Still turned away from Sangay, Larkins slid the letter back into the scroll-holder, closed and locked it, then put it into the pocket of the heavy coat he wore.
Focused on securing the letter and holder, Larkins missed seeing the three monks draw closer.
Focused on Larkins, Del didn’t miss the glint of light along the blade the bastard drew from the pocket into which he’d dropped the holder.
“Run, Sangay!”
The order rang out from multiple points around the octagon as Larkins turned and lunged for the boy, but Sangay had already yelped and danced sideways, avoiding Larkins’s grasping hand and his deadly knife.
Leaving Larkins momentarily off-balance.
Before the heavy man could recover, Sangay shrieked, “Ai-ai-ai!” and fled—flew—past him, straight to Tony, rounding the altar some paces beyond Larkins.
Larkins whirled with a roar—then gaped. Froze at the sight of Tony, monk’s robe thrown back over his shoulder, sword raised, his other arm clamped protectively around Sangay’s shivering shoulders.
Larkins’s eyes widened. He looked to the left, toward the north transept, and saw Gyles move out from behind the column.
Larkins whirled to face down the nave.
Only to find Gervase waiting, sword in hand, in the middle of the aisle, with Vane coming up behind him.
Larkins took a step back, then swung to the south—to the corridor through which he’d entered. He’d already taken a step before he registered that Del stood there, blocking that route of escape. Demon hovered in the shadows behind him.
Meeting Larkins’s eyes, Del saw recognition flare—felt grim retribution curve his lips as Larkins stared.
Then Larkins glanced around, and bolted.
Tony had grasped the moments of Larkins’s distraction to draw Sangay back to safety beyond the choir screen. Larkins thought that meant the east corridor was unguarded—mistakenly.
He ran into Gabriel and Lucifer, avenging angels with swords in their hands. Larkins saw them a few steps before it would have been too late. He slid to a halt, then reversed direction and came pelting back toward the altar.
One glance down the north transept revealed Devil and Richard, coming up fast to corner him.
With a scrape and a hiss, Larkins drew a long cutlass from beneath his coat, then swung to put his back to the altar, facing them all, menacing them all, a snarl distorting his features.
None of them were impressed.
“No need for any heroics.” Del stepped forward. They had Larkins exactly where they wanted him, trapped in the octagon. Their plan was to take him alive so he could talk about his master. And none of them were all that keen to even wound him literally on the altar.
However, Del doubted Larkins possessed any such reciprocal sensibility.
Larkins had one hand on the altar as, head slightly lowered, he stood watching Del. Larkins could possibly vault onto the altar. Standing atop it, he’d have something of an advantage, but, regardless, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—escape them.
Rather than prolong the standoff until Larkins sensed their reluctance, Del switched his sword to his left hand, intending to make use of his pistol to capture Larkins.
Larkins saw the move. Desperate, he thought to capitalize. Raising his sword high, he uttered a bellow—
“Good gracious! What’s going on?”
All of them jolted. All of them swung to look.
At the two middle-aged ladies who had appeared behind Devil and Richard. Both ladies had huge flower-filled urns in their arms.
Between them, a pace behind them, stood a cleric, the vicar. He’d halted, blinking myopically toward the altar. “Great heavens! Is that a sword?”
Behind the vicar, the door through which the trio had come stood open.
The next actions happened in the blink of an eye, but to Del, viewing them, time slowed.
Like all of them, Larkins had swung to face the intruders. As Del saw the open door, so did he.
Del saw Larkins’s body shift, knew what he was going to do. With a muttered curse, he stopped reaching for the pistol in his pocket, grasped his sword in his right hand and started forward.
Just as Larkins’s sword arm started to rise again.
Larkins raised his sword above his head, with a roar swung it wildly—and charged.
Devil and Richard had no choice. They turned. Ducking one shoulder, each grabbed one of the women, and in a shower of water, flowers and urns, to ear-splitting screams they hoisted them and rushed them back down the corridor, beyond the door through which they’d come, to safety.
His way cleared, Gyles leapt in and hauled the vicar to him, sword raised, sparks flashing down its length as he used it to ward off Larkins’s roundhouse slash.
Then Larkins was through, past, and racing for the open door.
Del raced after him, but wasn’t close enough. Larkins barreled through the door, then whirled and slammed it shut.
Just before his shoulder hit the panel, Del heard a key grate in the lock.
The door was like the cathedral—solid. The heavy iron hinges were even more so.
Together with Gabriel, Del rammed his shoulder to the panel, but it didn’t so much as shake.
“Wait—wait! I have a key.” The vicar, visibly shaking, came shuffling up, hauling a massive key ring from his robe. There were at least twenty keys on it. “Now…which one is it?”
The keys jingled as he sorted through them.
Del shifted his weight, glanced at the others. “Go out and around.” Because of the risk of being seen, they hadn’t dared post anyone outside.
Gervase, Vane, Lucifer, and Demon rapidly headed out, through the octagon and down the nave—the fastest way to the outside of that part of the cathedral.
Devil came up, sword in hand. “Reverend, is there an external door in that room?”
The vicar glanced up, blinked, then smiled. “Why, my goodness. St. Ives, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Devil said, unsmiling. “Is there an external door in there?”
The vicar glanced at the door. “Well, of course. That’s how we came in.”
Someone muttered a poorly smothered expletive. Richard and Gabriel started after the others.
The vicar glanced their way. “But there’s no need to worry—I locked it after us. I had no idea you were chasing a madman, but he won’t be able to leave by that door.”
Richard and Gabriel halted, then slowly came back.
“I always lock that door,” the vicar said, returning to his keys. “It’s the parish office, you see. I wouldn’t want just anyone poking around in there—ah!” He held up a key. “This is it.”
“Allow me.” Devil took the key, fitted it in the lock, turned it. They all heard the bolt click back.
The vicar obligingly stepped to the rear.
Devil exchanged a glance with Del, who came to stand by his shoulder.
Devil’s lips quirked. “Just like old times.”
Sword in one hand, with a twist of his wrist Devil opened the door and sent it swinging wide. Del stepped through first. Devil followed on his heels to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, blocking the doorway.
Del’s first thought was that there was no one in the room. All he saw was the open window alongside the locked outer door.
A large casement window fully open, the gap was more than wide enough for a man, even one as large as Larkins, to easily escape through.
Then Del’s gaze lowered, and he realized Larkins hadn’t got away.
What in his peripheral vision he’d seen as a shadow on the floor before the window was in fact a body.
Larkins, on his back in an unnatural sprawl.
Both Del and Devil had seen death often enough to know Larkins was dead even before they reached him.
As they did, Vane appeared in the window. He looked in, swore softly.
“Search,” Del told him. “Whoever did this has only just left.”
Vane met his eyes. “We s
aw the open window. The others are already looking. I’ll pass the word, but so far we haven’t had sight nor sound of anyone beating a hasty retreat.”
With that, Vane went, leaving Del to look down at Larkins, at the ivory-handled dagger jutting out of his chest.
“Whoever did that knew what he was doing.” Devil nodded at the knife, then stepped over Larkins’s legs to the window.
“Oh, yes.” Del crouched, laid his sword aside. “The Black Cobra is exquisitely well-versed in dealing death.”
“So Ferrar, do you think?” Devil asked, examining the window ledge.
“He would be my guess.” Methodically, Del went through Larkins’s pockets, shifting the big man to check every section of the heavy coat.
Devil humphed. “Well, it’s clear enough what happened. Ferrar, if it was he, was watching. He saw Larkins come to this window. Before Larkins could climb through, Ferrar got here.”
Del rose. “Most likely Ferrar watched the action from outside—easy to peer through those small segments of clear glass set between the stained glass. With the light so weak outside, we wouldn’t have seen him even if we’d looked, but he would have seen all that happened inside.”
He glanced down at the body. “He saw Larkins accept the scroll-holder and try to kill Sangay—in front of all of us. All of us saw, all could bear witness. We saw Larkins attempt to kill while trying to retrieve a letter from the Black Cobra sealed with his master’s personal seal.”
Del circled the body, studying Larkins’s coarse-featured face. “What would be the odds that Larkins, given the choice between the hangman and transportation in return for his testimony, would have implicated Ferrar?”
Devil joined him. “High, I would say. If you trust a ravening dog, it’ll turn on you someday.”
“Just so. I think Ferrar thought that, too.” Del bent and retrieved his sword. “So he killed Larkins—sacrificed him to save his own skin.”
Gervase appeared at the window, Vane, Demon, and Lucifer at his back. “No sightings,” Gervase grimly reported. “The closest we got…” He glanced at Demon.
Who looked disgusted. “On the west side, heading south. I heard hoofbeats, already distant, fading rapidly. Too far away, and going too fast for us to have any chance of following. And there’ll be no tracks—the roads that way are churned to slush.”
Devil looked down at Larkins’s body. “So the Black Cobra got away, but gave up his right-hand man.”
Del finished a slow perusal of the room, then looked at the others. “And the scroll-holder’s gone.”
Sixteen
December 19
Elveden Grange, Suffolk
Your letter was a copy, a decoy. Sacrificing it to take out his right-hand man, with a chance at Ferrar himself, was the right decision.” Royce Varisey, Duke of Wolverstone, erstwhile government spymaster, with his black hair, dark eyes, chiseled features and long, powerful frame the very epitome of a darkly dangerous nobleman of Norman descent, kept his compelling gaze fixed on Del.
The entire company, ladies included, were congregated in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, a sprawling Jacobean manor house set amid extensive gardens in a forested area a little way from the village of that name. The ambiance was soothing, and very English. The instant Del had set eyes on the house—two low stories with attics set under a many-gabled roof—he’d suspected what he would find inside. Lots of oak, on the floors, in the linen-fold paneling and ornate woodwork, even in some of the ceilings. The furniture, too, all lovingly polished until it glowed with a honey-gold patina.
Outside, there were ramblers festooning the walls, bare branches now, but he could imagine what they would be like in summer, blossoms nodding in the breeze. Inside, a similar sensual luxury abounded, with richly painted artworks and exquisite ornaments, velvet and satin-striped fabrics, and the jewel tones of precious Eastern carpets.
The result was both colorful and comfortably restful.
Royce stood to one side of the hearth, by the chair his duchess, Minerva—a calm, graceful, and ineffably capable blond beauty—had claimed.
Del stood in a similar position by the chair in which Deliah sat.
Both ladies, of course, were avidly—and openly—listening.
Del grimaced. “It’s an anticlimax to know we almost certainly succeeded in drawing Ferrar into the action himself, but that we missed him by minutes.”
“I’m more than happy simply to know he’s definitely engaged.” Royce’s lips curved. “I didn’t actually expect you to accomplish that. Reducing the cultists by fourteen more than fulfilled my expectations of what we might reasonably achieve from your mission. But by attempting to use the boy as a thief, Ferrar gave us a weapon—by seizing it, we’ve achieved a great deal more than I, for one, anticipated.”
“Yet he escaped.” Del was still irritated by that. To have come so close….
“True, but he’s chanced his hand—he’s dealt himself personally into the game. It was a bold act, to step in and kill Larkins like that, with all of you so close. From all you’ve told me, that was characteristic in its arrogance, but uncharacteristic in that it was massive risk. Trust me, he’s rattled. We’ll keep tempting him—taunting him—with the others as they come in. Eventually, one way or another, we’ll have him.”
“Speaking of having him.” Devil strolled up to join them, Vane by his side. “Is there anything useful we can do with Larkins’s body?”
They’d conveyed the body to the magistrate in Ely with the recommendation he wait on further orders from Wolverstone—a name that carried quite amazing weight. Given it was Devil—St. Ives—making the recommendation, the magistrate had been only too happy to await developments.
The ladies had arrived very soon after the end of the action, much to the men’s unfeigned delight; they’d been able to hand the two hysterical local women into gentler clutches to be soothed and calmed. Eventually, Devil had nudged the vicar in the same direction.
As Del had been quick to later acknowledge, the ladies had contributed in a very real way to the success of their mission.
Sangay had been thrilled, especially when he’d seen Larkins’s dead body. When Sligo and Cobby had arrived, he’d happily recited every second of his ordeal, every last detail of all he’d witnessed. He’d still been chattering when they’d reached the Grange. Being introduced to Royce had abruptly sealed his lips. Wide-eyed, he’d bowed low, and accepted a commendation for his bravery in stunned silence. Despite the assembled ladies’ kind words and reassuring smiles, he’d been perfectly happy to be dispatched with Cobby and Sligo to the kitchens.
“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Gervase strolled up, his wife, Madeline, on his arm. He and Tony had been stunned to discover their wives and families—in both cases their wives had much younger brothers as well as their own young children with them—in residence at the Grange. Minerva, it transpired, had made plans of her own.
“It does seem as if,” Tony said as he and his wife, Alicia, joined the group, “a dead Larkins ought to be worth something—that his body is a weapon we could use in some way.”
“Perhaps,” Royce said, “but not yet, I think.”
“I heard that Shrewton—Ferrar’s father—is in residence at Wymondham, as he usually is at this time of year.” Demon, with Flick, joined them. “Wymondham’s this side of Norwich, not all that far from here.” Demon arched a brow at Royce. “I assume that’s one reason you’re using this as your base.”
Royce smiled. “That, and knowing I had all you Cynsters I could call on as additional troops.”
“We’ve still got three men—three couriers—to come in,” Del said.
“Which is why I think we might wait and see what comes next before deciding how best to use Larkins’s body.” Royce glanced at Devil, then Vane and Demon. “In case you haven’t yet realized, your roles in this game are far from over. All the couriers are to make their way here, and this is home territory for you.”
Devil,
Vane, and Demon looked delighted.
Honoria had come up beside Devil in time to hear Royce’s words, and to witness her husband’s reaction. She poked him in the arm. “Which, of course, means our roles in this game are not yet over, either.” As she exchanged a partner-like nod with Minerva on the words, there was no doubt that her “our” meant the assembled ladies.
All the wives—and Deliah. A funny little frisson of happiness went through her to know she was included in that company.
Honoria raised her eyes to Royce’s face. “Which leads me to ask, what does this letter say, exactly? I assume”—she glanced at Del—“that you have a copy?”
Del exchanged a glance with Royce.
Royce didn’t frown, but the expression filled his eyes. “No. We don’t.” He glanced again at Del. “Unless you made another?”
Lips twisting wryly, Del shook his head. “I never imagined the Black Cobra would succeed in stealing the copy I was carrying, so no, I didn’t make another.”
Minerva looked at Del, then twisted in her chair to look up at her husband. “So you still don’t know exactly what’s in this letter? I thought you said there was a chance there might be more in it than Del and his colleagues had seen?”
Lips firming, Royce nodded. “I did.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll send a messenger to Trentham and ask him to ensure a copy is made from the decoy Hamilton’s carrying, in case, as with Del’s, they decide to sacrifice it.”
Minerva and Honoria approved the action with identical imperious nods. Turning back in her chair, Minerva saw their butler appear in the doorway. “However”—she rose—“you’ll have to wait until after dinner to send your messenger. Dinner is ready to be served, and tonight, we’re celebrating.”
No one was game enough to attempt to gainsay the Duchess of Wolverstone, least of all her arrogantly powerful husband. The company duly fell into line, husbands unfashionably, and with all due attention, escorting their wives; the majority had yet to be informed of the penance they would have to pay for their rabid protectiveness, and not one of them had forgotten it.
The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt Page 33