A heady temptation, a visceral yearning.

Yet against that stood her reservations. Her lingering fear, no matter what anyone said, of not being a socially appropriate wife for him. Of not being able to measure up, to manage in the ways society, and eventually he, too, would expect. He’d told her she was what he wanted, had assured her those other requirements didn’t matter, but she was not yet convinced. But that was the more minor hurdle.

The major hurdle, the one she could see no simple way around, was the necessity for her to live with him, in Glenluce, Scotland. That was the way things generally happened, yet her leaving Mon Coeur would be close to impossible; she honestly didn’t think she could.

He was an earl’s son-he would have links, deep links, with land, with an estate somewhere; he was that sort of man. The responsibility she’d seen in him would have to have had some cornerstone, some wellspring-some place that mattered fundamentally to him. His home.

But she couldn’t leave hers and share his. And despite him wanting to marry her, she couldn’t see the man she knew him to be cutting ties with his home, happily turning his back on it to come and live with her at Mon Coeur.

One element in life, above all others, mattered to people like him and her-place, roots, home. Regardless of how much he wanted her, she couldn’t see that want being sufficient to trump his need of his home.

Blinking, she refocused on the gray day outside, felt the numbing dullness sink to her bones.

The carriage rumbled on.

Eventually the spires of Oxford appeared, rising above the mottled brown of skeletal trees.

She stirred, and remembered her earlier conclusion, that whatever he gave her, she would take. That for however long their liaison lasted, she would give herself to it, give to him as he gave to her, take all she could and store up the memories until, with the end of his mission, he would realize the difficulties, face the insurmountable hurdle she’d already seen, and, with regret perhaps, yet regardless, he would agree that they should part.

That earlier course still seemed the wisest.

The carriage wheels hit cobbles.

Releasing her hand, Logan glanced out, then stretched. Relaxing again, he scanned the buildings and pavements as David guided the carriage to the hotel Wolverstone had nominated, the University Arms, one of the older, well-established hotels in Oxford High Street. “No sign of any cultists thus far. I can’t see any reason Ferrar would have sent men to Oxford, so presumably the only ones here will be those following us.”

He glanced at Linnet. He’d thought he’d made a fair stab at easing her concerns that morning, but she’d been so quiet… then again, so had he. An old soldier’s habit, a suspension of mind and thought while on a march with no enemy in sight.

She met his eyes, yet he couldn’t read her mood. Then the carriage rocked to a halt, and her lips wryly curved. “So we should be safe enough going inside-no hail of arrows likely.”

“Thank God.” Reaching for the door, he opened it and stepped down. After a quick glance confirming there were no cultists lurking, he moved aside and offered Linnet his hand.

He helped her down, then tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and smoothly escorted her inside.

As before, a suite had been bespoken. As he followed Linnet up the stairs, Logan wondered how the other two had fared.

Equally uneventfully, as it transpired.

“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.