The Untamed Bride (11 page)

In lieu of port, Del told Cobby to fetch a bottle of arrack from his bags, Gervase and Tony having voiced a wish to sample the Indian version of brandy.

Tony glanced at Gervase, then looked at Del. “Perhaps we should repair to your room.” He turned his charming smile on Deliah. “We should discuss strategy, which will no doubt bore Miss Duncannon to tears.”

Deliah smiled, equally charming. “On the contrary, Miss Duncannon is all ears.” Her smile took on an edge. “I know all about the Black Cobra—or at least all I need to. You and Gervase may speak freely.”

Tony and Gervase exchanged a swift, surprised, not entirely approving look, then glanced at Del.

“Two men tried to abduct Miss Duncannon during our halt at Windlesham.”

Tony and Gervase straightened. “That,” Gervase said, glancing at Deliah, “is not good news.”

“You didn’t manage to capture them?” Tony asked.

Briefly, Del described what had happened. “After that, as Miss Duncannon—”

“Please call me Deliah—it’s simpler, and we’re clearly all in this together.”

Del inclined his head. “As Deliah subsequently observed, given that the Cobra has demonstrated he definitely has her in his sights, it was too dangerous for her not to know what, precisely, was going on.” He met her gaze. “Incidentally, did you get any hint that there were others nearby—the man who shot at me, for instance?”

“No—it was just the two you saw. I don’t think there were any others close.”

“Can you describe both men? The rest of us barely saw the one who fled.”

She complied, painting a picture sufficiently detailed to have all three men frowning.

“It sounds very much as if the Black Cobra is hiring locals to assist him—specifically to act against us so that there’s no chance he or his lieutenants will be implicated.” Del’s gaze rested on Deliah. “You described the man who shot at me in Southampton—thinking of that now, I can’t be sure if he was Ferrar’s man Larkins, or a local hired to do the deed. If
you saw him again, would you recognize him?”

“Definitely,” Deliah averred. “I looked directly at him, and there were only ten yards or so between us.”

And that, Del thought, very possibly explained the attack on her. Ferrar would also know that kidnapping her was a surefire way of pulling him into pursuit—pulling him away from his defined route, deflecting him from his mission.

“Given the current state of play”—he chose his words carefully—“you shouldn’t venture outside—anywhere in public—without at least one of us in close attendance.”

When he glanced at her, he was surprised by her ready nod. As if sensing his latent suspicion, she arched a brow. “After all you’ve told me, I have no wish to become a…guest of the Black Cobra.”

“No, indeed.” His expression stripped of all levity, Tony looked at Del. “I should mention that while Gasthorpe and his minions are desolate to have missed the pleasure of putting you up, they’re always delighted to play supporting roles in our little adventures. Consequently, they’re presently throwing themselves into watching the hotel and scouting out the surrounding streets for any hint of our pursuers.”

“I take it you saw no potential lookouts during the journey?” Del asked.

Gervase grimaced. “We saw no Indians, or even tanned Englishmen. We did, however, see numerous shifty characters watching the carriages roll by, but there was no way of telling those reporting to the Black Cobra from the others. No one worth following.”

The three men fell silent.

Deliah eyed each face, then prompted, “So what are our plans?” When no one rushed to speak, she suggested, “Perhaps you might reiterate what you wish to achieve over our sojourn in town?”

“We want,” Del said, “to leave the Black Cobra guessing whether or not I’m carrying the original or a copy of the evidence. If he learns I’ve got a copy, he’ll lose interest in me and swing his focus onto the other three. We don’t want
to give him that option. The way I interpreted Wolverstone’s plan, part of the intent was to force the Black Cobra to fight on four different fronts, either simultaneously or at the very least in rapid succession.”

Gervase nodded. “That’s correct—weaken him by forcing him to spread his troops thin.”

“So,” Del continued, his gaze on the table, “we keep the scroll-holder safe—that’s taken care of, and given Grillon’s security, it’s as protected as we can make it. We don’t need to do anything more on that front, so that’s our defensive aspect covered. As for the rest, we should do what we can to assess the strength of the Black Cobra’s forces—has he imported many cultists into the country, as we assumed he would, or has he got just a handful, and that’s why he’s hiring locals? Is he using locals because it’s easier, or because he has no choice?”

He glanced at Tony and Gervase. “The Black Cobra’s modus operandi is to smother opposition—he usually relies on numerical advantage and expendable troops to win any encounter. The cult preaches that death in the service of the Black Cobra brings glory. Strategically, he’s accustomed to attacking with an excess of men. It would help—a lot—to know if he has a large number here, held in reserve to date, or if lack of numbers will force him to play the game more craftily.”

Tony nodded. “So we need to draw him, or at least his forces, out. We need to metaphorically wave the standard and dare him to come and take it—we need to taunt and tempt, just as we would on a battlefield.”

“Which,” Gervase said, “fits with Royce’s orders to spend some time making noise in town, attracting, then fixing, the enemy’s attention, drawing as much down on our heads as we can handle before we go haring north to Somersham Place, with any luck drawing a goodly number of cultists with us, into an ambush there.” He shrugged. “Standard procedure, all in all.”

They spent some time discussing options as to what might
serve as “waving the standard.”

“I should at some point call at East India House,” Del said, “if nothing else to give Ferrar a sleepless night—he’ll at least feel forced to check that I haven’t shown anyone there the letter.”

“You could add in visits to Whitehall and to Guards’ Headquarters.” Tony reached for the now half empty bottle of arrack. “The latter is somewhere he might find difficult to penetrate.”

Deliah shifted in her chair. She could envision what they were suggesting and could see a potential problem, but she didn’t want to point it out. Better they saw it themselves.

Gervase frowned. “We can do all that, but I fear it’s all going to look too guarded. Too obvious. He’ll watch, but he won’t come into the open.”

Precisely
. Deliah cleared her throat. “If I might suggest…the one element in your plan that the Black Cobra couldn’t have anticipated is me.” She glanced at Del. “Not even you knew I would be traveling with you. But he now knows I’m with you, and that you are, for some reason unknown to him, acting as my escort. If we—you and I—start going about town on the sorts of excursions a provincial lady—a flighty, demanding provincial lady—would be expected to go on, he’ll assume those excursions are driven by me, not you, that they’re about what I want to do, not about you trying to draw him out.

“And just think.” Seeing the sudden interest in their eyes, she let her own mounting enthusiasm show. “We can go for walks in the parks, shopping in Bond Street and Bruton Street, visiting the museum—and at this time of year fashionable London is almost deserted. He’s unlikely to mount an attack in Whitehall, or outside the Guards, but outside a dressmaker’s shop in Bruton Street? In the park as the shadows are lengthening? There’s no reason for him to think such excursions are traps, not if you’re escorting me.”

Gervase slowly nodded. “That could work.”

Del thought it might, too, but felt distinctly reluctant. It hadn’t escaped him that, no matter her innocent I’m-merely-being-helpful attitude, Deliah had inserted herself into the heart of the action.

More, she’d made the worthiness of the excursions dependent on her.

Tony, too, waxed enthusiastic. “You could break up the fashionable excursions with those places Del mentioned—all places the Black Cobra would expect him to go.” He paused, then nodded. “That should work—we have to make the enemy believe he has a chance of success if we want him to risk his men.”

Del listened while the others discussed fashionable excursions with the potential to tempt an attack. He had to agree with their strategic assessment; Deliah’s presence would lure the cultists into discounting any chance of a trap. And although he inwardly disapproved of her exposure to potential harm, he would be beside her, and Tony and Gervase would be close, ready to come to their aid.

Still….

It was late, and they’d been traveling. With a decent list of excursions to mull over, they agreed to make their final arrangements in the morning, and rose to go to their rooms.

Tony and Gervase made their goodnights and strolled out. Del followed them to the suite’s door, Deliah beside him.

He stepped into the corridor, then paused and glanced back at her.

She raised her brows. “What?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just because I’ve agreed to your involvement doesn’t mean I’m in any way thrilled at the notion of you being exposed to danger, much less to the machinations of the Black Cobra.”

She returned his regard levelly. “You’ll be every bit as exposed to the same danger. And when all is said and done, you’re not that much harder to kill than I am.”

He frowned. Before he could correct her, she started to shut the door.

“Good night, Del.”

Her soft words reached him, then he was left staring at the closed door.

December 12
Shrewton House, London

The drawing room of Shrewton House in Grosvenor Square was exactly as Alex had imagined it. Of course, the family was presently not in residence, and all the furniture was shrouded in holland covers, yet even in the shadowed gloom with the chandeliers unlit, the proportions of the room, the elegant appointments, were evident.

Alex sank onto the chaise Roderick had uncovered, and watched him pacing before his ancestral hearth. More correctly,
their
ancestral hearth—they could all lay claim to it. Their servants had set a fire blazing, driving the frigid chill from the air.

Roderick grimaced. “Grillon’s might be unsuitable for a direct attack, but at least we can keep watch on them there easily enough.”

“And”—Daniel subsided, languidly elegant, into a still shrouded armchair—“I seriously doubt Delborough is naïve enough to imagine he can advance his cause by showing the letter around East India House, or even Whitehall.” Daniel looked at Roderick. “He knows your connections.”

“Regardless,” Roderick returned, “we’ll watch.”

“Indeed.” Unshakably calm, Alex asked, “Meanwhile, what is Larkins doing about retrieving Delborough’s letter?”

“His man inside Delborough’s party is still there—a lucky break. Larkins is confident his man will find the letter and bring it out.”

“But Larkins isn’t simply relying on this thief of his, is he?” Daniel asked.

“No. If he sees a chance to take a hostage—the lady, for example—he’ll act. And if for any reason he judges the letter
has passed beyond our reach, unattainable by any means, he’ll kill Delborough.” Roderick continued to pace. “We’ll watch and attack if an opportunity presents—aside from all else, it’s what Delborough will expect, and the attacks will keep him focused outward, not on his own household.”

“M’wallah tells me that Larkins isn’t using our men.” Alex made the statement and waited for an explanation.

Roderick nodded. “I thought it best, at least while we’re shorthanded and the rest of our men are still arriving, that wherever possible Larkins should use local hirelings, rather than risk our own forces.”

Alex smiled. “An excellent call.” It always paid to compliment Roderick when he got things right. “So where are the others—our far-flung cultists?”

“We’ve got groups waiting in every south coast port, and those on the east as far north as Whitby. There are assassins with each group, and of course we have men on the trail of the other three. Given their varied routes and the impossibility of correctly predicting which English port they’ll eventually use, I’ve given orders that, should they make it alive and still carrying their scroll-holder to any of the embarkation ports on the Continent, the first thing the men following them should do is inform us immediately.” Roderick glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “That way, we’ll have warning and time enough to get a suitable welcome in place.”

“A welcome that has yet to be successful in Delborough’s case,” Alex coolly pointed out.

“We didn’t have our usual complement of men available when Delborough arrived, but with a man inside his household, and the good colonel dallying in London with his mystery lady, we’ll succeed.” Roderick paused and once again glanced at Daniel, then Alex. “Regardless of retrieving all four letters, we should ensure that the couriers—all four of them—do not escape unscathed.”

Alex smiled coldly, a chilling sight. “I agree entirely. We wouldn’t want anyone to think we’d lost our fangs.”

December 13
Grillon’s Hotel

T
hey gathered over breakfast in the sitting room. The suite, Deliah admitted, was a strategic advantage for which Del had foreseen the need. They had to meet with Tony and Gervase to discuss their plans, but wanted to avoid being seen in public with their secret guards.

They quickly decided on their program for that day.

“Some of Gasthorpe’s lads will be assisting,” Gervase said, “so don’t be surprised if they join in any fight.”

“How will we know who they are?” she asked.

Tony smiled. “They’ll be fighting on our side.”

She would have made some retort, but Gervase quickly went on, “Gasthorpe sent word—a message from Royce.” He nodded at Del. “You are the first one home, but Hamilton’s reached Boulogne—he’s expected to cross the Channel in the next few days.”

“That’s good news.” Del felt a quiet relief knowing Gareth had made it that far unscathed.

“All is, we’re told, in place for him to be met when he sets foot on English soil, but as usual Royce has omitted to men
tion where that will be.” Gervase smiled resignedly. Del and Tony did, too.

Deliah asked, “Did this commander of yours say anything further?”

Gervase pushed his empty plate away. “Only that we should proceed as planned and draw out the cultists in London.” He glanced at Del. “The letter’s safe?”

Del nodded. “It’s never left unattended.”

“Right, then.” Tony rose, gave his hand to Deliah and gallantly assisted her to her feet. “Let’s get cracking. First stop, Bond Street.”

“It’s been years since I was here,” Deliah said.

As she was standing with her nose all but pressed to the window of Asprey, Jewellers to the Crown, and had spoken without lifting her gaze from the sparkling display, Del had guessed as much. Her arm in his, she’d all but towed him down Albemarle Street, into Piccadilly and around the corner into Bond Street. Pretending to be dragging his heels hadn’t been difficult.

Yet it was amusing—and revealing—to realize that the part she was playing, that of a provincial lady fascinated by and determined to enjoy all the typical London delights, wasn’t all pretense.

She finally dragged her bright gaze from the scintillating array and looked further up the street. “There are more jewelers, aren’t there?”

He pointed out Rundell & Bridge, further along on the other side of the street; all bustling determination, she towed him over. Given the entertainment, he had to make an effort to look suitably bored. They halted before the well-known jeweler’s windows; while she examined an arrangement of necklaces, he glanced at her face.

No pretense; she coveted the sparkling gems as much as any other lady. He started to wonder what else might be revealed when, as per their plan, they continued on to the Bruton Street modistes.

His attraction to her hadn’t waned, which he found rather strange. She was domineering—or would be if he let her be—opinionated, wasp-tongued and a great deal more willfully independent than he was comfortable with, yet she’d become a part of his mission—unwittingly and through no fault of her own—and was now assisting, a contributing player in the game, and somewhere beneath his reluctant resignation, he was grateful. Grateful it was her, with all her innate confidence, and not some wilting, shrinking, typical genteel young miss, who would cling and require constant reassurance, effective lead in his, Tony’s and Gervase’s saddlebags.

Holding to his ennui, he cast an idle—in reality acute—glance back along the street. Without hurry, he returned his gaze to the window. “We’re being followed, by locals.”

“The two men in brown coats back down the street?”

He hadn’t seen her look, much less notice.

She shifted and pointed, apparently through the window. “I think he—the man in a shabby bowler behind us—is watching us, too.”

Del focused on the reflection in the big window. Decided she was right. “They won’t close in along here—there are too many people to make any attempt on us.”

“Bruton Street should be much less frequented at this hour.”

Del made a show of sighing, then tugging on her sleeve. When she turned, he pointed further up the street. She shook her head, and instead pointed to Bruton Street, off to their left. Pantomiming resigned frustration, he reluctantly escorted her that way.

They turned into Bruton Street. The man in the bowler crossed the mouth of the street, then also turned down it on the opposite side.

Deliah walked along, studying the plaques announcing various modistes and the gowns displayed in narrow windows alongside—watching the bowler-hatted man trail them.

Beside her, Del murmured, “The other two have just turned the corner, so once again we have three.”

“I wonder how they think they’re going to blend in in this neighborhood.”

“I suspect they think we’re oblivious.”

She humphed, then stopped before the next modiste’s window. “I’ve been away for so long, I have no idea which modiste is in favor. I don’t even know what the latest styles are.”

“There’s no point looking to me for assistance.” After a moment, he added, “Didn’t you see any of the latest fashions in Southampton?”

“I wasn’t paying attention—I was just filling the time.”

“By shopping?”

“What else was I to do? Inspect ships?” Recollecting, she added, “Perhaps I should have—ships would undoubtedly have been more interesting.”

“I thought all ladies shopped whenever the opportunity presented.”

“I shop when I need something—I generally have better things to do.”

It wasn’t so much the comment as her tone that jarred Del’s memory. He’d never met her before Southampton, but he had heard of her. Heard tales of her when she, and he, had been much younger. She’d been the local tomboy, the bane of her mother’s existence, as he recalled.

She’d noticed his abstraction. “What?”

He glanced at her, met her eyes. “Did you really tie a bell to Farmer Hanson’s bull’s tail?”

Her eyes narrowed, then she looked ahead. “I wondered if you would remember.”

They walked on to the next modiste’s window.

“So did you?”

“Martin Rigby dared me to, so yes, I did.” She frowned at him, waved at the window. “You really have no recommendation—no preferences?”

He glanced along the street. The salons lining it were all similar. “None.”

“In that case, I’ll just pick one.” She walked on, then halted before a window showcasing a simply cut but stylish gown of blue silk. “No ruffles, no frills, no furbelows. And a French name. This one will do.”

Reaching for the door beside the window, Del read the brass plaque fixed to the wall beside it. “Madame Latour.” He opened the door, held it.

As she passed through, Deliah murmured, “I haven’t caught sight of our guards or their helpers.”

“I suspect they’re a trifle more expert in the art of unobtrusively trailing people. Don’t worry—they’ll be there.”

A bell had jangled overhead when the door opened. Finding herself facing a narrow set of stairs, Deliah started to climb. A young assistant appeared at the top, smiling and bobbing in welcome.

“Good morning, ma’am. Sir. Please.” The girl waved them through an open door. “Go through. Madame will be with you shortly.”

It was barely ten o’clock, unfashionably early, so it was no great surprise to find no other patrons gracing the salon.

What was a surprise was Madame herself. She emerged from behind a curtain, a slim young woman, pale-skinned, with brown hair sleeked back in a tight bun and large hazel eyes. Madame was young—younger than Deliah. And after her first words, a heavily accented greeting, it was obvious Madame was no more French than Deliah was, either.

She pretended not to notice. “Bonjour, madame. I have this week returned from a prolonged sojourn overseas and am in dire need of new gowns.” Gently reared young woman impoverished by harsh circumstance was Deliah’s assessment of Madame. “I liked what I saw in your window. Perhaps you could show me what else you have?”

“
Absolutement
. If madame would sit here?” Madame gestured to a satin-covered sofa, then glanced at Del. “And monsieur your husband, also?”

Deliah glanced at her escort. “The Colonel is an old family friend who has kindly consented to accompany me north.”

She sat, and watched Del amble across the salon.

He smiled, charmingly, at Madame. “I’ve agreed to assist and lend my opinion.” So saying, he sat beside Deliah, elegantly at ease, and looked inquiringly at Madame.

Who stared back as if unsure just what she’d invited into her salon.

Deliah couldn’t blame her. He was large, and although he was wearing civilian clothes, nothing could cloak his military bearing, that dangerous, suggestively rakish aura that hung about him.

Thus far she’d managed to keep her skittering nerves within bounds and her reactions to him hidden. She’d even managed largely to ignore them, or at least not allow them to dominate her mind. Now…whether it was the heightened contrast of having him beside her, large and so brashly masculine in such an intensely feminine setting, she didn’t know, but she was suddenly highly conscious of the tension that rode her, compressing her lungs, distracting her senses and setting her nerves flickering.

Still, as long as he didn’t realize….

She gestured to Madame. “Pray proceed.”

Madame blinked, then bowed. “Ma’am. I have a number of styles available, suitable to be worn from morning to evening. Does madame wish to start with the morning gowns?”

“Indeed. I need gowns of all types.”

With a nod, Madame whisked behind the curtain. From where they sat, they could hear a whispered conference beyond.

Still too aware of the hard heat beside her, Deliah glanced at the windows. “Those look over the street.”

“True, but it’s too soon to check. If they see me looking out all but immediately, they’ll get suspicious.”

Madame chose that moment to reappear, two gowns on her arm. Her little assistant staggered in her wake, bearing an armload of garments.

“First,” Madame said, “I would suggest this.” She held
up her first offering, a plum-colored morning gown in soft cambric.

What followed was an education. Del relaxed on the sofa and watched. Watched Deliah respond to Madame’s designs, and Madame grow steadily more confident. The youthful modiste presented each gown, holding it aloft to recite and display its features. Deliah would then either accept or decline to allow it to be added to the pile for her to try on. She asked questions, most of which were a mystery to Del, but apparently made excellent sense to Madame. Within minutes, Deliah and the modiste had established a rapport.

Regardless, it wasn’t until they reached the evening gowns that Del realized Deliah was sincere in her intention to buy a number of Madame’s creations. She’d already added to her pile for further consideration a sleekly simple gown in pale green silk that even he could tell would look stunning on her, and was debating between a gown of soft gold satin and another of a delicate shade of sky blue.

“Try them both.”

Madame shot him a grateful smile.

Deliah looked at him, faintly shocked.

“If you’ll come into the dressing room, ma’am, we can see if these selections will suit.”

“An excellent idea.” Del couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll be waiting to give you my views on each.”

Deliah’s eyes narrowed. She flicked a glance toward the windows. “Shouldn’t you be keeping an eye out for our friends?”

“It’s too soon yet to look for them.”

She wanted to argue, but with Madame hovering, she rose and allowed herself to be shepherded beyond the curtain.

Del sat back and prepared to enjoy himself. Tony and Gervase, supported by the legendary Gasthorpe’s men, would be in place outside by now, but waiting a trifle longer would give the Black Cobra’s minions time to grow bored and careless.

The curtain rattled back, and Deliah came out arrayed in a morning gown of some pale gold material with small emer
ald green leaves liberally sprinkled over all. She looked like Spring personified. With nary a glance for him, she walked to the corner of the salon where four mirrored panels were arranged to allow ladies to view the gowns they wore from several different angles.

Deliah turned this way and that, her gaze following the lines of the gown, from the tightly fitting bodice to the trim raised waist, to where the skirts caressed her hips before falling to sway about her very long legs.

Del’s gaze followed hers. Lingered. Appreciatively. “Very nice.”

She stiffened, glanced at him in the mirror.

Then she turned to the hovering modiste, nodded curtly. “Yes—I’ll take this one.”

Without again glancing his way, she stalked past him and back behind the curtain.

The parade that followed left Del questioning his sanity in remaining to view it and simultaneously pleased he had. While the more rational, logical side of his brain continued to insist she was nothing more than a female his aunts had thrown in his path, someone to be smiled at courteously and deposited safely back with her parents in Humberside, another, more primal side was far more viscerally interested in her on a personal, not to say primitive, level.

Of course, he couldn’t resist giving her his opinion on her appearance in the various gowns. Couldn’t resist giving himself the excuse to run his eyes down her evocatively feminine length, from her nicely rounded shoulders, bared by the evening gowns, over the womanly swells of her breasts, the subtle curve of her neat waist, her sweetly rounded hips, and the fascinating length of her long legs.

The sum of her made his mouth water.

He would have suffered in relative silence had she not reacted. Had she not, after the first faint blush rose in her cheeks, decided to torment him. After modeling a carriage gown, to which, admittedly with his gaze fixed on the
tightly fitting frogged bodice, he’d given his verbal stamp of approval, she’d shot him a look, whisked back behind the curtain, a definite tinge in her cheeks, then minutes later swanned back out in a gown of flame-colored silk and a temper equally fiery.