“Who is the Black Cobra?”
He turned his head and regarded her. If he told her…but the cult had just demonstrated it didn’t care if she knew or not, and now she was with him, had been seen with him…“The Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar.”
“Ferrar? Great heavens! I’ve met him, of course.”
“What did you think of him?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not a nice man.”
“Indeed not. So we knew it was him, but had no way to prove it conclusively. We kept searching…then, while James was at Poona fetching you, he stumbled on a letter from the Black Cobra to one of the princelings. We’d found similar missives, but this one was different. It was signed by the Black Cobra, but sealed with Ferrar’s personal seal—the ring seal he wears on his little finger and can’t take off. Once you’d brought that letter to us, we had what we needed, and we’d already consulted others back in England, so we knew what we had to do.”
He saw her shut her lips on an eager prompt, but she’d guessed at least part of it. “We have to get that letter—the original—to the Duke of Wolverstone in England. Ferrar, of course, will do everything in his considerable power to stop us. Our instructions from Wolverstone—he’s the key planner in this—were to make four copies, and each bring one home, all traveling by widely different routes.”
“To make it harder for the Cobra to stop you.”
He nodded. “With James gone, there are four of us, now all on our way back to England. Only one of us has the original, but the Cobra doesn’t know which one, so he has to try to intercept each of us.”
Head tilting, she studied him. “Are you…” She paused, eyes on his, then went on, “I suspect you’re carrying one of the copies—a decoy, as it were.”
He was glad there was no one else in the room. He frowned. “How…?”
Her lips curved briefly. “On the wharf, you and your men wanted to chase the cultists—if you’d been carrying the original, you wouldn’t have risked engaging directly. You would defend, not attack—you’d do all you could not to draw attention to your party.”
He humphed. “Yes, well, from here on, we’ll be running. My orders are explicit—I’m to do all I can to distract the cultists between here and the Channel, do all I can to make them chase me, to make the Cobra throw as many of his forces in Europe into dealing with me.”
“Without making it obvious you’re carrying a copy and not the original.” She nodded, then looked frowningly at him. “You’re not carrying the letter on you, are you?”
“No.” He couldn’t see any reason not to tell her. “It’s in one of those wooden scroll holders the Indians use to ferry documents.”
“Ah—I see.” She studied him a moment more. “Arnia’s carrying it.”
He stared at her. “It can’t be that obvious.”
She lifted one shoulder. “That’s who I’d leave it with—she’s from a warrior tribe and quite dangerous, I imagine, yet to the cultists she’ll be all but invisible. They’ll never think of her.”
He grunted, partly mollified. “Watson mentioned you’d decided to return home by the overland route—that you hoped to see the pyramids and other sights along the way.”
She shrugged again. “It seemed sensible to see more of the world while I can, and as I was already in Bombay…”
“Be that as it may, now that the cult have sighted you, and clearly would be happy to do you harm, it would be wiser, for safety’s sake, to combine our parties, at least until we reach Alexandria.” He paused, then went on, “I don’t believe Ferrar knew of our endeavor before we left Bombay, but he must have learned soon after, and has moved quickly to get cultists ahead of us—I believe they were waiting, watching the docks. They were already here.”
“Which means they might be ahead of us, potentially all the way home?”
He nodded. “If I were Ferrar, in the position he’s now in, that’s what I’d do, and he has men to spare. Which, of course, is the principal aim of my mission—reducing his forces.”
She nodded, her gaze abstracted. When she ventured nothing more, he prompted, “So, do you agree that it’s best to go onward together? To combine our parties in the interests of safety?”
Hers, especially.
To his relief, she smiled. “Yes, of course. I see no reason why we shouldn’t proceed together. I have my maid with me, and in the circumstances, my parents would approve.”
“Excellent.” He felt like a weight was slipping from his shoulders, yet he’d just taken on all responsibility for her safety. For her life. With the cultists at large, that wasn’t putting it too highly.
She continued to smile at him. “Besides, I became involved in this through helping poor Captain MacFarlane, and in light of his sacrifice I feel compelled to do whatever little I may to ensure his mission succeeds.”
The mention of James reminded him that, in some respects, he now stood in James’s shoes, taking on a responsibility that originally had been James’s—seeing Miss Ensworth safely home.
For a moment, he felt as if James’s ghost hovered in the room beside them—he could almost see his insouciant smile. James had died a hero. He’d been dashing and handsome, a few years older than Miss Ensworth—hardly surprising if, in the circumstances, she harbored some romantic feelings for his dead friend.
He wondered if that was what he saw in her eyes.
Somewhat abruptly, he stood. “I must check with the others about setting a watch—we can’t be too careful. I’ll see you at dinner.”
She inclined her head. “We’ll need to decide how best to journey on.”
“I’ll check what our options are tomorrow. I’ll tell you once I know.” He headed for the door.
“Excellent—we can discuss it in the morning.”
In the doorway, he looked back, then nodded. “In the morning.”
He strode down the corridor, a sense of relief returning. She’d agreed to travel on together. He’d be able to keep her safe. That was the critical point. The instant he’d seen the cultist making for her on the dock, he’d known he’d have to keep her with him, almost certainly all the way back to England, until he could leave her somewhere the cult couldn’t reach her.
The responsibility wasn’t one he could possibly shirk. Quite aside from all else, honor wouldn’t allow it. She’d become a target for the Black Cobra through helping with their mission, and he and his comrades, James included, owed her a huge debt. If she hadn’t played her part and brought the letter to Del, they would still be chasing cultists through the Indian countryside, and the Black Cobra would be continuing his reign of terror and destruction unabated.
Instead, thanks in large part to Emily Ensworth, the Black Cobra was now chasing them.
All they had to do was keep one step ahead of the fiend’s minions all the way back to England, and all would be well.
Two
3rd October, 1822
Morning
A private guesthouse in Aden’s Arab quarter
Dear Diary,
I was too distracted to write last night. I suspect that while traveling, the time of my entries may vary due to whatever exigencies might arise. But to my news! First and most importantly, I’ve learned that Major Hamilton is innocent of any degree of cowardice in returning home—indeed, he is on a mission to vanquish the Black Cobra, and by extension avenge his friend, MacFarlane. I had felt that the major could not be cowardly—how could he be my “one” and be so?—but I freely admit I had no idea of the level of noble enterprise on which he and his friends have embarked. It is truly humbling, and I am delighted to report that, by a twist of fate, it appears I, too, will be able to play a part. Thus the second half of my news—we are to combine our parties and travel on together!
While I must admit I am not at all keen to meet any further cultists—they are fanatics and quite mad—I do feel moved to do whatever I may to avenge poor MacFarlane given he was, after all, there to be killed because he was escorting me. However, my p
rimary consideration in agreeing to Hamilton’s request to join forces is more prosaic—what if I declined, and something happened to him? Something I might have, had I been with him, prevented?
No. Now that I know he is no coward—in fact, quite the opposite—and the opportunity to aid him has come my way, if, as I ever more strongly suspect given the sensory turmoil he continues to evoke in me, he is my “one,” then it is clearly incumbent upon me to continue by his side.
That said, I am writing this this morning as I discover I have time on my hands. I rose fresh and rested, and emerged from my chamber ready to discuss our onward journey, as I believed we’d arranged, only to discover he had already quit the house. Apparently his definition of “morning” means before 8 o’clock—which as a start to our joint journey does not bode well.
E.
Gareth returned to the guesthouse at noon, Mooktu by his side. Exchanging a word with Mullins, currently on watch by the gate in the wall, he passed through, and found Bister sharpening swords and various knives by the pool in the courtyard.
Bister, a cockney lad who’d attached himself to Gareth in the last year of the Peninsula campaign and stayed stuck ever since, glanced up. “So are we moving soon?”
Gareth nodded. “Tomorrow evening was the earliest possible.” He glanced at the house. “All quiet here?”
“Seems to be.” Bister went back to his whetstone. “But the lady’s in the parlor—I think she’s waiting for you. Been pacing something fierce.”
Gareth was unsurprised to learn that Miss Ensworth was keen to learn of his arrangements. “I’ll speak with her now, tell her the news. You can spread the word to the others—we’ll be leaving tomorrow on the evening tide.”
Bister nodded.
Rather than use the main door, Gareth crossed to the open doors of the salon. As he paused on the threshold, the sun threw his shadow across the room—making Miss Ensworth, who was indeed pacing, whirl to face him.
“Oh! It’s you!”
“Yes.” He inwardly frowned at her tone, unsure of the emotion beneath it. “I have guards on the gate and in the courtyard—there’s no need to fear the cultists getting in.”
She looked at him. “That hadn’t entered my head.”
Not fear, then. Before he could think of his next leading comment, she stated, “I’ve been waiting to discuss our onward journey.”
“Indeed.” Maybe she was just impatient? There was a crispness in her tone that made him think of folded arms and tapping toes. As she was still standing, he remained standing, too. “We’ll be leaving on the evening tide tomorrow. While I would have preferred an earlier departure and a faster craft, that was the best option.” He met her widening eyes. “I’m afraid it’s a barge, so we’ll be slow going through the straits into the Red Sea, but once we reach Mocha, we should be able to hire a schooner to take us on to Suez.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought her jaw had dropped.
“You’ve made the arrangements.”
A statement of the obvious, but in an oddly distant voice.
He nodded, increasingly wary, unsure of her thoughts. Unsure of her. “We have to leave as soon as possible, so—”
“I thought we were going to discuss our options.”
He thought back, replayed their conversation of the previous afternoon. “I said I’d assess our options, and tell you once I knew. The barge is our best option for evading the cultists.”
Her chin went up. “What about riding? People ride to Mocha—it’s the usual route for couriers. And surely, being mobile is better than being stuck on a—as I understand it—slow-moving vessel?”
True, but…were they having an argument? “The road to Mocha goes through desert and rocky hills, both inhabited by bandits with whom governments make arrangements to let their couriers through. And that’s the route the cultists will expect us to take—they’ll be on our heels the instant we leave town, or worse, waiting for us up in the passes. You may be an excellent rider, and all my people are, but what about your maid, and Mullins and Watson? Will they be able to keep up in a flat-out chase?”
Her eyes held his, then slowly narrowed. Her lips had compressed to a thin line.
The moment stretched. He wasn’t accustomed to consulting others; he was used to being in command. And if he and she were to journey on together, she was going to have to accept that there could be only one leader.
He was inwardly steeling himself for her challenge when, to his surprise, her expression changed—exactly how he couldn’t have said—and she nodded. Once. “Very well. The barge it is.”
In the distance a bell tinkled, summoning them to luncheon.
To his even greater surprise, and his unease, not to mention his discomfort, she smiled brilliantly. “Excellent! I’m famished. And with the mode of our onward transport settled, we can start reorganizing our bags.”
She whirled and, head high, led the way out of the room.
He followed rather more slowly, his gaze locked on her back, wondering. He should have felt pleased she’d backed down; he told himself he did, but he also felt…
It wasn’t until he was lying in bed that night that the right word to describe how he felt over that exchange fell into his head.
Humored.
He snorted, rolled over and pulled the sheet up over his shoulder. He wasn’t worried—she would learn.
4th October, 1822
Still in Aden, at the guesthouse
Dear Diary,
In just a few hours, we will depart on the first leg of our shared journey home—and once we’re away, he—Gareth, Major Hamilton—won’t be able to send me back. I was on the brink of explaining that I wasn’t one of his men, and he should not therefore assume that I will simply fall in with any decision he makes, but just in time I recalled that in Aden we are within reach of the company ships. Should he take it into his head that my accompanying him is too difficult—or as he would put it, too dangerous—then it might well be within his scope to commandeer a sloop and pack me and my party off, either back to Bombay or on to the Cape, thereafter to travel on a ship of the line home.
I abruptly changed my tune. Given my need to learn more of him, the opportunity to share the journey home, in daily contact and close proximity, is simply too good to let slip through my fingers.
True, his habit of command is sadly entrenched, but I can make my opinion on that issue clear later.
On reflection, I really couldn’t have planned things better. How ironic that I owe this chance to confirm, and hopefully, in the fullness of time, secure my “one”—the one and only gentleman for me—to that horrible fiend of a Black Cobra.
E.
They returned to the docks with the sun a glowing fireball hanging over the sea. The low angle of light glancing off the waves made recognizing people difficult. Gareth hoped the cultists clung to their black silk head scarves, their only readily identifiable feature.
He glanced at Emily, walking briskly alongside him. At his suggestion, she’d worn a dun-colored gown, and her parasol was safely stowed in the luggage. At this hour, everyone on the docks was striding purposefully, all the vessels keen to make the evening tide, so their rapid and determined progress was in no way remarkable.
What might have alerted a shrewd observer was the way he, and the other men in their small group, constantly scanned the crowds, but that couldn’t be helped. The cultists were sure to be hanging about the docks.
He’d managed not to think too much about Emily, not in a personal sense. He kept trying to make his mind conform and label her Miss Ensworth, preferably with the words the Governor’s niece tacked on for good measure, but his mind had other ideas. Striding along the dock where just days before he’d saved her from an assassin’s blade, he couldn’t ignore his awareness of her—of her body, slender, warm and femininely curved, moving gracefully beside him.
He wanted her much closer—at least his mind and body did. Both could recall—could re-create—the sensations
of the moments when he’d held her tucked protectively against him.
That instant when something buried deep inside him had surged to the surface and growled, Mine.
He shook his head in a vain effort to dispel the distraction.
She noticed and glanced up. “What?”
He couldn’t fault her focus. Her eyes were wide, alert. He looked at the ships. “I was just wondering where the cultists are. I haven’t sighted any.” He pointed to the barge two vessels along. “That’s ours.”
She nodded crisply, and made a beeline for the appropriate gangplank.
Grasping her arm, he halted her at its foot. “Wait.” He signaled to Bister, who with a nod went racing up the gangplank, Jimmy, Watson’s seventeen-year-old nephew, at his heels.
Two minutes later, Bister reappeared. “All clear.”
Getting the women, their luggage, and then their men aboard took ten minutes. The captain nodded benignly; the crew all smiled.
Shouts ran the length of the barge, ropes were cast off, and at last they were away.
The barge moved slowly, ponderously turning on the increasingly fast-rushing tide. One of many so engaged, the throng of vessels gave them extra cover. To Gareth’s relief, all three females—Emily, her maid Dorcas, and Arnia—had retreated without prompting into the cabins built along the length of the barge. Watson had gone inside, too, taking Jimmy with him, leaving Gareth, Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to keep watch.