Maisie shrugged. “Who’s to say? In the lap of the gods, that is.”
Sangay managed a weak smile. Turning, he left the room. He slipped through the kitchen and went quickly up the stairs. Reaching his room, he quietly shut the door, then climbed into his bed and pulled the blanket over his head.
He tried not to shiver. He wasn’t cold. But he didn’t know what to do. Desperation clutched his chest, his heart.
What would happen to his maataa?
He believed in the gods. They had sent the snow. They didn’t want him to take the holder to the evil sahib, at least not yet.
But was that so? Was there some other route he was meant to take to the big church?
He didn’t know. He didn’t know this country, and with the snow on the ground, it had only become more alien.
Curling up in the bed, he shivered harder.
Del woke to see a strange, subdued light slanting through a gap in the curtains drawn across the window in Deliah’s room.
It took a moment for him to recall what such a light portended.
Deliah slumbered, warm and soft against his side. He glanced at her, then, carefully easing from under the covers, leaving her sleeping, he padded quickly across the room, pushed the curtain aside—and looked out on a scene that embodied the essence of “home” to him.
He looked out on a world covered in white. The thick blanket stretched as far as he could see, the bare branches of trees weighted with an inches-thick coating of soft white. The air was curiously clear. The wind had died during the night, leaving the smothering snow undisturbed, unmarred.
He hadn’t seen such a sight for decades.
A soft footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, Deliah was there, as naked as he, but she’d brought the counterpane with her; she tossed one end over his bare shoulders as she came to lean against his side.
Her face was alight. “I haven’t seen snow for more than seven years!”
The excitement in her voice, innocent and sincere, found an echo inside him. Tugging the counterpane around him, he put his arms around her, held her close. For long moments, they stood snuggling together, looking out on the pristine scene.
“We might even have a white Christmas,” she said.
“Much as I, personally, would appreciate that, I hope this will thaw, and soon.” When she looked up at him, brows rising, he explained, “The others have yet to get through. Snow will only make them slower—make them easier targets.”
She sobered, closed her hand on his arm. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.” Then she frowned. “But there’s—what?—nine days to go? They should be here before then, surely?”
“I don’t know. Devil hasn’t heard anything about the others. We’ll have to wait until I see Wolverstone to ask.”
They stood silently for some minutes, he thinking about his colleagues, most likely still some way from home. “With luck Gareth will have landed in England by now.”
Deliah gave him another moment, then jabbed her elbow into his side. “Let’s go down. I haven’t thrown a snowball since I left Humberside.”
He chuckled. “All right—I challenge you to a snowball duel.” Ducking out from under the counterpane, he headed for his clothes.
Trailing the counterpane like a shawl, she went to the wardrobe. “What are the rules?”
“There aren’t any.” In his trousers and shirt, he slung his coat on. “I need a different coat. I’ll meet you in the front hall.”
Pulling out a red woolen gown, she nodded. “Five minutes.”
He left.
She rushed.
He’d only just reached the front door when she hurried down the stairs, buttoning her pelisse. Breathless, more with excitement and anticipation than exertion, she let her momentum carry her to the door.
Del pulled back the heavy bolts, then reached for the doorknob. He swung the door open, waved Deliah through, then followed her into a world turned white.
Into a world of long-ago childhoods and innocent delights.
The carriage drive had disappeared beneath the tide. The lawns were a blanket of glistening purity, punctured by the skeletal trees, their branches limned with a thick coating of snow.
Shutting the door, he walked forward to join Deliah at the edge of the porch steps. White crust crunched beneath his boots. Their breaths fogged before their faces.
She was testing the snow piled on the steps with the toe of her red halfboot. “Too soft to walk in, and it looks to be more than knee-deep.”
He watched as she crouched, then reached out to brush her hand over the snow. She’d put on a pair of knitted gloves. After brushing the surface, she plunged her fingers in. The snow was dry and as yet uncompacted.
She drew out a handful, let it sift through her fingers. Marveled.
He watched her, saw the light in her eyes, the expressions flitting over her face, and felt each resonate within him. “Our snow’s usually heavier.”
She nodded. “This is so fine. It’ll be gone in a few days.”
“Not like our weeks of white.”
Home for them lay north of the Humber, in the Wolds. Snow often closed them in, blanketing the ground for weeks at a time.
“It’s strange how a sight like this—one unseen for years—suddenly takes one back.” Looking down, she started gathering snow.
“It reinforces that we’re home—that we really are home, because where we were before it never snowed.” He strolled to the other side of the porch, hunkered down and started to gather a snowball of his own.
She beat him to it. Her first attempt hit him squarely on the side of his head. It broke in a shower of dry, ice-cold white, dusting his shoulders.
He swung to face her, pelted the ball he’d fashioned at her.
She yelped, dodged, and the ball struck the wall behind her.
Laughing, she bent and quickly gathered more snow for another ball.
Muttering mock-direfully, he did the same.
For the next ten minutes, they were children again, in the snow again, at home again. They shied loose balls of white at each other, laughing, calling insults both adult and childish. There was no one about to hear or see.
Only each other.
By the time she waved and, breathless, called a halt, they were both holding their sides from laughing so much. He looked into her bright eyes, noted the flush on her cheeks, sensed the sheer exuberance that filled her.
Felt the same coursing through him. “Pax,” he agreed. The cold was starting to reach through their clothes.
They shook and dusted the powdery snow from their coats, stamped their feet, then headed for the door.
In the front hall, Webster was supervising the rebuilding of the fire in the huge fireplace. Seeing them, he bowed. “Miss Duncannon. Colonel. If you care to go through to the breakfast parlor, we’ll be ready to serve you shortly.”
Relaxed, still smiling, they ambled down the corridor Webster had indicated. The breakfast parlor proved to be a large room with a series of windows looking south over a terrace, currently lightly covered in snow. A long sideboard hugged the opposite wall, with countless covered chafing dishes lined up along it. A parade of footmen were ferrying hot dishes up from the kitchen to lay beneath the domed covers.
The long table was set. They took seats along one side, facing the view. Coffeepot and teapot appeared before them all but instantly.
Webster brought a rack of fresh toast himself, and extolled the wonders of the offerings on the sideboard, exhorting them to make their selections.
He didn’t have to exhort twice. Their impromptu snowball fight had stirred their appetites. Returning to the table, a quite astonishing mound of food on her plate, Deliah suspected their late-night activities had also contributed.
They sat, ate, and shared—long moments of reflective silence as well as comments, most of which centered on their earlier lives in Humberside, but which, in the retelling, highlighted elements each clearly hoped to e
xperience again.
Now they were heading home again.
Now they were close enough to imagine being there.
Now that they were looking their futures in the eyes.
It was apparent neither had any definite vision of what their respective futures would be like.
“You said you wanted to invest in manufacturing.” Deliah raised her brows at Del. “Do you have any preferences as to what?”
“I’m not yet sure, but I had thought to look at some of the woolen mills in the West Riding, and perhaps a flour mill in Hull—something along those lines. There’s new advances on the horizon which should make great improvements, and it seems somehow fitting that a fortune I—born and raised in Humberside—made protecting our overseas trade should be invested in activities that create jobs in Humberside.”
Deliah inclined her head. “A worthy ambition.”
“You mentioned the cotton trade.”
She nodded. “I think I’ll approach the weaving guilds, and see whether there’s any interest. Initially I assume I’ll remain an absentee grower and importer, supplying the mills rather than investing in them directly. But eventually I may look at investing in the mills, too.”
Del seized the moment to ask, “I take it you intend returning to live with your parents at Holme on the Wolds?”
“At first. But I doubt I’ll remain there for long.”
“Oh? Why?”
She seemed to search for words, then offered, “Consider it along the lines of a clash of personalities. My parents have always expected me to conform to a rigid…I suppose you could say mold. A pattern of behavior that allows only the most strictly conservative, prim and proper conduct in all things.” She slanted a glance at him. “That mold didn’t fit years ago, and while I thought, perhaps, after my years away I might have grown closer to their ideal, sadly…” She shook her head and looked down at her plate. “I fear I was fooling myself. So I’ll go home, and the instant I do anything outside their expectations—start looking into investments, or, heaven help me, telling them of my interests in cotton and the like—Papa will get on his high horse and forbid it, and I’ll refuse, and then I’ll feel honor-bound to leave.”
“Where will you go?” Del fought to keep his tone even. If she was going to disappear from Humberside, he needed her destination. He couldn’t ask her to marry him if he couldn’t find her. He didn’t want to have to chase her to Jamaica, either.
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She waved her fork. “Courtesy of my highly-disreputable-for-a-lady, as my parents will term it, commercial interests, I’m hardly a pauper.”
Footsteps in the corridor heralded the rest of the company. The men came in first, the ladies drifting in later, having been to the nurseries to supervise their offsprings’ ablutions and breakfasts.
Within minutes the room was full of bustle and good cheer. The men looked out at the snow and made disparaging comments, disgruntled that the extensive covering effectively put paid to any chance of a Black Cobra attack, at least not that day.
“Or very likely the next.” Demon, who owned a racing stud in nearby Newmarket, shook his head. “I can’t see us even riding out tomorrow.”
“Never mind.” Demon’s wife, Flick, smiled at him across the table. “You can spend a few hours with your children—that will keep at least them amused.”
All the Cynster wives were quick to concur.
All the Cynster males looked horrified.
But that, Deliah soon realized, was all pretense. To a man, the Cynsters, and Chillingworth, too, were exceedingly proud papas. When, later that morning, the nursemaids brought all the toddlers and babies down to join the company in the long library to which they’d repaired, the men were very ready to jig their offspring on their knees and compare their various putative talents.
Which activity resulted in a great deal of laughter.
Despite the constraint imposed by the weather, the day rolled on in relaxed, good-humored, pleasantly comfortable style.
December 16
Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk
Alex led the way through the reception rooms of the house the Black Cobra had commandeered. “This will do nicely. So helpful of the owners, whoever they are, to have vacated it just when we need a headquarters in this area.”
When Delborough had left London, scroll-holder still in his keeping, and headed into Cambridgeshire, it had become clear that whoever he intended delivering the scroll-holder to wasn’t in town. Hardly surprising, given there were so few people of power left in the capital that close to Christmas.
When Larkins had sent word that Delborough had stopped at Somersham, so close to the many great houses of the truly powerful scattered throughout northern Suffolk and neighboring Norfolk, Alex had given orders to shift their base from Shrewton House—pleasantly satisfying though their stay there had been—to some place better situated to block the couriers’ access to those “truly powerful.”
Bury St. Edmunds was perfectly positioned. Thus far the town was proving exceedingly accommodating.
“Creighton heard the owners had gone to stay with family in the north for Christmas, so he came to take a look.” Following Alex into the sitting room, Daniel sprawled on the holland-covered sofa, putting his feet up on the low table before it. Creighton was his gentleman’s gentleman. “The back door apparently opened very easily.”
“Well, we couldn’t have stayed at an inn,” Alex said. “Can you imagine the talk once the locals laid eyes on M’wallah and the others?”
“Especially the others,” Daniel replied.
They’d assembled a select body of cultists—assassins and foot soldiers both—to act as bodyguards for them under the command of M’wallah, Alex’s fanatically loyal Indian houseman. The same cultists would also serve as a well-trained force should they need to deploy men from their base. Their preference, however, was, as always, to act from a distance by sending cultists from groups not directly connected to their households to do their bidding.
Concealing the Black Cobra’s identity had become second nature to them all.
Roderick drifted in, looking around, assessing. Seeing a sideboard along one wall, he walked to it and tried the cupboard doors. Finding them locked, he smiled, drew a lock-pick from his pocket and crouched before them.
An instant later, the doors popped open. Sliding the pick back in his pocket, Roderick pulled out a bottle, held it up to read the label. “Whoever he is, the owner has a nice taste in brandy. Lucky for us.” Putting the bottle back, he rose.
At the far end of the sitting room, Alex had parted the curtains covering the front window to peer outside. “With the house built into these old arches, we can even have the curtains open during the day. The front façade is so shadowed and gloomy, no one will be able to see in from the street.”
The house was one of a short row built into the massive arches along the west face of the ruined Abbey Church.
“So Delborough’s taken refuge at Somersham.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “Why there?”
“Not Somersham the village, but Somersham Place. It’s the principal residence of the Duke of St. Ives—Devil Cynster.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.” Alex returned to join Daniel on the sofa. “Could St. Ives be Delborough’s contact? Is St. Ives in a position to bring us down?”
Shaking his head, Roderick dropped into an armchair facing the other two. “It’s a mystery why Delborough’s chosen to go there. St. Ives is eminently well-connected within the ton, very much haut ton, but he’s not a political heavyweight, at least not in foreign matters. Papa would simply shrug off any accusation St. Ives made, then bury it. I really don’t think we need to worry about St. Ives. Besides, Larkins believes Delborough hasn’t handed over the scroll-holder but has it still in his keeping, which suggests Somersham is merely a staging point—a safe house, perhaps—from which Delborough will make the last push to his ultimate destination.”
“Any guesses as to whe
re that ‘ultimate destination’ is?” Alex asked. “I assume the other couriers will make for the same place.”
“I think we can count on that,” Roderick returned. “There has to be one person behind this—someone is the puppetmaster pulling all the strings. The big question is: who?”
Alex nodded. “Whoever they are, they are the person we need to worry about—to counter. And the safest and easiest way is by ensuring the original letter never makes it into their hands.”
The other two nodded in agreement.
“So what did Larkins report?” Daniel asked.
Roderick had made a detour to meet Larkins in Newmarket. “His thief is inside the house, still undetected, still free to move. Unfortunately, the snow was particularly heavy in that part of the country. When Larkins spoke to the little beggar last night, he—the boy—was confident he could find the scroll-holder and bring it out to Larkins, but now with the snow so deep, even if he has filched the scroll-holder he’ll have to wait for the thaw to bring it out.”
“I assume Larkins was wise enough to arrange to meet this boy-thief at a distance?” Alex asked.
Lips curving, Roderick nodded. “He’s picked a place anyone can find—Ely Cathedral.”
“Oh, I do approve.” Alex smiled back. “Not so much appropriate as…contemptuous. Very much in keeping with the Black Cobra style.”
“Larkins thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am, but…I have to say, thus far Larkins isn’t living up to his usual efficiency.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes. “Delborough, after all, still lives, and we’re still waiting for his scroll-holder.”
Roderick shrugged. “You can hardly blame Larkins. If it hadn’t been for that damned redhead, we’d have done for Delborough in Southampton. And got the scroll-holder, too. As you’d predicted, after the attacks by the two cultists we put on board his ship at Capetown, the good colonel had fallen into the habit of assuming he only had knives to fear.”
“While it’s nice to be proved correct,” Alex dryly replied, “we sacrificed two good men, and we still have Delborough alive and running around Cambridgeshire with his scroll-holder.”
The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt Page 24