The Reckless Bride (26 page)

“In this case,” Rafe said, taking her arm, “small means difficult to infiltrate because everyone knows everyone else on the staff.” And despite the timber in the building, with the river so close and the chill damp fog increasing, there was little chance of anyone setting the inn alight.

Esme slanted him a glance. “You’re sure we’ll find cultists here?”

“I’m absolutely certain of it.” They hadn’t sighted any yet, but they’d avoided the town center.

He escorted both ladies and maids inside, introduced the innkeeper and his beaming wife, then followed his charges up the stairs and briskly assigned the rooms he’d chosen.

He felt grateful when no one argued. He stepped back from the door of Esme’s room to allow two lads to carry in her trunk, then headed back to the room he’d selected as his own, the one nearest the inn’s main stairs.

His bags and weapons had already been left there, courtesy of the lads and Hassan respectively. He made short work of stowing things, then sat on the bed and cleaned and prepared one of the pistols he’d bought in Vienna.

Setting eyes on the Rhine and then entering Strasbourg had been like crossing a boundary—one marking the start of the last leg of his long mission. Urgency had gripped him, a sudden sense of being in action, real action, as if he’d just obeyed the order to set foot on some battlefield.

Everything suddenly seemed much more immediate.

He wondered where his friends, the three other couriers, were. It was the eleventh of December. Had any or all of them reached England? Had the Black
Cobra struck at them? Had they got safely through to Wolverstone?

Unanswerable questions that only added to his battle-ready tension.

The pistol primed and ready, he stood, slipped the weapon into his coat pocket, buckled on his saber, then went to the door.

He met Hassan coming up the stairs. “I’m going to the shipping offices. You’re on guard.”

Hassan merely nodded and went on to his room.

The stairs were narrow and turned at right angles to descend to the ground floor and the foyer before the door. Making the turn, Rafe continued quickly down. The foyer gradually came into view. He saw the hems of ladies’ cloaks, and slowed.

The cloaks were familiar. The further he descended, the more of the ladies in question came into view.

Esme and Loretta. Waiting for him.

He stepped off the last stair.

Esme favored him with a bright, shiny smile that stated her determination louder than a roar. “Ready, dear boy?”

He glanced at Loretta, met her eyes. Determination was a poor description for the resolve he saw there.

Inwardly sighing, he offered Esme his arm. “The shipping offices are at the end of the quay and along the embankment.”

It was too soon for the cultists to have organized an attack.

When they entered the office of the Golden Eagle Shipping Line two hours later, he was feeling a good deal more grim. They’d already visited the offices of three other shipping lines. As they’d foreseen, there were numerous boats for hire, but they’d been of the slow, launch-cum-barge variety, in this season carrying mostly cargo and wedded to a ponderous, town-by-town schedule.

Fronting the main desk, Rafe asked what passenger vessels the Golden Eagle was running down the Rhine.

The clerk, by his appearance a retired ex-riverman, glanced past Rafe to Esme, then looked down at his register and confirmed that the Golden Eagle, too, had only passages on slow vessels available.

Edging Rafe aside, Esme stepped up to the desk. She smiled at the clerk, every bit as old as she. “But, my dear man, there
have
to be faster boats. I’ve traveled on smaller vessels myself—quick, quite luxurious boats just for passengers. Where have they all gone?”

The man blinked. Under Esme’s encouraging gaze, he somewhat cautiously admitted, “There are riverboats that cater for small parties, passengers only. During the season wealthy patrons hire them to cruise the Rhine on river excursions.”

“Exactly!” Delighted, Esme beamed at him. “We wish to hire just such a craft.”

“Ah … all such craft are in dock, out of the water now it is winter and there’s so much less call for them.”

“But I’m calling for one now.” Esme opened her eyes wide. “Our need is quite urgent. There must be someone with such a boat available. To whom should we speak?”

The clerk appeared lost in Esme’s eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “My nephew—his boat, I think, is still in the water. It is a perfect vessel for a small party—I think you said you were six? His boat is as fast as anything on the river.”

Rafe stepped forward again. Satisfied, Esme eased back and allowed him to further question the clerk about his nephew—in his twenties, young and eager—and his boat. The
Loreley Regina
really did sound like the perfect boat for them.

The price the clerk quoted was exorbitant, but Rafe had expected that. He was happy to pay as long as they secured what they needed.

There was, however, one catch. The
Loreley Regina
was moored downriver and it would take a full day before she could be ready to sail.

Deciding he wanted to see the boat by daylight before trusting it, the captain, and his crew with the ladies as well as his mission, Rafe arranged to have the captain
bring his vessel in to the quay opposite the Beau Rivage at first light
the day after the next. If on inspection boat, captain, and crew passed muster, Rafe would pay the captain half the agreed sum, with the second half paid at Rotterdam, their destination.

Throughout the discussion and negotiation, he was careful to remain in his role of courier-guide, using Esme’s name and never mentioning his own.

With all as settled as it could be, Rafe ushered Loretta and Esme out onto the embankment.

“Quite fortunate, really,” Esme said as she accepted his arm, “that the inn faces the river.”

Rafe nodded, scanning their surroundings. The fog had thickened while they’d been inside. On the one hand, it hid them from any cultists’ eyes; on the other, the dense, drifting mists were an effective screen for any skulking assassin.

Tension leapt, a tightening sensation between his shoulder blades. He needed to get Esme and Loretta back to the inn.

Beside him, Loretta shivered and drew her cloak closer about her. He fought down the urge to loop his other arm around her and draw her close.

“Let’s get back.” She glanced at Esme. “It’s getting colder.”

“Indeed.” Esme waved with her cane. “I haven’t seen this much fog since London. But we are further north than we were.”

“And heading even further north,” Loretta pointed out.

Esme nodded. “We must hope the river doesn’t freeze.”

Rafe could only pray. If the river froze, the roads would be impassable, too. He wouldn’t be able to get through. He would have to leave Loretta and Esme….

He cut off the thought, shook aside the vision. It was only mid-December. The weather wasn’t that cold and, he thought, unlikely to get that cold this side of January. He made a mental note to check with the innkeeper.

At least the nippier temperatures had Esme and Loretta walking on briskly. Without further conversation, they retraced their steps along the cobbled embankment and down the quay to the Beau Rivage.

The fog remained, steadily thickening with wood smoke and the sulphurous taint of coal fires.

The next morning, seated at a table with breakfast spread before her, Esme peered out of the inn’s dining room window at the dismal excuse for a day. “Is it always like this in winter?”

The innkeeper set a platter of pork sausages in front of Rafe. “Sadly. It is the forests, you see. They are all around, and so stop the wind from blowing the smoke away.” He gestured at the scene beyond the window. “It hangs.”

Which, Loretta felt, glancing out of the window, was appropriate. She was hanging, too—vacillating over, not if she would act, but when. Last night, every time she’d turned toward her door intending to open it and go to Rafe’s room, she’d hesitated. Not because of him, or her, but because of his mission.

It was important; it would affect the well-being of many people. If she precipitated the next step only to discover that he and she didn’t suit … her subsequent retreat might affect his ability to complete that mission. Did she have the right to potentially jeopardize it?

She didn’t feel she did. More, when she’d consulted her feelings she’d discovered a strong commitment of her own to helping him succeed.

Of course, once they took the next step, if they were not suited, despite all he’d said she might yet persuade him that in the circumstances a marriage based solely on honor wasn’t wise. He might agree to part with no fault on either side … then again, if the next step proved them incompatible in her eyes, she could simply not tell him, pretend all was well, and use his mission to avoid further incidents until they reached England and his mission was complete, and only then break the news to him that she wasn’t going to marry him.

Scandalous and deceitful, yes. But any scandal wouldn’t occur until they were back in England, and she couldn’t find
it in her to care. As for the deceit, if it ensured his mission’s success, she would consider it justified.

Her Michelmarsh side was clearly growing stronger with every passing day.

“The cathedral, dear boy, is the one place I really must insist we visit.” Sipping her tea, Esme fixed her eyes on Rafe. “Besides, you can’t expect us to spend all day confined to our rooms when we haven’t had any real excursion on land for nearly a week.”

Rafe had hoped, but … lips setting, he nodded. “The cathedral, then. But just there and back.”

He changed his mind an hour later, after their party had ambled down the fog-laden streets, through ancient squares lined with medieval buildings, and, skirting the town’s center, found their way to the gothic splendor of the cathedral, then spent twenty minutes studying the fine carvings inside and out.

“No cultists.” Halting beside Hassan halfway down the nave, Rafe watched Loretta examine a choir stall. “I’m not sure if we simply haven’t seen them because of the fog, or …”

“If they had spotted us yesterday, they would have attacked the inn last night.”

“True.” Rafe scanned the side chapels, searching for any sign of potential attackers.

Hassan slanted him a glance. “The last cultists we saw were in Vienna, and they did not see us.”

Rafe nodded, his gaze on the ladies as they started back up the nave. “It would be helpful to know if our disguise works … and here and now is a reasonable place to test it.” He and Hassan had fought together for so long they usually thought along similar lines.

“The fog … we could use it to our advantage.”

“And if the worst came to be, we could flee by carriage. The highways are good from here.” Rafe straightened as the four women approached. He glanced
around, confirmed no others were close, then faced them. “We’ve decided to see
who else is in town. Remember, if you see any black scarves, don’t react. Pretend you don’t know what the sight of a cultist means.”

“Excellent idea!” Esme claimed Rafe’s arm. “Always a good policy to know the enemy’s strength. And even more helpfully their weaknesses.”

Rafe glanced at Loretta and saw her lips quirk, but they were all as intent and alert as he could wish when they filed out of the cathedral and descended the stone steps.

With Esme on his arm and Loretta strolling on his other side, he led the way down the street toward the main avenue of shops and businesses. From the smell, the fish market lay somewhere to their left. The fog was dense, distorting sounds as they walked deeper into the isle on which the town stood. The buildings closed around them, fog cloaking the eaves and hanging so low it was difficult to recognize landmarks and identify exactly where they were.

But as they penetrated deeper into the town, they encountered more and more people on the streets. Most were briskly striding, on their way to somewhere. Few were ambling, but with Esme’s cane identifying her as elderly, their pace didn’t seem out of place. Rafe kept them moving steadily as if they, too, were on their way somewhere, but just walking slowly.

The cultists, when they came upon them in the fog, were more obviously idling. The pair, both in the distinctive turbans, black scarves dangling, but otherwise swathed in European-style cloaks, were openly scanning the people passing by, occasionally searching faces.

They saw Rafe, saw them all, including Hassan walking with Rose to the rear of the group.

The cultists looked, then their gazes passed on to the next couple walking along.

Rafe held his breath as the pair passed by on the outer edge of the pavement.

He didn’t look around, hoped none of the others would, either.

Only when they were around the next corner, did he glance
back and meet Hassan’s eyes—and see the same question that had just occurred to him reflected there.

“Back to the inn.” Rafe turned down the next street leading in the general direction of the quay on which the inn stood.

Halfway back, they passed another pair of cultists, with the same result.

Rafe was certain that if he and Hassan had been by themselves, the cultists wouldn’t have been so patently disinterested.

They reached the inn without further incident. Esme, triumphantly thrilled, ordered a pot of tea. It was served in the inn’s parlor, which at that time of day was deserted but for them.

“So!” Dropping into an armchair, Esme looked brightly up at Rafe. “They don’t recognize you while you’re with us. We"—she waved to include Loretta, Rose, and Gibson—"provide you with effective camouflage.”

“So it seems.” Rafe exchanged another glance with Hassan, then, as Loretta subsided into another armchair, he drew up a straight-backed chair and sat, too. “That, however, raises a question. Clearly the cult hasn’t issued a sufficiently detailed description of me or Hassan to their own members. They’re expecting us to be traveling as a pair—I saw them look more closely at two other men walking by. So"—he glanced again at Hassan—"the cult doesn’t have an effective personal description of us. That being so, how did the locals we assumed they’d hired in Pressburg, in Vienna, and in Linz know to attack us when the cultists themselves can’t identify us?”