Twenty

They drove on in silence. On hearing the plan, Bister and Mooktu had stared at Gareth as if he’d lost his mind, but Mullins-who knew her best-had nodded. “Worth a try,” he’d said, then clambered up to his seat.

Emily wished the others had rather more faith in her histrionic abilities, but as the carriage rolled steadily north toward Bury St. Edmunds, she put their faint hearts firmly from her mind and concentrated on what she had to do.

The impression she had to convey, not with words, but in actions.

If she succeeded, she would make a major contribution to the success of Gareth’s mission. She would be instrumental in bringing the fiend to justice-and for MacFarlane most of all, she was determined to do her best. To give her all.

She spied the signpost for the Glemsford turnoff just ahead. “Almost there. Stop the coach.”

Gareth reached up; as the lane flashed by on their left, he rapped on the carriage roof. Immediately, the horses slowed.

When the carriage rocked to a halt, she glanced out, and mentally blessed Demon Cynster-the road just there was lined with high, thick hawthorn hedges, brown and leafless now, but still dense enough for her purpose. And a few steps back there was a stile.

She glanced at Gareth, squeezed his hand, felt his fingers return the pressure, then he reluctantly released her. “Wish me luck.”

His eyes darkened. “Just come back soon, and put me out of my misery.”

She had to fight to banish her smile as she swung the door open and climbed out onto the step, then clambered down to the road. Clutching her muff, into which the scroll holder had just fitted-thank goodness it was winter-she marched the few paces back down the road to the stile. Nearing it, she turned, looked, and made imperious “turn around” gestures at Mooktu and Bister, who as per their orders had turned to stare back at her.

Once they’d grudgingly complied, frowning, lips compressed, she strode to the stile and climbed over-as if intending to answer a call of nature.

But as soon as her feet hit the ground on the other side, and she was out of sight of the carriage, she let her demeanor change. Gone was all confidence. She bit her lip, glanced around furtively. Then she dragged in a breath, and scurried a little way along the hedge, further from the carriage.

Then she stopped. Halted, raised her head, then she let her shoulders slump again, and started pacing. Back and forth, one hand gesticulating-clearly arguing with herself. Desperately, as if at her wits’ end and unsure which of two equally bad options to choose.

Again she halted. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath, then pulled the scroll holder from her muff and, without even glancing at it properly, raised it above her head, flourished it about-clearly so anyone watching would see-then thrust it deep into the hedge.

Grabbing up her skirts, she hurried back to the stile. She climbed over. Resuming her imperious, nose-in-the-air demeanor, she marched back to the carriage.

Inside the carriage, Gareth was waiting, his hand clamped around the door handle, tensed and ready to act, counting the minutes-waiting to hear her scream. His mind had thrown up all manner of horrible scenes. The cultists had bows and let fly at her. A number rode up, sabers flashing…he blanked out the resulting image, cursed. Yet when dealing with the Black Cobra, anything was possible.

He was literally quivering with the effort to remain still, to not open the door and rush out to see where she was, when he heard her footsteps returning.

The relief that swept him nearly brought him to his knees.

Then the door handle turned, tugged. Releasing it, he pushed back on the seat.

The door swung open and she was there, staring at him, a question in her eyes. He didn’t know what was in his face, but he managed to lift a hand and beckon her inside.

She climbed up onto the step, leaned back to order, “Drive on!” then she ducked into the carriage, slammed the door behind her, and fell onto the seat opposite.

The smile that wreathed her face was nothing short of radiant.

The coach jerked, then rolled on, picking up speed.

He cleared his throat. “All right?”

She bounced upright and beamed at him. “I think I just gave the performance of my life.”

He devoured her with his gaze, but forced himself to wait until the carriage rounded the next bend-having passed the long stretch deemed perfect for an attack without even sighting a cultist-then he leaned forward, seized her about her waist, lifted her into his arms, onto his lap, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.


On a hill to the southwest of the scroll holder’s new location, Royce, Del, Devil, and all the others, saving only Jack and Tristan, who were still in their roles of guards and shadowing the carriage on the other side of the road, waited and watched.

Spyglasses trained on the spot, they’d viewed Emily’s performance with critical detachment.

When the carriage door closed behind her and the carriage rumbled on, eventually passing through the field of likely attack and out of sight without challenge, Royce lowered his spyglass. “If I didn’t know better, I might just believe she’d lost her nerve entirely, and jettisoned what she sees as the cause of all their trouble.”

“The Black Cobra has a penchant for breaking people, men and women-of using fear to terrorize until whoever it is does what he wants-so her ploy stands a better-than-might-be-expected chance of succeeding.” Del kept his glass trained on the scroll holder in the hedge. “Ferrar is used to people giving him what he wants.”

“There go Jack and Tristan.” Lucifer Cynster pointed to where the two guards were fleetingly visible as they passed over a rise, heading north in the wake of the carriage.

“Wherever he is, Ferrar shouldn’t have missed seeing them,” Devil said.

“No, he shouldn’t.” Royce raised his glass again, focusing on the relevant section of hedge. “So as far as he knows, the scroll holder is just sitting there, waiting for him to send someone to fetch it. Even if he only half believes, I can’t see him leaving it. The need to have it-to know if it’s a copy or the original-will surely be too great for a man of his ilk to resist.”

Del snorted. “He’s never been denied anything in his life. He won’t resist. All we need to do is wait.”


In a dense stand of trees on a rise overlooking the stretch of road Roderick had decreed was the perfect place to attack the carriage, Roderick and Daniel stood with spyglasses to their eyes, staring at the scroll holder jammed in the hedge.

The body of cultists behind them, mounted and eager, just waiting for the order to attack, grew restive. Harness jingled; horses stamped. Eventually the leader, greatly daring, asked, “Sahib-the carriage…?”

Roderick didn’t draw his gaze from the hedge. “Leave it for the moment.” Distantly he added, “There’s still plenty of road between here and Bury.” To Daniel, he murmured, “What do you think?”

Daniel snorted, lowered his glass. “It’s a trap, of course. That damned woman rode like the devil to bring the letter down from Poona, then delivered it to Delborough. And then she attached herself to Hamilton, no doubt intending to avenge MacFarlane. So why would she suddenly give up-give the letter up-now?”

“Because she’s reached the end of her tether.” Roderick’s tone was one of utmost reasonableness. “We’ve seen it often enough. We attack and attack and keep the attacks coming, and eventually it all just gets too much. They’re nearly at the end of their journey, nearly through to safety. And it was she who left it behind. If it had been Hamilton or one of his men, I’d be much less likely to credit it-and the two guards have gone on, too.” Lowering his spyglass, Roderick smiled at Daniel. “So if it is a trap, who’s left to spring it?”

Daniel wasn’t convinced. “What about those others who trapped Larkins in the cathedral?”

“They’re from near Cambridge.” Roderick waved to the northwest. “If they’d thundered down here, we would have seen them.”

Daniel wasn’t so sure, but as the minutes ticked by and the scroll holder just sat there, in the pale light of the winter afternoon, he knew leaving it there wasn’t an option. “So what do you propose?”

“I’ll send one of the men to pick it up while the rest of us watch from up here. If there’s no sign of a trap, he’ll bring the holder to me, I’ll take whatever it contains, and ride for Bury.” Roderick glanced at Daniel. “By the lane-not the road. If they’re waiting ahead for me to come prancing by, the letter in my hand, they’ll be disappointed.”

That was Daniel’s greatest fear. Roderick seemed to have covered the weakness, but…Daniel’s thumbs were still pricking. “All right.” Snapping his spyglass shut, Daniel moved to his horse’s side, stuffed the glass in the saddlebag. “I’ll ride ahead and tell Alex of your unexpected success-how you retrieved the letter without losing more men.”

“Indeed,” Roderick purred. “Alex should be impressed.”

Daniel swung up to his saddle, gathered his reins.

Roderick looked up at him, held his gaze. “Incidentally, while you’re discussing matters with Alex, you might mention that I would look favorably on an appropriate welcome. I said I’d get us out of this-and I am. Alex-and sadly, sometimes you, too, Daniel-would do well to remember who among us is Shrewton’s legitimate son.”

Daniel looked down into Roderick’s cold eyes. His half brother was clearly not as oblivious to his and Alex’s view of him as they’d thought. A point to discuss, indeed-if Roderick succeeded in retrieving all four letters, he’d be cock of the walk, king in the Black Cobra’s domain. Which didn’t auger well, not for Roderick.