Rafe Carstairs, a captain in the army with the Honorable
East India Co. is one of four men with a mission. Three are
carrying copies of a missive as decoys and Rafe the
original. All four are to rendezvous on a given date in
England while striving to evade capture by the Black Cobra
and his cultists, who have been long-sought-after for the
endless slaughter and torture of others.
Loretta Michaelmarsh is accompanying her Great Aunt Esme on
a great tour of Europe while attempting to escape being
forced to select a fiancé following her rejection of eight
quite qualified gentlemen. When they are accosted by
assailants, the feisty Loretta and her aunt are rescued by
Rafe and his man Hassan. They form a union to travel to
England incognito, providing protection for the ladies.
Realizing a mutual attraction to Rafe, Loretta's goal is to
find the true meaning of her feelings for him before
reaching their destination. Being hunted through the icy
country, across the sea and through the marshes, the Black
Cobra corners them to retrieve the condemning letter.
THE RECKLESS BRIDE is another book in the Black Cobra
Quartet. Excitement, sexual allure and suspense follow
throughout the entire story. Loretta's strong and
surprising character is a pleasure to follow as her sharp,
clever mind keeps abreast of the unconquerable Rafe. If you
like a story that keeps you glued to the pages from 1 to
400, with each page as exciting as the last, this is the
read for you! Stephanie Laurens is an exceptionally
descriptive and gifted writer.
He races to complete their mission against escalating
odds--his task made more perilous when he loses his heart.
She's determined to defy convention and live a solitary
life--until she tastes the reckless pleasure found only in
his arms.
Drawn together by fate, united by fiery passion, they pursue
their shared destiny...one they'll live to see only if they
unmask the Black Cobra.
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
November 24, 1822
Danube Embankment, Buda
Rafe walked out of the office of the Excelsior Shipping
Company, tickets for two passenger cabins on the Uray
Princep, a riverboat due to start up the Danube two days
hence, in his pocket.
He glanced up and down the street, then strolled to where
Hassan waited outside a nearby shop.
Rafe tapped the pocket of the well-tailored, distinctly
European-style winter coat he now wore. "The last two
tickets. No chance of an assassin getting on as a passenger,
and the boat's too small for them to stow away or join the
crew at the last minute."
Hassan nodded. Rafe was still getting used to the sight of
his friend without his headdress.
They'd reached Buda two nights before. The first thing
they'd done yesterday had been to visit a tailor and
exchange their Turkish shirts, loose trousers, and coats for
European garb. Throughout their journey they'd constantly
changed clothes to better blend with the natives. Now, in
the well-cut topcoat over a stylish coat, waistcoat, and
trousers, a cravat once more neatly knotted about his neck,
with his blond hair trimmed, washed, and brushed, Rafe was
indistinguishable from the many German, Austrian, and
Prussian merchants traveling through Buda, while Hassan's
hawklike features, with his black hair and beard neatly
trimmed, combined with a plain coat, breeches, and boots,
fitted the part of a guard from Georgia or one of the more
dangerous principalities. They were one with the crowd
jostling on the docks and strolling the embankment. No heads
had turned as they'd passed; no one paid them any heed.
The chance of merging into the stream of travelers, of
taking effective cover among the multitude, had been the
principal attraction that had made Rafe decide on the
northerly route. With his distinctive height and blond hair,
he, especially, would have had difficulty passing unnoticed
through Italy and France.
The second place they'd visited yesterday had been a
gunsmith's. Rafe had laid in a stock of pistols, powder, and
shot. The cultists' one true weakness was a superstitious
fear of firearms; Rafe intended to be prepared to exploit
it. He and Hassan now carried loaded pistols.
They still wore their swords and carried the knives they'd
feel naked without. Although the wars in Europe were over,
pockets of military unrest still lingered and brigands
remained an occasional threat, so swords on intrepid
travelers raised no eyebrows; no one could see their knives.
Rafe had also found a cartographer's studio; he'd bought the
best maps available of the areas through which they planned
to pass. He and Hassan had spent yesterday afternoon
studying their prospective route, then had sought advice
from their innkeeper and the patrons of the inn's bar on
which shipping company to approach.
Hassan looked at the quays lining the opposite side of the
street. "Going by river is a good strategy. The cult will
likely not think of it."
Rafe nodded. "At least not immediately." In India, rivers
were not much used for long distance travel, not like the
Danube and Rhine. And as the majority of cultists couldn't
swim, staying on a riverboat was a better option than hotels
and inns on land. "According to the shipping clerk, our
journey via the rivers should land us in Rotterdam with a
day to spare - no need to schedule any other halts to align
us with Wolverstone's timetable."
"We have seen no cultists here yet," Hassan said. "None
around the docks. If any are in the city, they must be
watching the coaching inns and the roads leading east."
Following Hassan's gaze to the wide river buzzing with craft
large and small, then lifting his gaze to the stone bridge
linking Buda with the city of Pest, clustered on the
opposite bank, Rafe murmured, "If they had cultists in
Constanta, there'll be cultists here. We need to remain on
guard."
He started strolling along the embankment. Hassan fell in
beside him. They headed toward the small inn in which they'd
taken rooms.
"The Black Cobra will have stationed cultists in every major
town along the highways," Rafe said. "Here, Vienna, Munich,
Stuttgart, Frankfurt, Essen, among others. By taking the
rivers, we'll avoid most of those. On our first leg along
the Danube, Vienna is the one city we can't avoid, but for
the rest it's as we thought - the river towns are smaller,
and most lie away from the major highways." That had been
the reason they'd decided to travel by riverboat up the
Danube and then down the Rhine. "Nevertheless, we should put
some effort into shoring up our digsuise. We need a
believable story to account for who we appear to be - an
occupation, a purpose, a reason for us traveling."
They'd reached an intersection where a narrow cobbled street
rolled down from the fashionable older quarter to join the
embankment.
"No!"
The shrill female protest jerked them to a halt. They looked
up the street.
In the shadows cast by tall buildings, an older woman - a
lady by her dress - flailed at two louts who had backed her
against a wall and were reaching for her arms, presumably to
seize her reticule, bangles, and rings.
There was no one else in the street.
Rafe and Hassan were racing up the cobbles before the
woman's next cry.
Her attackers, wrestling with her as, breathlessly
protesting, she fought to beat them off, knew nothing until
Rafe grabbed one man by his collar, shook him until he
released his hold on the woman, then flung him across the
street. The man landed with a crunch against a wall.
A second later, courtesy of Hassan, his accomplice joined him.
Rafe turned to the woman. "Are you all right?"
He'd spoken in German, deeming that language more likely to
be understood by any local or traveler. He clasped the
gloved hand the woman weakly held out to him, took in her
ageing, yet delicately boned face. She was old enough to be
his grandmother.
Beside him, Hassan kept an eye on the pair of louts.
The lady - Rafe might have been away from society for more
than a decade, but he recognized the poker-straight spine,
the head rising high, the haughty features - considered him,
then said in perfect upperclass English, "Thank you, dear
boy. I'm a trifle rattled, but if you'll help me to that
bench there, I daresay I'll be right as rain in two minutes."
Rafe hesitated, wondering if he should admit to
understanding her.
Her lips quirked. Drawing her hand from his, she patted his
arm. "Your accent's straight from Eton, dear boy. And you
look vaguely familiar, too - no doubt I'll place you in a
few minutes. Now give me your arm."
Momentarily bemused, he did. As they neared the bench
outside a small patisserie a few paces away, the chef
appeared in the doorway, a rolling pin in one hand. He
rushed to assist the lady, exclaiming at the dastardliness
of the attack. Others emerged from neighboring shops,
equally incensed.
"They're recovering," Hassan said.
Everyone turned to see the two attackers groggily stagger to
their feet.
The locals yelled and waved their impromptu weapons.
The attackers exchanged a glance, then fled.
"Do you want us to catch them?" one of the locals asked.
The lady waved. "No, no - they were doubtless some layabouts
who thought to seize some coins from a defenceless old
woman. No harm done, thanks to these two gentlemen, and I
really do not have time to become entangled with the
authorities here."
Rafe surreptitiously breathed a sigh of relief. Becoming
entangled with the local authorities was the last thing he
needed, too.
He listened while the patisserie owner pressed the lady to
take a sample of his wares to wipe out the memory of the
so-cowardly attack in their lovely city. The lady demurred,
but when the chef and his neighbors pressed, she graciously
accepted-in German that was significantly more fluent and
colloquial than Rafe's.
When the locals eventually retreated, returning to their
businesses, Rafe met the lady's gray eyes - eyes decidedly
too shrewd for his liking. He gave an abbreviated bow. "Rafe
Carstairs, ma'am." He would have preferred to decamp - to
run away from any lady who called him "dear boy" - but
ingrained manners forced him to ask, "Are you staying nearby?"
The lady smiled approvingly and gave him her hand. "Lady
Congreve. I believe I knew your parents, and I know your
brother, Viscount Henley. I'm putting up at the Imperial
Hotel, just along from the top of this street."
Suppressing a grimace - of course she would know his family
- Rafe bowed over her hand, with the other gestured to
Hassan. "We'll escort you back once you're ready."
Lady Congreve's smile widened. "Thank you, dear boy. I'm
feeling quite recovered already, but" - she gripped his hand
and Rafe helped her to her feet - "before I return to the
hotel, I must complete the errand that brought me this way.
I have to collect tickets from an office on the embankment."
Rafe gave her his arm and they turned down the street.
"Which company?"
"The Excelsior Shipping Company." Lady Congreve gestured
with her cane. "I believe they're just around the corner."
* * *
Half an hour later, Rafe and Hassan found themselves taking
tea in the premier suite of the Imperial Hotel in the
fashionable castle quarter of Buda. Lady Congreve had
insisted. Rafe had discovered that his grande-dame-avoiding
skills were rusty. There hadn't seemed any way to refuse the
invitation without giving offense, and as he'd learned to
his horror that Lady Congreve and her party were among the
passengers due to depart on the Uray Princep the following
morning, trying to avoid closer acquaintance seemed pointless.
He had to admit the array of cakes that arrived on the tea
tray were the best he'd tasted in a decade.
"So you and Mr. Hassan were with the army in India." Lady
Congreve settled back on the chaise and regarded him. "Did
you ever meet Enslow?"
"Hastings's aide?" Rafe nodded. "Poor chap's usually run
ragged. Hastings has a finger in so many pies."
"So I've heard. So you were based in Calcutta?"
"For the most part. In the months before I resigned and
departed, a group of us were operating out of Bombay." Rafe
understood she was checking his bona fides, but he wasn't
sure why.
"So you've been soldiering for all these years, and have
been a captain for how long?"
"Since before Toulouse."
"And you fought at Waterloo?"
He nodded. "I was part of a compound troop-part experienced
regulars, part ton volunteers. Heavy cavalry."
"Who of the ton fought alongside you?"
"Mostly Cynsters - the six cousins - plus a smattering of
other houses. Two Nevilles, a Percy, and one Farquar."
"Ah, yes, I remember hearing about the exploits of that
troop. And now you've resigned and are heading back to England?"
Rafe shrugged. "It was time."
"Excellent!" Lady Congreve beamed.
Every instinct Rafe possessed went on high alert.
"It seems, sir, almost as if fate has sent you to me." Lady
Congreve glanced at Hassan, including him in the comment. "I
wonder if I might impose upon you - you and Mr. Hassan - to
act as my party's courier-guide and guard? We left Paris
with an experienced guide, but sadly had to part with him in
Trieste. Knowing we would be traveling on by riverboat once
we reached here, I didn't see any point in securing a
replacement, but today's events have demonstrated my error.
It simply isn't safe for ladies to walk these foreign
streets unprotected." Lady Congreve held Rafe's gaze. "And
as you are going the same way and, indeed, have already
secured passage on the same boat, I do hope you can see your
way to joining my party."
By sheer force of will, Rafe managed to keep all reaction
from his face.
When he didn't immediately reply, Lady Congreve continued,
"Our meeting does seem fortuitous, especially as you've
taken the last tickets on the boat, so even if I could find
any men as suitable, I wouldn't be able to secure passage
for them."
Rafe inwardly cursed the clerk at the shipping office, who,
of course, had recognized him and commented. Racking his
brains for the right form of words with which to decline,
aware of Hassan looking at him, waiting for him to get them
out of this trap, Rafe opened his mouth?then shut it.
He and Hassan needed some reason that would explain their
traveling on the river, some purpose that would make people
accept their presence and not look too closely.
"And of course," Lady Congreve went on, "I'm sure your
brother will be pleased to know you've been able to extend
me this small service. I will, of course, take care of all
the expenses involved and reimburse you for the tickets
you've already purchased."
Rafe recognized that she'd rolled out her heavy guns-his
parents, no less. His gaze abstracted, distracted by a
prospect he was still trying to define, he waved her last
words aside. "No need for recompense. If we do as you ask?"
Refocusing on Lady Congreve, he wondered at the wisdom - and
the morality - of involving her, however much at arms'
length, in his mission. The cultists throughout Europe would
be watching for him and Hassan. As a pair of men traveling
together, they were easy to spot-both over six feet tall,
one distinctly fair, the other distinctly dark, both with
military bearing.
But the cultists most likely would not look closely at two
men traveling as part of a larger party.
Rafe glanced briefly at Hassan. "It might be possible for us
to act as your guide and guard. We'll be on the same boat
regardless, and as you noted, you won't be able to add more
passengers to the list?."
Lady Congreve was clever enough to keep her lips shut and
watch him vacillate.
Rafe remembered James MacFarlane's body.
Remembered the scroll-holder presently strapped to his side.
Remembered that the closer they drew to England, the more
cultists they would need to slip past.
And Lady Congreve was the sort of lady who, if she knew the
details, would wholeheartedly support his mission.
He focused on her face. Should he tell her of his mission?
He opened his mouth, the revelation on his tongue, then
remembered the other tickets she'd picked up. "Who else is
traveling with you? You have four tickets."
"As well as myself, there's my maid, Gibson, who've you've met."
The maid had been waiting in the suite, and had taken her
mistress's coat and cane, then gone to order the tea. Rafe
judged it likely Gibson, a woman of mature years, had served
Lady Congreve for decades; there was an unspoken degree of
empathy and loyalty between maid and mistress that suggested
Gibson would fully support any decision her mistress made.
No threat to his mission there. "And the other two tickets?"
"Another lady and her maid." Lady Congreve tilted her head,
regarding him curiously. "They would be included among the
people you would guide and guard, if that makes any difference."
Rafe knew that ladies of her laydship's generation often
traveled in pairs, providing company for each other on the
journey, someone to share the sights with, to converse with
of an evening. He imagined that any lady Lady Congreve chose
to travel with would be much like her. Which meant there was
really no reason he shouldn't explain his mission, and if
subsequently Lady Congreve stood by her offer of making them
her courier-guide and guard, accept.
He drew breath, met Lady Congreve's gray eyes. "I'm inclined
to accept your offer, ma'am, but first I must tell you what
has brought Hassan and me this way." He glanced at Hassan,
who raised his brows a fraction, but didn't seem
disapproving, then looked back at her ladyship. "If once
you've heard our story you still wish us to take up the
positions of your courier-guide and guard, then I believe we
can accommodate you."
Lady Congreve's smile was triumphant. "Excellent! Now what's
this secret - "
She broke off as the knob on the corridor door turned. An
instant later, the door opened, and a vision in a vibrant
dark blue pelisse, with a fur hat with a jaunty feather
perched atop swirls of lustrous dark hair, swept in.
"Esme - "
The vision broke off, stared at Rafe, then glanced at
Hassan. But her gaze returned to Rafe as he came to his
feet, and she simply stared.
He stared back. He was only vaguely aware of another
female-presumably the other maid-slipping into the room and
closing the door; his entire attention, all his senses, had
fixed, unswervingly, on the lady in blue.
The young lady in blue.
She was tallish, slender, and intensely feminine; an aura of
suppressed-or was it controlled?-vibrancy all but charged
the air around her. Her eyes, large and just faintly
tip-tilted, were of an arresting shade of periwinkle blue
made only more striking by her royal blue pelisse. Her
curves were sleek, yet definite. He'd heard women with such
figures likened to Greek or Roman deities; he now understood
why. She was Athena, Diana, Persephone, Artemis-she seemed
to be those constructs given life, just with sable hair and
blue, blue eyes.
He felt like he'd taken a clout to the head. Just as in
battles when he was staring down Death, time stood still.
It took effort to restart his mind, to return to the real
world. To the here and now.
"Esme" she'd said, and meant Lady Congreve. She was the
other lady, Lady Congreve's traveling companion. A young
lady her ladyship had taken under her wing.
The goddess had halted at the back of the chaise on which
her laydship sat. Lady Congreve raised a hand, gracefully
waved. "Allow me to present Miss Loretta Michelmarsh, my
great-niece. The Honorable Mr. Rafe Carstairs, and his
companion, Mr. Hassan."
Rafe inclined his head. Stiffly. The goddess was a relative;
that made matters worse.
Miss Michelmarsh, her gaze still locked on him, her
expression oddly blank, bestowed the barest bob that would
pass for civility.
"You're just in time, Loretta dear, to hear the latest
news." Lady Congreve twisted around to smile at her
great-niece. "Mr. Carstairs and Mr. Hassan saved me from two
attackers in the street near the shipping office, and at my
request they've agreed to fill the positions of our
courier-guide and guard."
Rafe now understood the reason behind Lady Congreve's
triumphant expression, realized the trap he'd fallen into
was of quite a different nature than he'd foreseen. He'd
forgotten the principal entertainment grandes dames such as
Lady Congreve delighted in. Matchmaking. Preferably with
those of their acquaintance.
Her ladyship knew his family. She knew her great-niece. But
he'd be damned if he allowed her to matchmake him - even
with a vision that brought to mind a pantheon of goddesses.
Aside from all else?dragging in a deeper breath, he forced
his gaze from its distraction, and looked down at her
ladyship, who was clearly waiting to gauge his response.
"Lady Congreve, I regret it will not be possible for me and
Hassan to act as courier-guide and guard for you during your
upcoming journey."
Lady Congreve regarded him, a frown forming in her eyes. "I
understood, dear boy, that you had already agreed to fill
the positions subject to informing me of the reason behind
your current journey and my confirmation of the appointments
subsequent to that." She opened her eyes wide. "What on
earth happened in the space of just a moment to change your
mind?"
She knew. Rafe held her gaze, felt his jaw firm.
"Regardless, my lady, on further consideration it will be
impossible for me and Hassan to join your party."
Lady Congreve's eyes narrowed on him, something her niece
couldn't see. "Surely you aren't reneging on our agreement
because of Loretta?"
Yes, he was. While he'd entertained the possibility of
joining forces with Lady Congreve, a lady in the latter
years of her life and, he judged, with significant life
experience, and had been prepared to court the risk that
through him she might be exposed to the Black Cobra's
minions, he would not, could not even in his most reckless
mood, countenance putting a young lady like Loretta
Michelmarsh in any danger whatever.
He held Lady Congreve's gaze. "There's a certain degree of
risk involved in being associated with me and Hassan, and
while I would have considered, should you have been
agreeable once you were fully informed of that risk,
accepting the positions you offered in your train, it would
be unconscionable of me to continue with that arrangement
while you have a young lady such as Miss Michelmarsh
traveling with you."
Loretta frowned. What was going on? Her first thought on
sighting the tall, blond-haired man, clearly a military man
- she could tell by his stance, the way he held his broad
shoulders - was a simple, albeit dazed: Who was he?
Her mind had stalled at that point, her senses scrambling to
fill in details, none of them pertinent to answering that
question.
How bright the golden streaks in his sandy blond hair, how
unexpectedly soft his eyes of summer blue, how absurdly long
his brown lashes seemed, how deliciously evocative the
subtle curve of his distinctly masculine lips, how square
his jaw, how imposingly tall, how strong and powerful his
long body seemed to be?all those observations flashed
through her mind, and none helped in the least.
Adrift, her gaze locked on him, her senses?somewhere else,
all thought had suspended, and had remained beyond her
reach, until he'd spoken.
His deep voice, its timbre, the reverberation that seemed to
slide down her spine and resonate within her, shook
her-enough to shock her out of her mesmerized state.
Bad enough. But apparently Esme had invited him and his
friend to act as their courier-guide and guard.
Her immediate thought - the first rational one after her
wits had returned to her - was that Carstairs and his friend
were charlatans out to rob Esme?but then he'd refused the
position.
Because of her. Why?
She listened as Esme artfully twisted Carstairs's words,
then invoked his honor as an officer and a gentleman, intent
on browbeating him into acquiescing to being their
courier-guide, apparently all the way back to England. She
could have told Carstairs that he didn't stand a chance of
wriggling out of Esme's talons, but?the notion of having him
squiring her around in the guise of their courier-guide
filled her with an odd mix of anticipation and trepidation.
If just the sight of him could make her temporarily lose her
grip on her wits, what would prolonged exposure - and closer
exposure at that - do?
She couldn't afford to be distracted, especially not now.
She needed to get another vignette off to her agent
tomorrow; her editor was waiting on it, holding column space
for it.
Over the past six years, writing as A Young Lady About
London, she'd steadily developed a following with her little
pieces published in the London Enquirer, three or four
paragraphs of philosophical social commentary, a mix of
observation and political satire all delivered with a highly
sharpened pen. The public had taken to her writings, but her
abrupt departure from England had put paid to that endeavor;
she couldn't observe London society from abroad. But then
she'd had the notion to continue in similar vein with her
Window on Europe vignettes, and her public had happily
followed her through her brief sojourns in France, Spain,
and Italy.
She'd known Esme would halt at Trieste, so had warned her
agent, and a letter from her editor had been waiting for her
there.
Apparently the publisher of the Enquirer was an admirer of
her work, and the paper was eager to publish whatever she
could send them.
Her agent had also written informing her of the sizeable
increase in remuneration the publisher was providing for
each witty installment.
She'd thought her departure with Esme would spell the end of
her secret career; instead, it had brought her work more
forcefully to the attention of both her publisher and the
public.
Her secret endeavor had taken a highly encouraging turn, but
close acquaintance with Rafe Carstairs might well endanger
that-in more ways than he imagined.
Yet she couldn't help but be curious over what, exactly, he
was so set on keeping her away from.
"Perhaps," she suggested, taking advantage of a temporary
silence, "Mr. Carstairs might explain what this
unprecedented danger inherent on being associated with him
and Mr. Hassan is?"
Carstairs, who she had to admit was giving Esme a run for
her money in the stubborn stakes and was presently giving
every indication of being as immovable as a monolith, lifted
his sky blue eyes to her. He studied her for a fraught
moment, then looked down at Esme. "There is no point
continuing this discussion. We cannot - "
"Captain."
The quiet word came from Hassan, who had retreated to stand
by the window; turning, Rafe saw him looking outside.
Glancing up from whatever he'd seen, Hassan met his eyes.
"Before you make your decision you should consider this."
Rafe inclined his head to Esme and her great-niece. "A
moment, if you would."
He crossed to Hassan. Halting alongside, Rafe looked down
through the lace curtains to the street below.
To where two Black Cobra cultists were ambling along,
looking this way and that.
"They are looking, watching, not searching specifically,"
Hassan said.
"Which means they don't yet know we're here."
"True, but?" Hassan waited until Rafe raised his gaze to his
before continuing, "What will happen if they learn we have
been here, not just in Buda but here in this room, speaking
with these ladies?"
Rafe's heart sank.
"The cult will not have forgotten that it was a young
English lady, Miss Ensworth, who brought you and the others
the Cobra's letter. Even if we part from the ladies now,
that will not save them - the cultists will reason that they
have to be stopped and they and their baggage searched, just
in case."
"Damn!" Rafe all but ground his teeth. After a moment, he
murmured, "We shouldn't go on with them and expose them to
danger, but not being their guards might be even more
dangerous for them."
"So I think."
Rafe sighed and turned - and discovered Lady Congreve just
behind him. She'd been peering around his shoulder.
Raising her eyes to his face, she arched her brows. "I
think, dear boy, that you had better tell us all." Swinging
around, she led the way back to the chaise. "And as we are,
apparently, to be traveling companions all the way to
England, you may call me Esme."
Elegantly sitting, beckoning her great-niece to sit
alongside her, she lifted openly curious eyes to his face.
Rafe stifled a groan, but, accepting the inevitable, walked
to the chair he'd earlier occupied. Once Loretta Michelmarsh
sat, he sat, too.
Drawing in a long breath, he started at the beginning.
"Several years ago, a man - an English gentleman of noble
family - went out to India and, exploiting his position in
the Governor of Bombay's office, devised and created a
native cult. The cult of the Black Cobra."
He had them call in their maids, then related the story in
its most abbreviated version, alluding only where necessary
and in general terms to the atrocities committed by the
cult; those he deemed too ghastly to be described in polite
company.
By the time he finished, the sky outside was darkening and
evening was closing in.
Esme had listened intently, putting shrewd questions here
and there. She hadn't been all that surprised to learn that
the man Rafe and his friends were working to expose as the
Black Cobra was Roderick Ferrar, the Earl of Shrewton's
younger son.
Esme's lips had tightened, her features growing severe. "I
never did like that boy - or his father, come to that.
Vicious blackguards, the Shrewtons, except for the heir,
Kilworth. He's altogether a different sort."
Rafe took her word for that. All he cared about was bringing
Roderick Ferrar to justice.
"So let me see if I have this correct." Somewhat to Rafe's
surprise, Loretta Michelmarsh had seemed as fascinated with
his mission as her great-aunt. "You are one of four?for want
of a better term, couriers, who left Bombay on the same day,
all heading for England by different routes. All four are
carrying identical scroll-holders, but only one contains the
original letter - and that original letter must reach the
Duke of Wolverstone in order for the Black Cobra to be stopped."
When she paused and opened her blue eyes wide at him, he
nodded. "In a nutshell, that's it."
"So which do you have - one of the decoys, or the vital
original?"
Rafe shook his head. "The four of us decided that
information shouldn't be revealed to anyone, not even shared
among us."
"In case this fiend of a snake seizes one of you and tries
to coerce the information from them in order to concentrate
solely on the one who carries the original?" Esme nodded.
"Excellent idea. Don't tell us. We don't need to know that
you're carrying the original."
Expression blank, Rafe stared at her, but Esme only smiled.
"The Duke of Wolverstone." Loretta glanced at Esme. "Isn't
he something of a secret war hero? A spymaster or some such?"
"At one time. He retired some years ago, then assumed the
title, but I seriously doubt he'll have lost his lauded
skills." Esme met Rafe's eyes. "If you're working for Royce,
Dalziel - Wolverstone - whatever name he goes by these days,
then as loyal Englishwomen it clearly behooves us to do
whatever we can to aid your quest."
Rafe inwardly blinked. If he'd known Wolverstone's name
would have such an effect, he'd have used it sooner.
"Regardless, however, now that we know about your mission
and have been seen with you by people the serpent's minions
might question, then there's clearly no option other than to
join forces." Esme smiled with satisfaction. "So no more
muttering - you, dear boy, henceforth will be our
courier-guide, and Hassan will be our guard."
Esme glanced at Loretta, then looked back at Rafe. "Which
makes us your charges." Her smile was triumph incarnate.
Lips thin, Rafe nodded, then with a glance at Loretta,
added, "Until we reach England."
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