Alex never liked losing cultists.
Roderick sighed. “We’ve lost more than two, now.”
“What?” The sharp question came from both Alex and Daniel.
“That’s the rest of what Larkins had to report. If you recall, we’d ordered him to, if an opportunity presented, seize Delborough alive, and the scroll-holder, too. He was to exercise caution, and not go against a superior force, but if the chance was there, he was to take it. What looked like such a chance—and yes, it was engineered deliberately to look that way—occurred, and Larkins felt obliged to risk his force. He sent only eight out initially, but when the strength of the opposition became clear, he sent in the rest of the cultists he had with him—six more—trying to tip the scales.” Roderick grimaced. “They failed.”
“So…we lost another fourteen.” Alex’s eyes glittered. “And we can lay that at Delborough’s door.”
“Indeed.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “So Larkins is now alone?”
Roderick nodded. “I told him we couldn’t spare more men to him, not when all he’s doing is waiting for this boy-thief. As things stand at present, there’s nothing else he can do, not with the snow and Delborough staying put in the ducal mansion.”
“Any chance we can overrun said mansion?” Alex asked.
Roderick shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise attempting it. I vaguely recall that the Cynsters hold a family gathering there every Christmas. And the duke and his five cousins were all in the Guards, and all fought at Waterloo.”
“That must be how Delborough knows them,” Alex said. “He was in the Guards and fought at Waterloo, too.”
“As did the other four—the three other couriers and MacFarlane,” Daniel added.
“So we now know the connection between Cynster and Delborough and the others. Somersham Place might be a staging post for all of them, or some of them.” Alex grimaced. “Or only Delborough.”
They pondered that, then Alex continued, “This is turning out to be rather more involved than we expected. I was right in predicting the colonel would lead the charge home, and while it’s a pity we’ve missed our chance to capture, or even harm, him, it’s the original letter we really want…and I have to say, given his actions since landing, I’m increasingly inclined to think he’s carrying a copy.”
Roderick opened his mouth. Alex silenced him with an upraised hand and went on, “However, we can’t make that assumption safely, so we need the scroll-holder the colonel’s carrying. If we could seize him, too, I’m sure we could persuade him to tell us which of his friends has the real letter, and which port he’ll be coming through.”
Daniel shifted. “Delborough would be no easy nut to crack.”
“True.” Alex smiled coldly. “But I would love a chance to break him. Unfortunately, I agree our seizing him now seems remote—not unless we can lay our hands on the redheaded female, and perhaps not even then. There’s no telling how much she means to him, but regardless, I’m getting a very bad feeling about this puppetmaster.”
Roderick frowned. “How so?”
“It’s occurred to me that Delborough and his cohorts are not the sort to put their faith—and their lives and their mission—into the hands of another, not unless he commands their absolute respect.”
“And someone who commands such respect,” Daniel said, “is someone we should perhaps fear?”
“Not fear.” Alex dismissed the notion with contempt. “But we should treat this puppetmaster with due caution. This is starting to feel like a game—a chess match, almost. Even us moving here—we’re not on the box seat but are having to respond to…the puppetmaster’s plan. We need to think more carefully—we need to allow for an enemy with brains. Take Delborough’s actions, the reason I believe he’s a decoy. When you look at his going to London, it makes no sense—not unless his mission was to draw our fire. To make us send our men after him so he could engage and reduce their number. He’s clearing the field, and the other two decoys will do the same. However, because of my newfound respect for this puppetmaster, I agree we can’t assume, based on behavior, who is decoy and who is not. So until we find the original letter, we need to concentrate on that—the letter—rather than being drawn into unnecessary skirmishes. And, of course, always covering our tracks. Speaking of which.” Alex looked at Roderick. “I assume Larkins will kill his boy-thief once he has the scroll-holder? Not that I imagine an Indian boy being all that much of a threat, but we might as well be thorough.”
“Of course,” Roderick replied. “It’s only Larkins the boy has seen. Larkins knows whose head is in the noose should the boy—somehow—be believed.”
“Excellent. Now if only we knew where and to whom Delborough and his friends are ferrying the letter.” Alex looked at the other two. “If the decoys are trying to draw our fire, then I believe we can assume it’s someone with an estate in this area, someone powerful enough, well-connected enough politically to make a charge against Roderick stick. So who might that someone be?”
Roderick shrugged. “Norfolk is littered with the discreet mansions of the truly wealthy, the seriously powerful—houses many of those gentlemen use over winter, even when their principal estates are elsewhere. It could be anyone.”
“No,” Alex corrected, “it has to be someone with the clout to stand against our dear father.”
“They wouldn’t be making for Shrewton himself, would they?” Daniel looked at Roderick. “He winters on his estate outside Norwich, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but that hardly makes sense—he’s not the puppetmaster, and anyone could guess he’ll simply destroy the letter.” Roderick shook his head. “As Alex says, Delborough and his colleagues must be planning to get the letter into the hands of someone willing and able to do something with it, or what’s the point?”
“Indeed,” Alex said. “And sadly there are quite a few powerful men around here.”
December 16
Somersham Place, Cambridgeshire
Del sprawled in an armchair by Devil’s library fire, legs stretched before him, a glass of brandy in his hand, and laughed.
He’d laughed more today, been more genuinely amused than he had been in decades. A sad reflection on how lacking his life had been. A hint, a prod, as to what he wanted, even needed of his future, of his life yet to come.
Despite the snow, the day had been truly relaxing. There’d even been a glimmer of sunshine to lighten it, but then the clouds had closed in, the wind had picked up, and blizzard-like conditions had set in.
Night had fallen like a pall. There’d been no letup in the wind, presently howling, bansheelike, about the eaves. Outside, snow was swirling thick and fast, mostly scoured from what had fallen earlier, but inside, the heavy curtains had been drawn and the fires built up to cheering blazes.
With so many gathered in it, and the fire roaring, the library felt like a cozy cave. A very comfortable and luxurious cave, safe from the elements.
Dinner was over, and the children had just been recaptured and carried off by their nursemaids. The company had spent the last hour swapping tales of childhood exploits—not so much of the young ones rolling and crawling about the floor or toddling awkwardly on short stubby legs, but of their parents. Tales of family, of shared adventures, of kinship in the true sense.
From the padded comfort of the armchair, Del watched Deliah, seated on the chaise opposite, drinking in the ambiance, noted that she, like he, was drawn to the stories of childhood daring and thrills.
He and she were the exotics in the room. They were both only children; neither had had siblings with whom to share. But it wasn’t only that that drew them to the stories the Cynsters had in abundance. The tales epitomized normal English life, life in this country, their homeland—a life neither he nor she had experienced for many years. If ever.
The Cynsters’ experience hadn’t been theirs.
Yet.
There was no reason it couldn’t be, that together they couldn’t make a bid to have just t
hat sort of life, those sorts of experiences. Have similar family stories to tell, perhaps not of themselves, but of their children.
He felt an inner tug at the thought.
His gaze traveled her face, saw laughter light her fine eyes at some comment. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. To marry her, and try his hand at creating a real family at Delborough Hall.
But what did she want?
He was who he was; he couldn’t help but approach the task of gaining her hand—her agreement to wed him—as a campaign.
The easiest way to get her to fall into line was to discover what she wanted of her life, her future, and couch his proposal in a way that best paralleled that. That supported that.
Not that he intended accepting any reply other than a “yes.” Preferably a “yes, please.” What he was more concerned with was the speed, the rapidity with which he could secure that correct response, thus minimizing any cost to himself, to his pride by way of any revelations required to convince her to utter that small word.
His decision to wait until his mission was concluded still seemed the wisest course, but her comment that morning about leaving her Humberside home for parts unknown had sounded a warning. Once his mission was ended, it wouldn’t be wise to let her have her head for long.
Indeed, with every hour that passed, he was more inclined to refine his plan. The instant his mission was ended, before he surrendered her to her parents, he would offer for her hand, and be accepted, thus reducing the separation that would naturally occur between returning her to her home and her coming to live permanently with him.
He wasn’t of a mind to let her go, not even for a day. Somehow simply having her about, in the same house, knowing she was there, made him feel more settled. More complete.
As if he’d found his future purpose and she was an instrinsic part.
He was too seasoned a campaigner not to pay attention to instinct.
So what did she want? How could he tempt her?
At that moment, despite her outward appearance of content, Deliah was feeling distinctly downhearted.
Not that she had any reason to be; she kept telling herself that, but it didn’t help.
For the first time in her life, she’d experienced a day in the company of genuine friends, women and men who saw her as she was yet did not consider her—the real her—as in any way beyond their pale. Throughout the day, little incidents had underscored that in this company, she—her character, her traits—were the norm. In the world the Cynsters and Chillingworth inhabited, ladies were life partners, not cyphers, their existences significantly more than mere adjuncts to their husbands’ lives.
The events of the day had conspired to educate and show her, to lay before her in all its glory the precise type of life she might have had had her Great Scandal not derailed her. A life she would even now sell her soul to seize and enjoy—if she could.
If any gentleman of similar ilk to the Cynsters, one with similar expectations of his wife, could be prevailed on to offer for her hand.
If Del would.
But he wouldn’t.
He’d taken her as his lover—she’d accepted him as hers. And that was that. As she’d years ago proved, and as she’d been lectured about ad nauseam in the aftermath of the scandal, gentlemen did not marry their lovers.
More specifically, no gentleman would ever marry her.
Her spirits sank lower as the thought floated blackly through her mind. Its darkness, its intensity, made her wonder—made her look more closely at what she felt. And why….
She managed to keep a smile on her face, or at least keep her lips curved, her expression relaxed, while inwardly she berated herself. How unutterably foolish. How unforgivably silly. How inexcusably willful.
She’d done it again—fallen in love, again.
No. She caught herself, looked anew, reconsidered. She’d fallen in love, really, truly, head over heels forevermore in love, for the first time. What she felt for Del was oceans apart from the mild emotion she’d felt for that bastard Griffiths. Then, in her innocence, her naïveté, she’d convinced herself that what she’d felt was love; she hadn’t at the time known enough to know the difference.
Now she did.
She knew she loved Del.
To the absolute bottom of her foolish, foolish heart.
Bad enough. She would not—could not—allow herself to compound her stupidity by even imagining that there was even the slightest hope that he might feel the same for her, let alone that he might see her as an eligible lady. One he might marry.
As she’d been told from adolescence on, she wasn’t the marriageable kind. The kind of lady gentlemen wanted to marry.
She was too bossy. Too headstrong, too opinionated. Too willful.
Regardless, even if Del were different, and might have considered her for the position of his wife, he wouldn’t now, now that they were lovers.
The wash of deadening, dismal feelings that flowed through her threatened to sink her.
Still smiling, but inwardly desperate for escape, for distraction, she looked around—and met Del’s eyes.
He’d been watching her. Some part of her had registered it—she’d felt the telltale warmth—but she’d been too engrossed in her black thoughts to respond.
He smiled, and slowly—with his signature languid grace—drew in his long legs and rose.
She swallowed as he crossed to the chaise. Instinct brought her to her feet as he neared.
His eyes met hers. “You look like you need to escape. We could walk in the long gallery, if you like.” His dark gaze was rich and warm. Enfolding.
“Ah…” It was herself she wanted to escape. Herself and her deadening, desolating reality. She glanced around. The others were mingling, chatting in groups. She looked back at him. “Actually, I have a headache.”
A frown came into his eyes.
She hurried on, “Just a mild one—nothing too bad. But…I think I’ll go up now.”
Summoning the smile she’d let drop, she turned to Catriona, on the chaise beside her, then let her gaze travel on to the other ladies. “I’m going to retire. I’m feeling rather jaded. A good night’s sleep will no doubt see me right.”
Catriona smiled her madonna’s smile and touched Deliah’s hand. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
Deliah nodded a smiling good night to the others, at the last inclined her head to Del—still standing by her side, eyes too shrewd for her liking fixed on her face—murmured, “Good night,” then walked from the room.
Del watched her go and wondered what was wrong. She was…upset. Discomposed, disturbed, but in a strange way, one he couldn’t explain. His immediate impulse was to follow her, to ask, learn, and put right. But…she’d seemed unusually uncertain herself. Perhaps he’d give her a little time.
Fifteen minutes, maybe.
If she’d thought her comment about getting a good night’s sleep would keep him from her bed, she would need to think again. If she truly did have a headache, she could sleep in his arms.
With an easy smile for Catriona, who returned the gesture serenely, he ambled across the room to join Gyles and Gabriel in discussing sheep.
The party broke up shortly after Deliah’s retreat. Del went to his room, paced for ten minutes—not so much thinking as imagining what might be going on in her red head—then, with a muttered curse against anyone still hovering in the corridors, he opened his door and stalked to hers.
He tapped once, then opened the door. Walking in, he saw her, still gowned and coiffed, drawing the curtains over the window through which she’d clearly been staring.
Shutting the door, he snibbed the lock, then strolled toward her. He tipped his head at the window. “What did you see?”
“Snow. It’s still blizzarding.”
She’d been waiting for him, that much was clear. Why was less so, given she’d remained fully dressed.
Halting before her, he held her gaze, was about to reach for her when
she looked away.
Moved away.
“I really do have a slight headache, you know. Besides”—she waved airily—“I’m sure it’s not necessary for us to live quite so much in each other’s pockets.”
He caught the hand she’d waved before she could drift further. Used it to anchor her as he turned and came up behind her. So she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read the confusion, the sudden, leaping need to seize and hold.
Just the suggestion—the faint hint—that she might be trying to draw back, away from him, had been enough to spark it. That rattled him; it seemed the emotional sand was shifting beneath his feet, but he knew in his heart that wasn’t truly so.
Something was going on.
In her red head, not necessarily anywhere else.
Heaven only knew what. He didn’t, but doubted she would consent to explain.
Shifting his hold, he laced his fingers with hers, felt hers grip unconsciously, without thought. He breathed in, deeply, and the perfume of her hair, of her skin, wreathed through his brain. On some elemental level, reassured.
She was here, in his hold.
Raising their linked hands, sliding them around her waist, he lowered his head, and murmured by her ear, “Contrary to general belief, sexual indulgence is almost guaranteed to relieve a headache.”
“It is?” Distraction and interest, immediate, quite definite, resonated in her voice, but then she cleared her throat and said, “But perhaps we should try abstinence for a change—just to vary our interactions. Perhaps heighten expectations for later.”
“That won’t work. At least, not for me.”
“It won’t?”
They could circle all night. He swung into the attack. “Why are you suddenly so skittish? You haven’t lost interest, have you?”
“Lost interest? Ah…”
“It was a rhetorical question.” Raising his other hand, he brushed his palm boldly across the fullness of her breast. Feeling the nipple instantly bead beneath his palm, he cupped the full swell, gently kneaded. “The answer’s transparently clear.”