Emily led the way, wondering who was expecting them. The answer had her eyes growing wide.
The room was full of large gentlemen, and it wasn’t a small parlor, but one of the inn’s main reception rooms. A quick head count said ten; she was surrounded by ten men—ex-Guardsmen by the look of them—but it was the man at the center of the group, the one she found herself somehow facing, who captured and held her attention.
He was dark haired, but so were many of the others. He was by no means the tallest of the group, yet he was the most powerful.
Emily knew that without question.
His face was austere, the planes hard edged, but his mobile lips curved as she instinctively curtsied. “Wolverstone, Miss Ensworth—it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “I understand you played a key role in getting the Black Cobra’s letter to Delborough here.”
Emily glanced at the man beside the great Wolverstone, then beamed. “Colonel Delborough—I’m delighted to see you again.”
“And I you, Miss Ensworth.” Delborough bowed. As he straightened, his gaze went past Emily, and his face lit. “Gareth!”
Emily stepped aside, delighted indeed as she watched Gareth shake Delborough’s hand and share a heartfelt embrace.
As he stepped back, Gareth asked, “Logan and Rafe?”
“Logan landed at Plymouth and is heading this way. He should reach us tomorrow. Rafe…” Delborough grimaced. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know Rafe. He’s just as likely to turn up on Wolverstone’s doorstep unheralded, with smiling apologies for having inadvertently missed touching the bases he was supposed to.”
“Just as long as he makes it.” Gareth held out his hand to Wolverstone. “I’m honored to meet you, Your Grace.”
Clasping his hand, Wolverstone smiled. “Just Royce in this company. Aside from all else”—he cocked a dark brow at the man to his right—“I’m not the only ‘Grace’ here.”
“Devil!” Gareth shook hands, clapped backs, then remembered to introduce Emily. “Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives.”
Emily found herself taken on a round of introductions, as Gareth eagerly renewed acquaintance with a host of Cynsters and an earl called Gyles, and Delborough introduced them both to two men Gareth didn’t know, who proved to be ex-colleagues of Jack and Tristan, all ex-operatives of Dalziel—Royce by another name.
Her head was whirling by the time the door opened to admit the innkeeper with a small tribe of helpers laden with platters. And on their heels, Jack and Tristan strolled in, to a general and hearty welcome.
The innkeeper and his team withdrew, and their group—now numbering fourteen—settled about the table, Royce at the head, St. Ives at the foot. Royce sat Emily on his right. Somewhat to her relief, Gareth sat beside her. She’d heard enough from Jack, Tristan, and Gareth to expect Wolverstone to impress, but the reality exceeded her imagination by a significant degree.
They all passed the platters. Emily found herself pressed to try this and that, but then all attention focused on their plates. Silence descended for two minutes, then Gareth glanced at Delborough, seated opposite. “We heard that you sacrificed your letter—what happened?”
Delborough nodded, and took up the conversational reins, relating how the confusion arising from combining his party with that of a lady he’d unknowingly been elected to escort north had allowed the Black Cobra to insinuate a thief—a young and very much coerced Indian boy—into their combined households. While he, the lady, and their combined guards had defeated the Cobra’s forces and won through to their destination of St. Ives’s country home, the boy, Sangay, had stolen the scroll holder, but had then been trapped at St. Ives’s house by the recent heavy snowfall.
“We could see from the snow that no one had entered or left the house, so we searched, and eventually found him. Once we convinced him we could keep him and his mother safe, he helped us to set a trap for the Black Cobra.” Delborough snorted. “In, of all places, Ely Cathedral.”
Delborough went on to describe how the trap had been sprung, but the Black Cobra, Ferrar, had presumably struck, killing his own man to escape unseen with the scroll holder.
“However, it contained only a decoy copy.” Wolverstone looked at Gareth. “Which is why we’re here—because he’ll know that by now, and having tried for Delborough’s and succeeded, he’ll try for the holder you’re carrying, too. Nothing is more certain.”
Wolverstone let his gaze travel around the table. “Which is exactly what we want, because we need to reduce the cult’s forces, especially in this area. My scheme is designed to have Ferrar racing back and forth across these counties, losing men at every turn. Delborough accounted for fourteen. I hope we can take out a similar number today, and Monteith and those with him, more again tomorrow.”
Gareth murmured, “So Rafe…?”
But Royce only smiled.
“You don’t need to know what you don’t need to know.” Jack caught Gareth’s eye. “That’s the way it always goes.”
“Indeed.” Royce pushed aside his empty plate. “So let’s see what we can accomplish today.” He looked inquiringly at Tristan and Jack. “What’s our situation?”
“They’re here, and in force.” Jack straightened in his chair. “We’ve been following a group of eight who’ve been tracking the carriage since Tilbury. Today they were joined by a larger force, another ten, just north of Braintree. That lot rode down from the north, by the way. And of special interest to us all, two of the ten aren’t Indian, but English. I don’t know Ferrar, so can’t say for certain, but I assume one is him. The other’s of similar build, darker hair.”
“They’re friends, not mere acquaintances,” Tristan put in. “And the other isn’t any servant, but an equal. You could tell from the way they interacted.”
Royce’s brows had risen. “That’s news. So we have another potential…lieutenant, let us say. And he’s English. If any chance offers, we need to catch him.” He looked at Tristan and Jack. “So by Braintree they were eighteen against a carriage with four men. What happened? Braintree is what? Twelve or more miles from here?”
“About that,” Jack said. “I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversations, but my best guess is that the dark-haired one wanted to attack, but Ferrar refused and had the whole lot of them shadowing the carriage, more or less flanking it all the way to Sudbury.”
“Once the carriage crossed the bridge into Sudbury, they peeled away and skirted the town.” Tristan tipped his head to the north. “We left them waiting on a rise from where they can watch the Bury and the Lavenham roads.”
Royce nodded. “They’ve guessed from Delborough’s destination that the carriage will head north, but they don’t know exactly to where. So they’re in position to pick up the carriage when it leaves here.” He glanced down the table. “Any guesses as to why they put off an attack?”
All eyes turned to Demon Cynster. “My guess is that Ferrar, having some familarity with the area, knows that the stretch from Sudbury to Bury, or Sudbury to Lavenham, is better for mounting an attack.”
“Did someone bring a map?” Royce asked.
Vane Cynster had. He drew it from his pocket and unfolded the large map, which showed most of the Eastern Counties. Various hands helped smooth it out and anchor it in front of Royce and Gareth.
Demon leaned forward to point. “Here’s Sudbury. This”—he pointed to a position just to the north—“is where Ferrar’s waiting.”
Royce studied the map. “If you were he, where would you choose to ambush the carriage?”
Without hesitation Demon placed a finger on the map. “Here—just a little way past the lane that leads to Glemsford and Clare. There’s also a country lane that leads up to Bury, just a little way along that lane. In terms of position, that spot is close to perfect.”
“Remember Ferrar and the cult tend to rely on overwhelming force.” Del looked at Demon. “Can he attack with all his men from there?”
/> Demon nodded. “There’s plenty of cover in stands of trees back from the road, but just there the usual hedges fall back and the road has wide, shallow ditches, open and clear, excellent for approaching a halted coach. All he’ll need to do is send men across the road to halt the coach, and then it’s trapped and at his mercy.”
“So we let him do that, commit his force against the coach, then we fall on them from the rear and wipe them out.” Devil Cynster smiled. “Easy.”
There were sounds of eager agreement all around.
“Yes, but is that the best we can do?” Royce murmured.
All talk ceased.
Devil looked up the table at him. “What now, o ye of devious mind?”
There were grins all around, including from Royce, but then he sobered. “The truth, as many of you have guessed, is that this entire scheme is designed not just to get the original copy of the Black Cobra’s letter into my hands, but if at all possible to provide further proof—more direct and damning proof—of Ferrar’s guilt. Ideally, I’d like to catch him with a scroll holder literally in his hand—have more than one of us see him so there’ll be multiple witnesses. If I have to accuse him with only the letter as proof, I will, but I’d far rather have something more—something less easy to destroy—as evidence.”
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 enough 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.