further-Newmarket itself or better yet beyond-before an unexpected appearance on horseback could be passed off as a welcome party, as if Alex had ridden out in eager anticipation of meeting a returning, victorious Daniel.
Until then, there was little to do but hang back and watch.
Daniel halted at a tiny tavern in a village east of Cambridge, on the road to Newmarket. The tavern had just opened and he needed a hot drink to dispel the chill that had started gnawing at his bones-and he might as well watch for pursuers while he drank.
Huddled in the front corner of the taproom, low-ceilinged and smoky, with the innkeeper poking at the fire in the hearth, Daniel kept one eye on the road through the window and sipped a mug of steaming cider. The scalding liquid warmed as it went down. As the glow spread, he turned his mind to what came next.
He wondered if Alex was still at the Bury house, or whether a new headquarters had been found. That had been Alex’s intention when he’d left for Bedford; it was possible they’d already moved. Regardless, Alex would either leave word, or wait and meet him. He would wager on the latter; the letter he’d retrieved had been as much a threat to Alex as to him.
Alex would definitely want to see it as soon as possible, then would want to watch it burn.
Despite the early hour, there was traffic on the road-the occasional wagon heading to market, the occasional rider off to Newmarket, or going the other way to Cambridge. A few coaches lumbered past, one a night mail coach. There was, however, no sign of pursuit.
Somewhat to Daniel’s surprise, there was also no sign of his guard. Then again, even though they would ride faster than he had and so by now should be close-even allowing for the time they would have spent torturing the four in the yard-they also knew to stay off the main roads in this area, to keep to the fields and, if necessary, rest in some barn during the day.
His guard were among the best of their fighters, surpassed only by Alex’s guard; they would be along soon enough.
Draining the mug, he set it down, rose, threw a handful of coins on the table, and walked out. He looked back down the road toward Cambridge. There was no pursuit; he felt increasingly certain of that. Remounting, he rode on.
There was no reason he needed to ride through Newmarket itself. Operating as it did to the schedule of racehorse training, even though it was early, the town, the heath, and the numerous stables surrounding it would already be alive and busy. Indeed, as he approached the outskirts of the heath, he saw strings of racehorses being ridden out in the predawn light. The narrow streets of the town would already be awash with riders and gigs; it would be faster to avoid it.
He gave the scattered stables a wide berth, too.
As he rode on through the crisp, gray morning, he imagined owning a racehorse or three. The sport of kings; the prospect should appeal to Alex, and they were more than wealthy enough to indulge. Indeed, now he thought of it, once they’d destroyed all four copies of Roderick’s unfortunate letter, what better camouflage than to remain here in England for a while? They could send the cultists home, dispatch their most senior men to keep things ticking along in India-arrangements could be put into place to allow him and Alex to enjoy their spoils here in England, at least for a while.
The prospect of lording it over so many, of using their wealth to satisfy all the fancies they’d had before they’d left for India but, back then, had never had the capital or the associated power to indulge, definitely appealed.
And then his horse went lame.
He cursed, tested the black’s paces, but there was no going on. Dismounting, he looked around. A large stable lay ahead, in a wide, shallow dip in the heath. He was viewing it side on, toward the rear; he couldn’t see the front doors, but as he watched, a long string of horses streamed out and rode away.
Out across the heath for their morning’s exercise.
There would still be horses left in the stable-those of the jockeys, for a start, but almost certainly others, older racehorses, or ones being rested. The notion of trying out such a beast had him striding, as swiftly as the lame black would allow, down to the stable.
He took the black with him; the sight of a man striding about Newmarket Heath without a horse was too strange to avoid notice.
There was a set of back doors; he quietly tried them, but they were latched and bolted. Circling the stable, he found the big front doors propped wide open and not a soul in sight.
Smiling, he walked boldly in, through a large clear space and down a long central aisle with stalls to either side. It was a very large stable, and there were, as he’d hoped, occupants in quite a few stalls, and a selection of hacks tied up at the rear-presumably the horses the jockeys had ridden in.
He tied the lame black with the jockeys’ hacks, then spent some time evaluating the horses in the stalls. He’d been out of England for years, but still recognized prime horseflesh when he saw it. And some of these horses were beauties. He settled on a big roan, then fetched his saddle and bridle from the black, opened the roan’s stall, and went in.
Crooning to the horse, he took a few minutes to admire the gelding’s lines, then slipped on the bridle and saddled up.
He was tightening the saddle girth when a sound at the stall door had him glancing that way.
An old man, slightly stooped, with big, gnarled hands, stood in the aisle beyond the doorway, regarding him through bulging eyes. “Here! What do you think you’re doing? These are private stables.”
“Indeed?” Smoothly turning the roan, Daniel led the horse out. “In that case, I’ll be on my way.”
“Here-no! You can’t just take one of our horses.” The old man seized Daniel’s sleeve.
Daniel lashed out and back with that arm, his forearm colliding with the old man’s face. Releasing the roan’s reins, he pivoted, plowed his right fist into the old man’s gut, then followed up with a sharp blow to the head.
The old man went down; gasping, groaning, he fell to the straw-strewn earthen floor, curling in on himself. Daniel looked down at him, then coldly drew back his boot and kicked the old man viciously once, then again, and again in the ribs.
After gasping sharp and hard at the first kick, the old man had fallen silent.
Daniel straightened, settled his coat, grasped the roan’s reins. He’d missed the fun at Bedford; he’d been owed a little violence.
Reassembling his mask of gentlemanly boredom, he walked up the aisle, paused to mount in the cleared space just inside the doors, then, with the roan shifting and prancing beneath him, clearly anticipating a long ride, Daniel lifted the reins and trotted out of the stable.
Seconds later, he was cantering out onto the open heath.
Carruthers swore beneath his breath-he couldn’t catch enough breath to curse aloud. His ribs ached, his jaw throbbed. He managed to get his feet under him, then caught hold of the slats of a stall door and hauled himself up.
Hunched over, he shuffled as fast as he could, clutching the stall doors to keep from falling. Reaching the open space at the end of the aisle, he drew in a slow, pained breath, let go of the last stall, and propelled himself forward. Forced his legs to move.
Eyes locked on his goal, he made it to the side of the open door, gasped as he lunged and grabbed the rope dangling from the stable bell. It clanged as he slumped against the door frame. Clanged again as, his grip weakening, the rope tugged free and he slid slowly down to collapse on the floor.
With his ear to the ground, he heard the sound he’d hoped for-the heavy thud of flying hooves. Smiling was beyond him, but he smiled inside.
It seemed like only seconds, then Demon was there, crouching down beside him, hard hands gentle as his employer helped him up to sit against the door frame.
Demon peered into Carruthers’s eyes, saw he was in pain, but conscious. “What the devil happened?”
Other horses thundered up; the string had followed Demon back to the stable.
Carruthers wet his lips. “Was in the tack room. Heard a sound. Came out and found some blighter saddling up The Gentleman. Asked him what he was about-told him he had to leave. I tried to stop him when he led The Gentleman out. He lashed out, struck me. Couple of times.”
Demon took in the contusions forming under Carruthers’s mottled skin.
“Then when I fell, he kicked me.”
“What?” Demon stared, then swore. “Never mind-I heard. Stay here and get better. Leave the bastard to
