“There are eight of them. They’re taking it in turns, four at a time, to keep the carriage in view.” Charles speared a slice of roast beef from the dish on the table. He and Deverell hadn’t turned up until night had fallen. They’d walked into the suite half an hour ago, but chilled and damp, they’d gone to their room to wash and change before joining Logan and Linnet for dinner.
The servers had placed the silver dishes on the table, seen to all their needs, then withdrawn, leaving them free to speak without restraint.
“We followed them from just outside Swindon.” Deverell shook his head. “The four on duty did nothing but plod along in your wake, a good distance back. All they wanted was to keep you in sight.”
“When you stopped here, they halted at the corner.” Charles tipped his head toward the Swindon end of the, street. “They watched you go in, saw the bags taken in, then two of them left to get rooms at the tavern back down the street, leaving the other two to watch this place.”
“We considered removing them permanently, but”—Deverell reached into his pocket, withdrew a folded parchment, placed it on the table, tapped it with his finger—”we knew Royce’s latest orders would be waiting for us here. It was possible he might want us to lead them further on, or that it might prove prudent to give them no hint that we’re aware they’re following us.”
Logan nodded at the missive. “Have you read it?”
“Just glanced at it. There’s news that’ll make more sense to you than me.” Deverell nudged the packet Logan’s way. “Read and explain.”
Logan picked up the packet, unfolded the stiff sheets. Scanned them. “He’s given us the news first. Delborough reached the Cynsters at Somersham Place on the fifteenth, managing to reduce cult numbers by fourteen between London and Somersham. Now he and the Cynsters are planning to spring a trap on Ferrar, or at least his man Larkins, at Ely”—he glanced at the date at the head of the letter—”Wolverstone says tomorrow, but this was written yesterday, so that must mean today. After said trap is sprung, Del and Devil are under orders to transport whoever they catch to Elveden.”
Charles looked up. “So it’s possible Ferrar’s already been caught?”
Logan shook his head. “I’d be shocked were that so. Ferrar’s been too clever and cautious for years to suddenly fall into some trap. I can’t see that happening.”
“We’ll know by tomorrow morning,” Deverell said. “Royce would send word hotfoot if they succeeded, because our mission’s objectives would then change.”
“What of your other friends?’ Linnet asked.
Logan refocused on the bold, black script. “Gareth made it safely to Dover and is heading north today. He’s expected at Elveden by tomorrow evening. At this point they’re not sure what might come of his foray, but he and his party are, expected to be at Chelmsford tonight with cultists in tow.”
“That sounds familiar,” Charles quipped.
“The locations are interesting.” Deverell set down his knife and fork, pushed aside his plate. “Elveden is just southeast of Thetford, about ten miles north of Bury St. Edmunds, and roughly thirty miles east of Somersham Place. And between Somersham Place and Elveden lies Newmarket, where Demon Cynster and friends hold sway. So there’s a line of sorts, west to east, between Somersham Place and Elveden, where Royce has a lot of troops, as it were. He’s brought Delborough north from London to Somersham, removing cultists along the way—clearing the west flank. Now he’s bringing Hamilton north from Chelmsford to Elveden—clearing the east flank. Now we’re coming in from the west …” Deverell broke off, patting his pockets. “Where’s that map?”
“You left it with us.” Linnet rose and went to fetch it from her room.
Returning, she discovered the three men shifting the dishes and platters to the sideboard, clearing the table. Obligingly she unfolded the map and spread it out. They all retook their seats.
Deverell, a certain eagerness infusing tone and expression, traced the routes Delborough had taken, and Gareth Hamilton was taking, to Elveden.
“And now”—Deverell nodded at their orders—”Royce wants us to make for Bedford. Ferrar will have to deal with Hamilton tomorrow, or risk the scroll-holder he’s carrying getting through, so the Cobra’s attention is going to be fixed to the east while we’re closing in from the west.”
Charles was nodding. “Which suggests we shouldn’t run into any substantial opposition tomorrow. The next day, however …” He grinned wolfishly. “Royce really is a master at planning. Ferrar will be crossing and recrossing Royce’s chosen battlefield, back and forth, east to west to east, rushing to stop first Delborough, then Hamilton, then us.”
Logan frowned. “Why is pushing Ferrar so important?”
Charles and Deverell looked at him, then Deverell smiled.
“Sorry—I’d forgotten you’ve never run in Royce’s harness before.” He nodded at the map. “From what we’ve put together, it’s certain Royce was never intending to rely on your letter—about crimes committed in faraway India—to prosecute Ferrar, not if he could help it. Make no mistake—if Ferrar doesn’t stumble, Royce will make the best he can of your proof, but how much more convincing if instead he, or one or more of us, captures Ferrar committing some nefarious deed here, on English soil, under straightforward English law?”
Logan’s expression was a study in revelation. He waved at the map. “So all of this is really designed to force Ferrar into acting, tripping, and getting caught?”
“Exactly.” Charles tapped the map. “And following that logic, I’d say it’s certain that Delborough and Hamilton, like you, are carrying decoy letters. The original will come in last—with Carstairs.”
Logan studied the map with new interest. “So where will Rafe land?”
Deverell pulled a face. “If Ferrar isn’t caught tomorrow, then he’ll have to rush west again to stop us getting through from Bedford to Elveden, but any engagement to halt us is most likely to occur between Cambridge and Elveden, somewhere on the Cynsters’ patch.” Deverell considered the map, then volunteered, “For my money, Royce will have Carstairs come in at one of the eastern ports—Great Yarmouth, Lowestoft, Felixstowe or Harwich.”
“So Ferrar will have to hie east again … unless we catch him.” Linnet looked at the men.
“True,” Charles said. “But the thing with Royce is you never can tell. For all anyone knows, he might already have Carstairs safe and sound at Kings Lynn, just waiting for the right moment to head south.”
Deverell nodded. “Will Royce play a bluff, or a double bluff? There’s no way to predict which way he’ll jump, or what he has planned.”
After a moment, Logan raised Wolverstone’s missive again, turned a page. “There’s more. Our orders. We’re to proceed to Bedford tomorrow, where further orders will reach us at the Swan Hotel. He—Wolverstone—doesn’t expect us to encounter any serious opposition tomorrow, but he warns we should be prepared for a major ambush the next day. He suggests we leave early and try to ensure any action occurs beyond Cambridge. The Cynsters will be holding themselves ready to assist from the environs of Cambridge on.”
Charles nodded. “Just as we thought.”
Logan laid down Wolverstone’s letter, stared at the map. After a moment, he said, “There’s just one thing. I’ve learned the hard way never to trust the Black Cobra. Royce is assuming Ferrar needs to be present to direct any major action, and while I admit I’ve never known cultists to act independently of some higher command—presumably Ferrar—in all the months we spent in the field fighting them, none of us caught so much as a whiff of Ferrar himself.”
“That suggests”—Linnet continued his deduction—”that Ferrar has henchmen he can trust—some at least—to direct others in the field, so he can give orders and have them carried out even if he isn’t there. So it’s possible he might already have put plans in place for dealing with us—not us specifically, but any courier coming in from this direction.”
Logan nodded, met Deve
rell’s eyes. “We have eight men following us—doing nothing but following us. It’s plain there’s an ambush up ahead somewhere, but where? Will it be this side of Bedford, or this side of Cambridge? If I were Ferrar, I wouldn’t want it to be later. And even though Del and company reduced his numbers in this area by fourteen, Ferrar has many more men than that.”
“On the ships we incapacitated,” Linnet said, “there were at least thirty cultists, and most of them would have survived.”
“Put yourself in Ferrar’s shoes.” Logan looked at Charles and Deverell. “He now knows, or at least suspects, that the couriers are all heading toward Elveden, that area at least. He knows he’s facing couriers coming from the south and, southeast, and that chances are one will come from the west. He has unlimited men.” He waved at the map. “If you were he, where would you station a body of men to stop a courier from the west?”
Both Charles and Deverell looked at the map, then Deverell pointed. “Somewhere here—west of Cambridge.”
Charles nodded. “You’re right. They won’t stop us tomorrow, not before Bedford. It’s only once we leave there that we become an active threat—on our last day of travel to Elveden. He doesn’t want us to reach Elveden, so he’ll step in and stop us decisively—before Cambridge.” Leaning his forearms on the table, he frowned at the map. “But Royce wants us to avoid them until after Cambridge.”
“That’s not my primary concern.” When the others all looked at him, Logan said, “As you noted, Ferrar will have only one aim—to stop us, crush us, before we reach Cambridge. The group he’ll have left to accomplish that will be large. He’ll have set it up along his usual pattern—massive numbers to smother the opposition and so be certain, absolutely certain, of victory.” He met Deverell’s gaze, then glanced at Charles. “As experienced as we are, we cannot face a force like that and win, not before we make contact with the Cynsters.”
Charles pulled a face, looked down at the map.
Long moments passed as the four of them studied the predicament they faced. “Even if we remove those eight cultists tonight …” Deverell grimaced. “Unlikely we can, not without risking our lives prematurely.”
Charles nodded. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. We can’t take out all eight at once.”
Her eyes on the map, Linnet leaned forward. “We don’t need to. Tomorrow, all we need to do is remove the four keeping us in sight.”
Deverell frowned. “The other four will simply take their place.”
“Not if they don’t know which way we’ve gone, or where we plan to spend tomorrow night.” Linnet looked at Logan, then at, the other two. “They can be reasonably certain we’re heading to or past Cambridge, but they can’t know we’re going via Bedford.” She placed her finger on the map. “We’re here, at Oxford. Eventually, we need to pass here—Cambridge or just south of it. As you said, that’s where they’ll have stationed their main body of men. But we need to spend one night on the road between here and there—we could be planning to halt at Stevenage, Luton, Dunstable, Letchworth, Baldock, Hitchin, or any number of smaller towns. They don’t know which, and they can’t tell—which is why we have eight men just following us. They want to make absolutely certain they know where we’ll be, and, most importantly, which road we’ll be taking to Cambridge.”
“Granted,” Logan said.
“So if tomorrow we get rid of our four followers at a point before our destination becomes obvious, and get on and out of sight before the other four realize and ride hard to find us, then they simply won’t know which way we’ve gone, and they’ll have to keep their force where it is, spread out and waiting until they learn where we are, which way to turn.”
Deverell was nodding. “And if we leave before dawn the next day, we’ll have a chance to race past and into Cambridge before they can get their troops into position.” He smiled at Linnet. “That might work.”
“Indeed.” Charles leaned closer, looking down at the map. “All we need now is to find the right site to remove our four faithful followers.”
In the end, it was, once again, Linnet who came up with the best plan.
Late night
Bury St. Edmunds
“I still can’t believe it!” Alex strode, all sleekly suppressed violence, into their bedroom.
Daniel followed and closed the door. He paused, then, said, “It is … something of a shock.” He focused on Alex, now pacing before the fire. “I had no notion Roderick could be so … unbelievably stupid.”
Arms folded, Alex paced violently. “Clearly he can—clearly he has been. I can not get over him using our real names—putting them on paper in black and white—and then forgetting the fact completely, focusing solely on the threat to him, on the fact he was also stupid enough to seal the Black Cobra’s letter with his personal seal!”
His own head in a whirl, Daniel walked to the bed and sat down. Alex might think much faster than he, yet sometimes it paid to state the facts clearly. “We still need Roderick. Assuming he manages to get all four copies of the letter back, as he’s promised—and he’s already successfully secured the copy Delborough was carrying—”
“Thank the gods!” Alex swung around, pinned Daniel with an icy gaze. “If he hadn’t, we, you and I, my dear, wouldn’t have had the first inkling of the danger in which, thanks to Roderick, we now stand.”
“True. However, he now has one of the four copies and will hie off tomorrow with enough men to make sure of seizing the second from Hamilton.” Daniel inclined his head at Alex’s pointed stare. “And yes, I’ll be at his side to ensure he keeps his mind fixed firmly on what now must be our primary goal—seizing all copies of that letter.”
“Good. You, I trust. Roderick …” Alex’s eyes glittered coldly. “I have to confess I’m having serious second thoughts about our dear half brother.”
“Let’s wait until we have all the letters back—then, I admit, we need to rethink.” Daniel caught Alex’s cold gaze. “Just you and me … that would be so much easier. But eliminating Roderick now is too dangerous—not here in England. After this manic time is over and we’re back in India, safe and secure in the bosom of the cult, then we can reassess.”
Alex’s lips thinned. The silence lengthened.
Then Alex stated, voice coldly precise, “We came here to support Roderick, thinking it was only his neck at risk. Now, we discover that if anyone who knows of us, of our link with him, sees that letter, even just a copy, they’ll recognize the implication and, far more than dear Roderick’s, it will be our heads in the noose.”
Daniel was still coping with that realization himself; he had no difficulty understanding Alex’s fury. Barely restrained savagery seemed appropriate. But … he forced his mind to push through the shock, to revisit the details. “We’ve been careful, you and I. I can’t think of anyone other than our sire likely to be shown the letter, copy or otherwise, who would instantly comprehend our part in the cult.”
After a long moment, Alex slowly nodded. “True.”
“If Roderick proves himself worthy of our support by retrieving all four copies of the letter, then we can be magnanimous and let him live.” He met Alex’s icy gaze. “For now.”
A tense moment passed, then Alex blew out a breath. Nodded. “For now.”
Like a puppet whose strings had been cut, Daniel flopped back on the bed. Stared at the canopy overhead.
Another moment passed, then Alex appeared in his line of vision, halting at his feet to look down at him.
Daniel arched his brows.
“When this is all over, Roderick will pay.”
Daniel’s smile was genuine. “Oh, he will. We’ll make sure of it.”
Alex nodded, eyes on his. “Take off your clothes.” Daniel’s smile took on a lascivious edge. “With pleasure.”
Fifteen
December 20, 1822
They left Oxford in good time, driving out into a constant drizzle; at least the wind had eased. As per Linnet’s plan, rather than
heading direct to Bedford by the road through Buckingham and Newport Pagnell, they took the more southerly route through Aylesbury. They paused in that town for an early luncheon, and to confirm they still had their eight pursuers with them. That done, they set out once again, heading northeast to Linsdale.
Linnet sat in the carriage, her cloak snugged about her, the map open on her lap. As they bowled along, she went over her plan for the umpteenth time, but could see no further improvements she might make.
She glanced at Logan seated beside her, idly watching the scenery flash past. Charles sat opposite him, slouched in his corner, eyes closed, apparently relaxed. A pile of swords—Logan’s and Charles’s sabers and her cutlass—lay on the seat alongside Charles, together with the two finger-thin but stout ropes they’d had David buy in Oxford that morning. Deverell, already armed, was riding on the box beside David, keeping his eyes peeled for the spot she’d chosen for their ambush.
Another minor road with a signpost flashed past; turning her head, she caught the name, looked down at the map. While she’d been fairly confident the three men—enlightened as they generally were and so thoroughly focused on winning through to their mutual goal—would see the merit in her plan, she’d been far less certain that they’d follow her orders, rather than rework them.
But no. They’d liked the plan, appreciated it, and had shown no sign of taking over. They’d accepted her orders—even, apparently, accepted the part she intended to play in the plan’s execution.
They’d said nothing when, at Aylesbury, she’d taken her bag from the carriage, begged the use of a room from the landlord, and changed into her breeches. She’d wrapped herself tightly in her cloak so no one had seen the scandalous attire, not until she was safely in the coach again. Charles and Deverell had merely raised their brows resignedly.
Logan’s lips had thinned, but he, too, had made no comment, leaving her to jettison her carefully prepared defense that it was simply impossible to properly wield a sword of any kind in skirts.
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