The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  In the drawing room of the house they’d commandeered in Bury St. Edmunds, Daniel looked at Roderick, waited for his response.

  He and Alex had just received a nasty shock. It appeared the letter Roderick had brought them there to intercept held a far greater threat than any of them had realized. Roderick—the idiot—had absentmindedly included Daniel’s and Alex’s real names. While no one else reading the letter would recognize the connection, if the letter—even a copy—found its way into the Earl of Shrewton’s hands, their father would certainly recognize his bastards. Roderick was his favorite legitimate son. As Alex had pointed out moments earlier, if push came to shove over the Black Cobra, the earl would unhesitatingly offer up his bastards as sacrificial lambs to save Roderick—nothing was more certain.

  But Roderick couldn’t function as the Black Cobra without Daniel and Alex. And he knew it.

  Eyes narrowed to ice-blue shards, his face like stone, Roderick curtly nodded. “All right. I will.”

  “How?” Eyes of an even more wintry, unforgiving ice blue, Alex took up a position before the fireplace. “Tell us how, brother mine.”

  Roderick glanced at the copy of the letter Delborough had been carrying, which Roderick had been forced to kill his own man, Larkins, to secure. “Hamilton’s at Chelmsford. I sent eight men to follow and harry their party, to keep them in sight. Tomorrow, I’ll take a force of our elite, and join the eight. We’ll have overwhelming numbers—there’s only four men counting Hamilton, and he has the woman to protect as well. We’ll stop him, seize him and the woman, and bring them here.”

  Roderick shot a venomous look at Alex. “I’ll have to leave them to your tender mercies—I’ve just got word Monteith’s in the country. And he, too, is heading this way, but from the direction of Bath, with two guards, as Delborough had, and a pirate captain in train. I’ll have to go west to keep him out of Cambridgeshire.”

  “This is rapidly degenerating into the worst possible scenario,” Daniel said. “The four couriers are landing at widely distant ports. Our watchers on the coast are stretched thin. Although we’ve already lost men, admittedly we have more, but knowing where to send them in time—”

  “It’s just as well,” Alex said, tone dripping superiority, “that our four pigeons are making for a single roost, and that whoever this puppetmaster they’re reporting to is, he’s nearby.” Alex cast a lethal look at Roderick. “Which is why I suggested we move up here. I’ll hold the fort—man our inner rampart—here, with M’wallah and my guard, but you two will have to take command in the field.”

  Alex’s gaze shifted to Daniel. Silently, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. Neither he nor Alex trusted Roderick any more than they trusted his—their—sire.

  Unaware of the interplay, Roderick nodded curtly. “I’ll take Hamilton tomorrow. We’ve already got a force quartered on the other side of Cambridge—enough to deal with Monteith.” Roderick looked at Daniel. “You could—”

  “No. Leave Monteith for the moment,” Alex said. “He’s not close enough to demand immediate action—we can wait for better details of his position before making our plans. As you say, we already have men in the area. Have we heard anything of Carstairs?”

  “Not since he left Budapest.” Roderick ran a hand through his hair. “He’s still somewhere on the Continent, and hasn’t yet reached the coast.”

  “As far as we know,” Alex dryly replied.

  Daniel uncoiled his long legs and stood. “In that case, I’ll assist with Hamilton.”

  Roderick inclined his head, accepting what he saw as an offer of help. “We’ll leave at first light and ride toward Chelmsford. A messenger will come north to meet us and confirm their route. With any luck, it’ll be toward us, along the road through Sudbury. Once we locate the carriage and gather our eight following it, we can pick our spot.”

  Roderick glanced at Alex. “Given those riding with us tomorrow will be from our elite, I can’t see how we can fail to seize Hamilton, meddling Miss Ensworth, and the letter.”

  Alex’s features had eased to their customary elegant serenity. “That sounds excellent.” Alex met Roderick’s eyes, lightly smiled. “I’ll look forward to celebrating your success.”

  20th December, 1822

  Still night

  Our room at the inn in Chelmsford

  Dear Diary,

  This is it—our final day on the road. And I have never felt so torn in my life. I want so much to reach Elveden with Gareth and the others all safe and well, if I could just wish us there now…but that would mean we miss what will be our last and possibly best chance to engage with the enemy and reduce the cult’s numbers, especially in this area, which is apparently the crux of Wolverstone’s plan.

  As Tristan and Jack, and even Gareth, clearly hold Wolverstone in high esteem, I have to believe his plan is both sound and worthwhile. That as the three of them believe it is important and incumbent on them to engage and eliminate cultists, then it truly is.

  I have to believe—and in my heart I do believe—that striking a blow against the cult today will be worth whatever risk it entails.

  Whatever eventuates, as an indomitable Englishwoman who has traveled widely and survived innumerable attacks in recent weeks, I intend to play my part. I almost hope something happens so that I can, so that I can make a real contribution to avenging poor MacFarlane.

  His face is with me still. His bravery will always be with me.

  I have absolutely no intention of letting Gareth die at the hands of the Black Cobra.

  E.

  While they breakfasted by lamplight, Gareth told the others of the attempt to set fire to the inn. “Standard practice for cultists, but to no purpose here.”

  Later, while Mooktu, Mullins, and Bister readied the carriage, Gareth showed Jack and Tristan the evidence of the abortive attempt. They found three different spots where fires had been lit.

  “Determined beggars, aren’t they?” Tristan spread the ashy remains of one fire with his boot. “But perhaps they achieved what they intended.”

  Gareth grunted. “That occurred to me. No one could have imagined a fire would take hold long enough to do any real damage. They just wanted to keep prodding us.”

  Jack gazed at the charred logs. “Anyone care to wager we’ll see action today?”

  “No bet,” Tristan returned. “Given this, today is the day.”

  A hoy brought them back to the front yard. For the benefit of the cultists they were sure would be watching, Jack and Tristan shook hands with Gareth, then mounted and, with cheery waves, trotted off south through the town, as if parting ways.

  In reality they would circle around and fall in behind the band of cultists following the carriage, as they had the day before.

  Emily was already in the carriage, snuggled up beneath a mound of rugs. His breath fogging in the sharply cold air, Gareth glanced at Bister on the roof, at Mooktu and Mullins on the box. “Be ready. Somewhere on our road today, they’ll strike.”

  The expressions on the three faces turned his way mirrored his own feelings. At last!

  He climbed into the carriage, shut the door, and they were off.

  They rolled sedately out of the town, heading north on the road to Sudbury and Bury St. Edmunds. Once they’d left the last cottages behind, Mullins flicked the reins and the horses lengthened their stride.

  His hand locked around one of Emily’s, Gareth watched the winter-brown fields flash past—and waited.

  He was still waiting—they all were—when the carriage rolled into the village of Sudbury. He recognized the tactic, one cult commanders often employed—make the target wait and wait and wait until, inevitably, they relaxed, then pounce—but he still felt the effects. When? was the question occupying all their minds.

  After rattling across a bridge over the River Stour, Mullins drove into the market square, paused to ask directions, then headed on a short way and turned into the yard of the Anchor Inn.

  Climbing down to the cobbles,
Gareth took one look at the ancient inn Wolverstone had directed them to, and felt expectation leap. The inn was so old it was a hodgepodge, a conglomeration of additions made over the centuries with wings here, there, and entrances everywhere—perfect if one wanted men to slip unobtrusively inside.

  Leaving Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins to watch over the carriage and arrange for fresh horses, he ushered Emily through the front door.

  The innkeeper popped up before them. “Major Hamilton?” When Gareth nodded, the man beamed. “Please—come this way. You’re expected.”

  Both he and Emily eagerly followed the man down a narrow corridor. The innkeeper halted, tapped, then opened a wooden door that, from its solidity, dated from Elizabethan times, and bowed them in.

  Emily led the way, wondering who was expecting them. The answer had her eyes growing wide.

  The room was full of large gentlemen, and it wasn’t a small parlor, but one of the inn’s main reception rooms. A quick head count said ten; she was surrounded by ten men—ex-Guardsmen by the look of them—but it was the man at the center of the group, the one she found herself somehow facing, who captured and held her attention.

  He was dark haired, but so were many of the others. He was by no means the tallest of the group, yet he was the most powerful.

  Emily knew that without question.

  His face was austere, the planes hard edged, but his mobile lips curved as she instinctively curtsied. “Wolverstone, Miss Ensworth—it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He took her hand and bowed over it. “I understand you played a key role in getting the Black Cobra’s letter to Delborough here.”

  Emily glanced at the man beside the great Wolverstone, then beamed. “Colonel Delborough—I’m delighted to see you again.”

  “And I you, Miss Ensworth.” Delborough bowed. As he straightened, his gaze went past Emily, and his face lit. “Gareth!”

  Emily stepped aside, delighted indeed as she watched Gareth shake Delborough’s hand and share a heartfelt embrace.

  As he stepped back, Gareth asked, “Logan and Rafe?”

  “Logan landed at Plymouth and is heading this way. He should reach us tomorrow. Rafe…” Delborough grimaced. “We haven’t heard anything, but you know Rafe. He’s just as likely to turn up on Wolverstone’s doorstep unheralded, with smiling apologies for having inadvertently missed touching the bases he was supposed to.”

  “Just as long as he makes it.” Gareth held out his hand to Wolverstone. “I’m honored to meet you, Your Grace.”

  Clasping his hand, Wolverstone smiled. “Just Royce in this company. Aside from all else”—he cocked a dark brow at the man to his right—“I’m not the only ‘Grace’ here.”

  “Devil!” Gareth shook hands, clapped backs, then remembered to introduce Emily. “Devil Cynster, Duke of St. Ives.”

  Emily found herself taken on a round of introductions, as Gareth eagerly renewed acquaintance with a host of Cynsters and an earl called Gyles, and Delborough introduced them both to two men Gareth didn’t know, who proved to be ex-colleagues of Jack and Tristan, all ex-operatives of Dalziel—Royce by another name.

  Her head was whirling by the time the door opened to admit the innkeeper with a small tribe of helpers laden with platters. And on their heels, Jack and Tristan strolled in, to a general and hearty welcome.

  The innkeeper and his team withdrew, and their group—now numbering fourteen—settled about the table, Royce at the head, St. Ives at the foot. Royce sat Emily on his right. Somewhat to her relief, Gareth sat beside her. She’d heard enough from Jack, Tristan, and Gareth to expect Wolverstone to impress, but the reality exceeded her imagination by a significant degree.

  They all passed the platters. Emily found herself pressed to try this and that, but then all attention focused on their plates. Silence descended for two minutes, then Gareth glanced at Delborough, seated opposite. “We heard that you sacrificed your letter—what happened?”

  Delborough nodded, and took up the conversational reins, relating how the confusion arising from combining his party with that of a lady he’d unknowingly been elected to escort north had allowed the Black Cobra to insinuate a thief—a young and very much coerced Indian boy—into their combined households. While he, the lady, and their combined guards had defeated the Cobra’s forces and won through to their destination of St. Ives’s country home, the boy, Sangay, had stolen the scroll holder, but had then been trapped at St. Ives’s house by the recent heavy snowfall.

  “We could see from the snow that no one had entered or left the house, so we searched, and eventually found him. Once we convinced him we could keep him and his mother safe, he helped us to set a trap for the Black Cobra.” Delborough snorted. “In, of all places, Ely Cathedral.”

  Delborough went on to describe how the trap had been sprung, but the Black Cobra, Ferrar, had presumably struck, killing his own man to escape unseen with the scroll holder.

  “However, it contained only a decoy copy.” Wolverstone looked at Gareth. “Which is why we’re here—because he’ll know that by now, and having tried for Delborough’s and succeeded, he’ll try for the holder you’re carrying, too. Nothing is more certain.”

  Wolverstone let his gaze travel around the table. “Which is exactly what we want, because we need to reduce the cult’s forces, especially in this area. My scheme is designed to have Ferrar racing back and forth across these counties, losing men at every turn. Delborough accounted for fourteen. I hope we can take out a similar number today, and Monteith and those with him, more again tomorrow.”

  Gareth murmured, “So Rafe…?”

  But Royce only smiled.

  “You don’t need to know what you don’t need to know.” Jack caught Gareth’s eye. “That’s the way it always goes.”

  “Indeed.” Royce pushed aside his empty plate. “So let’s see what we can accomplish today.” He looked inquiringly at Tristan and Jack. “What’s our situation?”

  “They’re here, and in force.” Jack straightened in his chair. “We’ve been following a group of eight who’ve been tracking the carriage since Tilbury. Today they were joined by a larger force, another ten, just north of Braintree. That lot rode down from the north, by the way. And of special interest to us all, two of the ten aren’t Indian, but English. I don’t know Ferrar, so can’t say for certain, but I assume one is him. The other’s of similar build, darker hair.”

  “They’re friends, not mere acquaintances,” Tristan put in. “And the other isn’t any servant, but an equal. You could tell from the way they interacted.”

  Royce’s brows had risen. “That’s news. So we have another potential…lieutenant, let us say. And he’s English. If any chance offers, we need to catch him.” He looked at Tristan and Jack. “So by Braintree they were eighteen against a carriage with four men. What happened? Braintree is what? Twelve or more miles from here?”

  “About that,” Jack said. “I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversations, but my best guess is that the dark-haired one wanted to attack, but Ferrar refused and had the whole lot of them shadowing the carriage, more or less flanking it all the way to Sudbury.”

  “Once the carriage crossed the bridge into Sudbury, they peeled away and skirted the town.” Tristan tipped his head to the north. “We left them waiting on a rise from where they can watch the Bury and the Lavenham roads.”

  Royce nodded. “They’ve guessed from Delborough’s destination that the carriage will head north, but they don’t know exactly to where. So they’re in position to pick up the carriage when it leaves here.” He glanced down the table. “Any guesses as to why they put off an attack?”

  All eyes turned to Demon Cynster. “My guess is that Ferrar, having some familarity with the area, knows that the stretch from Sudbury to Bury, or Sudbury to Lavenham, is better for mounting an attack.”

  “Did someone bring a map?” Royce asked.

  Vane Cynster had. He drew it from his pocket and unfolded the large map, which showed most of t
he Eastern Counties. Various hands helped smooth it out and anchor it in front of Royce and Gareth.

  Demon leaned forward to point. “Here’s Sudbury. This”—he pointed to a position just to the north—“is where Ferrar’s waiting.”

  Royce studied the map. “If you were he, where would you choose to ambush the carriage?”

  Without hesitation Demon placed a finger on the map. “Here—just a little way past the lane that leads to Glemsford and Clare. There’s also a country lane that leads up to Bury, just a little way along that lane. In terms of position, that spot is close to perfect.”

  “Remember Ferrar and the cult tend to rely on overwhelming force.” Del looked at Demon. “Can he attack with all his men from there?”

  Demon nodded. “There’s plenty of cover in stands of trees back from the road, but just there the usual hedges fall back and the road has wide, shallow ditches, open and clear, excellent for approaching a halted coach. All he’ll need to do is send men across the road to halt the coach, and then it’s trapped and at his mercy.”

  “So we let him do that, commit his force against the coach, then we fall on them from the rear and wipe them out.” Devil Cynster smiled. “Easy.”

  There were sounds of eager agreement all around.

  “Yes, but is that the best we can do?” Royce murmured.

  All talk ceased.

  Devil looked up the table at him. “What now, o ye of devious mind?”

  There were grins all around, including from Royce, but then he sobered. “The truth, as many of you have guessed, is that this entire scheme is designed not just to get the original copy of the Black Cobra’s letter into my hands, but if at all possible to provide further proof—more direct and damning proof—of Ferrar’s guilt. Ideally, I’d like to catch him with a scroll holder literally in his hand—have more than one of us see him so there’ll be multiple witnesses. If I have to accuse him with only the letter as proof, I will, but I’d far rather have something more—something less easy to destroy—as evidence.”