Loretta wasn’t at all sure she liked the gleam in Esme’s eyes. “You’ve never done this before, have you—acted as chaperone for a young lady?”
Esme, her gaze still dwelling assessingly on Loretta, shook her head. “No. No children, no grandchildren. I have to admit that until now I hadn’t seen the attraction, but I do believe Therese Osbaldestone might be right—this will indeed be very like the facilitating one does as a diplomat’s wife.” Esme suddenly smiled. She met Loretta’s eyes. “I do believe I’m going to enjoy transforming you into a fitting testament to your heritage, then parading you temptingly beneath the right gentleman’s nose.”
Loretta frowned.
Undeterred, Esme flicked her fingers at Loretta’s skirts. “Apropos of which, I can only give thanks that our first stop will be Paris.”
October 10, 1822
Caravanseri outside Herat, Afghan Supremacy
Rafe crossed his forearms on the weathered earthen wall and looked out across the desolate landscape eerily lit by the waning moon. Behind him, in the rectangular compound protected by the walls, a large trading caravan lay sleeping, the camels picketed to one side, the wagons staggered across the open gap that provided entry into the caravanseri. Tents and rude shelters lay deeper in the compound, protecting the caravan’s people from the intensifying chill.
Out across the flat plain, nothing moved. Not robber, not cultist.
Standing on the narrow walkway hugging the inner face of the walls, Rafe stared out at the emptiness, at the rockstrewn plain unbroken by trees, with barely a stick of brush to soften the stark lines.
A zephyr whispered past, then faded. Died.
Rafe heard soft footsteps approaching. Hassan. They’d taken positions as guards with the trader who owned the caravan. It was the best camouflage they’d been able to find for crossing this too open, too uninhabited land.
“Still no sign of pursuit,” Rafe murmured as Hassan halted beside him.
“There is no way the cult could trace us in such barren territory.”
“No. So the next time we see them, they’ll be ahead of us, waiting for us to come along. I wonder where?”
Hassan said nothing. A moment later, he walked on, circling the compound in the achingly cold silence.
Rafe drew his long cloak closer, and wondered where his friends, his three brothers-in-arms, slept tonight. Wherever they were, he suspected they’d be warmer than he, but were they safer?
He and Hassan had been lost to the cultists from the moment they’d ridden out of Bombay’s northern gate. He doubted the other couriers had been so lucky.
Nearly a month into his mission, yet it had yet to truly start. Impatience niggled; he was a man of action—of facing enemies he could see, meet, and defeat.
Around him lay nothing. Not even a hint of a threat on the wind.
How long would it be before this hiatus ended and his final battle at last began?
November 3, 1822
Villa in Trieste, Italy
“We need to start for home—for England—now.” Loretta folded her arms, her gaze on Esme’s face. “You said you’d promised we’d be home for Christmas. If we don’t start now, we’ll never make it, and the weather will assuredly turn against us, too.”
Reclining on a daybed before the windows of the drawing room of the villa she’d hired for their extended stay, Esme arched her brows. Consideration seeped into her otherwise relaxed expression, then she wrinkled her nose. “You’re right. I do so hate traveling in slush.”
Relief shot through Loretta; her trial was nearing an end. “So we’ll head back to Venice, then via Marseilles to Paris?”
Frowning, Esme studied her, as she often did, assessingly. “Hmm … I’m not quite finished with you. You’ve learned to be more forthright, and we’ve rectified your wardrobe, thank heavens.”
By “losing” all the demure and decorous clothes she’d brought from London. Loretta didn’t bother glancing down at the periwinkle blue gown she wore, the color matching her eyes, the delicate fabric clinging lovingly to curves she would prefer remained hidden.
“And you can now laugh, converse, and dance with the best of them—not that I ever doubted you could.” Esme wagged a finger at her. “But your flirting needs work, andyou’ve declined to indulge in even one small fling. Your overall attitude still leaves much to be desired.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with my attitude. If I happen to meet a man I find interesting, you may be sure I’ll pay him due attention.”
“Yes, well, therein lies the rub. You need to be interesting first, enough to make him draw near. Gentlemen—certainly those of the sort you’ll find interesting—are like elusive game. They have to be tempted to draw close, so they can fall into the pit.”
“You make it sound like hunting.”
“Good gracious, girl, that’s precisely what it is. You can’t expect them to know what’s best for them—they need to be persuaded to take the bit. But before we start bandying further metaphors, the fact remains that my work with you is not yet done. I have, therefore, decided that we will return to England by a different route. We’ll head to Buda—Richard and I spent a pleasant few months there before the Treaty of Vienna. From there, we can take the rivers back to the Channel—much less chance of our plans being disrupted by the weather.”
The latter consideration stilled any protest Loretta might have made.
Esme sat up and swung her feet to the floor. “Different cities—fresh fields.”
That was what Loretta feared. However…. “If we’re traveling to Buda, now that we’ve lost Phillipe we’ll need to hire outriders as well as a coach ourselves.” The courier-guide Esme had hired in Paris to see to their party’s needs through the journey had fallen victim to a local contessa. The contessa had captured him and whisked him off to her isolated castle; Esme had confirmed that Phillipe would not be traveling on with them. Loretta frowned. “Or should we try to find another courier-guide?”
Esme considered, then shook her head. “If we’re to go by boat from Buda on, we’ll have no need of one.”
“In that case"—Loretta straightened—"I’ll go into town now and make the arrangements.”
And send off another Window on Europe vignette to her agent. The readers of the London Enquirer had, apparently, become quite addicted to her latest reports.
November 20, 1822
Hillside above Drobeta-turnu-Severin,
at the southwestern tip of the Transylvanian Alps
Rafe blew on his hands, stamped his feet, then crouched to hold his hands to the tiny blaze of their campfire. “I still can’t believe the Black Cobra stationed men in Constanta.”
He didn’t expect a reply to his grumble; Hassan had heard it before. After seeing not so much as a hair of a cultist all the way through Persia and Turkey, they’d taken a ship from Samsun across the Black Sea to Constanta—and found cultists waiting for them in the first narrow street they’d tramped down.
They’d fought their way out of that ambush, but only just. Both he and Hassan were sporting fresh scars. They’d immediately hired horses and raced out of town, but in this much different landscape, with its mud, slush, and snow, it was impossible to hide their trail, and the cultists were, by and large, excellent trackers.
“They are still following,” Hassan eventually said.
Rafe nodded. Huddling in the thick woollen coat he’d bought in Turkey, he stared into the fire. “Our mission is to avoid being taken at all costs, which sadly means we shouldn’t engage, not if we can avoid it.”
The necessity bit at him. He’d much rather turn and savage their pursuers, but the scroll-holder he carried, the one containing the crucial evidence that had to get to the Duke of Wolverstone in England, put paid to that. He was having second thoughts over how pleased he was to have drawn the critical mission.
But duty was duty, and he knew where his lay. If running and hiding was the price he had to pay to see the Black Cobra hang, he�
�d pay it.
Anything to avenge James MacFarlane.
Moving slowly, careful not to let the wind, knife-edged with ice, slice through his outer wrappings, he drew out the map he’d bought in Constanta and unfolded it. Hassan shifted to look over his shoulder.
“We’re here.” Rafe pointed. “Just ahead is the pass they call the Iron Gate, where the Danube flows through a gap in the mountains. We’ll reach there tomorrow, and if the snow holds off we should be able to pass through and out into the plain beyond.” He shifted the map the better to examine the area beyond the pass. After long moments of silent considering, he exhaled. “It’s as I thought. Once we get onto the plain, we have to make a decision. Do we keep heading directly east, cutting through the Slavic lands to northern Italy, then into southern France, and from there turn north for Rotterdam, or do we take the other route and head north on the plain, then follow the rivers—the Danube and then the Rhine—east to Rotterdam, and so to Felixstowe?”
“It is Rotterdam that we must reach to get a boat to Felixstowe?”
“That’s the Channel crossing we’re supposed to take. There’ll be guards waiting for us at Felixstowe, to escort us on from there.”
They studied the map, then fell to discussing the cities, the roads. There seemed little real difference between the two routes. “Either should see us to Felixstowe by the date Wolverstone stipulated. We’re earlier than expected thus far, so we’ll have to go slowly, or pause at some point, but other than that …” Rafe shrugged. The routes seemed much of a muchness.
Until Hassan asked, “As we cannot risk standing and fighting, which way will be better for us to avoid notice?”
Brows rising, Rafe stared at the map. “With that in mind, there’s only one choice.”
One
November 24, 1822
Danube Embankment, Buda
Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days hence, in his pocket.
He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.
Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly European-style winter coat he now wore. “The last two tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger, and the boat’s too small for them to stow away or join the crew at the last minute.”
Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of his friend without his headdress.
They’d reached Buda two nights before. The first thing they’d done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for European garb. Throughout their journey they’d constantly changed clothes to better blend with the natives. Now, in the well-cut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck,with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and Prussian merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan’s hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots, fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads had turned as they’d passed; no one paid them any heed.
The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair, he, especially, would have had difficulty passing unnoticed through Italy and France.
The second place they’d visited yesterday had been a gunsmith’s. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and shot. The cultists’ one true weakness was a superstitious fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.
They still wore their swords and carried the knives they’d feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over, pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their knives.
Rafe had also found a cartographer’s studio; he’d bought the best maps available of the areas through which they planned to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon studying their prospective route, then had sought advice from their innkeeper and the patrons of the inn’s bar on which shipping company to approach.
Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the street. “Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will likely not think of it.”
Rafe nodded. “At least not immediately.” In India, rivers were not much used for long-distance travel, not like the Danube and Rhine. And as the majority of cultists couldn’t swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels and inns on land. “According to the shipping clerk, our journey via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a day to spare—no need to schedule any other halts to align us with Wolverstone’s timetable.”
“We have seen no cultists here yet,” Hassan said. “None around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east.”
Following Hassan’s gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft large and small, then lifting his gaze to the stone bridge linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the opposite bank, Rafe murmured, “If they had cultists in Constanta, there’ll be cultists here. We need to remain on guard.”
He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in beside him. They headed toward the small inn in which they’d taken rooms.
“The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major town along the highways,” Rafe said. “Here, Vienna, Munich, Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the rivers, we’ll avoid most of those. On our first leg along the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can’t avoid, but for the rest it’s as we thought—the river towns are smaller, and most lie away from the major highways.” That had been the reason they’d decided to travel by riverboat up the Danube and then down the Rhine. “Nevertheless, we should put some effort into shoring up our disguise. We need a believable story to account for who we appear to be—an occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling.”
They’d reached an intersection where a narrow cobbled street rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the embankment.
“No!”
The shrill female protest jerked them to a halt. They looked up the street.
In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman—a lady by her dress—flailed at two louts who had backed her against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.
There was no one else in the street.
Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the woman’s next cry.
Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly protesting, she fought to beat them off, knew nothing until Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.
A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.
Rafe turned to the woman. “Are you all right?”
He’d spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her ageing, yet delicately boned, face. She was old enough to be his grandmother.
Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.
The lady—Rafe might have been away from society for more than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine, the head rising high, the haughty features—considered him, then said in perfect upper-class English, “Thank you, dear boy. I’m a trifle rattled, but if you’ll help me to that bench there, I daresay I’ll be right as rain in two minutes.”
Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to understanding her.
Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his arm. “Your accent’s straight from Eton, dear boy. And you look vaguely familiar, too—no doubt I’ll place you in a few minutes. Now give me your arm.”
Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops, equally incensed.
“They’re recovering,” Hassan said.
Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to their feet.
The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.
The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.
“Do you want us to catch them?” one of the locals asked.
The lady waved. “No, no—they were doubtless some layabouts who thought to seize some coins from a defenseless old woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I really do not have time to become entangled with the authorities here.”
Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he needed, too.
He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred, but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously accepted—in German that was significantly more fluent and colloquial than Rafe’s.
When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their businesses, Rafe met the lady’s gray eyes—eyes decidedly too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. “Rafe Carstairs, ma’am.” He would have preferred to decamp—to run away from any lady who called him “dear boy"—but ingrained manners forced him to ask, “Are you staying nearby?”
The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. “Lady Congreve. I believe I knew your parents, and I know your brother, Viscount Henley. I’m putting up at the Imperial Hotel, just along from the top of this street.”
The Reckless Bride Page 2