The Untamed Bride (34 page)

Whoever had entered had hesitated at the far end of the nave. Thinking of how awestruck Sangay would feel in an edifice that struck awe into the hearts of grown men, Del prayed the boy would remember his instructions.

Assuming it was he.

Finally, on slippered feet, the newcomer crept slowly up the central aisle. It was Sangay.

Del exhaled. Watched as the boy, still wary, but with increasing assurance—presumably he’d sighted his bodyguards—made his way to the second pew from the front, and slid into it to perch at the end by the aisle.

Everything was in place. No matter how he strained his ears, Del could hear not even a shuffle to give away the presence of the other men concealed at various points inside the cathedral. Even the monks were as still and silent as statues; in their gray robes in the shadows, they were difficult to see unless one looked directly at them.

Sangay looked around, scroll-holder in clear view in one hand. Seeing no one frightening, the boy settled on the pew.

He didn’t have long to wait. As they’d surmised, the Black Cobra had had someone watching the cathedral, too wise to get trapped inside. Less than two minutes had passed when a door somewhere opened and shut, then footsteps—confident and assured—came striding in. They were coming from the south transept, past the vestries.

Whoever had come to fetch the scroll-holder would appear through the massive archway on Del’s left. He ducked down, peered through a narrow gap he’d found in the front paneling of the stall.

Held his breath.

A man—large, heavy, close-cropped dark hair—Larkins!—strode into the octagon.

Del looked at Sangay. The boy’s eyes had widened, locking on Larkins. To his credit, Sangay didn’t do the one thing that might give their game away—he didn’t glance at any of his bodyguards.

Instead, even though he was visibly trembling, he gamely stood and slipped out of the pew. And halted, waited. There, at the top of the long nave, in the middle of the central aisle, the scroll-holder clutched in one thin hand.

As they’d hoped, Larkins saw no reason not to go to Sangay. The boy was the epitome of unthreatening. Larkins slowed, but didn’t break stride, almost swaggering as he crossed to halt before the boy, towering over him.

Watching Larkins from behind the man’s back, Del couldn’t see his face, but he saw no evidence of a glance to either side, no indication Larkins had even noticed the monks. None of them had been, or were, in his immediate line of vision.

Larkins looked down at Sangay. “Well?” His voice was rough, dark with suppressed menace.

Sangay ducked his head respectfully. “I have brought the scroll-holder as you wanted, sahib.” Sangay offered it up, balanced across both his palms.

Unseen by Larkins, Tony slid silently from the stall in which he’d been sitting and, sword in hand, glided to the altar. Gyles appeared, hovering just behind the column to Larkins’s right. Gervase held his position, apparently as yet unseen, but he was closest to Sangay—he would be the last to move.

“Good.” Reaching out, Larkins took the scroll-holder. He turned it in his hands, examining it. Then his fingers flicked and tugged, releasing the six levers. Opening the unlocked holder, Larkins slid the single sheet of parchment from within.

Ignoring Sangay, still standing before him, Larkins unrolled the letter. The decoy copy. Half turning so the light from the tower windows above fell on the sheet, Larkins quickly perused it. Then he smiled.

Del caught the satisfaction in that smile—also saw the evil anticipation infusing Larkins’s features. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, felt his body tense.

Still turned away from Sangay, Larkins slid the letter back into the scroll-holder, closed and locked it, then put it into the pocket of the heavy coat he wore.

Focused on securing the letter and holder, Larkins missed seeing the three monks draw closer.

Focused on Larkins, Del didn’t miss the glint of light along the blade the bastard drew from the pocket into which he’d dropped the holder.

“Run, Sangay!”

The order rang out from multiple points around the octagon as Larkins turned and lunged for the boy, but Sangay had already yelped and danced sideways, avoiding Larkins’s grasping hand and his deadly knife.

Leaving Larkins momentarily off-balance.

Before the heavy man could recover, Sangay shrieked,
“Ai-ai-ai!”
and fled—flew—past him, straight to Tony, rounding the altar some paces beyond Larkins.

Larkins whirled with a roar—then gaped. Froze at the sight of Tony, monk’s robe thrown back over his shoulder, sword raised, his other arm clamped protectively around Sangay’s shivering shoulders.

Larkins’s eyes widened. He looked to the left, toward the north transept, and saw Gyles move out from behind the column.

Larkins whirled to face down the nave.

Only to find Gervase waiting, sword in hand, in the middle of the aisle, with Vane coming up behind him.

Larkins took a step back, then swung to the south—to the corridor through which he’d entered. He’d already
taken a step before he registered that Del stood there, blocking that route of escape. Demon hovered in the shadows behind him.

Meeting Larkins’s eyes, Del saw recognition flare—felt grim retribution curve his lips as Larkins stared.

Then Larkins glanced around, and bolted.

Tony had grasped the moments of Larkins’s distraction to draw Sangay back to safety beyond the choir screen. Larkins thought that meant the east corridor was unguarded—mistakenly.

He ran into Gabriel and Lucifer, avenging angels with swords in their hands. Larkins saw them a few steps before it would have been too late. He slid to a halt, then reversed direction and came pelting back toward the altar.

One glance down the north transept revealed Devil and Richard, coming up fast to corner him.

With a scrape and a hiss, Larkins drew a long cutlass from beneath his coat, then swung to put his back to the altar, facing them all, menacing them all, a snarl distorting his features.

None of them were impressed.

“No need for any heroics.” Del stepped forward. They had Larkins exactly where they wanted him, trapped in the octagon. Their plan was to take him alive so he could talk about his master. And none of them were all that keen to even wound him literally on the altar.

However, Del doubted Larkins possessed any such reciprocal sensibility.

Larkins had one hand on the altar as, head slightly lowered, he stood watching Del. Larkins could possibly vault onto the altar. Standing atop it, he’d have something of an advantage, but, regardless, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—escape them.

Rather than prolong the standoff until Larkins sensed their reluctance, Del switched his sword to his left hand, intending to make use of his pistol to capture Larkins.

Larkins saw the move. Desperate, he thought to capitalize. Raising his sword high, he uttered a bellow—

“Good
gracious
! What’s going on?”

All of them jolted. All of them swung to look.

At the two middle-aged ladies who had appeared behind Devil and Richard. Both ladies had huge flower-filled urns in their arms.

Between them, a pace behind them, stood a cleric, the vicar. He’d halted, blinking myopically toward the altar. “Great heavens! Is that a sword?”

Behind the vicar, the door through which the trio had come stood open.

The next actions happened in the blink of an eye, but to Del, viewing them, time slowed.

Like all of them, Larkins had swung to face the intruders. As Del saw the open door, so did he.

Del saw Larkins’s body shift, knew what he was going to do. With a muttered curse, he stopped reaching for the pistol in his pocket, grasped his sword in his right hand and started forward.

Just as Larkins’s sword arm started to rise again.

Larkins raised his sword above his head, with a roar swung it wildly—and charged.

Devil and Richard had no choice. They turned. Ducking one shoulder, each grabbed one of the women, and in a shower of water, flowers and urns, to ear-splitting screams they hoisted them and rushed them back down the corridor, beyond the door through which they’d come, to safety.

His way cleared, Gyles leapt in and hauled the vicar to him, sword raised, sparks flashing down its length as he used it to ward off Larkins’s roundhouse slash.

Then Larkins was through, past, and racing for the open door.

Del raced after him, but wasn’t close enough. Larkins barreled through the door, then whirled and slammed it shut.

Just before his shoulder hit the panel, Del heard a key grate in the lock.

The door was like the cathedral—solid. The heavy iron hinges were even more so.

Together with Gabriel, Del rammed his shoulder to the panel, but it didn’t so much as shake.

“Wait—wait! I have a key.” The vicar, visibly shaking, came shuffling up, hauling a massive key ring from his robe. There were at least twenty keys on it. “Now…which one is it?”

The keys jingled as he sorted through them.

Del shifted his weight, glanced at the others. “Go out and around.” Because of the risk of being seen, they hadn’t dared post anyone outside.

Gervase, Vane, Lucifer, and Demon rapidly headed out, through the octagon and down the nave—the fastest way to the outside of that part of the cathedral.

Devil came up, sword in hand. “Reverend, is there an external door in that room?”

The vicar glanced up, blinked, then smiled. “Why, my goodness. St. Ives, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Devil said, unsmiling. “Is there an external door in there?”

The vicar glanced at the door. “Well, of course. That’s how we came in.”

Someone muttered a poorly smothered expletive. Richard and Gabriel started after the others.

The vicar glanced their way. “But there’s no need to worry—I locked it after us. I had no idea you were chasing a madman, but he won’t be able to leave by that door.”

Richard and Gabriel halted, then slowly came back.

“I always lock that door,” the vicar said, returning to his keys. “It’s the parish office, you see. I wouldn’t want just anyone poking around in there—ah!” He held up a key. “This is it.”

“Allow me.” Devil took the key, fitted it in the lock, turned it. They all heard the bolt click back.

The vicar obligingly stepped to the rear.

Devil exchanged a glance with Del, who came to stand by his shoulder.

Devil’s lips quirked. “Just like old times.”

Sword in one hand, with a twist of his wrist Devil opened the door and sent it swinging wide. Del stepped through first. Devil followed on his heels to stand shoulder to shoulder with him, blocking the doorway.

Del’s first thought was that there was no one in the room. All he saw was the open window alongside the locked outer door.

A large casement window fully open, the gap was more than wide enough for a man, even one as large as Larkins, to easily escape through.

Then Del’s gaze lowered, and he realized Larkins hadn’t got away.

What in his peripheral vision he’d seen as a shadow on the floor before the window was in fact a body.

Larkins, on his back in an unnatural sprawl.

Both Del and Devil had seen death often enough to know Larkins was dead even before they reached him.

As they did, Vane appeared in the window. He looked in, swore softly.

“Search,” Del told him. “Whoever did this has only just left.”

Vane met his eyes. “We saw the open window. The others are already looking. I’ll pass the word, but so far we haven’t had sight nor sound of anyone beating a hasty retreat.”

With that, Vane went, leaving Del to look down at Larkins, at the ivory-handled dagger jutting out of his chest.

“Whoever did that knew what he was doing.” Devil nodded at the knife, then stepped over Larkins’s legs to the window.

“Oh, yes.” Del crouched, laid his sword aside. “The Black Cobra is exquisitely well-versed in dealing death.”

“So Ferrar, do you think?” Devil asked, examining the window ledge.

“He would be my guess.” Methodically, Del went through Larkins’s pockets, shifting the big man to check every section of the heavy coat.

Devil humphed. “Well, it’s clear enough what happened.
Ferrar, if it was he, was watching. He saw Larkins come to this window. Before Larkins could climb through, Ferrar got here.”

Del rose. “Most likely Ferrar watched the action from outside—easy to peer through those small segments of clear glass set between the stained glass. With the light so weak outside, we wouldn’t have seen him even if we’d looked, but he would have seen all that happened inside.”

He glanced down at the body. “He saw Larkins accept the scroll-holder and try to kill Sangay—in front of all of us. All of us saw, all could bear witness. We saw Larkins attempt to kill while trying to retrieve a letter from the Black Cobra sealed with his master’s personal seal.”

Del circled the body, studying Larkins’s coarse-featured face. “What would be the odds that Larkins, given the choice between the hangman and transportation in return for his testimony, would have implicated Ferrar?”

Devil joined him. “High, I would say. If you trust a ravening dog, it’ll turn on you someday.”

“Just so. I think Ferrar thought that, too.” Del bent and retrieved his sword. “So he killed Larkins—sacrificed him to save his own skin.”

Gervase appeared at the window, Vane, Demon, and Lucifer at his back. “No sightings,” Gervase grimly reported. “The closest we got…” He glanced at Demon.

Who looked disgusted. “On the west side, heading south. I heard hoofbeats, already distant, fading rapidly. Too far away, and going too fast for us to have any chance of following. And there’ll be no tracks—the roads that way are churned to slush.”

Devil looked down at Larkins’s body. “So the Black Cobra got away, but gave up his right-hand man.”

Del finished a slow perusal of the room, then looked at the others. “And the scroll-holder’s gone.”

December 19
Elveden Grange, Suffolk

Y
our letter was a copy, a decoy. Sacrificing it to take out his right-hand man, with a chance at Ferrar himself, was the right decision.” Royce Varisey, Duke of Wolverstone, erstwhile government spymaster, with his black hair, dark eyes, chiseled features and long, powerful frame the very epitome of a darkly dangerous nobleman of Norman descent, kept his compelling gaze fixed on Del.

The entire company, ladies included, were congregated in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, a sprawling Jacobean manor house set amid extensive gardens in a forested area a little way from the village of that name. The ambiance was soothing, and very English. The instant Del had set eyes on the house—two low stories with attics set under a many-gabled roof—he’d suspected what he would find inside. Lots of oak, on the floors, in the linen-fold paneling and ornate woodwork, even in some of the ceilings. The furniture, too, all lovingly polished until it glowed with a honey-gold patina.

Outside, there were ramblers festooning the walls, bare
branches now, but he could imagine what they would be like in summer, blossoms nodding in the breeze. Inside, a similar sensual luxury abounded, with richly painted artworks and exquisite ornaments, velvet and satin-striped fabrics, and the jewel tones of precious Eastern carpets.

The result was both colorful and comfortably restful.

Royce stood to one side of the hearth, by the chair his duchess, Minerva—a calm, graceful, and ineffably capable blond beauty—had claimed.

Del stood in a similar position by the chair in which Deliah sat.

Both ladies, of course, were avidly—and openly—listening.

Del grimaced. “It’s an anticlimax to know we almost certainly succeeded in drawing Ferrar into the action himself, but that we missed him by minutes.”

“I’m more than happy simply to know he’s definitely engaged.” Royce’s lips curved. “I didn’t actually expect you to accomplish that. Reducing the cultists by fourteen more than fulfilled my expectations of what we might reasonably achieve from your mission. But by attempting to use the boy as a thief, Ferrar gave us a weapon—by seizing it, we’ve achieved a great deal more than I, for one, anticipated.”

“Yet he escaped.” Del was still irritated by that. To have come so close….

“True, but he’s chanced his hand—he’s dealt himself personally into the game. It was a bold act, to step in and kill Larkins like that, with all of you so close. From all you’ve told me, that was characteristic in its arrogance, but
un
characteristic in that it was massive risk. Trust me, he’s rattled. We’ll keep tempting him—taunting him—with the others as they come in. Eventually, one way or another, we’ll have him.”

“Speaking of having him.” Devil strolled up to join them, Vane by his side. “Is there anything useful we can do with Larkins’s body?”

They’d conveyed the body to the magistrate in Ely
with the recommendation he wait on further orders from Wolverstone—a name that carried quite amazing weight. Given it was Devil—St. Ives—making the recommendation, the magistrate had been only too happy to await developments.

The ladies had arrived very soon after the end of the action, much to the men’s unfeigned delight; they’d been able to hand the two hysterical local women into gentler clutches to be soothed and calmed. Eventually, Devil had nudged the vicar in the same direction.

As Del had been quick to later acknowledge, the ladies had contributed in a very real way to the success of their mission.

Sangay had been thrilled, especially when he’d seen Larkins’s dead body. When Sligo and Cobby had arrived, he’d happily recited every second of his ordeal, every last detail of all he’d witnessed. He’d still been chattering when they’d reached the Grange. Being introduced to Royce had abruptly sealed his lips. Wide-eyed, he’d bowed low, and accepted a commendation for his bravery in stunned silence. Despite the assembled ladies’ kind words and reassuring smiles, he’d been perfectly happy to be dispatched with Cobby and Sligo to the kitchens.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing.” Gervase strolled up, his wife, Madeline, on his arm. He and Tony had been stunned to discover their wives and families—in both cases their wives had much younger brothers as well as their own young children with them—in residence at the Grange. Minerva, it transpired, had made plans of her own.

“It does seem as if,” Tony said as he and his wife, Alicia, joined the group, “a dead Larkins ought to be worth something—that his body is a weapon we could use in some way.”

“Perhaps,” Royce said, “but not yet, I think.”

“I heard that Shrewton—Ferrar’s father—is in residence at Wymondham, as he usually is at this time of year.” Demon,
with Flick, joined them. “Wymondham’s this side of Norwich, not all that far from here.” Demon arched a brow at Royce. “I assume that’s one reason you’re using this as your base.”

Royce smiled. “That, and knowing I had all you Cynsters I could call on as additional troops.”

“We’ve still got three men—three couriers—to come in,” Del said.

“Which is why I think we might wait and see what comes next before deciding how best to use Larkins’s body.” Royce glanced at Devil, then Vane and Demon. “In case you haven’t yet realized, your roles in this game are far from over. All the couriers are to make their way here, and this is home territory for you.”

Devil, Vane, and Demon looked delighted.

Honoria had come up beside Devil in time to hear Royce’s words, and to witness her husband’s reaction. She poked him in the arm. “Which, of course, means
our
roles in this game are not yet over, either.” As she exchanged a partner-like nod with Minerva on the words, there was no doubt that her
“our”
meant the assembled ladies.

All the wives—and Deliah. A funny little frisson of happiness went through her to know she was included in that company.

Honoria raised her eyes to Royce’s face. “Which leads me to ask, what does this letter say, exactly? I assume”—she glanced at Del—“that you have a copy?”

Del exchanged a glance with Royce.

Royce didn’t frown, but the expression filled his eyes. “No. We don’t.” He glanced again at Del. “Unless you made another?”

Lips twisting wryly, Del shook his head. “I never imagined the Black Cobra would succeed in stealing the copy I was carrying, so no, I didn’t make another.”

Minerva looked at Del, then twisted in her chair to look up at her husband. “So you still don’t know exactly what’s in this letter? I thought you said there was a chance there might be more in it than Del and his colleagues had seen?”

Lips firming, Royce nodded. “I did.” After a moment, he added, “I’ll send a messenger to Trentham and ask him to ensure a copy is made from the decoy Hamilton’s carrying, in case, as with Del’s, they decide to sacrifice it.”

Minerva and Honoria approved the action with identical imperious nods. Turning back in her chair, Minerva saw their butler appear in the doorway. “However”—she rose—“you’ll have to wait until after dinner to send your messenger. Dinner is ready to be served, and tonight, we’re celebrating.”

No one was game enough to attempt to gainsay the Duchess of Wolverstone, least of all her arrogantly powerful husband. The company duly fell into line, husbands unfashionably, and with all due attention, escorting their wives; the majority had yet to be informed of the penance they would have to pay for their rabid protectiveness, and not one of them had forgotten it.

Del offered Deliah his arm, and they went in with the others, all chatting and commenting in relaxed and easy camaraderie, all glad the day was ending so well. While it might not have yielded the ultimate victory they wanted—not yet—a definite blow had been struck, and they’d all come away without hurt or harm.

Once the glasses were charged, at the head of the table Royce rose to address them. An expectant hush fell over the room. He looked down the long board, lips lightly curving as he included them all. “We’ve drawn first blood. In the last days, we’ve won a number of skirmishes and, this morning, the first battle. Yes, we haven’t yet won our war, but we’ve made an excellent start.”

He raised his glass to Del, seated halfway down the table. “To Delborough, and the successful conclusion of his part in this mission.”

They all cheered and drank.

Del smiled and inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“The next engagement,” Royce continued, “will be on us soon—as Hamilton draws near, which, with any luck, will be tomorrow.”

Cheers from all the men greeted that news.

“However,” Royce went on, his gaze returning to Del, “tonight is for celebrating the success of today. For that, and for all that’s to come, I give you a toast.” He raised his glass high. “To justice for all who deserve it. And death to the Black Cobra.”

“Hear, hear!” came from all around. The men all rose, raised their glasses high and drank. The ladies drank, too. Not one shied from the sentiment declared.

Then everyone subsided, and the meal began.

Excellent food, excellent wine, and excellent company. Free-flowing conversations and the warmth of good cheer wrapped Deliah in their comfort, welcomed and reassured. As the meal progressed, she became increasingly aware of the quiet happiness welling within her. Content beyond measure, she glanced at Del, seated beside her, and saw the same appreciation in his eyes.

They shared a smile, knew without speaking what was in the other’s mind. This was home—at last, they were here. For both of them the journey had been long, but they were there now; at last they knew what their future would hold.

His eyes still locked with hers, Del found her hand, raised it, placed a kiss in her palm, then closed his hand over her fingers. He turned his head to answer a question from Devil.

Deliah studied his profile, let her happiness continue to well.

Home is where the heart is
.

She’d heard the phrase before.

Now she understood it.

All their ladies
seemed
to have taken being tied up that morning relatively well.

Later that evening, back at Somersham Place, Del followed Deliah up the stairs to her room—just as all the other men were following their wives, metaphorically trotting penitently
at their heels to face whatever penance was to be theirs.

And just like all the other men, he had to fight to keep a smile from his face.

In his case, the only thing that had marred his day was Ferrar escaping, but as he hadn’t really expected the bastard to even be there, he couldn’t repine too much. Tomorrow, as Royce had intimated, was another day.

Overall, as Deliah halted before her door and he reached around her to open it, he was feeling distinctly…mellow. It had been such a long time since he’d felt that way that the word took a moment to come to his mind.

Following Deliah into the room, he shut the door behind them. She was unbuttoning her pelisse. He crossed to lift it from her shoulders.

The pale green gown she wore beneath, another of Madame Latour’s creations, fitted Deliah’s lush curves exceedingly well; he’d admired the result throughout the evening. He vaguely recalled paying a pretty penny for the gown, and considered it money well spent.

He laid her pelisse over a chair. Her back to him, she glanced at him over her shoulder, then glided into the room.

“This morning…” She said nothing more, but crossed to the dresser. On its top, he saw the two colorful scarves he’d used to secure her to the bed. She picked them up, slowly ran the silk through her fingers as she turned to, across the dimly lit room, regard him.

She tilted her head. “You tied me up.”

Despite his conviction that all was well, more than well, and settled—definitely settled—between them, his stomach contracted at her distant and chilly tone. But…lips thinning, he nodded. “I had to. If you’d been at the cathedral when the fiend, or even Larkins, was there…”

He inwardly shuddered at the thought even now.

Her brows rose. “I would have distracted you?”

He nodded. “I would have been thinking about you—focusing on you, and not on what I was doing.”

“Hmm…that’s what the others said.”

“The other ladies?”

When she nodded, he eased out a breath, and walked forward, closing the distance to halt just before her.

She studied his face. “They also said you…
fussing
protectively over me was a measure of how much I mean to you. Were they right in that, too?”

Some part of him squirmed, literally squirmed at the thought that she—and the other ladies—saw through him so easily. But he forced himself to nod, albeit curtly. “Yes.”

She smiled. “In that case, all else they said on that subject is presumably correct, too.” She pulled the scarves taut between her hands.

He suddenly felt exceedingly wary. “What else did they say?”

“Actually, it was Minerva who recommended the…procedure. As you might imagine, we spent some time after dinner discussing what recompense would be most appropriate to demand for your high-handedness in tying us all to our beds. A piece of male arrogance that, as you might expect, we were not, individually or collectively, inclined to let pass unanswered. Unremarked on. Unpaid for.”

He was perfectly sure he didn’t want to know the answer, but had to ask, “What is this procedure?”

“It’s very simple.” Her smile was the epitome of feminine triumph. “It’s along the lines of, ‘What’s sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander.’”

“Ah.” He looked down at the scarves she kept tugging taut between her hands. “I…see.”

“I’m told it works best if you first remove your boots and stockings, coat, waistcoat and cravat.” Stepping back, she gestured with a wave to the bed. “So if you will?”

He eyed the bed, glanced briefly her way, then relucantly shrugged out of his coat. Laying it aside, he set his fingers to the buttons of his waistcoat, rapidly assessing her tack, her options, the likely outcome.

It wasn’t all bad.

Dispensing with his waistcoat, he caught her eye. “Just promise me one thing—you won’t leave me tied naked to your bed in the morning.”