days ago by fast frigate, so he’ll know we’re heading home in good time to have his men waiting at the ports.”
Rafe reached out, drew the nearest scroll-holder, letter and instructions to him, and set about opening the holder. “Now we do as he suggested and draw lots-in this case, scroll-holders.” He proceeded to carefully roll the letter and instructions and insert them into the holder.
The others followed suit, smiling faintly, all knowing that Del had been about to try to pull rank and argue that he should take the original.
He wouldn’t have succeeded-they’d resigned their commissions effective from this morning. They were all in this together, and equals in all ways now.
Reclosing his holder, Rafe asked, “Where’s that basket?”
Gareth hauled it back up. Rafe took it, dropped the scroll-holder he’d packed inside, then collected the holders from the others as they reclosed them, sealing in the letters and instructions.
“Right.” Rafe stood, closed the top of the large basket with his hands, then shook and rattled the holders, mixing them. With one last flourishing swirl, he set the basket down in the middle of the table and sat again.
“All together,” Del said. “We reach in, each takes a holder at the same time, whichever is closest.” He met the others’ eyes. “We don’t open them here. We leave this room together, but from the moment we pass through the door of the Red Turkey Cock, we go our separate ways.”
That morning, they’d moved out of the barracks. Over the years, each had gathered small households who traveled with them; those households were now packed and waiting, ready to leave, but all in separate locations.
They exchanged one last glance, then sat forward, reached into the basket. They waited until each of them had grasped one of the cylindrical holders, then, as one, drew them forth.
“Right,” Rafe said, his gaze locked on his holder.
“Wait.” Gareth swept the empty basket from the table, and replaced it with a bottle of arrack and four glasses. He splashed pale amber liquor into each glass, then set the bottle down.
They each took a glass and rose.
Del held his out. “Gentlemen.” He looked at each of them in turn. “To our continued health. Godspeed, and may luck be with us.”
They knew the Black Cobra would come after them; they knew they’d need all the luck they could get.
Gareth raised his glass. “Until we meet again.”
“On the green shores of England,” Logan added.
Rafe hesitated, then raised his glass. “To the death of the Black Cobra.”
They all nodded, then drank, drained their glasses and set them down.
They turned to the doorway. Lifting the bamboo screen, they ducked beneath it, walking out into the smoky bar.
Picking their way past rickety tables, they reached the open tavern doorway and moved out onto the dusty steps.
Del halted and held out his hand. “Good luck.”
They all shook hands, each with the other.
For one last instant, they stood and simply looked at each other.
Then Rafe stepped down into the dusty street. “May God and St. George be with us all.” With a last salute, he walked away.
They parted, each disappearing by a different route into the bustling city.
“We have a problem.”
The voice fitted the setting, the clipped, aristocratic accents appropriate to the beauty, the elegance, the wanton luxury pervading the enclosed courtyard of the discreet bungalow tucked away on the fringe of the fashionable district of Bombay.
No one seeing the house from outside would look twice. The street frontage was unremarkable, like many others nearby. But on entering the front foyer, one was struck by a sense of subdued elegance, yet the front reception rooms-the rooms those who called socially might see-were nothing more than quietly refined, restrained and rather spare.
Not quite soulless, yet the chosen few who were invited further quickly sensed a different ambiance, one that filled the senses with ever-increasing richness.
It wasn’t merely a show of wealth, but a deliberately sensual display. The further one penetrated into the private rooms, the richer, more wantonly yet tastefully luxurious the furnishings, the more artful, and graceful, the settings.
The courtyard, surrounded by the private rooms of the owner, was the apogee of restful, sensual delight. A long tiled pool glimmered in the moonlight. Trees and shrubs lined the whitewashed walls, while the open windows and doors gave access to mysteriously dark and inviting com forts. The exotic perfume of a temple flower tree wafted in the night breeze, the shed blossoms lying like snippets of the costliest silk scattered on the stone paving.
“Oh?” A second voice answered the first through the cool dark.
The speakers were on the extended open terrace that jutted from the owner’s private sitting room into the courtyard. The second speaker reclined on a sofa piled with silk cushions, while the first paced the edge of the terrace, his bootheels creating a quiet tattoo-one that held a certain tension.
A third man watched silently from an armchair beside the sofa.
The night’s shadows cloaked them all.
“Damn Govind Holkar!” The first speaker paused to rake a hand through thick hair. “I can’t believe he left it this long to send word!”
“Word of what?” the second asked.
“He lost my last letter-the one I sent over a month ago trying to persuade him to give us more men.
“By lost, you mean…?”
“I mean that it went missing from the desk in Holkar’s room at the governor’s palace in Poona while that damned hound of Hastings’s, MacFarlane, just happened to be there, waiting to escort the governor’s niece back to Bombay.”
“When did this happen?” The second voice was no longer so languid.
“On the second of the month. At least that’s the day Holkar realized the letter was gone. That was also the day MacFarlane left Poona with his troop and the governor’s niece at dawn. Holkar sent his cultists after them-”
“Don’t tell me.” The until-then-silent man’s baritone rumbled, a contrast to the others’ lighter voices. “They killed MacFarlane but didn’t find the letter.”
“Exactly.” The first speaker’s voice dripped frustrated ire.
“So that’s why we killed MacFarlane-I did wonder.” The second speaker’s cool tones showed little emotion. “I take it they didn’t learn anything pertinent from him before he died?”
“No. But one of the sowars who made a stand with him eventually revealed that MacFarlane gave the governor’s niece a packet before sending her on.” The first speaker held up a hand to keep the others from interrupting. “I got word from Holkar only this morning-when he realized the letter had reached Bombay, he decamped to Satara,
“We can deal with Holkar appropriately later,” the second speaker put in.
“Indeed.” Anticipation colored the first speaker’s voice. “We will. However, once I knew about the letter, I had Larkins see what he could ferret out from the governor’s staff. Apparently, Miss Ensworth, the niece, was greatly distressed when she rode in, but later that afternoon, she took a maid and went to the fort. The maid was overheard saying that, on learning at the gates of MacFarlane’s death, the lady searched out Colonel Delborough, found him in the officers’ bar, and gave him a packet.”
“So there’s no reason to pursue this Miss Ensworth. Even if she read the letter, she knows nothing of any worth.”
“True.” The first speaker added, “And that’s just as well, because she’s leaving any day to return to England.”
