From further down the table, Emily Ensworth leaned forward. “Is that my copy of the letter?” When Royce nodded, she said, “I’m certain Thurgood is one of those mentioned in the social chatter in the first half.”
“I thought I’d read the name.” Unfolding the sheet, Royce glanced at Logan. “Emily made a copy of the letter so I could study its contents—which gained greater pertinence when Ferrar was noticeably happy to seize Hamilton’s copy, even though it was a copy. Now you’ve told us Thurgood, too, was pleased to lay his hands on a copy. More, Thurgood came after you, and set the cultists on you in an all-out attempt to wring that copy from you—all after Ferrar was dead.”
Laying the letter on the table before him, Royce stated, “Clearly the threat of his family seal exposing Ferrar no longer applies.” He tapped the letter with the tip of one long finger. “And Thurgood is indeed mentioned, although how we could have guessed—”
Royce broke off. He stared at the letter. “Of course. If we’d shown a copy of the letter to Shrewton, asked him if he recognized anyone named in it, anyone who might have had reason to kill his son . . .” He looked at Clarice. “I take it Shrewton is aware of his by-blows’ identities?”
Clarice nodded. “He’s a tyrant, so I’d say that’s a certainty.”
“So if, as we suspect, Thurgood is Shrewton’s bastard, then Shrewton would have known to point the finger at Thurgood—”
“And given Roderick was his favorite child, his golden boy,” Letitia said, “Shrewton would have done it—handed over his bastard son—too. Thurgood was right to fear that.”
Royce nodded. “Which is why he, at least, was so keen to seize every last copy.”
“But you already have a copy,” Linnet said.
“Yes, but the Black Cobra—whoever they are—doesn’t know that.” Royce flashed Linnet a brief smile. “I have three copies on their way to me—why would I ask one of my couriers to make yet another copy?”
Linnet smiled briefly back. “They didn’t allow for your thoroughness.”
Royce inclined his head. “However, the question we’re left with is this—are the remaining member or members of the group who controlled the Black Cobra cult mentioned in this letter, too?”
“Yes,” Delborough said. “They must be. One of them at least.”
Royce arched a brow. “I’m not disagreeing, but why so certain?”
“Because Thurgood was taking the letter to someone. He had to have met someone on the heath—why else would he stop? He was on a strong horse, he wasn’t shot—in fact, the way he was killed, given he was still in his saddle . . . he had to have approached his killer very closely.”
Royce blinked. “You’re right. I forgot about him being in the saddle. Whoever killed him . . .”
“They had to have embraced.” Charles met Royce’s eyes. “That’s the only way it could have been done.”
Royce nodded. “Perhaps in celebration—which, yes, given the letter wasn’t left on Thurgood’s body but taken, fits with the notion that at least one more person who commands the cult is named in this letter.”
“In Bedford, Thurgood didn’t exactly claim to be the Black Cobra,” Logan said. “He said he was the Black Cobra at that time, in that place—as if he was a representative with direct authority, but not the ultimate head.”
“So we’re looking for at least one more.” Royce read out the names mentioned, men and women both, then looked at Logan, Gareth, and Del. “Any ideas which one it might be?”
All three exchanged glances, then regretfully shook their heads. “We couldn’t even pick Thurgood out of that,” Gareth pointed out. “There’s five other men named, and no way of knowing which one might be Thurgood’s accomplice-turned-killer.”
“If I might point out,” Minerva said from the foot of the table, “in light of your inability, even if that person is named in the letter, then who is going to recognize their involvement enough to point the finger?” She caught her husband’s dark eyes, arched a brow. “Who do they fear? Or is Shrewton still the key? Is he the one the true Black Cobra fears you might show the letter to?”
“An excellent question.” Royce glanced around the table. “Any thoughts?”
Everyone considered, but when no one spoke, Jack Warnefleet said, “It’s a place to start. And Shrewton is close at hand.”
“Indeed.” Royce pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen—I believe we have a body to deliver.”
R oyce took Charles, Gervase, and Gareth with him, deeming a duke and two earls, plus a major with direct knowledge of the Black Cobra’s villainy, sufficient to impress on Shrewton the gravity of their inquiries.
It was midafternoon when they reached the earl’s country house, Wymondham Hall, near Norwich. They’d been in the drawing room for less than five minutes when the door opened, and Shrewton’s eldest son, Viscount Kilworth, appeared.
“Your Grace.” Kilworth bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet heard back from those I queried regarding Roderick’s friends.”
Royce waved that aside. “Sadly, there’s been more violence, and another death. I have more questions to place before your father, and there’s another body that I believe he’ll wish to see.”
Kilworth, a lanky gentleman with dark floppy hair and plain brown eyes, paled. “Another body?”
Royce merely asked, “The earl?”
Kilworth shook aside his shock. “Yes, of course. He’s in the library. I’ll . . .” He looked at Royce, nearly winced. “I expect you’ll want to come with me.”
Royce inclined his head and waved Kilworth on.
He led them to a large library with high shelves stocked with leather-bound tomes. A massive desk sat across one end. The man sitting behind it looked up as they entered—then scowled from under beetling gray brows.
Kilworth gestured. “His Grace wishes to speak with you, sir.”
Royce inwardly smiled a smile he would never let a sensitive soul like Kilworth see. The viscount had used Royce’s honorific as a reminder to his father to toe a civil line. For all his apparent ineffectual niceness, Kilworth was a sane and sensible man. There was steel of a sort beneath the softness.
When Royce halted, waited, the earl rose to his feet, stiffly inclined his head. “Wolverstone. What brings you back here, then? I’ve told you all I know—which was, and still is, nothing. This is a house in mourning. Can’t you leave us to our grief?”
“Would that I could, my lord. Sadly, however, matters beyond these walls continue to unfold. Matters in which your son, Roderick, was definitely involved, at least in the earlier stages.”
“He’s dead now.” The earl looked positively fretful, unable to keep his hands still. With an ungracious wave, he indicated chairs, managed to wait until Royce took his before collapsing back into the chair behind the desk. “Can’t you leave it be?”
Both tone and expression were querulous. If the death of a son could leach the father of life, of energy and purpose, Royce judged that had happened to Shrewton. The earl appeared to be noticeably diminished in presence from only the day before.
“Before you ask.” Smoothly Royce introduced Charles, Gervase, and Gareth, giving each their full title, and waiting for Shrewton to acknowledge each of them. Then he sat back. “I’m here because there’s been another murder related to this business. I’ve brought another body I believe you’ll want to see.” Shrewton opened his mouth to bluster. Royce calmly continued before he could, “This man was a known associate of your son’s in Bombay. Has Roderick ever written to you of a friend by the name of Daniel Thurgood?”
“What?” The earl’s shock was writ plainly on his face. He looked staggered. “Thurgood?”
Royce nodded. “Were you acquainted with Daniel Thurgood?”
The earl looked down at his blotter.
When his father said nothing, Kilworth, who had moved to stand behind and to the left of his father’s chair, cleared his throat. When Royce glanced at him, he rather carefully asked, “Are y
ou saying that the dead body you’ve brought here today is that of Daniel Thurgood?”
Royce looked back at the earl. “Yes.”
Still the earl refused to look up.
The silence stretched.
Somewhat to Royce’s surprise, it was Kilworth who broke it. Looking down at his father, he asked, his tone even, “Are you going to tell them? Or shall I?”
The earl slowly shook his head from side to side. From what little Royce could see of his expression, his face had set in mulish lines—lines of denial. The earl grumbled, “The man was nothing to me.”
Kilworth sighed, straightened, and looked Royce in the eye. “Thurgood was my father’s natural son.”
Royce nodded. “So both Roderick and Daniel Thurgood were your father’s sons.” He made the comment a statement. While visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons was commonplace enough, the reverse operated just as well. Just as damagingly.
Neither Kilworth nor the earl responded.
After a moment, Royce continued, “We gave the body we believe to be that of Daniel Thurgood into the keeping of your servants. They should have laid the body out by now. I would ask you to view it, now, in our presence, and confirm that it is indeed the body of your natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”
The earl glanced up briefly, met Royce’s eyes, then reluctantly nodded. “Very well.”
He rose and led the way out. Kilworth stood back and waved the others ahead of him, bringing up the rear as the earl led Royce to the old stone laundry. Roderick’s body, now shrouded and wrapped for burial, lay on one bench; in the dimness behind lay the body of Larkins, likewise prepared, but less expensively wrapped.
The earl’s steward had had Daniel Thurgood’s body laid out on the bench at right angles to Roderick’s. As per Royce’s instructions, the dagger had been left in place, and the small room well lit with multiple candelabra.
The earl stood alongside the bench looking down at a face that, Royce had to admit, looked more like the earl’s than even Roderick’s had. A moment ticked by, then the earl dragged in a not entirely steady breath. “Yes.” He nodded. “This is the body of my natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”
Standing a little back from the bench, Royce asked, “Have you any idea what it was your sons were engaged in in India?”
“No. I told you. I had no idea.”
“Have you any recollection of Roderick ever mentioning anyone he was particularly close to, here or in India, other than Thurgood?”
“He never mentioned Thurgood!” The earl’s lips compressed; his color heightened. “Damn it—I had no notion they even knew each other. And if I didn’t know that . . . clearly, I would know nothing else of consequence.”
“Do you have any other sons of whom I would be unaware?”
“No.” The earl waved at the two bodies. “My sons are dead.” He paused, then tipped his head toward Kilworth, standing a pace away on his other side. “Well, except for him, and I’ve never thought he’s mine.”
Kilworth rolled his eyes, but didn’t otherwise react to the implied insult; from what Minerva, Clarice, and Letitia had told him, Royce gathered it was an old refrain to which no one in the ton paid the slightest heed. What the earl meant was that Kilworth took after his mother in both looks and disposition, and therefore lacked the viciousness that otherwise ran in the family.
Ignoring the comment as beneath his notice, Royce drew out his copy of the letter. “Oblige me, if you will, and cast your eyes over this.” He held out the letter.
The earl hesitated, but curiosity won out and he took the sheet, angled it so the candlelight fell on the page. Kilworth shifted so he could read over his father’s shoulder.
Royce gave them a minute, then asked, “Is there any name you recognize? Anyone you know, or have heard Roderick mention as a friend?”
The earl continued to read. Royce watched his face harden as his eyes perused the lower paragraphs, those detailing the Black Cobra’s dealings with Govind Holkar.
When he reached the end, the earl drew a deep breath. The hand holding the letter shook, although from what emotion—fury, fear, or shock—Royce couldn’t tell. Then the earl met his eyes. “Is this what Roderick was doing? Why he died?”
“Indirectly, yes. It was about the money, but even more about the power.”
The earl held out the letter, and he now looked truly ill. Not just shocked, but as if something inside him had broken.
Royce took the letter. “The names?”
Slowly, his gaze distant, the earl shook his head. “I didn’t recognize any of the men named.”
His eyes on his father’s face, Kilworth looked concerned.
Refolding the letter, Royce tucked it back into his pocket, nodded to the earl, then Kilworth. “Thank you. That’s all I need to know at this point.”
Turning, Royce led the way out. Grooms were walking their horses in the forecourt. They reclaimed them, mounted, and rode away, leaving the earl to bury his illegitimate, as well as his legitimate, son.
Eighteen
A t Minerva’s suggestion, Linnet and Logan took advantage of the hours waiting for Royce and the others to return from Wymondham to refresh themselves and catch up on some sleep.
Retiring to the bedchamber she’d been assigned, Linnet discovered a steaming bath waiting, with a little maid laying out towels and scented soaps, and mentally blessed Minerva.
“Thank you.” Her tone was so heartfelt the maid grinned.
“I’m Ginger, ma’am.” The little maid bobbed. “Her Grace said as for sure you’d need this. Let me help you with that gown, and then I’ll unpack your bag, shall I?”
“Her Grace is a mind reader. If you’ll help with the laces, and then by all means unpack what there is—I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting the journey, so have had to borrow much of what’s there from Lady Penelope.”
“Never you mind, miss—we’re used to strange happenings in this household. Anything you need, just ask.”
Linnet hid a grin as Ginger bustled about, helping her off with her gown, then flitting about the room.
“Now you just settle in there—the hot water will do you good—and then you can rest.” Ginger flitted off to fetch Linnet’s bag from where it had been deposited by the door.
“I take it our coach and driver—David—arrived in good order?” Relaxing back against the tub’s edge, Linnet nearly groaned with pleasure.
“Aye, ma’am. All’s well there.”
Linnet closed her eyes. Scented steam rose and wreathed around her. For the first time in more hours than she could count, it felt as if warmth was reaching her bones.
Ginger remained, but was quiet. The respite was just what Linnet needed. She roused herself eventually, and made good use of the soap and flannel. Ginger helped her wash her hair, roughly dry it, then wind it in one of the waiting towels. By the time the water had cooled, and Linnet reluctantly rose and stepped out, and toweled her body dry, she was warm and clean and truly relaxed.
“I’ll just leave the bath until later, miss.” Ginger waved at the bed, turned down and inviting. “You go on and have a nice little nap. His Grace isn’t expected back until nearly dinnertime, and Her Grace said as that’s to be at seven o’clock tonight, seeing as how you all had an early luncheon. Now”—Ginger paused for breath—“is there anything else I can get you, ma’am?”
“No, thank you, Ginger.” Linnet smiled. “I’ll ring if I need anything else.”
With a satisfied smile, Ginger bobbed and departed.
Swathed in a big bath sheet, Linnet tugged the damp towel from her head. Her hair tumbled down, a riot of curls. Walking to the hearth, she raked her fingers through the damp mass of hair, then bent and let the tresses cascade almost to the floor, letting them warm in the heat from the fire Ginger had, of course, restoked before she’d left.
A large, thick rug lay before the hearth. Linnet knelt on it, the better to dry her hair. The copper bathtub stood beyond the rug, its polished side reflecting t
he heat thrown out by the fire, warming the air above the rug even more.
The door cracked open. Straightening, Linnet peeked over the tub and saw Logan look in. He scanned the room, then spotted her. Coming inside, he closed the door, then walked across to her.
He was in breeches and shirt, and was rubbing his black hair with a towel. “My room’s next door.” He glanced around. “Yours is much bigger.”
“You’re a man.” Linnet’s lips twitched. “And I seriously doubt Minerva imagined you’d be sleeping in the bed in that room.”
Logan sighed and dropped down to sit on the rug beside her. “She’s just a little frightening, Wolverstone’s duchess.”
“I have sound evidence she’s a mind reader.”
Still rubbing his damp hair, Logan raised his brows. His midnight eyes danced. “I’ll try to remember that.”
She smiled, for one long moment, lost in his eyes, rejoiced that he and she were there, alive, scathed perhaps, but yet hale and whole.
That they’d reached the end of the journey, and now . . .
His expression changed. Setting aside the towel, he drew a deep breath. “Linnet—”
“No. Wait. I need to speak first.” Sitting on her ankles, she pushed back her hair, used the moment to gather her wits, her courage, her words. As he had, she drew in a breath, then lifted her chin and fixed her eyes on his. “You said you wanted to marry me—is that still the case?”
“Never more so.”
“Good. Because I want to marry you.” She held up a hand when he would have spoken, when, his face lighting with a joy she couldn’t mistake, he reached for her. She held him with her eyes, spoke with her heart. “I want to be your wife. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, by your side. I want you by my side. I want . . . all the things I never thought I could have—and I want those things with you.” She dragged in another breath, let it out on the words, “And I’m willing to do whatever I must to have them, and you.”
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