Why she had a largely Indian household he had yet to learn.

The carriage rocked into motion, rolling ponderously up the High Street. As the vehicle tacked around Bargate, then headed on toward the London road, Del wondered, not for the first time over the last two and more hours, what had possessed him to agree to Miss Duncannon traveling on with him.

Unfortunately, he knew the answer, and it was one that left him with no other possible course. She’d seen the man who’d shot at him-which meant the man had almost certainly seen her.

Given cultists rarely, if ever, used firearms, that man was most likely Larkins, Ferrar’s gentleman’s gentleman and his master’s most trusted aide, or Ferrar himself. Del’s money was on Larkins.

Although Cobby had questioned all those who’d been standing in the street, still stunned and exclaiming over the shooting, no one had seen the man with the gun well enough to describe, let alone identify. All they’d learned was that, as expected, he’d been fair-skinned.

That the Black Cobra had struck so immediately and decisively had been a surprise, but on reflection, were he in Ferrar’s shoes, Del might have mounted a similar preemptive gambit. If he’d been killed, the ensuing chaos might have proved sufficient for Ferrar to gain access to his room and baggage, and the scroll-holder. It wouldn’t have played out that way, but Ferrar didn’t know that. Regardless, Del was perfectly sure that if it hadn’t been for Miss Duncannon’s quick thinking-and actions-he would very likely be dead.

It was nearing seven o’clock. The night was dark, the moon cocooned in thick clouds. The carriage lamps beamed through the chill darkness as the four horses reached the macadam of the highway and lengthened their stride.

Del thought of the rest of their combined households, traveling with the bulk of their luggage in two open wagons, all Cobby had been able to hire at such short notice.

At least they were away, on the move.

And they knew that Larkins, and presumably therefore Ferrar, were close, and chasing him. The enemy had broken cover and engaged.

“I can’t understand,” Deliah said, “why you insisted nothing be said to the authorities.” She spoke quietly, her voice sliding beneath the repetitive thud of the horses’ hooves; she had no wish to communicate her dissatisfaction to anyone other than the man beside her. “Bowden said you paid for the windowpane but insisted nothing more be made of the incident.” She waited an instant, then demanded, “Why?”

She didn’t turn to look at him. The interior of the carriage was a sea of shifting shadows; she couldn’t see well enough to read anything from his face-and she’d already realized that only showed what he wanted it to.

Silence stretched, but she waited.

Eventually, he murmured, “The attack was linked to my mission. Can you describe the man with the pistol? It would help.”

The vision she’d seen through the window was etched in her mind. “He was somewhat above average height, wearing a dark coat-nothing all that fashionable, but decent quality. He had on a dark hat, but I could see his hair was close-cropped. Beyond that…I really didn’t have time to note every detail.” She let a moment tick past, then asked, “Do you know who he was?”

“He sounds like one of the men linked with my mission.”

“Your ‘mission,’ whatever it might be, doesn’t explain why you refused to alert the authorities to the action of a felon-any more than it explains why we’re racing away in the dead of night, as if we’d taken fright.” She didn’t know much about Colonel Derek Delborough, but he didn’t seem the sort to cut and run.

He answered in a bored, superior tone. “It was the right thing to do.”

“Humph.” She frowned, disinclined to let him stop talking. His voice was deep, assured, his accents-those of a man accustomed to command-strangely soothing, and after the excitement of the shooting, she was still on edge. Her nerves were still jangling. She grimaced. “Even if you didn’t want to draw attention to yourself, you might at least-”

Del transferred his gaze to the unrelieved darkness outside. He’d glanced at her, seen her grimace, seen her lips pout…and felt a nearly overwhelming urge to shut her up.

By sealing those pouting lips with his.

And finding out how soft they were, and what she tasted like.

Tart, or sweet? Or both?

Quite aside from the audience lined up on the opposite seat, he felt reasonably certain any such action would result in him receiving at least one boxed ear. Probably two. Yet having her sitting beside him, her hip less than an inch from his, her shoulder lightly brushing his arm with every rocking motion of the carriage, the warmth of her bathing his side, was a temptation to which his body was shamelessly responding.

The search for the Black Cobra had consumed him for months; he hadn’t spared the time to dally with any woman-and it had been far longer since he’d been with an Englishwoman, and never with a termagant of Miss Duncannon’s ilk.

None of which explained why he was suddenly so attracted to a harridan with lips for which the most experienced courtesans would trade their souls.

He blotted out her voice, her insistent, persistent prodding, focused instead on the heavy rhythm of the horses’ hooves. Leaving Southampton with all speed had been what he’d had to do, no matter how much it had gone against his grain. If he’d been carrying the original letter, then the necessity of keeping it out of Ferrar’s clutches would have trumped any inclination to give chase.

If he’d stood and fought-tried to hunt down Larkins, even dallied to set the Watch on Ferrar’s trail-Ferrar would have guessed that he wasn’t all that concerned with the contents of the scroll-holder he carried. And then Ferrar would have shifted his attention, and that of his cultists, from Del to one of the others.

Were the others ahead of him, or were they yet to land in England?

With luck Torrington and Crowhurst would know. He’d left a short note for them with Bowden.

Given the hour, and the falling temperatures, and that more than half their number were traveling exposed, they couldn’t go far. For tonight, Winchester was his goal.

He prayed he’d be able to resist the impulses provoked by the feminine muttering from beside him long enough for them to reach it.


The Swan Inn in Southgate Street proved sufficient for their needs.

Miss Duncannon predictably grumbled when he refused to stop at the larger Pelican Hotel. “There’s so many of us to accommodate-they’re more likely to have room.”

“The Pelican is largely timber and lathe.”

“So?”

“I have an unreasoning fear of waking to a house in flames.” The Black Cobra’s men had been known to use fire to flush out those they were chasing, without the slightest thought for any others who might get caught in the ensuing blaze. Climbing out of the carriage in the yard of the Swan, Del considered the inn, then turned to hand his burden down. “The Swan, however, is built of stone.”

Taking his hand, she stepped down, paused to look at the inn, then, expressionless, looked at him. “Stone walls in winter.”

He glanced up at the roof, to where multiple chimneys chuffed smoke. “Fires.”

She sniffed, lifted her skirts, climbed the steps to the porch and led the way through the door the innkeeper was holding wide, bobbing and bowing as they passed.

Before Del could take charge, she did, sweeping to the inn’s counter and stripping off her gloves. “Good evening.” The innkeeper scurried around the counter to attend her. “We need rooms for us all-one large chamber for me, another for the colonel, four smaller rooms for my staff and two more for his staff, and the colonel’s parlor maid can room with my lady’s maid-that’s wiser, I think. Now, we’ll all want dinner-I know it’s late, but-”

Del halted just behind her-she knew he was there-and listened to her rattle off orders, directions and instructions, more or less without pause. He could have stepped in and taken over-he’d intended to-but as she was making such an excellent fist of organizing their combined party, there seemed little point.

By the time the luggage had been unloaded and ferried inside, the innkeeper had sorted out their rooms, arranged for a private parlor to be prepared for them, and sent orders to the kitchen for their meals. Del stood back and watched a round-eyed maid lead his charge upstairs to her chamber, then he turned to the innkeeper. “I need to hire two more carriages.”

“Of course, sir. Dreadfully cold already, and they say there’s worse to come. I don’t have any carriages free myself, but I know the stableman at the Pelican-he’ll oblige me, and I’m sure he’ll have two he can let you have.”

Del raised his eyes to the top of the stairs-and met Miss Duncannon’s direct green gaze. She said nothing, however, but with a faint lift of her brows, continued on into the gallery. “Thank you.” Returning his gaze to the innkeeper, he arranged for the members of his household and hers to be given whatever they wished from the tap, then left the now deserted foyer to climb the stairs to his room.


Half an hour later, washed and brushed, he was in the private parlor when Miss Duncannon entered. Two maids had just finished setting a small table for two before the fire; they retreated with bobbed curtsies. Del strolled to hold a chair for his charge.

She’d removed her pelisse, revealing a garnet-red gown trimmed with silk ribbon of the same hue, over which she’d draped a finely patterned silk shawl.

Sitting, she inclined her head. “Thank you, Colonel.”

Strolling to his chair on the other side of the table, Del murmured, “Del.” When she raised her brows, he explained, “Most people I know call me Del.”