The Brazen Bride

himself. He caught up with his men just as they lost sight of Thurgood. They came over a rise, and he simply wasn’t ahead of them anymore. There was another rider, a man apparently out for a constitutional-well-dressed, good horse. Demon hailed him, described Thurgood and the stolen horse, and asked if the man had seen him. The rider pointed onward, and Demon and the others rode on. But they found no sign of Thurgood that way. They turned back and rode in a sweep, and that’s when they discovered the horse with Thurgood’s body still in the saddle.”

After a moment, Royce asked, “Did they see any other rider-anyone other than the rider they spoke with-who might, conceivably, be Thurgood’s killer?”

Deverell shook his head. “Demon said it could have been the rider he spoke with, or, given the time Thurgood was out of their sight, someone else entirely. He inclined toward the latter, because the rider he spoke with gave no indication of any hurry or concern, and-most telling to Demon-his horse didn’t either.” Deverell glanced around the table. “We all know how hard it is to hide emotions from our mounts. If the rider they saw had killed Thurgood, then he could only have just done so, and should have still been keyed up and tense, at the very least.”

Royce grimaced. “So-we have Thurgood, like Ferrar, killed by person or persons unknown, but in exactly the same way, so we’re looking at the same killer or killers.” Straightening, Royce reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “Let’s see how this latest information fits with what we already have.”

From further down the table, Emily Ensworth leaned forward. “Is that my copy of the letter?” When Royce nodded, she said, “I’m certain Thurgood is one of those mentioned in the social chatter in the first half.”

“I thought I’d read the name.” Unfolding the sheet, Royce glanced at Logan. “Emily made a copy of the letter so I could study its contents-which gained greater pertinence when Ferrar was noticeably happy to seize Hamilton’s copy, even though it was a copy. Now you’ve told us Thurgood, too, was pleased to lay his hands on a copy. More, Thurgood came after you, and set the cultists on you in an all-out attempt to wring that copy from you-all after Ferrar was dead.”

Laying the letter on the table before him, Royce stated, “Clearly the threat of his family seal exposing Ferrar no longer applies.” He tapped the letter with the tip of one long finger. “And Thurgood is indeed mentioned, although how we could have guessed-”

Royce broke off. He stared at the letter. “Of course. If we’d shown a copy of the letter to Shrewton, asked him if he recognized anyone named in it, anyone who might have had reason to kill his son…” He looked at Clarice. “I take it Shrewton is aware of his by-blows’ identities?”

Clarice nodded. “He’s a tyrant, so I’d say that’s a certainty.”

“So if, as we suspect, Thurgood is Shrewton’s bastard, then Shrewton would have known to point the finger at Thurgood-”

“And given Roderick was his favorite child, his golden boy,” Letitia said, “Shrewton would have done it-handed over his bastard son-too. Thurgood was right to fear that.”

Royce nodded. “Which is why he, at least, was so keen to seize every last copy.”

“But you already have a copy,” Linnet said.

“Yes, but the Black Cobra-whoever they are-doesn’t know that.” Royce flashed Linnet a brief smile. “I have three copies on their way to me-why would I ask one of my couriers to make yet another copy?”

Linnet smiled briefly back. “They didn’t allow for your thoroughness.”

Royce inclined his head. “However, the question we’re left with is this-are the remaining member or members of the group who controlled the Black Cobra cult mentioned in this letter, too?”

“Yes,” Delborough said. “They must be. One of them at least.”

Royce arched a brow. “I’m not disagreeing, but why so certain?”

“Because Thurgood was taking the letter to someone. He had to have met someone on the heath-why else would he stop? He was on a strong horse, he wasn’t shot-in fact, the way he was killed, given he was still in his saddle… he had to have approached his killer very closely.”

Royce blinked. “You’re right. I forgot about him being in the saddle. Whoever killed him…”

“They had to have embraced.” Charles met Royce’s eyes. “That’s the only way it could have been done.”

Royce nodded. “Perhaps in celebration-which, yes, given the letter wasn’t left on Thurgood’s body but taken, fits with the notion that at least one more person who commands the cult is named in this letter.”

“In Bedford, Thurgood didn’t exactly claim to be the Black Cobra,” Logan said. “He said he was the Black Cobra at that time, in that place-as if he was a representative with direct authority, but not the ultimate head.”

“So we’re looking for at least one more.” Royce read out the names mentioned, men and women both, then looked at Logan, Gareth, and Del. “Any ideas which one it might be?”

All three exchanged glances, then regretfully shook their heads. “We couldn’t even pick Thurgood out of that,” Gareth pointed out. “There’s five other men named, and no way of knowing which one might be Thurgood’s accomplice-turned-killer.”

“If I might point out,” Minerva said from the foot of the table, “in light of your inability, even if that person is named in the letter, then who is going to recognize their involvement enough to point the finger?” She caught her husband’s dark eyes, arched a brow. “Who do they fear? Or is Shrewton still the key? Is he the one the true Black Cobra fears you might show the letter to?”

“An excellent question.” Royce glanced around the table. “Any thoughts?”

Everyone considered, but when no one spoke, Jack Warnefleet said, “It’s a place to start. And Shrewton is close at hand.”

“Indeed.” Royce pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen-I believe we have a body to deliver.”

Royce took Charles, Gervase, and Gareth with him, deeming a duke and two earls, plus a major with direct knowledge of the Black Cobra’s villainy, sufficient to impress on Shrewton the gravity of their inquiries.

It was midafternoon when they reached the earl’s country house, Wymondham Hall, near Norwich. They’d been in the drawing room for less than five minutes when the door opened, and Shrewton’s eldest son, Viscount Kilworth, appeared.

“Your Grace.” Kilworth bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet heard back from those I queried regarding Roderick’s friends.”

Royce waved that aside. “Sadly, there’s been more violence, and another death. I have more questions to place before your father, and there’s another body that I believe he’ll wish to see.”

Kilworth, a lanky gentleman with dark floppy hair and plain brown eyes, paled. “Another body?”

Royce merely asked, “The earl?”

Kilworth shook aside his shock. “Yes, of course. He’s in the library. I’ll…” He looked at Royce, nearly winced. “I expect you’ll want to come with me.”

Royce inclined his head and waved Kilworth on.

He led them to a large library with high shelves stocked with leather-bound tomes. A massive desk sat across one end. The man sitting behind it looked up as they entered-then scowled from under beetling gray brows.

Kilworth gestured. “His Grace wishes to speak with you, sir.”

Royce inwardly smiled a smile he would never let a sensitive soul like Kilworth see. The viscount had used Royce’s honorific as a reminder to his father to toe a civil line. For all his apparent ineffectual niceness, Kilworth was a sane and sensible man. There was steel of a sort beneath the softness.

When Royce halted, waited, the earl rose to his feet, stiffly inclined his head. “Wolverstone. What brings you back here, then? I’ve told you all I know-which was, and still is, nothing. This is a house in mourning. Can’t you leave us to our grief?”

“Would that I could, my lord. Sadly, however, matters beyond these walls continue to unfold. Matters in which your son, Roderick, was definitely involved, at least in the earlier stages.”

“He’s dead now.” The earl looked positively fretful, unable to keep his hands still. With an ungracious wave, he indicated chairs, managed to wait until Royce took his before collapsing back into the chair behind the desk. “Can’t you leave it be?”

Both tone and expression were querulous. If the death of a son could leach the father of life, of energy and purpose, Royce judged that had happened to Shrewton. The earl appeared to be noticeably diminished in presence from only the day before.

“Before you ask.” Smoothly Royce introduced Charles, Gervase, and Gareth, giving each their full title, and