“Miss Duncannon is already awake.”
The frosty words brought them to their feet as the door—which Del now realized hadn’t shut properly behind him—swung fully open to admit Deliah, ready for the day in a gray carriage dress, and transparently unimpressed.
Just how long she’d been standing outside the door was impossible to guess.
Del quickly made the introductions, which she acknowledged with a haughty air. Both Tony and Gervase bowed over her hand, endeavoring to appear cheery and charming. Del held a chair for her, while the others recommended the ham and sausages, which she waved away as a maid bustled in with fresh toast and a teapot.
“Thank you.” Deliah smiled at the maid, claimed a slice of toast, then fixed her eyes on Del’s guilty friends. “So how far do you plan to travel today?”
She’d addressed the question to Tony. He looked to Del, but she refused to follow his gaze and continued to look at him inquiringly…as she’d hoped, he felt compelled to answer.
“We should reach London late this afternoon.”
She nodded. “And then into Cambridgeshire.” When they exchanged quick glances, she added, “In time. A few days, maybe more?”
They didn’t correct her, so she nodded again, supposition confirmed. She nibbled her toast, then poured her tea and took a sip, all the while noting the telltale signs of their uncertainty over what to say to her, letting it grow. She set down her cup. “About this mission—what are the relevant details?”
All three shifted. The other two looked at Del, and didn’t look back at her. Eventually, Del said, “Our…commander, for want of a better term, isn’t one to encourage the unnecessary sharing of information.”
She raised her brows. “Indeed? And does this commander know of my existence—that I’ve unwittingly been drawn into his scheme?”
“No.”
“Then he can’t have made any decision against informing me of its details.”
Del met her limpid green gaze, held it. The others were leaving the question of her continued ignorance up to him. If she’d been a man, he would have told her and enlisted her aid. But she wasn’t a man—very definitely wasn’t—and every instinct he possessed came down firmly on the side of leaving her ignorance uninformed, unrelieved. “Be that as it may, there’s no reason for you to…”
Her tight smile was a warning. “Bother my pretty little head about it?”
Brazen, he nodded. “Something like that.” He wasn’t going to be intimidated into surrendering his position.
She held his gaze—again he had the impression they were standing toe-to-toe, certainly will-to-will, and once again found it inexplicably arousing—then she transferred her gaze to Tony. “As it appears we’ll be spending a number of days in London, where are you intending to stay?”
The sudden shift in attack caught Tony unprepared. “Ah…” He glanced at Gervase, then briefly at Del before saying, “We had thought to put up at our private club, but now…”
“I take it it’s a gentlemen’s club?” she asked.
“Of a sort, but our wives also stay there when visiting town.”
Her brows rose. “Indeed?” She appeared to consider, then shook her head. “I don’t think any private establishment will do.”
Del fully expected her to circle back to what she really wanted to know about—his mission. He cut in. “We can discuss the possibilities in the carriage.” He glanced pointedly at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We should get underway as soon as possible.”
She looked at him, then smiled. “Of course.” She set down her empty cup, laid aside her napkin. With regal grace, she rose, bringing them to their feet. She inclined her head as she turned to the door. “Gentlemen. I’ll be ready to leave in an hour.”
They stood and watched her glide to the door; she opened it, then shut it quietly behind her.
“I assume,” Gervase said, “that we’re supposed to understand that she’s not a cypher to be ignored.”
Del snorted. “More that she’s not a cypher—and will not be ignored.”
“Well? Are you going to tell me or not?”
Head back against the squabs, eyes closed, arms crossed over his chest, Del supposed he should have expected the question. “Not.”
He didn’t bother opening his eyes. They’d left Winchester half an hour before, and were now bowling along the highway toward London. There was, however, a pertinent difference between their present journey and that of the evening before—today he and she were alone in the carriage. Her staff and his were following in the two carriages immediately behind, the three conveyances traveling in convoy. Gervase and Tony, the lucky sods, were on horseback, riding parallel to the road, close enough to keep watch, yet not so close that they would scare away any of the Black Cobra’s men who might be tempted to stage an attack.
Del didn’t think an attack at all likely. Even in this season, this highway was too busy, with mail coaches and all manner of private vehicles constantly bowling along in both directions. The Black Cobra cultists preferred less populated surrounds for their villainy.
“Where are the other two?”
He slitted open his eyes and saw her peering out of the carriage window.
“They said they’d ride with us, but I can’t see them.”
He closed his eyes again. “Don’t worry. They’re there.”
He felt her sharp glance.
“I’m not worried. I’m curious.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Her gaze heated to a glare; even with his eyes closed he felt it.
“Let’s see if I have this right.” Her tone was the epitome of reason and sense. “You arrive in Southampton and take rooms at an inn, then discover you’ve been elected to be my escort and promptly try to divest yourself of the responsibility. Then someone tries to shoot you, and you immediately up stakes and quit said inn—even though your people have only just settled in and it’s already evening—to rattle all of what?—ten miles?—further along the road. And by the next morning, you’ve acquired two…should I call them guards?”
His lips quirked before he stilled them.
She saw, humphed. “Are you going to tell me what this is all about?”
“No.”
“Why? I cannot see how it would hurt for me to know what it is you’re carrying—information or something more tangible—and what you want to do with it, who wants to stop you, and why.”
At that he opened his eyes, turned his head and looked at her. Met her irritated green gaze. She’d guessed so much…he set his jaw. “It’s better if you don’t know.”
Her eyes slitted, her lips thinned. “Better for whom?”
He wasn’t, when it came to it, all that sure. Facing forward, resettling his head, he murmured, “I’ll think about it.”
And closed his eyes again.
He felt the heat of her temper focus on him, but then she shifted on the seat, and blessed silence descended.
It lasted. And lasted.
Eventually he opened his eyes enough to send a careful look her way.
She was sitting in the corner of the carriage, leaning against the side, watching the fields flash past. There was a faint frown on her face, and her lips were…just slightly pouting.
Minutes ticked by, then he forced his gaze forward and closed his eyes again.
They stopped for lunch at a small country inn in the village of Windlesham. Deliah had been unimpressed when he’d refused to halt at any of the major posting inns at Camberley, but instead had directed the coachman to the much smaller—and therefore much safer—country village.
Tony and Gervase would hang back, keeping watch to see if they could spot anyone following. But as the Black Cobra had to suspect Del would make for London, he, Tony and Gervase were all of the opinion that it was more likely there would be watchers planted at vantage points along the road to report his passage to their master.
If Tony or Gervase could spot such a watcher, they might be able to foll
ow the man back to the Black Cobra’s lair. As the game stood, any information on the Black Cobra’s forces would be welcome, while information on the Black Cobra himself would be gold.
Del climbed down from the carriage before the Windlesham Arms, and after a swift look around, handed Deliah down. She continued to grumble, which in her case was more like acerbic verbal sniping, which Del found amusing, although he was careful not to let his appreciation show.
But after the innkeeper bowed them into a pretty parlor with lace curtains and comfortable chairs, and then proceeded to serve an excellent meal, her griping ceased. By the time he escorted her back into the main tap and paused by the bar to settle the account, she was entirely appeased, and in a relatively mellow mood—not that she would admit it.
Lips curving, Del chatted to the barman while he waited for the innkeeper to tot up the damage.
The tap was half full. Rather than stand beside Del and be covertly studied by the occupants, Deliah wandered to an archway where a pair of glassed doors gave onto a small courtyard. Gently rolling lawns lay beyond; in summer, the area would, she suspected, be dotted with the trestles and benches she could see stacked to one side under a row of leafless trees.
Nearer at hand, a narrow bed ran along the wall of the inn, full of hellebores in bloom. It had been so long since she’d seen the so-called Christmas roses on impulse she opened the door and went out to admire them.
The plants were old, large, and carried many spikes of large, nodding white blooms. Some were even spotty. She bent down the better to see.
And heard a soft rush of footsteps coming up the lawn.
Straightening, she started to turn—just as a large man seized her from behind.
She screamed, struggled.
A second man tried to help the first, tried to hold her still as the first attempted to clap a hand over her mouth.
She ducked her head, jabbed an elbow back hard—into a flabby stomach. The first man gasped, then wheezed.
The second man swore and tried to haul her away from the inn as the first man’s grip faltered.
She dug in her heels, dragged in a breath, and screamed again. Wrenching one arm free, she struck wildly at the second man.
Del erupted from the inn. Kumulay and Mustaf were on his heels.
The second man swore, and fled for his life.
The first man wasn’t as fast; he was still clutching her, still wheezing. Del grabbed her free arm with one hand. His other fist flashed past her shoulder.
She heard a sickening crunch, then the large man’s grip on her eased and fell away.
Del pulled her to him, to his other side. Peering back, around him, she saw the man who’d seized her laid out unconscious on the flagstone path.
Then every man and woman who’d been in the tap came pouring out—to see, exclaim, ask questions, demand answers.
Del suddenly found himself and Deliah surrounded by a well-meaning throng. Many seemed to think Deliah would be in imminent danger of collapse, presumably from overwrought sensibilities, an assumption she seemed to find as mystifying as, and rather more irritating than, he did.
Questions, solicitude and sympathetic outrage came from all sides; it took vital minutes to calm everyone down.
Finally Del looked up and saw Mustaf and Kumulay striding back up the lawn. Mustaf shook his head, gestured with his fingers—the man had had a horse waiting.
They’d intended to grab Deliah and take her somewhere. Del’s mind supplied the where—wherever the Black Cobra or his lieutenant was waiting.
He swallowed a curse, looked for the man he’d laid out—then clamped his lips shut on an even more virulent oath.
The man had vanished.
Teeth gritted behind an entirely false smile, he tightened his hold on Deliah’s arm and started steering her through the crowd, toward the front of the inn.
Having noted the disappearance of the man, and Del’s direction, Mustaf and Kumulay went to summon the others and ready the carriages.
It was another twenty minutes before they were once again underway, and rolling out of the no-longer-so-sleepy village.
Del slumped back against the seat, finally registered the throbbing in his left hand. Lifting it, he saw he’d split the skin over one knuckle. He put the injured joint to his mouth.
Deliah noticed, frowned, then she looked ahead. Lifted her chin. After a moment, she said, “I believe your commander, whoever he is, would agree, now, that I have a right to know.”
Del grimaced. He glanced at her profile; her lips weren’t pouting—they were set in a grim line. “I don’t suppose you’d accept that those men were merely footpads—itinerants looking for an easy mark?”
“No.”
He sighed.
“If I’d known I stood in any danger of attack, I wouldn’t have gone out of that door.” She turned her head, met his eyes. “You can’t not tell me—it’s too dangerous for me not to know.”
He held her gaze for a moment, then looked ahead, filled his lungs. And told her.
Initially he gave her a carefully edited description of the Black Cobra and his mission. She seemed to sense his prevarications and refused to let them lie, verbally pulling and prodding until she’d extracted an account a great deal closer to the full picture from him.
He inwardly winced as he heard himself tell her about the manner of James MacFarlane’s death, and of the evidence he’d given his life to get to them.
“Poor boy—how utterly dreadful. Yet at least he died a true hero—I imagine that would have been important to him. And this is the evidence you and your friends are endeavoring to ensure gets into Wolverstone’s hands?”
“Yes.”
“And part of the plan is to make the Black Cobra attack, so he can be caught and thus implicated entirely independently of the evidence itself?”
“Yes.”
She was silent for a moment, then said, “That’s a very good plan.”
He’d expected her to be appalled, and then horrified, frightened, even terrified by the very real threat of very real and nasty danger—something she certainly wouldn’t have missed. Yet while she’d been as appalled as he’d imagined, horror, fright and terror didn’t seem to be in her repertoire; if he’d had any real doubts that she was made of sterner stuff, her immediate focus on the salient points of his mission had slain them.
After another, longer silence, she looked at him, met his eyes. “I will, of course, help in whatever way I can—you have only to ask. As the Black Cobra clearly views me as part of your entourage, there’s no sense in attempting to keep me distanced from your mission.”
He managed to hide his reaction. He could think of any number of reasons to keep her separate from his mission, all of which made excellent sense to him, but he hadn’t attained the rank of colonel without having some idea of how to manage others—although he’d never tried his hand at managing a termagant before. “Thank you.” With an inclination of his head, he accepted her pledge of help; if he’d tried to refuse it, to quash the enthusiam burning in her green eyes, her resolve to assist would only have hardened. Instead, he could use her commitment as a subtle lever to keep her under control—to channel her contribution into safe arenas.
Speaking of which…“We still haven’t decided where to stay in London.” Brows rising, he relaxed against the seat. “Do you know of any place that might suit?”
December 12
Grillon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street, London
“See?” Deliah stood just inside the foyer of fashionable Grillon’s Hotel, and watched Del survey the critical amenities—the single handsome staircase leading to the upper floors, the dining room to one side, the parlor to the other, and directly opposite the main entrance, the only entrance from the street, the wide counter behind which two young men stood, ready to deal with any request from guests, all under the eagle eye of an older gentleman in a uniform sporting gilt-embroidered epaulettes. In addition, there were not one but two uniformed doormen
manning the portal. “It’s the perfect place for us to stay,” she murmured. “Not only is it in the heart of London, but Grillon’s reputation is based on security and propriety—they would never permit anything so gauche as an attack of any sort to occur on the premises.”
Del had come to the same conclusion—the ex-solider behind the counter was watching him steadily, and the doorman who had shown them in had yet to return outside. He nodded. “All in all, an excellent choice.”
He walked forward. Deliah glided beside him, her long legs allowing her to keep pace easily. The head clerk behind the counter straightened, all but coming to attention; after decades in the army, Del’s bearing inevitably gave him away.
“Can we help you, s—”
“I’m Miss Duncannon.” Deliah laid her gloves on the counter, waited until the clerk looked her way. “I require a room for myself, and accommodation for my staff. Colonel Delborough”—with one hand she waved at him—“will also require a room—”
“And also has various stipulations to make.” Del caught her eye when she glanced at him, captured her gaze and pointedly held it. “As I am escorting you north at your parents’ request, it might perhaps be appropriate for you to consider me in loco parentis.”
She blinked at him.
His smile took on an edge. “Perhaps you should allow me to organize our rooms.”
She frowned.
Before she could argue, he looked at the clerk. “Miss Duncannon will require a suite overlooking the street, preferably with no balcony.”
The head clerk consulted his list. “We have a suite that might suit, Colonel—it’s on the first floor, but is some way from the stairs.”
“That will do admirably. I’ll want a bedchamber myself, on the same floor, between the suite and the stairs.”
“Indeed, sir.” The head clerk conferred with one of his underlings, then nodded. “We have a room four doors closer to the stairs, if that would suit?”
“Perfectly. We also require two more bedchambers for two gentlemen who will arrive in the next hour or so. Viscount Torrington and the Earl of Crowhurst. They would prefer to have rooms as close as possible to the stairs.”