A moment of general cogitation followed, then Del waved at the map. “Do you think there’s a chance we could wrest that sort of proof from today’s situation?”
Staring at the map, Royce slowly nodded. “I think it’s possible, if we can only figure out how.” He looked at Gareth. “Where is your scroll holder?”
Gareth reached into the pocket of the greatcoat he’d draped over his chair and pulled out the holder. He stood it on the map, just south of Sudbury.
“All right.” Royce nodded. “So we have Ferrar here—the first thing we need. We have the scroll holder—the thing we want in his hand. If we go forward into the attack he has planned, Ferrar won’t show his face, he’ll sit back and watch the action. When we triumph over his forces, he’ll turn and ride away. Even if we’ve witnessed him sending the cultists to attack the carriage…” Royce shook his head. “That’s far too easy to explain away. He’ll deny all connection to the cult, and without the letter—even with the letter—it’s possible he, or more likely his father, will prevail, and he’ll go free. So doing the obvious—merrily going forward and letting them attack—will let us reduce cult numbers, but will not gain us the greater prize.”
When Royce fell silent, Devil prompted, “The alternative being…?”
Royce frowned. “We have to get the scroll holder into Ferrar’s hands. If we can somehow convince the cultists to take it in some way that won’t make them or Ferrar suspicious, they’ll take it back to him—and then we’ll have him.” He looked at the scroll holder. “But how do we innocently give the damn thing up after Hamilton and his men have fought so hard to get it here?”
That undoubtedly was the question.
The men leaned forward, making suggestions, expressing opinions, evaluating options.
After a moment, Emily eased back her chair—easing herself out of the ensuing discussion. She had an idea, but she needed quiet to think it through, enough to hear her own thoughts.
Gareth glanced at her the instant she moved, smiled vaguely, and drew back her chair.
She thanked him and retreated to the window seat across the room. Sitting in the alcove, she looked out at the view beyond and methodically worked through her notion.
The men had reached the point of considering ways to lose the holder “accidentally,” when she rose and headed back to the table.
The Cynster called Gabriel shook his head. “Accidentally losing it won’t work. The instant you try that, they’ll know it’s a decoy, and therefore of no worth—otherwise you’d never lose it, not after all this time—and also, ergo, that it’s bait. And bait means a trap, so they might well turn tail altogether, and then we’ll lose even the chance of reducing numbers.”
Royce grimaced. “If we can’t make the loss appear believable—”
“I could do it.” Emily halted behind the chair she’d occupied.
All the men looked at her, then Gareth asked, “Do what?”
She looked at him. “I could leave the scroll holder in a hedge for the cultists to take in such a way that it would appear unthreatening, unsuspicious.” She glanced at Jack and Tristan, then looked back at Gareth. “As if you, and Jack and Tristan, too, if they know about them, don’t know I’ve left it.”
It was Royce who asked, “How?”
Emily drew in a breath, reached out and picked up the scroll holder, then, still standing, lightly tapping it in her hand, she talked them, walked them, through her plan.
None of them liked it, of course, but…all had to admit that it was so unexpected, it just might work.
“And you’ll all be there, within hailing range at least,” she pointed out with exemplary patience. “Not that anything is likely to go wrong. There’s no reason to imagine I’ll be in any real danger.”
Many still looked like they wanted to grumble, but then Royce looked at the map. “Assuming we do this, where, exactly, would we stage this charade?”
“We need hedges,” Demon said, “so that means before the point where the attack is most likely—which is just as well.”
Gareth rose from his chair, caught Emily’s sleeve. When she arched her brows, he took her elbow and steered her across to the window seat.
He halted facing the window, his back to the room, with her beside him. His face felt like stone. “You can’t do this.” He kept his voice low, but even he could hear the tension in his tone. “It’s too dangerous.”
Head tilting, she regarded him for a moment, then quietly said, “Yes, there’s an element of danger involved, but only because we can’t predict everything. On balance…this is our best way forward, and you know it.”
“I may know it, but that’s not the point.” He shifted restlessly. “You know what we discussed—our future. You know how much you mean to me—”
Emily cut him off with a hand on his arm, even though the words were music to her ears. “I know what we discussed. Trust. Partnership. Sharing in all things.” She waited until he glanced her way, caught his gaze and held it. “I have to do this, Gareth, for myself as well as to help you and the others, and you have to let me do it. This time you have to support, not lead. You have to support me so I can do what only I can.”
His jaw tightened. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“I told you—our life together has already began. We’ve already started a life partnership, and, in this, you have to honor it.” She gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel the muscles beneath the fabric all steel. “Honor is the guiding principle you live by, and today, in this, honor dictates you let me knowingly take a calculated risk.”
“I don’t like being forced into…some kind of test.”
She inclined her head. “No more do I. This situation isn’t by my choice, but the Black Cobra and his machinations have brought us to this. All our travels, all the attacks, all the fighting and escapes—they’ll mean little if we don’t see it through to the end, and wring everything we can from the final hand we’ve been dealt.”
His eyes searched hers; she sensed his resistance wavering.
Letting her lips curve in wry affection, she leaned closer. Eyes still locked with his, she murmured, “You’re strong enough to do this, and so am I—and we’ll never forgive ourselves if we don’t try.”
He held her gaze for an instant longer, then sighed. Lips still tight, he nodded. “All right.”
They returned to the table to find the point for her excursion had been settled as just beyond the turnoff to Glemsford and Clare, just before the stretch Demon had described as perfect for an attack. “It’s likely,” Demon said, “that they’ll be in a stand of trees just here, and so be able to see you clearly.”
Emily looked at the map, then glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. Then she looked at the faces around the table. “Time is passing, gentlemen—shall we get on?”
Twenty
They drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister and Mooktu had stared at Gareth as if he’d lost his mind, but Mullins—who knew her best—had nodded. “Worth a try,” he’d said, then clambered up to his seat.
Emily wished the others had rather more faith in her histrionic abilities, but as the carriage rolled steadily north toward Bury St. Edmunds, she put their faint hearts firmly from her mind and concentrated on what she had to do.
The impression she had to convey, not with words, but in actions.
If she succeeded, she would make a major contribution to the success of Gareth’s mission. She would be instrumental in bringing the fiend to justice—and for MacFarlane most of all, she was determined to do her best. To give her all.
She spied the signpost for the Glemsford turnoff just ahead. “Almost there. Stop the coach.”
Gareth reached up; as the lane flashed by on their left, he rapped on the carriage roof. Immediately, the horses slowed.
When the carriage rocked to a halt, she glanced out, and mentally blessed Demon Cynster—the road just there was lined with high, thick hawthorn hedges, brown and leafless now, but still dense eno
ugh for her purpose. And a few steps back there was a stile.
She glanced at Gareth, squeezed his hand, felt his fingers return the pressure, then he reluctantly released her. “Wish me luck.”
His eyes darkened. “Just come back soon, and put me out of my misery.”
She had to fight to banish her smile as she swung the door open and climbed out onto the step, then clambered down to the road. Clutching her muff, into which the scroll holder had just fitted—thank goodness it was winter—she marched the few paces back down the road to the stile. Nearing it, she turned, looked, and made imperious “turn around” gestures at Mooktu and Bister, who as per their orders had turned to stare back at her.
Once they’d grudgingly complied, frowning, lips compressed, she strode to the stile and climbed over—as if intending to answer a call of nature.
But as soon as her feet hit the ground on the other side, and she was out of sight of the carriage, she let her demeanor change. Gone was all confidence. She bit her lip, glanced around furtively. Then she dragged in a breath, and scurried a little way along the hedge, further from the carriage.
Then she stopped. Halted, raised her head, then she let her shoulders slump again, and started pacing. Back and forth, one hand gesticulating—clearly arguing with herself. Desperately, as if at her wits’ end and unsure which of two equally bad options to choose.
Again she halted. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, then pulled the scroll holder from her muff and, without even glancing at it properly, raised it above her head, flourished it about—clearly so anyone watching would see—then thrust it deep into the hedge.
Grabbing up her skirts, she hurried back to the stile. She climbed over. Resuming her imperious, nose-in-the-air demeanor, she marched back to the carriage.
Inside the carriage, Gareth was waiting, his hand clamped around the door handle, tensed and ready to act, counting the minutes—waiting to hear her scream. His mind had thrown up all manner of horrible scenes. The cultists had bows and let fly at her. A number rode up, sabers flashing…he blanked out the resulting image, cursed. Yet when dealing with the Black Cobra, anything was possible.
He was literally quivering with the effort to remain still, to not open the door and rush out to see where she was, when he heard her footsteps returning.
The relief that swept him nearly brought him to his knees.
Then the door handle turned, tugged. Releasing it, he pushed back on the seat.
The door swung open and she was there, staring at him, a question in her eyes. He didn’t know what was in his face, but he managed to lift a hand and beckon her inside.
She climbed up onto the step, leaned back to order, “Drive on!” then she ducked into the carriage, slammed the door behind her, and fell onto the seat opposite.
The smile that wreathed her face was nothing short of radiant.
The coach jerked, then rolled on, picking up speed.
He cleared his throat. “All right?”
She bounced upright and beamed at him. “I think I just gave the performance of my life.”
He devoured her with his gaze, but forced himself to wait until the carriage rounded the next bend—having passed the long stretch deemed perfect for an attack without even sighting a cultist—then he leaned forward, seized her about her waist, lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.
On a hill to the southwest of the scroll holder’s new location, Royce, Del, Devil, and all the others, saving only Jack and Tristan, who were still in their roles of guards and shadowing the carriage on the other side of the road, waited and watched.
Spyglasses trained on the spot, they’d viewed Emily’s performance with critical detachment.
When the carriage door closed behind her and the carriage rumbled on, eventually passing through the field of likely attack and out of sight without challenge, Royce lowered his spyglass. “If I didn’t know better, I might just believe she’d lost her nerve entirely, and jettisoned what she sees as the cause of all their trouble.”
“The Black Cobra has a penchant for breaking people, men and women—of using fear to terrorize until whoever it is does what he wants—so her ploy stands a better-than-might-be-expected chance of succeeding.” Del kept his glass trained on the scroll holder in the hedge. “Ferrar is used to people giving him what he wants.”
“There go Jack and Tristan.” Lucifer Cynster pointed to where the two guards were fleetingly visible as they passed over a rise, heading north in the wake of the carriage.
“Wherever he is, Ferrar shouldn’t have missed seeing them,” Devil said.
“No, he shouldn’t.” Royce raised his glass again, focusing on the relevant section of hedge. “So as far as he knows, the scroll holder is just sitting there, waiting for him to send someone to fetch it. Even if he only half believes, I can’t see him leaving it. The need to have it—to know if it’s a copy or the original—will surely be too great for a man of his ilk to resist.”
Del snorted. “He’s never been denied anything in his life. He won’t resist. All we need to do is wait.”
In a dense stand of trees on a rise overlooking the stretch of road Roderick had decreed was the perfect place to attack the carriage, Roderick and Daniel stood with spyglasses to their eyes, staring at the scroll holder jammed in the hedge.
The body of cultists behind them, mounted and eager, just waiting for the order to attack, grew restive. Harness jingled; horses stamped. Eventually the leader, greatly daring, asked, “Sahib—the carriage…?”
Roderick didn’t draw his gaze from the hedge. “Leave it for the moment.” Distantly he added, “There’s still plenty of road between here and Bury.” To Daniel, he murmured, “What do you think?”
Daniel snorted, lowered his glass. “It’s a trap, of course. That damned woman rode like the devil to bring the letter down from Poona, then delivered it to Delborough. And then she attached herself to Hamilton, no doubt intending to avenge MacFarlane. So why would she suddenly give up—give the letter up—now?”
“Because she’s reached the end of her tether.” Roderick’s tone was one of utmost reasonableness. “We’ve seen it often enough. We attack and attack and keep the attacks coming, and eventually it all just gets too much. They’re nearly at the end of their journey, nearly through to safety. And it was she who left it behind. If it had been Hamilton or one of his men, I’d be much less likely to credit it—and the two guards have gone on, too.” Lowering his spyglass, Roderick smiled at Daniel. “So if it is a trap, who’s left to spring it?”
Daniel wasn’t convinced. “What about those others who trapped Larkins in the cathedral?”
“They’re from near Cambridge.” Roderick waved to the northwest. “If they’d thundered down here, we would have seen them.”
Daniel wasn’t so sure, but as the minutes ticked by and the scroll holder just sat there, in the pale light of the winter afternoon, he knew leaving it there wasn’t an option. “So what do you propose?”
“I’ll send one of the men to pick it up while the rest of us watch from up here. If there’s no sign of a trap, he’ll bring the holder to me, I’ll take whatever it contains, and ride for Bury.” Roderick glanced at Daniel. “By the lane—not the road. If they’re waiting ahead for me to come prancing by, the letter in my hand, they’ll be disappointed.”
That was Daniel’s greatest fear. Roderick seemed to have covered the weakness, but…Daniel’s thumbs were still pricking. “All right.” Snapping his spyglass shut, Daniel moved to his horse’s side, stuffed the glass in the saddlebag. “I’ll ride ahead and tell Alex of your unexpected success—how you retrieved the letter without losing more men.”
“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex should be impressed.”
Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.
Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an a
ppropriate welcome. I said I’d get us out of this—and I am. Alex—and sadly, sometimes you, too, Daniel—would do well to remember who among us is Shrewton’s legitimate son.”
Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed—if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.
But now Daniel merely nodded, his expression saying nothing of such complex thoughts. “Alex and I will be waiting in Bury.” About to spur off, he paused to add, “Remember to come in the back way.”
Roderick waved him off, his attention returning to the holder in the hedge. “Don’t fret—I’ll come via the ruins.”
Daniel stared at him for a second, sensing again the shift in dynamic that had occurred since the three of them had stepped onto English soil. Then he turned his horse and made for the small lane that led north to Bury.
A cultist came out of a stand of trees to the north, from the position Demon had suggested any attack on the carriage along that most amenable stretch would come.
Unhurriedly, his eyes scanning the empty fields and the nearer copses, the cultist rode to where the scroll holder was jammed, leaned from his saddle and pulled it free.
He tucked it into the frieze coat he wore, sitting tall, surveying all about him.
“They’ve changed their turbans for hats,” Del murmured.
“But they’ve clung to their black silk scarves.” Gabriel was studying the man closely. “I can see quite a few weapons, too, and they look to be well cared for.”
“While most of the cultists we’ve stumbled on are foot soldiers, not well trained with arms, the men with Ferrar will be his closest guards—his elite. They’re cavalry trained, good with sabers, but they fight like we do—you won’t run into any surprises with them. The assassins are another matter—they fight with half swords and shorter knives. If you find yourself facing one of them, expect the unexpected. They fight to win whatever the cost.”