The Elusive Bride

Seventeen

13th December, 1822

Morning

Our room in the Perrots’ auberge

The people of the dockside quarter made their departure into an event. News had spread, and by nine-thirty that morning, when Gareth’s party needed to leave the auberge and board their ship, the narrow streets were lined with well-wishers, all smiling and clapping and cheering them on.

The sheer numbers of locals ensured no cultist would be likely to get close.

Gareth sent the baggage, then the others in twos and threes ahead. Their route lay straight down the street opposite the auberge, which led to the main quay, then to the left a short way, and out along one of the lesser wharves. Captain Lavalle’s ship was berthed midway along.

The skies were gray, but neither sleet, snow, rain, nor gales threatened. The streets were damp, if not dry, and the breeze was blowing offshore.

At the last, after much touching of cheeks, slapping of backs and shaking of hands, he and Emily took their leave of the Perrots, and emerged from the inn.

Smiling, nodding to those in the crowd they recognized, they walked briskly down the street, onto the quay, and out along the wharf.

They were within a hundred feet of Lavalle’s ship, had paused to farewell a group of sailors, and were just moving on, when Gareth heard a telltale shi-ing.

He grabbed Emily, pushed her back and down, covering her body with his-but not before that first arrow sliced across her forearm. The next arrow thudded into the wharf beside her.

Two more found their mark in his back, but too weakly to do more than pierce his skin.

Pandemonium erupted all along the wharf. More arrows rained down, one slicing across his arm, but the archers had misjudged their range; the force behind the arrows was enough to wound, but only by sheer luck could they kill. Realizing that, some sailors seized craypot lids and other makeshift shields, and formed a protective wall between Gareth and Emily and their ship. Other sailors swarmed aboard the two ships from whose crow’s nests the archers were shooting.

Hauling Emily to her feet, Gareth rushed her to the gangplank and up it. Gaining the deck, he looked around and saw one cultist-archer dive from one crow’s nest into the harbor, while the other had been subdued and was being manhandled down the mast.

Captain Lavalle came striding up. The gangplank was already aboard. “We’re away. You’ll be glad to see the last of these attackers-”

Steel clanged on steel. Lavalle whirled. Looking past him, Gareth saw two cultists in the bow, wet and dripping, swords viciously slashing at sailors armed only with knives.

He thrust Emily at Arnia and Mooktu. “Tend her wound.”

With an oath, Lavalle ran for the action. Drawing his sword, Gareth followed, grimly pleased to have a release for the emotions roiling within him, evoked by having Emily hurt, especially while he’d been standing beside her.

He’d been helpless to protect her more than he had, but he wasn’t helpless now, and one of the cultists paid. Lavalle dispatched the other.

Duty done, violent feelings appeased, Gareth stepped back, and the sailors moved in. Once the ship cleared the harbor, the bodies would be tipped over the side.

Gareth turned-and found Emily there. She looked into his eyes, a frown in hers, then, lips tight, locked her fingers in the sleeve of his uninjured arm and tugged. “Come and let me tend those wounds.”

He frowned. “What about your arm?” She’d obviously ignored the wound; he could see a thin line of blood on the edge of her slashed sleeve.

“That’s just a scratch.” Jaw firming ominously, she tugged harder. “Come on. Don’t argue.”

He consented to let her drag him along. “Mine is just a scratch, too.”

“Mine is a real scratch-it hardly bled at all.”

He halted. “That’s worse than mine. You-”

She turned on him, rising up on her toes to, quietly, shriek in his face, “You have two arrows in your shoulder! Don’t talk to me about scratches-you weren’t supposed to get hurt again, remember?”

He’d forgotten about the arrows. Reaching over his shoulder, he found them, yanked them free of the thick weave of his coat, then brought them around to show her the arrowheads. “See-hardly any blood. They barely broke the skin.”

She studied them, humphed. “Perhaps. Regardless, you will come below now and let me tend your wounds.”

Looking into her face, registering her tone-determined and one level away from shrill-he nodded, and when she turned and led the way, meekly followed her to the stern companionway.

Half an hour later, Gareth checked with Lavalle, then, seeing Emily standing at the stern watching Boulogne sink below the horizon, went to join her.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look his way, just lifted her face to the breeze, then sighed. “They were nice people-the Perrots and all the others-even if they were French.”

He smiled. “True.” After a moment, smile fading, he murmured, “However, I doubt I’ll be rushing to return, not in the foreseeable future.”

“Hmm.”

A long moment passed, then he quietly said, “I’ve had enough of traveling.” He glanced at her. “How about you?”

She turned her head, looked into his eyes. Then she smiled. “Me, too.” She looked over the water. “I’ve had enough of adventure, of being in danger. Especially now that I’ve found what I was searching for.”

They both thought of what that was. Of what it would lead to.

The seas grew choppier and he shifted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms about her, shielding her from the worst of the snapping breeze as they watched Boulogne disappear and their past fall behind them, sliding away in the wake of the ship, and consciously let their minds look ahead. To the lives they would lead, and the future they would share.

13th December, 1822

Afternoon

Aboard Lavalle’s ship bobbing in the Channel

The light was fading as the white cliffs of Dover rose up out of the sea to greet them. With Emily beside him, Gareth stood in the prow and watched the white line expand and draw nearer. The rest of their party were belowdecks, sharing stories of home and hopes for the future.

For him…the future was not yet.

Emily, thank heaven, understood. Sliding her arm in his, she leaned against his shoulder. “We’ll be dodging cultists again shortly, won’t we?”

He nodded. “This is my first sight of England in seven years and…” When she said nothing, just waited, he dragged in a breath and said, “I can’t help thinking how lucky I am, cultists and all. MacFarlane won’t see home again-and I don’t know where the others are, if they’ll make it home, too.”

Her hand slid into his, and she gripped. “You know what they’re like, those three friends of yours. I saw them, remember? They’re as determined as you. They’ll fight, and win through. They always have, haven’t they?”

His lips quirked. He inclined his head.

Eyes on the still distant land, he forced his mind to the immediate future. “The Black Cobra is going to know we’re here soon after we land. Once he does, he’ll come at us with even greater-even more deadly-force. He’ll do everything he can to stop us-to stop the letter I’m carrying getting into Wolverstone’s hands.” He paused, then went on, “Even after that, we-none of us in our party-will be safe. Not until the Black Cobra himself is brought down.”

Her fingers tightened on his. “We will win. We’ll see this through, and after that…”

Perhaps. His jaw firmed. “When this is all over, we’ll talk about…what’s next.”

About their marriage. He now knew beyond question that he would do whatever he needed to to ensure she said yes. To ensure she remained his-his lover, his wife, and more.

Coming home with her by his side was both a joy and a burden. That he had found her, the only woman he’d ever considered marrying, that she was with him, and one way or another would remain, was all he could ever have dreamed of by way of joyous homecomings. Yet the potential danger she would face setting foot on English soil by his side muted that joy, placed a heavy weight on his shoulders and set a vise about his heart.

Returning the pressure of her fingers, shifting his to close his hand around hers, he silently vowed that no matter the threat, he would keep her safe. If he wanted a future, he’d have to-without her, he wouldn’t have one.

They stepped off the gangplank and onto the docks, shrouded in gray drizzle with night rapidly closing in. With heavy coats and thick cloaks wrapped about them, they followed their baggage, loaded on a small cart, out of the harbor and into the town.

Bister appeared at Gareth’s shoulder. “Cultist on the far corner to the left. He’s seen us.”

Gareth glanced through the damp veil and saw a shocked brown face staring in their direction. “They didn’t expect us to get through their blockade, which means there’ll be no huge welcome waiting for us around the corner.”

Bister shivered artistically. “Just as well. We need to get out of this wet before the cold gets into our bones.”

They’d all forgotten England’s dampness.

Wolverstone had stipulated they put up at the Waterman’s Inn in Castle Street. They reached it without incident. Giving his name at the counter, Gareth discovered that rooms had already been arranged-the entire first floor of one of the inn’s wings.

“Arranged by a gen’leman who’s waiting in the tap, sir.” The innkeeper nodded to a doorway to the right. “Him or his friend’s been in every day for a week, now. Would you like me to fetch him, or…?”

“No need.” Gareth turned, glanced at Emily by his side. “Wolverstone’s guards, I imagine.”

Rejoining the others, they sorted out rooms. As the others trudged upstairs, overseeing the lads ferrying up the trunks and bags, Gareth arched a brow at Emily. “Do you want to go up and change, or”-he tipped his head toward the tap-“shall we go and see?”

In answer she turned toward the tap. Together they walked through the open doorway.

There was a goodly crowd dotted about small tables and booths, couples and friends sharing a drink at the end of a winter’s day. A cheery fire burned in the hearth. Pausing on the threshold, Gareth scanned those present. His gaze halted on a brown-haired man seated in a booth along the side wall, trying to read a news-sheet in the light shed by a wall sconce.

Even as he looked, the man glanced their way-an idle glance that immediately grew more focused, more intent.

Lips curving, Gareth steered Emily toward the booth.

As they neared, the man stood, slowly uncoiling to his six-foot-plus height. Brown brows remained level over shrewd hazel eyes. “Major Hamilton.”

It was a statement, uttered with the same assurance Gareth felt in approaching the man. Like recognized like. This man had been in the Guards, too, and there wasn’t any other in the tap who could possibly have been one of Dalziel’s ex-operatives.

Gareth smiled and held out his hand. “Gareth. Wolverstone didn’t convey any names.”

“He never does.” Their new guard shook hands. He had a ready smile, one he shared equally between Gareth and Emily. “I’m Jack Warnefleet, here to make sure you remain hale and whole throughout the rest of your journey.”

Gareth introduced Emily. Jack shook hands, then waved them into the booth. While they settled he asked, and went to fetch drinks-mulled wine for Emily, ale for Gareth and him.

When he returned with their glasses and passed them around, Gareth sipped, smiled. He glanced at Emily, then looked across the table. “Speaking of our onward journey…”

“Indeed, but first, is all to your liking here? How many do you have with you?”

Gareth told him.

Jack nodded. “We’ve bespoken enough rooms. Before we look forward, tell me how you’ve fared.” Jack’s gaze included Emily.

And Gareth recalled no one knew she was with him. “I’m unsure how much you know of the beginning of this venture, but Miss Ensworth was instrumental in ferrying the vital letter from MacFarlane to us in Bombay.”

Jack looked at Emily with growing respect. “I was told some lady had.” He smiled charmingly. “It’s an even greater pleasure to meet you, Miss Ensworth.”

“As it transpired, Emily left Bombay at the same time I did, and our paths crossed at Aden-luckily, as it happened, for cultists were stalking her, too. From there…” Gareth condensed their travels to the minimum, including only the operational information.

Jack’s expression grew satisfied as he absorbed the details of their recent encounters at Boulogne. “As usual, I don’t know what Royce-Wolverstone-is planning, but I suspect he’ll view the number you’ve managed to draw and eliminate around Boulogne as something of a victory. You’re one of the decoys, so drawing the enemy and reducing numbers was precisely what you were supposed to do.”

“Have you heard anything of the other couriers?” Gareth asked.

“Delborough’s here-he came in two days ago through Southampton. I gather his route will be via London and then on into Cambridge, to Somersham Place. I haven’t heard anything yet about the other two.”

“So what’s our onward route?”

Jack grinned. “Your first stop is Mallingham Manor. That’s Trentham’s-your other guard’s-family estate. It’s in Surrey, not far away. Once we have you safe there, we’re to await further orders.” He straightened. “It’s late, and you’ll want some dinner and a good night’s rest. As you saw, there are cultists in town, not many, but we need them to let their master know you’re here. If you have enough men to stand watch through the night…?”

Gareth nodded. “We’re used to it.”

“Good. In that case, I’ll take the news of your arrival back to the manor, and we’ll send off a messenger hotfoot to Royce. Then, tomorrow morning, Trentham and I will join you for breakfast here, and we’ll make our plans.” He glanced at Emily, then back at Gareth. “If you think you’ll be ready to go on?”

Gareth nodded decisively, from the corner of his eye saw Emily do the same. “We will be.”

“Excellent.” Jack stood, and they did, too. They shook hands again, then he saluted them. “Until tomorrow.”

He strode out, leaving the tap by the street door. With Emily on his arm, Gareth headed for their room.

Uncle trudged along a road-he didn’t even know where it led. Darkness had fallen; he needed to find shelter of some kind to see out the freezing night.

The villagers of Boulogne had chased him out of their town. He was still stunned that they had dared to lay hands on his august person. He’d gone to the chateau expecting to find men, weapons, and the coin cache hidden there. But the chateau had been deserted. Someone had found the coins and taken them.

Mindlessly, he’d turned south. He refused to let himself think of his son. The major had lied-he must have. His jailers had told him some cultists had attacked the major’s party on the docks, but again had been defeated. The attackers had been killed. Was there no one left?

On the thought, a shadow separated from the trees just ahead. Uncle reached for a knife, but he no longer had one. Then he recognized the man beneath the cloak. Uncle brightened. “Akbar!”

Uncle made his legs go faster, already making plans. “How many others have we?”

Akbar didn’t move, didn’t reply, not until Uncle halted before him and peered into his face.

“None,” Akbar said.

“All gone?” Uncle couldn’t credit such failure. Facing forward, he narrowed his eyes. “We will have to cross the Channel and join-”

“No.”

He blinked, focused on Akbar’s face again. “What do you mean, no?”

Akbar’s eyes, flat and cold, held his. “I mean…”

Uncle felt steel slice through skin, through flesh, slide between his ribs…

Akbar’s lips curled cruelly. “I’ve been waiting for you, old man, just so I could tell you that this”-he thrust the knife in to the hilt-“is the last deed I will do in the Black Cobra’s name.”

Jerking the blade out, Akbar stepped back, watched as Uncle crumpled to the ground. “To the glory and delight of the Black Cobra.”

For Gareth and Emily, the evening passed with myriad adjustments, small points of recognition and relaxation as they slipped once more into English ways. Custom once again forced them to dine apart from the others, in a private parlor. Reacquainting themselves with English fare was an adjustment they found amusing.

Later, with the watches set and everyone irrepressibly relieved to be once more within a society in which they felt at home, they retired.

Much later, in the small hours of the morning, Gareth slid from beneath the covers, silently dressed, and went to take his turn on watch.

Half an hour had passed, and he was sitting on the landing, his feet on the stairs, shadows thick around him, when a sound had him glancing along their corridor. Emily had just closed their bedchamber door. She came toward him, her cloak over her nightgown, slippers on her feet.

Without a word, she sat on the top step beside him, then snuggled close. He put his arm around her, gathered her in; she rested her head against him and they simply sat.

The night was silent about them. No sense of danger hovered.

“I went to India to find a different sort of gentleman.” She spoke softly, her words just above a whisper, her gaze on the darkness of the hall below. “I’m twenty-four. I’d been looking for a husband, as young ladies of my station are expected to do, for years, but I’d never found a single man capable of capturing my attention-a man I thought of after he’d passed out of my sight.”

He didn’t move, didn’t interrupt.

“I was labeled picky-rightly so. But my family understood, so when my uncle was sent to India, my parents suggested I visit, so that I might meet a wider range of men. Perhaps a style of gentleman I hadn’t met before.” She tipped her head toward their room. “I was just thinking, recalling, what my vision was on my way out to Bombay. What I thought of as my goal-what I was searching for. I had it all clear in my mind-I was looking for a gentleman with whom I could share a life. Not my life, not his life, but a life that would be ours. That we, together, would create for us both.”

She paused, then went on, “Once I remembered, I realized nothing has changed. That’s still what I want.” She turned her head and met his eyes. “That’s what I want with you.”

The darkness made her eyes impossible to read, yet still he held her gaze. And sensed, within him, words lining up, waiting to be said-a response he hadn’t thought of, hadn’t censored, that just came. Just was. “My home…well, I don’t have one, none I can claim. My family wasn’t like yours-I have no fond memories, no experience of having brothers and sisters, all that comes of a large brood. I was alone. Until recently, until you, I always have been. When I resigned and turned my sights once more on England, I couldn’t see beyond the end of my mission. I could see no future-had a blank space in my mind where a vision of my future should have been. No framework, no ideas-not even a skeleton of a concept. Until recently, until you, my future was a blank slate.”

And now?

Her gaze hadn’t wavered, steady on his face. She didn’t say the words, but they both heard them.

He drew breath, and plunged in. “Where would you prefer to live? Near your family home, or in town?” Before she could ask, he added, “I don’t care where I live.” As long as it’s with you.

She nodded slowly, as if she’d heard the words he hadn’t said. “Not in town. Near my parents’ house, but not too close. In the surrounding shires, close enough to easily visit.”

He nodded. “Village or country town?”

Her lips curved. “Village. But with a town with a market square nearby.”

“Manor house or mansion?”

Emily opened her eyes wide. “I have a choice?”

He held her gaze; she felt trapped in his dark eyes. “You can choose anything, or everything. Whatever your heart desires. This is our future-we get to choose, and as my slate is blank…”

She’d stopped breathing, had to drag in a tight breath. “Manor house, then, with the sort of rambling, rolling gardens children love to run in.”

“Children?”

She nodded. “Lots.”

That stopped him. For a long moment he stared at her through the dark, then he nodded. “All right.”

He didn’t say more, ask more, just gathered her close, and rested his chin on her head.

They sat quietly for a while, listening to the inn slumbering around them. Then he murmured, “That’s a start. You’ve started painting in my blank slate. When we get to the end of this…”

“When we get to the end of this”-shifting in his arms, she looked into his face-“we’ll finish the painting together.”

She touched her lips to his, then settled back into his embrace.

And saw out his watch by his side.

14th December, 1822

Morning

Our chamber at the Waterman’s Inn, Dover

“Royce wants us to draw and eliminate as many cultists as possible, but primarily in a specific area.” Tristan Wemyss, Earl of Trentham, met Gareth’s gaze over the breakfast dishes. “Specifically the swath between Chelmsford and his residence at Elveden, north of Bury St. Edmonds.”

Gareth nodded. “So we’re to act as hares to our fox-in this case, the cult.”

“And”-Jack held up a finger-“possibly the Black Cobra himself. Ferrar knows the area-his father has a house in Norfolk.”

Jack had returned that morning as promised, Tristan in tow. After the introductions, they’d sat down to a large and varied breakfast. The men were doing the inn’s cook proud.

Emily glanced from Jack, to Tristan, to Gareth, and inwardly shook her head. Aside from the obvious physical similarities consequent on all being ex-Guardsmen, all three shared a distinctly robust attitude toward the cult, as if they couldn’t wait to engage.

“Sadly,” Tristan continued, “Royce doesn’t want us to come north just yet. In the interim, he wants us to make you disappear, make you invisible to the cult.”

Gareth raised his brows. “How?”

“We’re to transfer you and your entire party to Mallingham Manor.” Jack smiled predatorially. “Without the cult tracking you there.”

Gareth grimaced. “While they’re not always well trained as fighters, they are distressingly good at tracking and locating.”

Tristan smiled, a gesture very like Jack’s. He tipped his head at his friend. “So are we. And once we locate, we eliminate.”

Gareth’s brows rose. “I see.” He popped the last of his gravy-soaked bread into his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then nodded. “All right. So how are we going to do that?”

14th December, 1822

Early evening

Our chamber at the inn in Dover

Their move to Mallingham Manor was accomplished in three stages through a morning that was gloomy and gray, cold, but not raining. At ten o’clock, Mullins, Dorcas, and Watson set off in the inn’s gig as if to visit some house in the countryside to the west. Twenty minutes later, Mooktu, Arnia, and Jimmy set out in a cart laden with all the bags and trunks, and headed north. Half an hour later, Gareth, Emily, and Bister departed in another gig, and took to the London Road.

The cultists in Dover, already scrambling to reorganize in light of their unexpected arrival, had to scramble again, but two cultists succeeded in trailing the first gig, another followed the cart, and one settled to shadow the gig Gareth was driving.

Tristan and Jack watched, noted, then acted. Those handling the reins-Mullins, Mooktu, and Gareth-had instructions not to drive too fast, but to eventually head north and west into Surrey. Ultimately, after halting for lunch along the way, all would climb a certain hill not far from the Manor.

Mounted on good horses, Tristan and Jack removed the cultists, then raced across country to that hill. In mid-afternoon, when Mullins tooled his gig up the long, open rise, Jack and Tristan were in position, watching from the hilltop, from where they could see spread before them all the surrounding land.

When an hour later Gareth finally drew rein on the crest of the hill, Tristan and Jack walked their horses out of the trees, satisfaction writ large on their faces.

“Ahead and take the first turn right.” Tristan pointed to where a collection of old and massive trees blotted out the horizon. “The Manor’s in there-it can’t be seen from anywhere, so once among the trees, you won’t be spotted. The others are ahead of you. Jack and I will wait here, just to make sure, then follow.”

Gareth nodded, met Jack’s eyes. “How many?”

“I got two.” Jack glanced at Tristan. “He got two more. Enough to whet our appetites, but I don’t think there are more, so we’ll be on your heels.”

Gareth nodded, flicked the reins, and sent the gig rolling on.

True to Jack’s word, they’d only just reached the stable yard behind the manor-only just stepped down into a circus of grooms, footmen, and a bevy of ladies, most old, two not so old, all talking and exclaiming-when Tristan and Jack rode up.

While they dismounted and handed their horses to the grooms, one of the younger ladies, a confident matron with dark hair, swept up to Gareth and Emily. “Welcome-I’m Leonora, Tristan’s wife.” Smiling delightedly, she shook hands with Gareth, then squeezed Emily’s fingers. “We’re very glad to see you, not least because those two”-she tipped her head to Jack and Tristan-“have been on tenterhooks for the last week, awaiting your arrival.”

“Indeed.” The second matron, taller and rather stately with dark mahogany hair and an openly commanding manner, joined them and offered her hand. “I’m Clarice, Jack’s wife. I gather you’ve had adventures untold-you must come in and tell us all about them.”

Those words proved prophetic. Before Emily could do more than give her name and touch fingers, she and Gareth were swept up by a wave of older ladies, led by Tristan’s great-aunts, Lady Hermione Wemyss and Lady Hortense Wemyss, carried into the big house and deposited in a large, long family parlor that was clearly the older ladies’ domain.

“I’m afraid”-Leonora angled her head close to Emily’s as they settled side by side on one of the many chaises-“that it’s best-easiest, certainly-to humor them. They mean well. If any of their questions disturb you, just look to me or Clarice, and we’ll rescue you.” She glanced at Gareth and smiled. “You, too, Major-feel free to call on us for aid.”

Gareth met her eye, inclined his head. “Please call me Gareth.”

Once all the ladies had subsided, he sat in the armchair next to the chaise. Emily looked around. “Jack and Tristan?”

“Have escaped.” Clarice smiled from an armchair opposite.

“We don’t need them.” Lady Hortense dismissed her great-nephew and his friend with an arrogant wave. Her eyes, old but bright, fixed on Emily and Gareth. “It’s you two we want to know about-and we’re a great deal too old to waste time being delicate. So, how did you come to be in India in the first place?”

The old ladies were dogged, determined, and quite shockingly direct, but there was no doubt of their sincere interest, or of their shrewdness. There were fourteen in all, an Ethelreda, a Millie, and a Flora among them. All had questions, and with so many minds focused on the task, each and every little detail was winkled from them, and examined and commented upon.

Which should have put them out, put their backs up, but instead the kindness and understanding the old ladies exuded made their interrogation feel more like a confession and absolution.

Almost an exorcism.

Emily found herself responding to their inquisition with increasing freedom. She suspected Gareth, too, revealed more than he’d expected to-possibly more than he was comfortable with in response to their encouraging probing. Certainly, when after half an hour Jack and Tristan looked in, using the diversion of the tea trolley for cover, Gareth seized the chance to escape.

Clarice caught Emily’s eye, and arched a brow.

Emily smiled, all but imperceptibly shook her head. Accepting a cup of real English tea and a plate with real scones, plum jam, and fresh cream, she relaxed on the chaise, and turned to answer Ethelreda’s next question.

The day closed in outside the parlor windows. The curtains were drawn, the fire built up, and eventually the questions died.

“Well,” Hermione declared, “you and your major have certainly lived through thick and thin, up hill and dale. So when will we be hearing wedding bells?”

“Aunt!” Leonora attempted to frown down her outrageous relative-by-marriage.

Who pooh-poohed and waved her objection aside. “Plain as a pikestaff which way they’re headed-and see?” She waved at Emily. “She’s not denying it, is she?” Hermione leaned closer and peered. “Indeed, she’s not even blushing.”

Emily realized she wasn’t. In fact, she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced at Leonora. “It’s quite all right.” She looked back at Hermione and the other old ladies, all eagerly waiting. “We haven’t yet set a date. We’re still discussing all the little things I expect people do.”

“Good gel!” Hortense nodded approvingly. “Get the basics agreed to before you set your hand in his.”

A loud bo-oo-oo-ong rolled through the house.

“Time to dress for dinner,” Leonora announced.

The old ladies sat up, gathering their trailing shawls and handkerchiefs, grasping the heads of their numerous canes and pulling themselves out of their chairs.

Leonora rose beside Emily. “Just in time,” she murmured, “or they would be giving you advice on how to manage your wedding night.”

Clarice chuckled as she joined them. “I’m rather curious as to what they might say.”

So was Emily.

The three of them followed the older ladies up the stairs, lending a hand when needed. When they reached the first floor, and their elders had stumped off to their rooms, Clarice following, distantly supervising, Leonora conducted Emily to a lovely room overlooking the park to one side of the manor. Dorcas was already there, laying out one of Emily’s few evening gowns, and-bliss-a bath stood by the fireplace, steam wreathing above its sides.

Leonora glanced at Emily’s rapt expression and laughed. “Take your time-we won’t be starting dinner without you.” She met Emily’s eyes. “And if there’s anything you need, anything at all, please ask.”

Emily heard the subtle message, saw confirmation in Leonora’s very blue eyes of the sincerity and universality of her words, and felt a connection she’d never felt with any but her sisters stir. “Thank you.” She smiled, and stated equally sincerely, “I will.”

Leonora’s smile blazed. She squeezed her hand. “Good. Now I’ll leave you to it.”

Dinner with the fourteen old ladies and the other two couples proved a warm and relaxing affair. Emily could feel her tension-so consistent and persistent over the last weeks that she’d forgotten it was there-evaporating.

Despite being less used to such rousing-not to say ribald-female-dominated discussions, or the warmth and clear support that flowed so freely through the room, Gareth, too, found himself lowering his guard-he had to remind himself the cultists were still in the country, that they had to assume their pursuers might still find them.

When he realized that the ladies didn’t intend to leave the three gentlemen to the port and brandy, instead joining them in partaking of those liquers, he grasped a moment to quietly mention to Tristan the need to set watches through the night.

Lady Hermione, seated between them, overheard. “Oh, you don’t need to trouble yourself-or your people-with that. We would be happy to stand the watch.”

Before Gareth could blink, the other ladies had taken up the cause. Seconds later they were dividing up the hours of the night.

Stunned, he looked at Tristan, who grinned. “Don’t worry-they’ll do it, and woe betide any cultist who tries to sneak in.”

Lady Hortense, seated opposite, saw his reluctance. “Trentham’s right-we don’t sleep much anyway, not at our age, and we’ll have Henrietta and Clitheroe to back us up, and raise the alarm if need be.”

Gareth’s gaze slid to Clitheroe, the aging butler.

Clitheroe bowed to Lady Hortense. “As you say, my lady.”

“Henrietta,” Jack called down the table, “is Leonora’s wolfhound. She’s already been introduced to your people, but you haven’t yet met her.”

“She has the run of the house at night,” Leonora put in. “She’s very protective.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Tristan said, “she’ll savage anyone who tries to break in.”

Later, after the company had adjourned to the drawing room, Henrietta was called in and introduced to Gareth and Emily. At that point, Gareth dropped all objection to the older ladies’ arrangements. When he sat, Henrietta’s shaggy head, and her highly impressive jaws, were level with his head.

Later, when he climbed the stairs with Tristan and Jack, having ensured the ground floor was secure and that Ethelreda, Edith, and Flora, taking first watch, were happily ensconced by the fire in the central hall-with Henrietta a shaggy rug at their feet-Gareth admitted, “It’s been so long since I’ve felt our party is not under threat…it takes a little getting used to.”

Jack humphed. “It took over a year before I stopped checking everyone in every room I entered-such is the legacy of having been a spy.”

Tristan nodded. “At least a year. Some part of you thinks you have to still be watching. It takes time for that to fade.”

“Especially with ladies about.” Jack grinned. With a jaunty salute, he headed down one corridor.

Parting from Tristan with a smile, Gareth went through the gallery and on to his room. Emily’s room was the next one along and, very helpfully, there was a connecting door.

Ten minutes later, wearing only his robe, he tried the door, discovered it unlocked, and padded through to find her already abed, but not asleep. She’d left the windows uncurtained; shadows dappled the room and moonbeams danced as the wind stirred bare branches outside.

Laying aside his robe, he slipped between the covers, heard the giggle she stifled as, as usual, the bed dipped and she rolled toward him. He caught her, drew her close, settled her within his arms. “What were you thinking about?” Lying here in the dark.

She nestled her head on his shoulder. “This house-the household, all the old ladies. It’s so very English, and so comfortable. Now I’m home again, it’s as if I have to relearn-remind myself-what it is I most like, what I most value about things here, in this land.”

“Oh?”

There was enough wariness in the syllable to make Emily struggle up on one elbow to look into his face. “I was thinking about houses and households, and combinations of people. About families and atmosphere and comfort.”

“I see.” Through the dimness he tried to study her eyes. “So you’re not revising what it is you like about gentlemen?”

“No.” She smiled. “Although…” Lowering her lips until they almost met his, she murmured, “Perhaps I should revisit all the things about you that I like-just to make sure they’re still up to the mark now we’re here.”

His chest quaked beneath her as he laughed. Still smiling, she kissed him.

And set about compiling a thorough inventory, one that fully satisfied her, and him.

In the private parlor of a small inn two miles away, Roderick Ferrar stopped cursing, and took a large mouthful of the French brandy the innkeeper had managed to unearth. Swallowing, he looked at the amber liquid left in the glass. “This is the only good news we’ve had today.”

Roderick slumped back in one of the two chairs drawn up at the round table in the center of the room.

Lounging in the other chair, Daniel Thurgood shrugged. “It could have been worse. We might not know Hamilton’s exact whereabouts, but we do know he’s gone to ground in this area, and, as Alex pointed out, it’s likely the couriers are making for somewhere in Norfolk. Our watchers on the roads between here and there will pick up Hamilton and his party as soon as they move. We’ve more than enough men to leave a sizable group ready to close in behind them the instant they cross the Thames.”

Daniel watched Roderick frown into his glass, and waited.

The three of them-he, Roderick and Alex-all scions of the noble house of Shrewton, all children of the current earl, had found one another some years ago. Their shared paternity led them to like, value, lust after the same things-primarily money and power. Power over others, power that could be wielded as cruelly as they wished, as their whims dictated.

When Roderick had taken a position in Bombay, Daniel and Alex had followed him, and the three of them had found the opportunities the subcontintent presented very much to their taste.

They’d created the Black Cobra cult, and had lived in luxurious and vicious splendor.

Until a stray letter, written in the Black Cobra’s name and signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark, and by unlucky circumstance sealed by Roderick with the family seal ring that reposed immovably on his little finger, had fallen into the hands of a group of officers sent to identify and expose the Black Cobra.

Those four officers and their friends now knew Roderick was the Black Cobra. What they didn’t know-what no one outside the cult’s inner circles knew-was that Roderick was only one of three. But to preserve the power the Black Cobra had amassed, Daniel and Alex needed Roderick.

Unfortunately, they’d heard of the letter and the threat it might pose too late to stop the four officers leaving Bombay for England. To successfully arraign Roderick, favorite son of the Earl of Shrewton, canny aristocratic politician and indispensable ally of Prinny himself, nothing less than the original letter with its telltale seal would do.

One of the four officers was carrying the threat. The other three were decoys. But which was which, and who in England had accepted the challenge of receiving the letter and taking it before the courts and the Lords, was what the Black Cobra didn’t know.

So they’d set cultists and assassins on the four officers’ trails, and come home to England, scrambling to assemble a formidable force of fanatical followers. Fate had smiled, the winds had blown fair, and they’d managed to get ahead of the four officers, and now they and their forces lay in wait to pick each off, one after the other as they arrived in England, until the threat of exposure was no more.

Colonel Derek Delborough, the senior of the four officers, had landed in Southampton four days ago. An immediate assassination attempt had, by ill luck, been foiled, and the colonel had reached London. He hadn’t, however, passed on his letter, but still had it-copy or original-in his possession. They’d managed to install a thief within the colonel’s party. By hook or by crook, the colonel’s letter would soon be theirs.

With the colonel’s letter, at least, all but taken care of, Daniel and Roderick had ridden for Dover as soon as the news that Hamilton had landed had reached them. Their original plan had been to stop Hamilton from crossing the Channel, but clearly the senior man in charge of his pursuit had failed.

But by the time Daniel and Roderick had reached Dover, Hamilton’s party had split up and left. The senior cultist in Dover had set trackers on the trail of each of the three groups, but all four trackers had disappeared. Luckily, Indians with black head scarves were a notable sight on country roads in England. It hadn’t been hard to trace the trackers, but the three trails mysteriously ended not all that far from the inn he and Roderick now graced.

Roderick was turning his glass in his hands, broodingly staring at the brandy. “If we sit and wait for Hamilton to show his face, we might be sitting here for days. That might be what they want-us to focus on him, and miss the other two as they come in.”

“Very likely.” Daniel drained his own glass. “We have enough men down here, stationed all along the roads, to be certain that we’ll hear as soon as Hamilton breaks cover and heads north-or anywhere else, for that matter. If we leave now, we can ride through the night and catch up with Alex. See whether Creighton has found us a new base in Bury.”

That morning, through Larkins, Roderick’s gentlemen’s gentleman and right-hand man, they’d learned that Delborough was heading into Cambridgeshire, close to the Norfolk houses where many of the most wealthy and powerful spent Christmas. Alex, the shrewdest tactician of the three of them, had decreed they should move their base from Shrewton House in London to somewhere better placed to intercept the couriers.

Creighton, Daniel’s man, had suggested hunting for a place in Bury St. Edmunds. Alex had agreed. While Roderick and Daniel had ridden south to deal with Hamilton, Creighton had gone to Bury, and Alex had stayed in London to organize their move.

Roderick drained his glass. “I need to check on Larkins, too-I want to be there when his little thief hands over Delborough’s letter.” Roderick caught Daniel’s eye. “Given we’ve heard nothing of the other two yet, then Delborough is where the action is.”

Rising, Daniel went to the window. Drawing aside the curtain, he looked out. “There’s snow coming. If we stay here, tomorrow we might not be able to leave-and Alex’s messengers might not be able to reach us.”

Chair scraping, Roderick stood. “Time to go.”

Dropping the curtain, Daniel nodded. “Hamilton won’t risk traveling through a snowstorm. That gives us time to go north, deal with Delborough first, then be in position when Hamilton heads north. Let him come to us, onto a field where we’ll have more men to deal with him. That will leave us in prime position to deal with Monteith and Carstairs, too, when they arrive.” He met Roderick’s gaze, nodded. “Let’s go.”

Five minutes later, they were on the road, riding hard for London.