would materially assist in bringing down the Black Cobra. Hers and Gareth’s impending happiness had made her sorrow over MacFarlane’s death more acute; she now had a better appreciation of all he’d had taken from him-by the Black Cobra.
Whatever she could do to bring the fiend to justice, she would do.
By the time she’d duplicated the Black Cobra’s mark as best she could, and had blotted off her copy, the men had decided the order of the watches. She handed his copy back to Gareth. He rolled it and slid it into the holder, then closed the holder and tucked it inside his coat. Now she knew where it rested, she could see the bulge, but it wasn’t that obvious; its presence was less obvious still when he carried it in his greatcoat pocket.
With the time for their departure on the morrow agreed upon, they all rose and retired. Mullins took the first watch. They left him sitting in a chair at the end of their corridor, looking back toward the stairs.
The first alarm came at midnight. Bister was suddenly knocking on their door. Gareth reached it first. Emily grabbed her cloak and slung it over her nightgown as she rushed to join him.
He glanced at her. “Someone’s trying to break into the parlor downstairs. Bister and I will go down-wait here.”
“Not on your life.” She grabbed the doorknob. “You two go ahead, I’ll follow.”
Gareth hesitated, but in truth he’d rather she wasn’t far from him. The cult might mount a two-pronged attack, one downstairs, the other above. Curtly, he nodded. “Just stay back.”
He pretended not to see her roll her eyes.
Jack, Tristan, Mullins, and Mooktu were already in the corridor. Jack held a finger across his lips, then mimed that he and Tristan would go down the back stairs and circle outside. Mooktu and Mullins would remain by the bedchambers in case of an unexpected incursion there.
Gareth nodded, and they silently parted.
Bister followed Gareth down the stairs. Emily followed on Bister’s heels, treading close by the wall so the stairs wouldn’t creak. Halfway down, Bister found her hand in the dark and pressed the handle of a knife into her palm. Emily gripped, nodded in thanks when he glanced back.
She clutched the knife and felt a trifle less vulnerable, but her primary concern was Gareth, slipping through the darkness of the inn’s ground floor to the parlor door. She and Bister obeyed Gareth’s signal and hung back. He cracked the door open a fraction, listened, then slowly opened it wider.
Then he disappeared into the blackness beyond.
Bister just beat her to the door. She followed him in, and through the gloom saw Gareth, a large dense shadow, waiting, apparently listening, by the window.
The substantial wooden shutters were closed and fastened on the inside. The window casement was also closed and locked, but it seemed inconceivable that the cultists could even get through the shutters.
Drawing closer to the window, straining her ears, she heard whispers, the cadences distinguishing the speakers as Indian.
Suddenly the whispering rose, then stopped altogether.
“Damn!” Gareth reached for the window latch, pulled the window open, unfastened the shutters, and pushed them wide.
In the faint moonlight, across the inn yard they saw two shocked faces turned their way-then the cultists took to their heels and fled.
Seconds later, Jack and Tristan appeared before the window, looking toward the trees through which the cultists had vanished. “What happened?” Tristan asked.
“They gave up.” Disgust rang in Gareth’s voice.
The others grunted. Hands on hips, they stared at the forest, then shook their heads, waved, and trudged back around the inn.
Gareth leaned out, caught the shutters, resecured them, then closed the window. Bister took back his knife before Gareth turned and waved Emily and Bister up the stairs.
They climbed back to bed rather less quietly than they’d come down.
Emily woke some hours later. Uncertain what had drawn her from her dreams, she lay still-then abruptly sat bolt upright.
The movement woke Gareth. He looked at her. “What is it?”
She drew in a deep breath, let it out in a rush. “Smoke-and yes, I’m sure.”
Gareth was already rolling from the bed.
Scrambling into her cloak, Emily joined him at the door, but then frowned and turned back. “It isn’t so noticeable over here.”
Her side of the bed was nearer the window.
Gareth had gone into the corridor. Mooktu was on watch, sitting closer to the stairs the better to hear any sounds from below. But neither he nor Gareth could smell any smoke in the corridor or the stairwell.
The inn roof was slate-no danger there. Puzzled, Gareth returned to their room-to find Emily at the window, working the latch free.
He was on her in a heartbeat, grasping her shoulders and pulling her away from the glass. “Be careful! Your nightgown’s white-they’ll be able to see you.”
“Yes, but-”
“I know.” The scent of smoke was more definite near the window. “Let me.”
Releasing her, he closed his coat to his throat, then stepped to the window, tugged the latch free and eased the pane open.
A gust of wind blew the acrid smell of woodsmoke into the room.
He pushed the window wider, using the glass pane as a shield of sorts, until he could look down and along the inn. He could see smoke trailing from somewhere toward the rear. Following it back…through the deep gloom he could just make out three figures in heavy frieze standing staring at a pile of wood stacked against the inn wall.
They’d tried to set the wood alight, tried to train the flames back onto the wooden shutters, but it was December in England; the wood was damp. They’d managed to light a tiny blaze at the base of the stack. One crouched and blew-just as a rain squall struck, sweeping down, pelting the men and quenching the nascent fire, creating yet more smoke.
Coughing, hands waving, the three men stepped back. They muttered amongst themselves, then turned and walked away into the trees.
From above, Gareth watched them go.
“What’s going on?” Emily hissed.
The rain intensified. Gareth glanced at the now sodden stack of wood, then closed the window.
“They’re gone.” He faced Emily and Mooktu. “They tried to set the inn alight, but they didn’t try very hard.”
“
In the drawing room of the house they’d commandeered in Bury St. Edmunds, Daniel looked at Roderick, waited for his response.
He and Alex had just received a nasty shock. It appeared the letter Roderick had brought them there to intercept held a far greater threat than any of them had realized. Roderick-the idiot-had absentmindedly included Daniel’s and Alex’s real names. While no one else reading the letter would recognize the connection, if the letter- even a copy-found its way into the Earl of Shrewton’s hands, their father would certainly recognize his bastards. Roderick was his favorite legitimate son. As Alex had pointed out moments earlier, if push came to shove over the Black Cobra, the earl would unhesitatingly offer up his bastards as sacrificial lambs to save Roderick-nothing was more certain.
But Roderick couldn’t function as the Black Cobra without Daniel and Alex. And he knew it.
Eyes narrowed to ice-blue shards, his face like stone, Roderick curtly nodded. “All right. I will.”
“How?” Eyes of an even more wintry, unforgiving ice blue, Alex took up a position before the fireplace. “Tell us
