“A welcome that has yet to be successful in Delborough’s case,” Alex coolly pointed out.

“We didn’t have our usual complement of men available when Delborough arrived, but with a man inside his household, and the good colonel dallying in London with his mystery lady, we’ll succeed.” Roderick paused and once again glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “Regardless of retrieving all four letters, we should ensure that the couriers-all four of them-do not escape unscathed.”

Alex smiled coldly, a chilling sight. “I agree entirely. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’d lost our fangs.”

Three

December 13

Grillon’s Hotel

They gathered over breakfast in the sitting room. The suite, Deliah admitted, was a strategic advantage for which Del had foreseen the need. They had to meet with Tony and Gervase to discuss their plans, but wanted to avoid being seen in public with their secret guards.

They quickly decided on their program for that day.

“Some of Gasthorpe’s lads will be assisting,” Gervase said, “so don’t be surprised if they join in any fight.”

“How will we know who they are?” she asked.

Tony smiled. “They’ll be fighting on our side.”

She would have made some retort, but Gervase quickly went on, “Gasthorpe sent word-a message from Royce.” He nodded at Del. “You are the first one home, but Hamilton’s reached Boulogne-he’s expected to cross the Channel in the next few days.”

“That’s good news.” Del felt a quiet relief knowing Gareth had made it that far unscathed.

“All is, we’re told, in place for him to be met when he sets foot on English soil, but as usual Royce has omitted to men tion where that will be.” Gervase smiled resignedly. Del and Tony did, too.

Deliah asked, “Did this commander of yours say anything further?”

Gervase pushed his empty plate away. “Only that we should proceed as planned and draw out the cultists in London.” He glanced at Del. “The letter’s safe?”

Del nodded. “It’s never left unattended.”

“Right, then.” Tony rose, gave his hand to Deliah and gallantly assisted her to her feet. “Let’s get cracking. First stop, Bond Street.”


“It’s been years since I was here,” Deliah said.

As she was standing with her nose all but pressed to the window of Asprey, Jewellers to the Crown, and had spoken without lifting her gaze from the sparkling display, Del had guessed as much. Her arm in his, she’d all but towed him down Albemarle Street, into Piccadilly and around the corner into Bond Street. Pretending to be dragging his heels hadn’t been difficult.

Yet it was amusing-and revealing-to realize that the part she was playing, that of a provincial lady fascinated by and determined to enjoy all the typical London delights, wasn’t all pretense.

She finally dragged her bright gaze from the scintillating array and looked further up the street. “There are more jewelers, aren’t there?”

He pointed out Rundell & Bridge, further along on the other side of the street; all bustling determination, she towed him over. Given the entertainment, he had to make an effort to look suitably bored. They halted before the well-known jeweler’s windows; while she examined an arrangement of necklaces, he glanced at her face.

No pretense; she coveted the sparkling gems as much as any other lady. He started to wonder what else might be revealed when, as per their plan, they continued on to the Bruton Street modistes.

His attraction to her hadn’t waned, which he found rather strange. She was domineering-or would be if he let her be-opinionated, wasp-tongued and a great deal more willfully independent than he was comfortable with, yet she’d become a part of his mission-unwittingly and through no fault of her own-and was now assisting, a contributing player in the game, and somewhere beneath his reluctant resignation, he was grateful. Grateful it was her, with all her innate confidence, and not some wilting, shrinking, typical genteel young miss, who would cling and require constant reassurance, effective lead in his, Tony’s and Gervase’s saddlebags.

Holding to his ennui, he cast an idle-in reality acute-glance back along the street. Without hurry, he returned his gaze to the window. “We’re being followed, by locals.”

“The two men in brown coats back down the street?”

He hadn’t seen her look, much less notice.

She shifted and pointed, apparently through the window. “I think he-the man in a shabby bowler behind us-is watching us, too.”

Del focused on the reflection in the big window. Decided she was right. “They won’t close in along here-there are too many people to make any attempt on us.”

“Bruton Street should be much less frequented at this hour.”

Del made a show of sighing, then tugging on her sleeve. When she turned, he pointed further up the street. She shook her head, and instead pointed to Bruton Street, off to their left. Pantomiming resigned frustration, he reluctantly escorted her that way.

They turned into Bruton Street. The man in the bowler crossed the mouth of the street, then also turned down it on the opposite side.

Deliah walked along, studying the plaques announcing various modistes and the gowns displayed in narrow windows alongside-watching the bowler-hatted man trail them.

Beside her, Del murmured, “The other two have just turned the corner, so once again we have three.”

“I wonder how they think they’re going to blend in in this neighborhood.”

“I suspect they think we’re oblivious.”

She humphed, then stopped before the next modiste’s window. “I’ve been away for so long, I have no idea which modiste is in favor. I don’t even know what the latest styles are.”

“There’s no point looking to me for assistance.” After a moment, he added, “Didn’t you see any of the latest fashions in Southampton?”

“I wasn’t paying attention-I was just filling the time.”

“By shopping?”

“What else was I to do? Inspect ships?” Recollecting, she added, “Perhaps I should have-ships would undoubtedly have been more interesting.”

“I thought all ladies shopped whenever the opportunity presented.”

“I shop when I need something-I generally have better things to do.”

It wasn’t so much the comment as her tone that jarred Del’s memory. He’d never met her before Southampton, but he had heard of her. Heard tales of her when she, and he, had been much younger. She’d been the local tomboy, the bane of her mother’s existence, as he recalled.

She’d noticed his abstraction. “What?”

He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Did you really tie a bell to Farmer Hanson’s bull’s tail?”

Her eyes narrowed, then she looked ahead. “I wondered if you would remember.”

They walked on to the next modiste’s window.

“So did you?”

“Martin Rigby dared me to, so yes, I did.” She frowned at him, waved at the window. “You really have no recommendation-no preferences?”

He glanced along the street. The salons lining it were all similar. “None.”

“In that case, I’ll just pick one.” She walked on, then halted before a window showcasing a simply cut but stylish gown of blue silk. “No ruffles, no frills, no furbelows. And a French name. This one will do.”

Reaching for the door beside the window, Del read the brass plaque fixed to the wall beside it. “Madame Latour.” He opened the door, held it.

As she passed through, Deliah murmured, “I haven’t caught sight of our guards or their helpers.”

“I suspect they’re a trifle more expert in the art of unobtrusively trailing people. Don’t worry-they’ll be there.”

A bell had jangled overhead when the door opened. Finding herself facing a narrow set of stairs, Deliah started to climb. A young assistant appeared at the top, smiling and bobbing in welcome.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sir. Please.” The girl waved them through an open door. “Go through. Madame will be with you shortly.”

It was barely ten o’clock, unfashionably early, so it was no great surprise to find no other patrons gracing the salon.

What was a surprise was Madame herself. She emerged from behind a curtain, a slim young woman, pale-skinned, with brown hair sleeked back in a tight bun and large hazel eyes. Madame was young-younger than Deliah. And after her first words, a heavily accented greeting, it was obvious Madame was no more French than Deliah was, either.

She pretended not to notice. “Bonjour, madame. I have this week returned from a prolonged sojourn overseas and am in dire need of new gowns.” Gently reared young woman impoverished by harsh circumstance was Deliah’s assessment of Madame. “I liked what I saw in your window. Perhaps you could show me what else you have?”

“Absolutement. If madame would sit here?” Madame gestured to a satin-covered sofa, then glanced at Del. “And monsieur your husband, also?”

Deliah glanced at her escort. “The Colonel is an old family friend who has kindly consented to accompany me north.”

She sat, and watched Del amble across the salon.

He smiled, charmingly, at Madame. “I’ve agreed to assist and lend my opinion.” So saying, he sat beside Deliah, elegantly at ease, and looked inquiringly at Madame.

Who stared back as if unsure just what she’d invited into her salon.

Deliah couldn’t blame her. He was large, and although he was wearing civilian clothes, nothing could cloak his military bearing, that dangerous, suggestively rakish aura that hung about him.

Thus far she’d managed to keep her skittering nerves within bounds and her reactions to him hidden. She’d even managed largely to ignore them, or at least not allow them to dominate her mind. Now…whether it was the heightened contrast of having him beside her, large and so brashly masculine in such an intensely feminine setting, she didn’t know, but she was suddenly highly conscious of the tension that rode her, compressing her lungs, distracting her senses and setting her nerves flickering.