The Untamed Bride Plus Black Cobra 02-03 and Special Excerpt (12 page)

“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.