The Elusive Bride (33 page)

“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.

“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?”

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.