“Aside from all else,” Tristan had pointed out as they were preparing to start out, “the forests north of the river provide much better cover, and places ideal for an ambush.”
He and Jack were on horseback, somewhere out in the wintry chill.
They’d been traveling for hours and, according to signposts, Gravesend was close, when Emily leaned nearer the window and peered out. “I haven’t seen Jack or Tristan at all.”
“You won’t. I suspect they’re old hands at this sort of thing. They want to spot any cultists trailing us, but don’t want to be seen themselves. You might catch a glimpse when they pass us at Gravesend.”
As arranged, they halted the coach at the Lord Nelson, a large coaching inn, and went inside to take refreshments. They wasted a tense half hour over a teapot and scones, allowing Tristan and Jack to go ahead to the jetty north of the town.
When, once more in the carriage, they reached the jetty, Jack and Tristan were nowhere to be seen, but a ferryman was waiting with his ferry to take them across to Tilbury, on the north bank. He confirmed that the gentleman who bespoke his services and his companion had already crossed on another barge.
The crossing was short, but difficult, the flat-topped ferry rocking perilously, but the ferryman and his crew took the choppy, rushing river in their stride. They reached the Tilbury jetty, not far from the richly decorated watergate of Tilbury Fort, without incident.
With the coach once more on dry land, Gareth helped Emily back inside, then, shutting the door, went to help Mooktu calm the restive horses. Mullins was already on the box, checking the pistols stowed under the seat while he held the reins.
Bister had gone scouting ahead. He came pelting back as Mooktu climbed up to his position beside Mullins. Gareth paused by the carriage door.
Snapping a salute, Bister went past, grabbing the straps at the back of the carriage and swiftly climbing to the roof. “Spotted three of ’em—there might be more. They’re watching from a rise outside the town—lots of forest behind them.”
Brows rising, Gareth opened the carriage door and climbed in.
Given that news, they dallied over luncheon in Tilbury’s main inn, giving Tristan and Jack plenty of time to ease their appetites and, mounted once more, get into position behind the cultists.
After another hour had passed, Gareth, tapping the scroll holder he’d reclaimed from Watson that morning and now carried in his greatcoat pocket, followed Emily back into the carriage, and they set off.
This was the leg on which they thought an attack might come. The road wended through marshes north of Tilbury, then climbed to higher ground.
Gareth snorted as the road leveled off. “That was a perfect spot for an ambush—just as we crested that rise.”
“They might not want to be seen by others.” Emily gestured to a carriage going the other way.
“True. The further north we go, empty stretches of road will become more frequent. Maybe that’s why they haven’t yet attacked.”
However, as they traveled unhurriedly through the afternoon, often along stretches where the forest closed in on both sides of the road and other conveyances grew few and far between, still no attack eventuated. At one point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.
Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”
“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”
It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.
Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party—a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn—Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.
The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure—another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.
After settling into the room she and Gareth would share, Emily went downstairs and found Mullins waiting in the private parlor set aside for their party. Gareth appeared before she could inquire as to his whereabouts. A tea tray arrived on his heels, then Mooktu and Bister joined them, and they settled to wait for Jack and Tristan.
It was full dark, nearly dinnertime, before the door opened and Jack walked in. He smiled rather wearily in greeting, and nodded when Gareth raised the bottle of wine he’d broached.
While Gareth poured him a glass, Jack drew out a chair at the table, fell into it, and groaned. “It’s been years since I’ve spent an entire day in the saddle.”
Tristan came in, blowing on his hands. “It’s not just the hours in the saddle, it’s that damned wind.”
He, too, accepted a glass of wine. Gareth waited until both were seated and had taken a revivifying swallow, then asked, “So where the devil are the cultists?”
“Out there.” Jack pointed south. “And yes, they’re definitely there, and in surprisingly high numbers.”
“To start at the beginning,” Tristan said, “one picked up the carriage not far from Mallingham, then two more fell in once you hit the main roads. Those three followed all the way to Gravesend, then one went ahead, crossing to Tilbury. He didn’t return. We don’t think the other two crossed the Thames, but turned back after you’d got on the ferry.”
Gareth nodded. “Probably returning to keep watch on the coast.”
Jack inclined his head. “We found the cultist who crossed the river with a group of eight others—he’d carried the news to them. We were just in time to see that group send another messenger north. Which is a point to ponder, given Wolverstone’s to the north, and our route takes us north. If the Black Cobra is also in that direction…”
“It seemed those following didn’t want to intercept us,” Gareth said. “They passed up any number of excellent opportunities to ambush us.”
Tristan nodded. “They have eight—nine if their messenger returns. The coach has three outside, one inside. You’d think the odds would appeal.”
“They must have orders to follow and send word forward, but not to engage—meaning not yet.” Jack smiled wolfishly. “I do believe this is getting interesting.”
Emily frowned. “Interesting how?”
Gareth replied, “Because it seems we’re being herded again. As long as we move forward, those behind will hang back and simply follow—because there’s some force ahead of us that’s bigger, and more certain of capturing us.”
“It appears the Black Cobra isn’t taking any chances,” Jack said. “Odds are he’s planning a trap for the coach to drive into somewhere along the road tomorrow, a trap you won’t be able to escape. Or so he thinks.”
“Indeed.” Tristan’s eyes gleamed. “And would anyone care to wager that’s exactly what Royce designed his scheme to achieve? The news that the Black Cobra is lurking between us and him—in Essex or Suffolk—is going to make him very happy.”
Jack waved his glass. “No bet. That’s precisely what he would have set out to achieve.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “You and yours chose exceedingly well in appointing Wolverstone your guardian angel.”
“He’s certainly a stickler for detail.” Gareth outlined his observati
ons from their earlier reconnaissance. “In a defensive sense, this place is ideal.”
A tap on the door heralded the innkeeper with their dinner. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins went out to the tap for theirs.
Once those in the parlor had finished their meal and the innkeeper had cleared the table, Gareth went out and invited the other three back.
They’d just settled when the innkeeper looked in. “Messenger for Lord Warnefleet.”
Jack beckoned and the innkeeper drew back to allow a middle-aged groom to enter. The man bowed, then drew a sealed missive from his pocket and presented it to Jack. Jack broke the seal and opened the sheet, scanned it.
The groom cleared his throat. “I’m to inquire, my lords, as to your situation here.”
Tristan replied in a few succinct phrases conveying their observations and their belief that they were being herded into an ambush ahead.
The groom repeated the salient points. Tristan nodded his approval.
Jack handed Wolverstone’s missive to Gareth, then looked at the groom. “You can also report that we’ll do as your master requests, and make a copy of the letter in question.”
The groom bowed. “If there’s nothing else, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”
Tristan dismissed him. The groom turned and left.
Emily had been reading the duke’s letter over Gareth’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch paper and ink, and make a clean copy.” Rising, she glanced at Jack. “Why does he want it?”
“Details,” Jack replied. “Given Delborough’s sacrificed his copy and gained something from it, then we might decide to sacrifice ours in the same way, which leaves Royce with nothing to study. He’ll want to confirm that there’s no other clue hidden in the wording. A code, even—it’s the sort of thing he would think of and know better than anyone to look for.”
“Which he can’t do”—Tristan accepted the duke’s communique from Gareth—“unless he has the letter, a good copy at least, in front of him.”
Nodding her understanding, Emily left.
“I’m just glad Delborough’s through and safe, and that Monteith’s in England, too.” Gareth fell silent.
Jack asked, “Who’s your fourth?”
“Carstairs.” Gareth glanced at Jack. “Captain Rafe Carstairs, otherwise known as Reckless.”
Tristan raised his brows. “If he’s the last one home…”
If Rafe was the last to reach England, he was almost certainly the one carrying the original letter. They all thought it, but no one said it aloud. Gareth merely nodded. “What about the watches? We’ll need to remain vigilant.”
Emily returned, bearing a ladies’ traveling writing desk with an ornate mother-of-pearl lid. She set it down on the table, opened it, and drew the lamp near. “The letter?”
Gareth drew the scroll holder from inside his coat, and under the fascinated gazes of all there, undid the complicated locking mechanism. Opening the holder, he drew out the sheet it contained, and handed it to Emily.
Smoothing the single sheet, she sat, dipped her nib, and started to transcribe.
“May I see that?” Jack nodded at the scroll holder.
Gareth smiled and handed it over.
While the others played, opening and closing the holder, and Tristan and Jack asked questions about such oriental devices, Emily kept her head down and her mind on her task.
She’d seized the chance to contribute something to Gareth’s mission—to do something, however minor, that would materially assist in bringing down the Black Cobra. Hers and Gareth’s impending happiness had made her sorrow over MacFarlane’s death more acute; she now had a better appreciation of all he’d had taken from him—by the Black Cobra.
Whatever she could do to bring the fiend to justice, she would do.
By the time she’d duplicated the Black Cobra’s mark as best she could, and had blotted off her copy, the men had decided the order of the watches. She handed his copy back to Gareth. He rolled it and slid it into the holder, then closed the holder and tucked it inside his coat. Now she knew where it rested, she could see the bulge, but it wasn’t that obvious; its presence was less obvious still when he carried it in his greatcoat pocket.
With the time for their departure on the morrow agreed upon, they all rose and retired. Mullins took the first watch. They left him sitting in a chair at the end of their corridor, looking back toward the stairs.
The first alarm came at midnight. Bister was suddenly knocking on their door. Gareth reached it first. Emily grabbed her cloak and slung it over her nightgown as she rushed to join him.
He glanced at her. “Someone’s trying to break into the parlor downstairs. Bister and I will go down—wait here.”
“Not on your life.” She grabbed the doorknob. “You two go ahead, I’ll follow.”
Gareth hesitated, but in truth he’d rather she wasn’t far from him. The cult might mount a two-pronged attack, one downstairs, the other above. Curtly, he nodded. “Just stay back.”
He pretended not to see her roll her eyes.
Jack, Tristan, Mullins, and Mooktu were already in the corridor. Jack held a finger across his lips, then mimed that he and Tristan would go down the back stairs and circle outside. Mooktu and Mullins would remain by the bedchambers in case of an unexpected incursion there.
Gareth nodded, and they silently parted.
Bister followed Gareth down the stairs. Emily followed on Bister’s heels, treading close by the wall so the stairs wouldn’t creak. Halfway down, Bister found her hand in the dark and pressed the handle of a knife into her palm. Emily gripped, nodded in thanks when he glanced back.
She clutched the knife and felt a trifle less vulnerable, but her primary concern was Gareth, slipping through the darkness of the inn’s ground floor to the parlor door. She and Bister obeyed Gareth’s signal and hung back. He cracked the door open a fraction, listened, then slowly opened it wider.
Then he disappeared into the blackness beyond.
Bister just beat her to the door. She followed him in, and through the gloom saw Gareth, a large dense shadow, waiting, apparently listening, by the window.
The substantial wooden shutters were closed and fastened on the inside. The window casement was also closed and locked, but it seemed inconceivable that the cultists could even get through the shutters.
Drawing closer to the window, straining her ears, she heard whispers, the cadences distinguishing the speakers as Indian.
Suddenly the whispering rose, then stopped altogether.
“Damn!” Gareth reached for the window latch, pulled the window open, unfastened the shutters, and pushed them wide.
In the faint moonlight, across the inn yard they saw two shocked faces turned their way—then the cultists took to their heels and fled.
Seconds later, Jack and Tristan appeared before the window, looking toward the trees through which the cultists had vanished. “What happened?” Tristan asked.
“They gave up.” Disgust rang in Gareth’s voice.
The others grunted. Hands on hips, they stared at the forest, then shook their heads, waved, and trudged back around the inn.
Gareth leaned out, caught the shutters, resecured them, then closed the window. Bister took back his knife before Gareth turned and waved Emily and Bister up the stairs.
They climbed back to bed rather less quietly than they’d come down.
Emily woke some hours later. Uncertain what had drawn her from her dreams, she lay still—then abruptly sat bolt upright.
The movement woke Gareth. He looked at her. “What is it?”
She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Smoke—and yes, I’m sure.”
Gareth was already rolling from the bed.
Scrambling into her cloak, Emily joined him at the door, but then frowned and turned back. “It isn’t so noticeable over here.”
Her side of the bed was nearer the window.
Gareth had gone into the corridor. Mooktu was on watch, sitting closer to the sta
irs the better to hear any sounds from below. But neither he nor Gareth could smell any smoke in the corridor or the stairwell.
The inn roof was slate—no danger there. Puzzled, Gareth returned to their room—to find Emily at the window, working the latch free.
He was on her in a heartbeat, grasping her shoulders and pulling her away from the glass. “Be careful! Your nightgown’s white—they’ll be able to see you.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know.” The scent of smoke was more definite near the window. “Let me.”
Releasing her, he closed his coat to his throat, then stepped to the window, tugged the latch free and eased the pane open.
A gust of wind blew the acrid smell of woodsmoke into the room.
He pushed the window wider, using the glass pane as a shield of sorts, until he could look down and along the inn. He could see smoke trailing from somewhere toward the rear. Following it back…through the deep gloom he could just make out three figures in heavy frieze standing staring at a pile of wood stacked against the inn wall.
They’d tried to set the wood alight, tried to train the flames back onto the wooden shutters, but it was December in England; the wood was damp. They’d managed to light a tiny blaze at the base of the stack. One crouched and blew—just as a rain squall struck, sweeping down, pelting the men and quenching the nascent fire, creating yet more smoke.
Coughing, hands waving, the three men stepped back. They muttered amongst themselves, then turned and walked away into the trees.
From above, Gareth watched them go.
“What’s going on?” Emily hissed.
The rain intensified. Gareth glanced at the now sodden stack of wood, then closed the window.
“They’re gone.” He faced Emily and Mooktu. “They tried to set the inn alight, but they didn’t try very hard.”
“You get those damned letters back—every copy, every last one!” Ice-cold fury vibrated in Alex’s voice.