Brazen Bride (35 page)

He helped her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smoothly escorted her inside.

As before, a suite had been bespoken. As he followed Linnet up the stairs, Logan wondered how the other two had fared.

E
qually uneventfully, as it transpired.

“There are eight of them. They’re taking it in turns, four at a time, to keep the carriage in view.” Charles speared a slice of roast beef from the dish on the table. He and Deverell hadn’t turned up until night had fallen. They’d walked into the suite half an hour ago, but chilled and damp, they’d gone to their room to wash and change before joining Logan and Linnet for dinner.

The servers had placed the silver dishes on the table, seen to all their needs, then withdrawn, leaving them free to speak without restraint.

“We followed them from just outside Swindon.” Deverell shook his head. “The four on duty did nothing but plod along in your wake, a good distance back. All they wanted was to keep you in sight.”

“When you stopped here, they halted at the corner.” Charles tipped his head toward the Swindon end of the street. “They watched you go in, saw the bags taken in, then two of them left to get rooms at the tavern back down the street, leaving the other two to watch this place.”

“We considered removing them permanently, but”—Deverell reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, placed it on the table, tapped it with his finger—“we knew Royce’s latest orders would be waiting for us here. It was possible he might want us to lead them further on, or that it might prove prudent to give them no hint that we’re aware they’re following us.”

Logan nodded at the missive. “Have you read it?”

“Just glanced at it. There’s news that’ll make more sense to you than me.” Deverell nudged the packet Logan’s way. “Read and explain.”

Logan picked up the packet, unfolded the stiff sheets. Scanned them. “He’s given us the news first. Delborough reached the Cynsters at Somersham Place on the fifteenth, managing to reduce cult numbers by fourteen between London and Somersham. Now he and the Cynsters are planning to spring a trap on Ferrar, or at least his man Larkins, at Ely”—he glanced at the date at the head of the letter—“Wolverstone says tomorrow, but this was written yesterday, so that must mean today. After said trap is sprung, Del and Devil are under orders to transport whoever they catch to Elveden.”

Charles looked up. “So it’s possible Ferrar’s already been caught?”

Logan shook his head. “I’d be shocked were that so. Ferrar’s been too clever and cautious for years to suddenly fall into some trap. I can’t see that happening.”

“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Deverell said. “Royce would send word hotfoot if they succeeded, because our mission’s objectives would then change.”

“What of your other friends?’ Linnet asked.

Logan refocused on the bold, black script. “Gareth made it safely to Dover and is heading north today. He’s expected at Elveden by tomorrow evening. At this point they’re not sure what might come of his foray, but he and his party are expected to be at Chelmsford tonight with cultists in tow.”

“That sounds familiar,” Charles quipped.

“The locations are interesting.” Deverell set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate. “Elveden is just southeast of Thetford, about ten miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, and roughly thirty miles east of Somersham Place. And between Somersham Place and Elveden lies Newmarket, where Demon Cynster and friends hold sway. So there’s a line of sorts, west to east, between Somersham Place and Elveden, where Royce has a lot of troops, as it were. He’s brought Delborough north from London to Somersham, removing cultists along the way—clearing the west flank. Now he’s bringing Hamilton north from Chelmsford to Elveden—clearing the east flank. Now we’re coming in from the west . . .” Deverell broke off, patting his pockets. “Where’s that map?”

“You left it with us.” Linnet rose and went to fetch it from her room.

Returning, she discovered the three men shifting the dishes and platters to the sideboard, clearing the table. Obligingly she unfolded the map and spread it out. They all retook their seats.

Deverell, a certain eagerness infusing tone and expression, traced the routes Delborough had taken, and Gareth Hamilton was taking, to Elveden.

“And now”—Deverell nodded at their orders—“Royce wants us to make for Bedford. Ferrar will have to deal with Hamilton tomorrow, or risk the scroll-holder he’s carrying getting through, so the Cobra’s attention is going to be fixed to the east while we’re closing in from the west.”

Charles was nodding. “Which suggests we shouldn’t run into any substantial opposition tomorrow. The next day, however . . .” He grinned wolfishly. “Royce really is a master at planning. Ferrar will be crossing and recrossing Royce’s chosen battlefield, back and forth, east to west to east, rushing to stop first Delborough, then Hamilton, then us.”

Logan frowned. “Why is pushing Ferrar so important?”

Charles and Deverell looked at him, then Deverell smiled. “Sorry—I’d forgotten you’ve never run in Royce’s harness before.” He nodded at the map. “From what we’ve put together, it’s certain Royce was never intending to rely on your letter—about crimes committed in faraway India—to prosecute Ferrar, not if he could help it. Make no mistake—if Ferrar doesn’t stumble, Royce will make the best he can of your proof, but how much more convincing if instead he, or one or more of us, captures Ferrar committing some nefarious deed here, on English soil, under straightforward English law?”

Logan’s expression was a study in revelation. He waved at the map. “So all of this is really designed to force Ferrar into acting, tripping, and getting caught?”

“Exactly.” Charles tapped the map. “And following that logic, I’d say it’s certain that Delborough and Hamilton, like you, are carrying decoy letters. The original will come in last—with Carstairs.”

Logan studied the map with new interest. “So where will Rafe land?”

Deverell pulled a face. “If Ferrar isn’t caught tomorrow, then he’ll have to rush west again to stop us getting through from Bedford to Elveden, but any engagement to halt us is most likely to occur between Cambridge and Elveden, somewhere on the Cynsters’ patch.” Deverell considered the map, then volunteered, “For my money, Royce will have Carstairs come in at one of the eastern ports—Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Felixstowe or Harwich.”

“So Ferrar will have to hie east again . . . unless we catch him.” Linnet looked at the men.

“True,” Charles said. “But the thing with Royce is you never can tell. For all anyone knows, he might already have Carstairs safe and sound at Kings Lynn, just waiting for the right moment to head south.”

Deverell nodded. “Will Royce play a bluff, or a double bluff? There’s no way to predict which way he’ll jump, or what he has planned.”

After a moment, Logan raised Wolverstone’s missive again, turned a page. “There’s more. Our orders. We’re to proceed to Bedford tomorrow, where further orders will reach us at the Swan Hotel. He—Wolverstone—doesn’t expect us to encounter any serious opposition tomorrow, but he warns we should be prepared for a major ambush the next day. He suggests we leave early and try to ensure any action occurs beyond Cambridge. The Cynsters will be holding themselves ready to assist from the environs of Cambridge on.”

Charles nodded. “Just as we thought.”

Logan laid down Wolverstone’s letter, stared at the map. After a moment, he said, “There’s just one thing. I’ve learned the hard way never to trust the Black Cobra. Royce is assuming Ferrar needs to be present to direct any major action, and while I admit I’ve never known cultists to act independently of some higher command—presumably Ferrar—in all the months we spent in the field fighting them, none of us caught so much as a whiff of Ferrar himself.”

“That suggests”—Linnet continued his deduction—“that Ferrar has henchmen he can trust—some at least—to direct others in the field, so he can give orders and have them carried out even if he isn’t there. So it’s possible he might already have put plans in place for dealing with us—not us specifically, but any courier coming in from this direction.”

Logan nodded, met Deverell’s eyes. “We have eight men following us—doing nothing but following us. It’s plain there’s an ambush up ahead somewhere, but where? Will it be this side of Bedford, or this side of Cambridge? If I were Ferrar, I wouldn’t want it to be later. And even though Del and company reduced his numbers in this area by fourteen, Ferrar has many more men than that.”

“On the ships we incapacitated,” Linnet said, “there were at least thirty cultists, and most of them would have survived.”

“Put yourself in Ferrar’s shoes.” Logan looked at Charles and Deverell. “He now knows, or at least suspects, that the couriers are all heading toward Elveden, that area at least. He knows he’s facing couriers coming from the south and southeast, and that chances are one will come from the west. He has unlimited men.” He waved at the map. “If you were he, where would you station a body of men to stop a courier from the west?”

Both Charles and Deverell looked at the map, then Deverell pointed. “Somewhere here—
west
of Cambridge.”

Charles nodded. “You’re right. They won’t stop us tomorrow, not before Bedford. It’s only once we leave there that we become an active threat—on our last day of travel to Elveden. He doesn’t want us to reach Elveden, so he’ll step in and stop us decisively—
before
Cambridge.” Leaning his forearms on the table, he frowned at the map. “But Royce wants us to avoid them until
after
Cambridge.”

“That’s not my primary concern.” When the others all looked at him, Logan said, “As you noted, Ferrar will have only one aim—to stop us, crush us, before we reach Cambridge. The group he’ll have left to accomplish that will be large. He’ll have set it up along his usual pattern—massive numbers to smother the opposition and so be certain, absolutely certain, of victory.” He met Deverell’s gaze, then glanced at Charles. “As experienced as we are, we cannot face a force like that and win, not before we make contact with the Cynsters.”

Charles pulled a face, looked down at the map.

Long moments passed as the four of them studied the predicament they faced. “Even if we remove those eight cultists tonight . . .” Deverell grimaced. “Unlikely we can, not without risking our lives prematurely.”

Charles nodded. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We can’t take out all eight at once.”

Her eyes on the map, Linnet leaned forward. “We don’t need to. Tomorrow, all we need to do is remove the four keeping us in sight.”

Deverell frowned. “The other four will simply take their place.”

“Not if they don’t know which way we’ve gone, or where we plan to spend tomorrow night.” Linnet looked at Logan, then at the other two. “They can be reasonably certain we’re heading to or past Cambridge, but they can’t know we’re going via Bedford.” She placed her finger on the map. “We’re here, at Oxford. Eventually, we need to pass here—Cambridge or just south of it. As you said, that’s where they’ll have stationed their main body of men. But we need to spend one night on the road between here and there—we could be planning to halt at Stevenage, Luton, Dunstable, Letchworth, Baldock, Hitchin, or any number of smaller towns. They don’t know which, and they can’t tell—which is why we have eight men just following us. They want to make absolutely certain they know where we’ll be, and, most importantly, which road we’ll be taking to Cambridge.”

“Granted,” Logan said.

“So if tomorrow we get rid of our four followers at a point before our destination becomes obvious, and get on and out of sight before the other four realize and ride hard to find us, then they simply won’t know which way we’ve gone, and they’ll have to keep their force where it is, spread out and waiting until they learn where we are, which way to turn.”

Deverell was nodding. “And if we leave before dawn the next day, we’ll have a chance to race past and into Cambridge before they can get their troops into position.” He smiled at Linnet. “That might work.”

“Indeed.” Charles leaned closer, looking down at the map. “All we need now is to find the right site to remove our four faithful followers.”

In the end, it was, once again, Linnet who came up with the best plan.

Late night

Bury St. Edmunds

“I
still can’t
believe
it!” Alex strode, all sleekly suppressed violence, into their bedroom.

Daniel followed and closed the door. He paused, then said, “It is . . . something of a shock.” He focused on Alex, now pacing before the fire. “I had no notion Roderick could be so . . . unbelievably stupid.”

Arms folded, Alex paced violently. “Clearly he can—clearly he has been. I can
not
get over him using our real names—putting them on paper in black and white—and then forgetting the fact completely, focusing solely on the threat to him, on the fact he was
also
stupid enough to seal the Black Cobra’s letter with his personal seal!”

His own head in a whirl, Daniel walked to the bed and sat down. Alex might think much faster than he, yet sometimes it paid to state the facts clearly. “We still need Roderick. Assuming he manages to get all four copies of the letter back, as he’s promised—and he’s already successfully secured the copy Delborough was carrying—”