Cobra 01 The Untamed Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  Rafe grinned. “I always knew there was a reason we agreed to form a troop with the Cynsters at Waterloo.”

  Gareth smiled reminiscently. “They were damned fine soliders, even if they weren’t regulars.”

  “In the blood.” Logan nodded sagely.

  “And their horses were worth killing for,” Rafe added.

  “We covered their backs often enough, so now they’re returning the favor.” Del held up his glass, waited until the others touched the rims of theirs to his. “To old comrades-in-arms.”

  They all drank, then Logan looked at Del. “So has Wolverstone given us the required advice?”

  Del nodded. “In detail. First, he confirmed that he’s willing to take any proof we turn up and present it through the proper channels—he has all the contacts and the standing to do that. However, he makes it plain that to take down Ferrar junior, said proof will have to be incontrovertible. It has to be clear, instantly obvious, unequivocal, not circumstantial, not something that requires interpretation, let alone knowledge of the situation, to make sense.”

  Gareth mumured, “So it has to be something that incontestably implicates Ferrar directly.”

  “Exactly.” Del set down his empty glass. “Once we have that proof—and Wolverstone was very clear there is no point in proceeding without the right proof—but once we have it, then he’s already put in place a…for want of a better word, campaign, a detailed plan of action for us to follow to bring the proof safely to England, and into his hands.” Del glanced at the others, lips curving wryly. “Looking over his plan, it’s not hard to see why he was such a success in his erstwhile occupation.”

  “So what are the details?” Logan leaned his arms on the table, his interest plain. The others, too, were waiting.

  “We’re to make copies of the proof, and then separate and independently make our way home—four carrying copies and one carrying the original. He’s sent five sealed letters—five sets of instructions—one for the original, the other four for the decoys. Each letter contains the routes each of us should take back to England and which ports we should use—once we land, there’ll be men of his waiting to escort us further. They—our escorts—will know where each of us is to go once in England.”

  Logan’s lips had curved. “I take it Wolverstone’s a firm believer in sharing information only with those who need to know?”

  Del smiled. “The way we’re to handle this, while each of us will know what we’re carrying—decoy or original—and what route we’ll be taking home, we won’t know what any of the rest of us have, or the others’ routes. Specifically, the only one who’ll know who is carrying the original, and what route they’ll be taking home, what port they’ll be heading for, is the one of us who draws the original.” Del eased back from the table. “Dalziel wants us to draw lots, then immediately part.”

  Rafe nodded. “That’s safer all around.” He glanced around the table. “His way, if any of us are caught, we can’t give the others away.” Face and voice both uncharacteristically sober, he placed his empty glass carefully on the tray. “After the last months of chasing the Black Cobra’s gangs, seeing the results of their methods firsthand…it’s only wise to ensure that if they do take any of us, the others will be safe. We can’t tell what we don’t know.”

  A moment passed in silence, each recalling the atrocities they’d seen while leading troops of sowars on raids into the hinterlands and hills, chasing the Black Cobra and the robber gangs that formed a large part of the cult’s forces, searching for the evidence—the incontrovertible, irrefutable proof they needed to bring the reign of the Black Cobra to an end.

  Gareth drew a long breath, let it out with, “So, we find our proof, then we take it home.” He glanced at the others. “On leave, or are we finally resigning our commissions?”

  Rafe passed a hand over his face, as if wiping away the stark memories of a moment before. “I’ll resign.” He, too, glanced at the others, reading faces. “We’ve all been thinking about it—chatting, joking, but considering nonetheless.”

  “True.” Logan spun his empty glass between his fingers. “And after these last months—and the months to come until we get the proof we need—by the time we do, I’ll have had more than enough.” He looked up. “I’m ready to go home permanently, too.”

  Del nodded. “And me.” He looked at Gareth.

  Who nodded. “I’ve been campaigning all my adult life—as have all of you. I’ve enjoyed the campaigns, but this, what we’re doing here now, is no longer campaigning. What this country needs isn’t military, not cavalry and guns. It needs rulers who rule, and that’s not what we are.” He glanced at the others. “I suppose what I’m saying is our role here is done.”

  “Or will be done,” Del amended, “once we take down the Black Cobra.”

  Rafe looked at James. “What about you, stripling?”

  Although he’d been one of them since before Waterloo, James was the baby of the group. There was only two years in age between him and Rafe, yet in experience and even more in temperament the difference was immeasurably greater. In knowledge, attitude, and sheer hardened command, Rafe was as old as Del. Rafe had remained a captain by choice, had turned down promotion the better to merge with his men, to inspire and lead. He was a remarkable commander in the field.

  Del, Gareth, Logan and Rafe were equals, their strengths not exactly the same but equally respected, each by the others. James, no matter the actions he fought in, the atrocities he observed, the carnage he witnessed, still retained some vestige of the apple-cheeked innocence he’d had when he’d first joined them, a youthful subaltern in their old cavalry troop. Hence their paternalistic affection, their habit of seeing him as much younger, of ribbing him as a junior officer, someone whose welfare they still felt compelled to keep a watchful, if distant, eye on.

  Now James shrugged. “If you’re all resigning, then I will, too—my parents will be happy to see me home. They’ve been hinting for the last year that it was time I came back, settled down—all that.”

  Rafe chuckled. “They’ve probably got a young lady picked out for you.”

  Entirely unruffled as he always was by their ribbing, James merely smiled. “Probably.”

  James was the only one of them with parents still living. Del had two paternal aunts, while Rafe, the younger son of a viscount, had countless connections and siblings he hadn’t seen in years, but like Gareth and Logan, he didn’t have anyone waiting for him in England.

  Returning home. Only James had any real home to return to. For the rest of them, “home” was a nebulous concept they would have to define once they were back on English soil. In returning to England, the older four would, in a sense, be venturing into the unknown, yet for himself Del knew it was time. He wasn’t surprised the others felt the same.

  He signaled the barboy for another round. When it came, and the boy withdrew, he lifted his glass. “India has made us wealthy, given us more than we ever otherwise would have had. It seems only right to pay the country back by taking down”—glancing at Rafe, he grinned—“by beheading the Black Cobra, and if, as it seems, that will lead us back to England, then that, too, seems fitting.” He met the others’ eyes. “We’re all in this together.” He raised his glass, held it out for them to meet it with theirs. “Here’s to our eventual return to England.”

  “Home,” Rafe echoed, as the glasses clinked.

  They all drank, then Gareth, ever practical, asked, “So how are we faring getting our proof?”

  They’d spent the last three months—ever since they’d convinced themselves that Roderick Ferrar, second adjutant to the Governor of Bombay, had to be the Black Cobra—trying to turn up evidence of Ferrar’s secret identity, all to no avail. Each now reported their latest forays into what was fast becoming known as “Black Cobra territory,” each thrust aimed at uncovering some trail, some clue, some solid connection back to Ferrar. All they’d uncovered were terrorized villages, some burnt to the ground, others with
empty huts and no survivors, with evidence of rape and torture all around.

  Wanton destruction and a liking for violence for violence’s sake were fast becoming the Black Cobra cult’s trademark, yet despite all the carnage they’d waded through, not a single piece of evidence had emerged.

  “He’s clever, I’ll give the bastard that,” Rafe said. “Every time we find one of his cultists, they’ve got their instructions from someone else, who they either don’t know, or, if they can point a finger, the trail only leads to some other local—”

  “Until eventually you hit one who again doesn’t know.” Logan looked disgusted. “It’s like that game of whispers, only in this case, no one has any clue who whispered first.”

  “The way the Indians relate to one another—the caste system—plays into the Black Cobra’s hands,” James said. “The cultists unquestioningly obey, and never think it unreasonable that they know nothing about their masters—just that they are their masters, and so must be obeyed.”

  “It’s a veil,” Gareth said. “The Black Cobra operates from behind a deliberately maintained veil.”

  “And being a cult wreathed in all the usual mystery,” Rafe added, “the cultists think it only right that the Cobra is never seen, never directly heard—for all we know he sends out his orders on bits of paper passed through that damned veil.”

  “According to Wolverstone and Devil,” Del said, “the entire Ferrar family is widely known to be viciously exploitative—that’s why the Earl of Shrewton is in the position he’s in. In that respect, Roderick Ferrar seems very much a twig off the same trunk.”

  “So what’s next?” Rafe asked.

  They spent the next half hour, and another beer, discussing the villages and outposts they thought worth a visit. “Just riding up, flag waving, will be seen as a challenge,” Logan said. “If we can provoke a response, perhaps we’ll capture someone with some useful knowledge.”

  “Getting them to talk will be another matter.” Rafe glanced at the others. “It’s that yoke of fear—the Black Cobra’s got their tongues well-leashed with fear of his retribution.”

  “Which,” James added, “is admittedly ghastly. I can still see the man I cut down last week.” He grimaced.

  “Nothing we can do other than press harder,” Del said. “We need that proof—the incontrovertible evidence implicating Ferrar. Gareth and I will concentrate on trying to shake something loose through Ferrar’s contacts with the princelings—we’ll start interviewing those he’s had dealings with via the governor’s office. Given his temperament, he has to have made enemies—with luck one might talk, and resentful princelings are more likely to than villagers.”

  “True.” Logan exchanged a look with Rafe and James. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep on stirring up dust in the villages and towns.”

  “If nothing else,” Gareth said, “that should keep the fiend’s focus in the field, not closer to home, and give Del and me a bit of cover.”

  James pulled a face. “You’ll have to count me out for the next few weeks—apparently I’ve drawn a duty-mission. The governor has requested that I take a troop up to Poona and escort his niece back to Bombay.”

  The others all made commiserating noises as they pushed back from the table and rose.

  Rafe clapped James on the shoulder. “Never mind—at least you’ll get a chance to put your feet up for a few days. And most of the memsahibs and their darling daughters are spending the monsoon season up there. Who knows? You might even find some engaging distraction.”

  James snorted. “What you mean is that I’ll have to attend formal dinners and make small talk, then dance with giggling girls who bat their lashes, while you and Logan have all the fun chasing the Black Cobra and routing cultists. Thank you, but I’d rather be doing something useful.”

  Rafe laughed and slung an arm around James’s shoulders. “If Logan or I get any cultists to talk, you’ll be back in time to help follow up.”

  “Yes, but just think how boring my next weeks are going to be.” Together with Rafe, James headed for the archway leading outside. “I’ll deserve something extra-promising when I get back.”

  Smiling at James’s angling for his pick of the missions when he returned from Poona, Del ambled beside Gareth and Logan as they followed the other two outside.

  September 2, eighteen days later

  East India Company Barracks, Bombay

  A hot, dry wind blew relentlessly across the maidan, swirling the dust kicked up by the sepoys practicing formation, marching as the sun slowly bled in the west.

  On the verandah of the barracks, Del sat in a low-slung wooden chair, feet up on the extendable arms, glass in hand as, with Gareth similarly at ease beside him, he waited for the others to join them. Logan and Rafe had been due to return from their most recent sorties today, and James was expected back from Poona. It was time to take stock again, to decide what next to try.

  Logan had ridden in with his troop half an hour ago. Covered in dust, he’d reported to the fort commander, then crossed to the barracks. Climbing the shallow steps to the verandah, he’d shaken his head grimly before Del or Gareth could ask how he’d fared, then gone into the barracks to wash and change.

  Del watched the sepoys drilling tirelessly on the parade ground, and felt the weight of failure drag. The others, he knew, felt the same. They’d been pressing relentlessly—in Rafe’s case, increasingly recklessly—trying to pry loose the vital evidence they needed, but nothing they’d learned had been sufficient to meet Wolverstone’s criteria.

  What they had learned had confirmed that Ferrar and no other was the Black Cobra. Both Rafe and Logan had found ex-cultists who once had been high in the organization, but had grown jaded with the Cobra’s vicious rule and had successfully fled the Cobra’s territory; they’d verified that the Black Cobra was an “anglo”—an Englishman—moreover one who spoke with the refined and distinctive accents of the upper class.

  Combined with their previous grounds for suspicion, as well as the documents and guarded comments Del and Gareth had managed to tease from various Maratha princelings, there was absolutely no doubt that they had the right man.

  Yet they still had to prove it.

  A heavy bootstep heralded Logan. He slumped in a chair alongside them, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

  “No luck?” Gareth asked, although the answer was obvious.

  “Worse.” Logan didn’t open his eyes. “Every village we rode into, the people were cowering. They didn’t even want to be seen talking to us. The Black Cobra has them in its coils and they’re frightened—and from all we saw, with good reason.” Logan paused, then continued, voice lower, eyes still closed, “There were examples of the Black Cobra’s vengeance impaled outside most villages—women and children, as well as men.”

  He drew a shaky breath, then sat up and scrubbed both hands over his face. “It was…beyond ghastly.” After a moment, he glanced at the other two. “We have to stop this madman.”

  Del grimaced. “Did you see Rafe?”

  “Only early on. He headed further east, up into the hills. He was hoping to find the edges of the Cobra’s territory, to see if any village was resisting in the hope they’d trade information for assistance.”

  Gareth humphed. “Searching for a fight, as always.” It was said without rancor.

  Logan looked out across the maidan. “Aren’t we all?”

  Del followed his gaze to where, far beyond the open fort gates, a dust cloud drew steadily nearer.

  By the time the cloud had passed through the distant gates, it had resolved into Rafe at the head of the troop of sowars he’d commandeered for his mission.

  Just one look at Rafe’s face as he drew rein some yards away to spare them the inevitable dust was enough to answer their most urgent question. He hadn’t fared any better than Logan in gaining evidence of the Black Cobra’s identity.

  Handing his reins to the sergeant, Rafe walked to the verandah, weariness—nay, exhaustion—in
every line of his long frame. Eschewing the steps, he came to the railing beyond which they sat, crossed his forearms upon it and laid his tousled and dusty blond head on his arms. His voice reached them, muffled, strangely hoarse. “Please tell me that one of you found something—anything—we can use to stop this fiend.”

  None of them replied.

  Rafe’s shoulders slumped as he sighed, then he lifted his head and they saw his face clearly. Something more than dejection haunted his eyes.

  Logan shifted forward. “You found something.”

  Rafe dragged in a breath, glanced back to where his troop were dispersing, nodded. “At one village where the elders had already bowed to the Black Cobra’s demands—did you know he’s taking half—half!—of what they scratch and eke out of their fields? He’s literally taking food from the mouths of babes!”

  After a moment, he went on, “There was nothing for us there, but one of the younger men lay in wait for us as we were riding on—he told us of a village further east that was resisting the fiend’s demands. We rode there as fast as we could.”

  His gaze on the maidan, Rafe paused. His voice was lower, gruffer, when he went on, “We were too late. The village had been razed. And there were bodies…men, women, and children, raped and mutilated, tortured and burned.” After a moment he continued, voice still lower, “It was hell on earth. There was nothing we could do. We burned the bodies, and turned back.”

  None of the others said anything; there was nothing they could say to take the haunting vision, the knowledge, away.

  Eventually Rafe drew a massive breath and turned to face them. “So what’s happened here?”

  “I returned empty-handed,” Logan volunteered.

  Del glanced at Gareth, then offered, “We’ve learned more—been told much more—but it’s all hearsay. Nothing we can put before a court—nothing good enough to take home.”