeper had predicted, the attack came on the long stretch to Caxton. Their carriage flashed around a stand of trees skirting the slightest of curves and a shot rang out.
Cobby swore, yelled, “Over my head from the trees on the left!” as he hauled on the reins and brought the horses to a plunging halt.
The carriage rocked heavily, crazily, then settled.
As eight dun-clothed figures rushed from the cover of the trees.
Before Deliah could blink, the men had all swung to face the threat. Four shots rang out in quick succession, then the shoulders shifted, and she looked out. Only four cultists remained upright.
The shock of the shots gave them pause, but then they shook their long knives, screamed, and came on.
Gervase was already out of the door on that side, sword in hand. Del, similarly armed, jumped down to join him.
Clutching a long sword, Tony went out of the carriage’s other door just as Kumulay dropped from above to join him in meeting the two cultists who’d rushed around the rear of the carriage.
Her heart in her throat, Deliah did as she’d promised. She shifted to the middle of the carr
iage seat, equidistant from both doors, firmly gripping the small pistol Del had given her, along with strict instructions to shoot any cultist who tried to get in. Otherwise, she was to remain where she was.
Native war-shrieks punctuated the clang and hiss of steel meeting steel. Shoulders swung, shifted; bodies lunged, retreated. Her breathing constricted, Deliah watched wide-eyed, looking this way, then that. She tried to shut her ears to the distracting clamor.
She had every intention of obeying Del’s orders to the letter—she wasn’t recklessly brave.
Then, with bloodcurdling screams, six more cultists came pelting from the trees.
Deliah sucked in a breath, horror and terror gripping her chest, tight as any vise. Del had warned that the cultists habitually used sheer numbers to win their fights.
That they were finally fighting cultists wasn’t in doubt. Their attackers were clothed in traditional Indian garb of loose trousers and tunic, albeit with plaids or blankets fastened about them for warmth. All had turbans of one sort or another wound about their heads, and the faces below were mahogany brown.
The carriage rocked as bodies hit it. The clashes of steel sounded horribly close. Tony and Kumulay now had four cultists ranged against them. As she counted, one staggered and fell.
She looked the other way. Gervase was further from the carriage, sword in hand, slashing at two opponents, with one already prone at his feet.
Del had his back to the carriage door, with three cultists pressing in on him. As Deliah watched, he swore and slashed wildly, and one cultist fell to the ground, shrieking and kicking. Del had to leap clear.
The two remaining cultists drove forward. Resolutely he beat them back.
The opposite carriage door was abruptly wrenched open.
With a start, Deliah turned—and met a horrible smile and fanatically glowing dark eyes. Dark fingers reached for her.
She didn’t even think before she fired.
The cultist’s eyes flew wide. Sheer shock seized his features. He dropped his long knife. It landed with a clatter on the carriage step as, clutching the patch of red blossoming on his chest, he staggered back, then fell.