point, Bister, riding on the roof with their bags, hung down the side of the coach to report that although they were definitely being followed, he’d seen no indication of the cultists moving to flank them or get ahead to a position where they might ambush the coach.
Gareth frowned. “That must mean something.”
“Perhaps when Jack and Tristan join us, they’ll know more.” Emily leaned forward, looking ahead to where roofs could be glimpsed across open fields. “I think that’s Chelmsford ahead.”
It was. They rattled into the town, rolling up the High Street past the large church to the inn Wolverstone had instructed them to stay at overnight. Once again, they were expected. From the flurry of activity that enveloped them the instant Gareth made himself known, it seemed likely Wolverstone himself had made the arrangements.
Once he saw the rooms assigned to their party-a set of four chambers on the first floor comprising all the rooms in that wing and overlooking both the front and the rear of the inn-Gareth felt even more sure the duke had taken a hand. Before the light faded, he, Mooktu and Bister prowled outside, noting hiding places, checking for windows and doors through which attackers might gain access.
The inn was built of stone, with a sound slate roof, and was remarkably secure-another comfort. Although Gareth wanted nothing more than to engage with the cultists and reduce their number, satisfying that part of his decoy’s mission, he was unable to forget he had Emily with him. Mission or not, he wouldn’t willingly wish her in danger.
After settling into the room she and Gareth would share, Emily went downstairs and found Mullins waiting in the private parlor set aside for their party. Gareth appeared before she could inquire as to his whereabouts. A tea tray arrived on his heels, then Mooktu and Bister joined them, and they settled to wait for Jack and Tristan.
It was full dark, nearly dinnertime, before the door opened and Jack walked in. He smiled rather wearily in greeting, and nodded when Gareth raised the bottle of wine he’d broached.
While Gareth poured him a glass, Jack drew out a chair at the table, fell into it, and groaned. “It’s been years since I’ve spent an entire day in the saddle.”
Tristan came in, blowing on his hands. “It’s not just the hours in the saddle, it’s that damned wind.”
He, too, accepted a glass of wine. Gareth waited until both were seated and had taken a revivifying swallow, then asked, “So where the devil are the cultists?”
“Out there.” Jack pointed south. “And yes, they’re definitely there, and in surprisingly high numbers.”
“To start at the beginning,” Tristan said, “one picked up the carriage not far from Mallingham, then two more fell in once you hit the main roads. Those three followed all the way to Gravesend, then one went ahead, crossing to Tilbury. He didn’t return. We don’t think the other two crossed the Thames, but turned back after you’d got on the ferry.”
Gareth nodded. “Probably returning to keep watch on the coast.”
Jack inclined his head. “We found the cultist who crossed the river with a group of eight others-he’d carried the news to them. We were just in time to see that group send another messenger north. Which is a point to ponder, given Wolverstone’s to the north, and our route takes us north. If the Black Cobra is also in that direction…”
“It seemed those following didn’t want to intercept us,” Gareth said. “They passed up any number of excellent opportunities to ambush us.”
Tristan nodded. “They have eight-nine if their messenger returns. The coach has three outside, one inside. You’d think the odds would appeal.”
“They must have orders to follow and send word forward, but not to engage-meaning not yet.” Jack smiled wolfishly. “I do believe this is getting interesting.”
Emily frowned. “Interesting how?”
Gareth replied, “Because it seems we’re being herded again. As long as we move forward, those behind will hang back and simply follow-because there’s some force ahead of us that’s bigger, and more certain of capturing us.”
“It appears the Black Cobra isn’t taking any chances,” Jack said. “Odds are he’s planning a trap for the coach to drive into somewhere along the road tomorrow, a trap you won’t be able to escape. Or so he thinks.”
“Indeed.” Tristan’s eyes gleamed. “And would anyone care to wager that’s exactly what Royce designed his scheme to achieve? The news that the Black Cobra is lurking between us and him-in Essex or Suffolk-is going to make him very happy.”
Jack waved his glass. “No bet. That’s precisely what he would have set out to achieve.” He met Gareth’s eyes. “You and yours chose exceedingly well in appointing Wolverstone your guardian angel.”
“He’s certainly a stickler for detail.” Gareth outlined his observations from their earlier reconnaissance. “In a defensive sense, this place is ideal.”
A tap on the door heralded the innkeeper with their dinner. Mooktu, Bister, and Mullins went out to the tap for theirs.
Once those in the parlor had finished their meal and the innkeeper had cleared the table, Gareth went out and invited the other three back.
They’d just settled when the innkeeper looked in. “Messenger for Lord Warnefleet.”
Jack beckoned and the innkeeper drew back to allow a middle-aged groom to enter. The man bowed, then drew a sealed missive from his pocket and presented it to Jack. Jack broke the seal and opened the sheet, scanned it.
The groom cleared his throat. “I’m to inquire, my lords, as to your situation here.”
Tristan replied in a few succinct phrases conveying their observations and their belief that they were being herded into an ambush ahead.
The groom repeated the salient points. Tristan nodded his approval.
Jack handed Wolverstone’s missive to Gareth, then looked at the groom. “You can also report that we’ll do as your master requests, and make a copy of the letter in question.”
The groom bowed. “If there’s nothing else, my lords, I’ll be on my way.”
Tristan dismissed him. The groom turned and left.
Emily had been reading the duke’s letter over Gareth’s shoulder. “I’ll fetch paper and ink, and make a clean copy.” Rising, she glanced at Jack. “Why does he want it?”
“Details,” Jack replied. “Given Delborough’s sacrificed his copy and gained something from it, then we might decide to sacrifice ours in the same way, which leaves Royce with nothing to study. He’ll want to confirm that there’s no other clue hidden in the wording. A code, even-it’s the sort of thing he would think of and know better than anyone to look for.”
“Which he can’t do”-Tristan accepted the duke’s communique from Gareth-“unless he has the letter, a good copy at least, in front of him.”
Nodding her understanding, Emily left.
“I’m just glad Delborough’s through and safe, and that Monteith’s in England, too.” Gareth fell silent.
Jack asked, “Who’s your fourth?”
“Carstairs.” Gareth glanced at Jack. “Captain Rafe Carstairs, otherwise known as Reckless.”
Tristan raised his brows. “If he’s the last one home…”
Emily returned, bearing a ladies’ traveling writing desk with an ornate mother-of-pearl lid. She set it down on the table, opened it, and drew the lamp near. “The letter?”
Gareth drew the scroll holder from inside his coat, and under the fascinated gazes of all there, undid the complicated locking mechanism. Opening the holder, he drew out the sheet it contained, and handed it to Emily.
Smoothing the single sheet, she sat, dipped her nib, and started to transcribe.
“May I see that?” Jack nodded at the scroll holder.
Gareth smiled and handed it over.
While the others played, opening and closing the holder, and Tristan and Jack asked questions about such oriental devices, Emily kept her head down and her mind on her task.
She’d seized the chance to contribute something to Gareth’s mission-to do something, however minor, that
