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 glanc
ed 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.”
“Indeed.” Royce nodded decisively, and looked at Emily. “Do you have your copy?”
She’d been carrying it in her pocket in anticipation of that request. Pulling it out, she unfolded the sheet, and handed it across.
Royce took it, read it aloud, then passed the sheet around.
Del regarded him. “You’re more used to evaluating covert communications than anyone else here. So what do you think?”
Royce considered the sheet, by then doing the rounds of the ladies. “I can comprehend the purpose behind the second half of the letter, where the Black Cobra is making overt advances. But why bother with the first half—the social chitchat?”
The copy had reached Minerva’s hands. She studied it as she said, “Some might say it’s simply camouflage for the rest, but…” Head rising, she looked at Royce. “Not you.”
He smiled. “No, not me.” Transferring his gaze to the others, he went on, “It’s almost certainly the case that the first half has a purpose, but it’s hidden.”
Gareth frowned. “It’s common for princelings—and Govind Holkar, to whom the letter is addressed, is an epitome of the type—to crave acceptance into the upper echelons of local English society. I”—he glanced at Del—“all of us interpreted the first half of the letter in that light. As a social inducement, if you like.”
“That may be so,” Christian said, retaking the letter, “but that suggests that this Govind Holkar would be specifically interested in knowing that at least one of these ten people named would be visiting Poona. Given he was negotiating with the Black Cobra, who we now know to be more than one person, what are the odds that at least one of these people is part of our multiheaded beast?”
“If the attacks on Monteith continue, then those odds increase.” Royce looked at Del. “I take it Poona is a hill-station?”
“In effect,” Del replied, “it’s the monsoon capital for Bombay. All those English who can, including the governor and his staff, relocate there for the season. All the wives and families usually remain there throughout the monsoon period, although their menfolk often go back and forth. But Poona was once the Maratha capital, and many of their princelings, like Govind Holkar, live there much of the time. That’s why, when we thought the Black Cobra was Ferrar alone, we took the first half of the letter to be…well, merely information the writer, Ferrar, knew Holkar would be pleased to know.”
Gareth grimaced. “If we’d known those names might have greater significance, we could easily have learned more before we left.”
“Spilt milk,” Royce said. “Now we know, how can we learn more?”
Gareth looked at Emily. “Do you know any of those named?”
Christian handed her the letter. She took it, scanned the names she’d transcribed the day before. “I was only in India for six months, but then again, I was in the governor’s household.” She paused, her eyes on the page, then she grimaced. “It’s as I remembered. All these people are members of what is popularly known as the Government House set—which I assure you has nothing to do with the governor. They’re a group of younger people who are rather wild, and Ferrar was a major figure within the group.”
“So he would know all ten personally?” Royce asked.
Emily pulled a face. “I really can’t say. He would certainly have known all socially, but how well he knew any one of them…I had little to nothing to do with that group. In my aunt’s words, they’re ‘rather fast,’ and she is a master of understatement.”
“Which,” Clarice said, brows high, “makes that section of the letter even more believable as a social bribe.”
Royce took back the copy, folded it. “Regardless, we’ll know the truth very soon—by tomorrow at the latest.” He looked at the others. “I’ve received confirmation that Monteith reached Oxford yesterday. He should be at Bedford tonight. With luck, he and his escort will be joining us tomorrow.”
“His escort?” Gareth inquired.
“Two more of my ex-operatives,” Royce said. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, and Deverell, Viscount Paignton.”
“Ah.” Minerva rose and crossed to tug the bellpull. “That means Penny and her brood, and Phoebe and hers, will arrive tomorrow—I must organize their rooms.”
Royce looked at her, but made no comment while she quickly spoke to the butler who’d appeared.
However, as the butler retreated and Minerva returned to sit alongside him, Royce continued, “Apparently, Monteith has a lady with him, too.”
“A lady?” Del frowned. “Where did she come from?”
“Guernsey, apparently. For some reason, the major ended up there, and then…” Royce frowned. “I’m not clear about the details—St. Austell was his usual oblique self—but I gather she was instrumental in facilitating Monteith’s journey to Plymouth, and consequently, he felt it necessary to keep her with him, safe from the cultists.”
Gareth and Del exchanged glances. They knew all about keeping those who helped them out of the cultists’ hands. Especially women.
“So,” Royce continued, “if Monteith strikes no further opposition, we’ll know that the exposure of Ferrar as part of the Black Cobra was the only thing about the letter that the Black Cobra feared. Conversely, if the cultists keep attacking, trying to seize the copy Monteith’s carrying, then clearly there is indeed something in the words—and it would have to be the names—that the remaining parts of the Black Cobra have reason to fear us learning.”
Emily blinked at him. “But we already have a copy of the letter—we already know the names.”
Royce met her gaze and smiled. “True, but the Black Cobra doesn’t know that. Indeed, why would we bother making an extra copy if it’s the seal that to us is the key?” He held her gaze, his own growing distant, then he looked at the others. “But that raises a valid point. We already have the text of the letter, yet those names mean nothing to anyone here. From what Emily says, those names are unlikely to be recognized by many in England, not in terms of what those people have been getting up to in India.”
He paused, then went on, “There has to be someone the Black Cobra fears us showing the letter to. Someone for whom those names, some of them at least, will mean something—enough to identify one or more as Ferrar’s closest associates.”
“Family would be the obvious candidates,” Christian said, “but I don’t think Shrewton was lying, much less Kilworth. They have no idea who Ferrar was consorting with in India.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t in India,” Emily said. “Perhaps it was here, in England, before Ferrar left. If he was close to people here, and the same people turned up there—surely they would be his closest friends.”
“
Closest, and most likely to have worked with him to set up the Black Cobra cult.” Gareth glanced at Del. “Because the cult’s genesis occurred a little after Ferrar’s arrival in Bombay, we were certain that he was involved in its birth, but that doesn’t mean friends who joined him soon after couldn’t have lent a hand.”
“No, indeed. They might even have been the instigators.” Del nodded. “Emily’s right. We need to learn who Ferrar’s closest friends were in England, and then check if any of them feature in the letter.”
“And that,” Royce says, “makes Kilworth our best bet.” He considered, then grimaced. “Let’s see what happens with Monteith tomorrow, but if the Cobra keeps striking, then we should certainly put more effort into learning who were Roderick Ferrar’s erstwhile friends.”
An hour later, Emily preceded Gareth into the bedchamber she’d been given. He had his own room down the hall, much smaller, more a place to leave his bags than anything else.
No one in this household bothered with pretense.
All but dancing, she whirled, fetching up before the fireplace in which a lovely fire crackled and burned. Outside it was freezing, but inside…she’d never felt so relaxed, so triumphant, in her life.
Arms spread, she swung to smile at Gareth. He’d closed the door and had followed close behind her. “We’re here!” Bringing her hands in, she locked them about his lapels and drew him close; smiling, he came. She beamed up at him. “I can barely believe it. After all those miles, all those attacks, all those horribly dangerous times—here we are, hale and whole.” She met his eyes, let herself fall into the tawny hazel. “And we’re together.”