The house was hard enough to find in daylight. Rafe told himself that, yet he still waited for what he estimated was another half hour before he accepted that they were temporarily safe. Leaving the window, he shrugged off his satchel and laid it aside, then eased himself down onto the bed beside Loretta.
Mentally blessing Waldo, he stretched out, closed his eyes.
Heard Loretta’s soft breathing, inwardly smiled.
He fell asleep a heartbeat later.
A manor house outside Needham Market
Alex woke to the sound of a small brass bell.
It was still dark—late night at a guess, not even early morning. Someone had lit a small lamp; the glow diffused through the room.
Sitting up, Alex looked toward the source of the light. M’wallah stood at the foot of the bed, his dark face impassive.
Even before Alex’s brows rose, Saleem stepped out from behind M’wallah. “Carstairs has landed.”
Alex waited, then, voice hardening, prompted, “And …?”
“As you directed, the boat he was in was pursued and pushed off course, but before our vessel could come up with it and board, Carstairs was put over the side in a rowboat. He had a woman with him, as our men in Bonn reported, but there was no sign of his man, the Pathan, or the other woman.” Saleem fixed his dark gaze on the bedpost beside Alex’s head. “Our men gave chase—six men in two rowboats, two assassins among them. They followed Carstairs into what proved to be a marsh. Our men could not at first find the way. By the time they did, Carstairs had got well ahead. The two assassins went on in one boat, hoping to come up with him, and sent the others back to report. The rider they sent just rode in with this news.”
Alex sat perfectly still for an instant, then snarled, tossed back the covers, and reached for a robe. “Where, exactly, did he land? Show me!”
Within minutes a map was spread on the manor’s dining table. Alex leaned over it.
Saleem consulted with the drooping rider in his own tongue, then pointed. “Here. This is where he came ashore. Where he went after, we do not yet know.”
Alex studied the detailed map, looked from the marshes north. “You say the ship he was in ran south, so it was making for Harwich or Felixstowe.”
Again Saleem spoke to the rider, then reported, “The captain of the vessel we had hired, the one that gave chase, said the ship Carstairs was on was one of the Felixstowe fishing fleet.”
Alex’s brows rose. “Felixstowe … so most likely we are correct in thinking he’s coming this way …”
A long moment passed. Neither M’wallah nor Saleem was foolish enough to interrupt the Black Cobra’s cogitations.
Then Alex straightened. “I want all our men in the field—every last one except for my guard and you two. We will wait here, at the center of our web. I want our men, all of them—call back all those who are anywhere else—and put every last man in a cordon, a net tight enough not to allow anyone through unobserved. From here.” One long finger jabbed at a village just north of Stowmarket. “To here.” The finger traced a path southwest to Sudbury. “We know the puppetmaster lies somewhere north and west of that line, so to reach him Carstairs will have to cross it.”
Alex looked at Saleem. “I want our men in a line close enough to maintain visual contact, one with the other. When Carstairs crosses our line, I want him taken, and I want to be informed. Immediately.”
Saleem’s dark eyes gleamed. He bowed his head. “It will be as you say, illustrious one.”
“Go.” As Saleem left, Alex glanced at M’wallah. “We are in a good position here—close enough to our line to be quickly and easily reached. There is no need for us to move.”
M’wallah bowed low. “And your guard? What should I tell them?”
Alex smiled. “To sharpen their swords.” Looking back at the map, expectation and anticipation welled. “This is the final game we will play with the puppetmaster—it has commenced, and I have no intention of losing. The instant Carstairs reaches our line—the instant he touches our web—he will be trapped, and like a spider alerted, we will ride out, the elite with you, Saleem, and me, at their head. We will triumph.”
Studying the map, Alex murmured, “The puppetmaster will not imagine we can put so many men into the field. He doesn’t know that we’ve guessed the position of his lair, and so can predict the direction this last vital courier must take. So in acting as I’ve ordered, we’ll be doing the unexpected.” Alex smiled. “And as I have so often proved, the unexpected usually wins.”
Eighteen
Rafe woke to see the sky beyond the window, beyond the drooping branches of the fir, lightening to a pearlescent midgray. As he watched, clouds scudded past, darker, thicker, distinctly threatening, but at least it wasn’t raining.
Turning his head, he looked at Loretta, still asleep beside him. He didn’t think she’d moved all night. He didn’t think he had either.
Pushing aside his coat, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his fob watch. Nearly half past six. He rewound the watch, tucked it back.
His shifting had jiggled Loretta. She stirred; her lids rose. She looked into his eyes, then her expression eased. Yawning, she rolled onto her back. “I take it we lost them?”
“For now. Two assassins followed us, but they went straight on down the lane. They had no idea we’d stopped here.” Staring at the ceiling, he weighed his thoughts, then said, “I’ve a nasty suspicion I’m the last one in—the last courier to reach England. Were I Wolverstone, that’s what I would have done—used the others to clear the way, leaving me with the vital document to come in last, and hopefully therefore encounter least resistance.”
“Least resistance?” Loretta turned her head to stare at him. “But we’ve seen so many cultists already.”
“Exactly, and it’s not just men the Black Cobra’s throwing our way, but money, too. Setting up two naval blockades, one on either side of the Channel, would have cost a significant sum. That suggests the Black Cobra is desperate. That for the fiend and his cult, stopping me from reaching Wolverstone, or passing on the document in any way, is imperative.” He met her eyes. “They’re going to do anything and everything to stop me.”
Her chin firmed, then she looked past him to the window. “In that case, we’d better get moving. The sooner we reach your guards, the better.”
He led the way downstairs, alert, wary, but there were no surprises waiting for them. They took advantage of the pump in the kitchen to wash, shivering at the water’s icy bite.
Waldo clearly hadn’t been in residence recently; there was no food of any kind in the cupboards. Cheeks rosy from the cold, fully awake, but sadly hungry, they slipped out of the cottage, locked the door, and put the key back in its hiding place.
“Once this is all over, I’d like to meet your uncle Waldo,” Loretta said.
“When this is over, I’m going to present him with a magnum of his favorite whisky.”
“Do they make magnums of whisky?”
“I’m sure they can be persuaded to.” Taking her hand, his satchel over his shoulder, Rafe set off along the track.
Not back to the lane, but away from it.
Carrying her bag in her other hand, Loretta glanced back, then focused on Rafe’s face. “What’s your plan?”
“We missed the rendezvous at the Pelican last night. I doubt Allardyce and Hendon will leave Felixstowe, at least not immediately. As I don’t know where to find Wolverstone, we’ll need to get to Felixstowe and find them.”
Loretta looked around, then back at him. “Aren’t we going in the wrong direction?”
His smile was grim. “We can’t head directly to Felixstowe, because that’s what the cult will expect us to do. We’re going to have to circle around.”
Elveden Grange, northern Suffolk
By seven o’clock that morning, the dining room of Elveden Grange was a hive of activity. Grim-faced men pored over maps spread over the large table. Deep voices posed questions; others
suggested answers. The breakfast dishes arrayed on the sideboard lay largely ignored as the all-male company made plans.
On learning at one o’clock that Rafe Carstairs had failed to make the arranged rendezvous at Felixstowe, but that others of his party had arrived there, Royce Varisey, Duke of Wolverstone, had sent a rider to summon the Cynsters. Longtime friends of the four couriers coming in from India, the Cynsters had a real and personal interest in the game underway. And, as Royce had prophesized, he would need them today.
Devil Cynster, his five cousins, and Gyles Chillingworth had answered the call, riding over from Somersham Place. They’d arrived at five o’clock, along with Colonel Derek Delborough and Major Gareth Hamilton, the first two of the couriers to reach their goal. The third, Major Logan Monteith, had remained overnight at Elveden; he and his lady had arrived only the day before.
Also helpfully staying under Elveden’s roof were six ex-colleagues with whom Royce had worked for years; he was immeasurably grateful to have their many talents at his disposal that morning.
Standing at the head of the table, he picked up the salt cellar and rapped smartly, calling the group to order. As the talk died, he glanced around the table. “Thank you for coming. Before we discuss any plan of action, let me bring you up to date with what we know.”
Riders had been back and forth to Felixstowe several times already, racing through the dark watches of the night.
“Allardyce and Hendon, at Felixstowe, have confirmed that, as of five o’clock this morning, Carstairs and the young lady traveling with him had yet to arrive. However, Carstairs’s man, Hassan, arrived at the rendezvous as expected last evening, along with the young lady’s maid. Hassan reports that in order to evade capture at Rotterdam, the four, who until then had been traveling together, split into two couples. I’m not clear at this point when, why, or where Carstairs and Hassan joined forces with the lady and her maid, but at this juncture that’s of little moment. What is pertinent is that Carstairs and the lady have not reached Felixstowe.”
“Have they reached England?” From down the table, Delborough arched a brow. “Do we have any idea?”
“As to that, the last rider brought unexpected news. Hendon has been haunting the docks, hoping to either find Carstairs or learn something of his fate from the fishing fleet as it came in. The first thing he learned was that, through yesterday afternoon and evening, the Black Cobra mounted an effective blockade off the coast, searching all vessels heading for Harwich and Felixstowe. Hassan and the maid didn’t encounter the problem because they came in the day before. But Carstairs … Hendon heard from a few fishermen that they’d seen another boat run from the blockade. It was chased off-course, but got close enough to shore to put a rowboat over the side. The fishermen saw the rowboat, with a man and woman in it, and chased by two other rowboats manned by what sounded like cultists, make it into the marshes inland of the Naze.” Leaning over the map, Royce pointed. “Here.”
“So Rafe slipped through the blockade and … what?” Gareth glanced at Royce. “He’s got a lady with him and was running from at least four cultists?”
“According to those watching, there were six pursuers. However, the boat that ferried Carstairs across the Channel escaped while he was rowing in. The fishermen identified the vessel as the Molly Ann, one of the Felixstowe fleet. Hendon quartered the harbor, and found the Molly Ann tucked away on a minor dock. The young captain was suspicious at first, but Hendon convinced him of his bona fides—aside from verifying all that the others had said, the captain added that Carstairs knows the marshes. It was his idea to put in there—he was confident he could use the difficult terrain to his advantage, and so lose the cultists.”
“Rafe has a talent for pulling off apparently harebrained forays.” Logan Monteith straightened from the table, his gaze scanning the map. “Assuming he’s succeeded and evaded capture, where’s he likely to be?”
“Holed up?” Vane Cynster queried. “Or will he keep moving?”
“He won’t head for Felixstowe,” Delborough said. “At least not directly.”
Gareth nodded. “Because he’ll assume that’s where the cult will expect him to go. So he won’t go there.”
“Perhaps not,” Royce conceded. “But like the three of you, beyond the rendezvous with his guards, he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to head.” He sighed. “I didn’t give him even a specific destination, because all those months ago I couldn’t be sure how this mission’s details would run.”
“Unavoidable,” Devil Cynster said. “But while he doesn’t know where you might be, he does know where I am.” He glanced at Royce. “He might make for Somersham Place.”
Royce met Devil’s eyes, then nodded. “You’re right.” Leaning over the table, resurveying the map, Royce pointed again at the marshes. “He was here last evening. He might be holed up in some safe place and be waiting for the cult to lose interest, he might have found somewhere to rest for the night and already be moving again, or he might have kept moving all night.”
Delborough shook his head. “He’s got a lady with him, so he’s not moving that fast.”
“The cult know where he was,” Gareth pointed out. “They’ll have known for longer than we have.”
“Indeed.” Royce nodded. “I think we can safely assume that the Black Cobra and the bulk of the cult—his remaining forces—are going to be concentrated.… most likely between us and Ipswich.” He waved a hand across that section of the map. “They have men in Felixstowe already, but they can’t know Carstairs doesn’t know his destination. Although the Black Cobra might keep some men there, given the blockade, he’ll assume Carstairs will now bypass Felixstowe and make for here, meaning in this general direction, as the other three of you did.”
“So the Black Cobra—the real Black Cobra—is somewhere between us and Ipswich and the marshes south of it.” Del glanced at Royce.
Royce met his eyes. “If cultists capture Carstairs, are they likely to kill him and take the scroll-holder to their master, or will they take Carstairs himself, alive?”
Del glanced at Gareth, then Logan, then looked across the table at Devil, before returning his gaze to Royce. “I’d wager my life on the latter. Even more so if Rafe still has the young lady with him.”
Royce nodded tersely. “That’s my reading of this, too. So Carstairs won’t be in mortal danger until he’s in the presence of the Black Cobra.”
“So what’s our plan?” Devil asked.
Royce’s expression was all lethal intent. “We let Carstairs run wherever he may—we go after the Black Cobra.”
“It’s after ten o’clock. Where the devil has the damned man gone?” Alex paced the drawing room of the manor house outside Needham Market, cold fury investing every stride.
“He has not gone to Felixstowe.” M’wallah sat on a stool, a map spread on his knees.
His hand on his scimitar’s hilt, Saleem stood at the older man’s shoulder. “His man is there, with the guards sent to meet Carstairs, but neither Carstairs nor the young lady have reached there.”
Alex halted, eyes narrowing. “Could it be a ruse? Could the man have the letter, and Carstairs be a stalking horse?”
Saleem exchanged a glance with M’wallah, then carefully said, “We do not believe that is likely, illustrious one. The men waiting for Carstairs searched all night—why, if they had the letter already? Were that so, surely they would have taken it immediately to the puppetmaster and left Carstairs to lead us further astray.”
Alex considered, then conceded with a nod. “True. But none of our men have sighted him yet.”
Watching Alex, pacing again, bite a nail, Saleem fixed his gaze across the room and reiterated, “Our cordon is in place from northeast of Stowmarket to southwest of Sudbury. The instant Carstairs attempts to cross our line, we will have him. Our men will bring him here, to you. We have only to wait and he will fall into your trap.”
M’wallah looked up from the map. “We assumed, oh, illustrious
one, that Carstairs would travel on through the night, fleeing our men. If that were so, he would indeed be nearing our cordon. But what if he had to rest? The lady might not have been able to carry on.”
Alex halted, then, after a moment, slowly nodded in agreement. “Yes, you’re right. I forgot about her. And I shouldn’t.” A slow smile curved Alex’s lips. “Especially as I strongly suspect she will be the key to breaking Carstairs.”
A tap sounded on the door. M’wallah called, “Come.”
A young cultist pushed through the door carrying a tray loaded with teapot and cups. He set the tray down on a table near M’wallah. The older man rose, poured tea into a delicate cup, then lifted the milk pitcher and tipped—only a small amount of milk dribbled out.
The old man raised his head, with his dark gaze pinned the young cultist.
The young man cowered. “It is all we have, excellency.”
Alex, who had retreated to the window, looked around, saw. Stared for a moment, then waved toward the door. “Go and fetch more. We are not moving yet.”
Bobbing and bowing all but to his toes, the young man backed toward the door.
Saleem turned to him. “Do not go into the town itself—we do not need to let these locals know we are here. Find somewhere nearby, beyond the town, where you can buy or steal some milk.”
Close to terrified, the young cultist nodded, and slid out of the room.
Holding the reins of the gig he’d hired in one hand, Rafe drew out his fob watch, glanced at the face, then tucked it back into his pocket.
“What time is it?” Loretta asked from beside him.
“Ten-thirty.” Rafe glanced at her, then looked ahead. “We’ll stop in Hadleigh. We both need to eat.”
Loretta nodded. She was feeling light-headed. Their last meal—and it hadn’t even been that decent—had been at the tavern in Rotterdam, and they hadn’t eaten much during the preceding day, either. If they were to match wits with the Black Cobra, they needed sustenance.
Rafe had led her west along the track to another lane, and eventually to another hamlet, Goose Green, near the road between Harwich and Colchester. There he’d hired a gig, and driven them not toward Harwich and so closer to Felixstowe but southwest toward Colchester. As he’d explained, that wasn’t the direction in which the cult would expect him to go. But he’d soon turned off the road back onto the small country lanes. Exhibiting a reassuring sense of direction, he’d tacked through the quiet byways, eventually passing through the small village of Dedham. Exercising all caution, they’d crossed the main road between Colchester and Ipswich, then plunged back into a haphazard network of country lanes.
The Reckless Bride Page 36