The Reckless Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  “Indeed? What did you speak about?”

  “She wanted to know about the Laughing Trout Inn. It’s a little place—a fisherman’s inn tucked away in the woods a couple of miles southeast of here, on the other side of Gipping Way. Off the beaten track, but the Shearers keep it nice, and Mrs. Shearer’s cooking is magic. Seems like the lady was after a good meal—said it sounded like just the place to satisfy her appetite.”

  Behind Royce, Charles leaned forward. “Did she tell you her name?”

  The squire frowned. “Strange, now you mention it—she didn’t. Very easy to talk to, she was, so it didn’t strike me at the time.”

  “Did she say or ask anything else?” Royce asked.

  The squire shook his head. “Just thanked me and went inside. I went on my way, but only minutes later I heard them ride out. A whole gaggle of ‘em—don’t know exactly how many, but through the trees I saw her, with a hard-looking heathen on her right and an old one with a long black beard riding on her other side.” The squire frowned. “Vicious-looking lot. Don’t know what a nice, civilized lady like her would want with such people.”

  Royce’s brows rose. “That is indeed a mystery.” He saluted the old man. “Thank you for your help.”

  The old man raised a hand in acknowledgment.

  Leaving him calling to his dogs, Royce rode on. He glanced at Devil, equally sober beside him. “Down to Gipping Way with all speed, but after that, we’ll have to go carefully.”

  He and Devil urged their mounts on, pushing to catch up with Demon, who was now well ahead.

  They left their horses in a clearing just south of Gipping Way and, shadows slipping through shadows as the winter afternoon waned, went into the woods on foot.

  Locating the inn wasn’t difficult, but the instant he saw the large number of horses tied up out of sight at the rear of the stable, Royce signaled a withdrawal.

  They gathered in a small clearing between the one in which their horses were tethered and the inn.

  Royce spoke quietly. “It’s possible they have pickets posted. We need them removed.”

  Charles, Deverell, Gervase, and Tristan held up their hands. Royce nodded. “Take a quarter each. Return here when you’re sure all’s clear. Go.”

  The four large men faded into the woods.

  “Once we’re sure all’s clear, we need to secure the area.” Royce nominated who would go where and watch what. “Next, we need to get what information we can on who is inside and where exactly they are—how many and who in each room.”

  Vane, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Richard Cynster volunteered to visually search the house.

  “Team up with the others when they get back, search, then report back here.” Royce looked at those still undeployed. “Meanwhile, the rest of us will remove those horses, so no matter what happens no assassins will ride away.”

  By the time they’d quietly moved in and removed all twenty-three horses from the rear of the stable, the teams sent to remove pickets and scout the house were drifting back to the small clearing.

  Walking back from the further clearing where they’d left all the horses, Del frowned. “I would have expected twenty-four horses, but there were only twenty-three, and one had a lady’s sidesaddle.” He glanced at Royce, striding alongside. “The cultist at the manor seemed very definite—twenty-three men.”

  “I wondered the same thing,” Royce admitted, “but perhaps one of the riders who left the manor rode on to Felixstowe or somewhere similar to carry some message on.”

  Del nodded. “Yes, that’s likely.”

  They returned to the small clearing where all the others now waited.

  Charles reported first. “No pickets. No one watching from the house, either. It’s as if they’re sure they’re safe.”

  “If you think of it from their perspective,” Vane said, “they have no reason to think they aren’t—to imagine we’re even following them, let alone so close.”

  Royce nodded. “So what’s going on inside the inn?”

  “The Closed sign is up in the window of the tap,” Vane said. “There’s no sign of life in the front room—the one that faces east to the lane.”

  “Nothing much clearly visible along the north face,” Lucifer said. “The front door is shut, but through the two windows beside it I can see what I suspect are cultists in the front hall. Perhaps five or six. They seem to be standing guard, not moving about. Other than that, the windows of the bedchambers on the first floor are all curtained.”

  “There’s more cultists in the rear rooms of the inn.” Gabriel sounded grim. “I had to get around the stable, and slip across the yard to the laundry, but from there I got a glimpse into the kitchen. There are definitely cultists there.” He nodded at Del and Gareth. “They may be your assassins—they looked significantly more capable than any cultist I’ve yet seen. They have what I assume are the Shearers—a couple and a boy who looks to be their son—tied to chairs around the table.”

  “Alive?” Logan asked.

  “The woman appears unharmed, but both men have been beaten. That said, beyond bruises, cuts, and black eyes, they may well be all right—they don’t look to be in serious pain.”

  “That’s something, at least.” Royce glanced at Richard, who’d scouted the last, southern, face of the building.

  Richard met his eyes, then glanced at the others. “I think you’re going to need to see this. I found a good spot well screened by firs that gives a good view into the side parlor. Inside are two women—I’m assuming one is the lady from the manor. But there’s a section of the room I can’t see, not from anywhere. There could be someone else in there, but if there is, the women are ignoring him.”

  “What are the women doing?” Devil asked.

  Richard met his gaze. “Taking tea.”

  They all looked.

  “Anyone you recognize?” Royce asked Del.

  Peering past a branch of spruce, Del shook his head. He looked at Gareth and Logan, but they shook their heads, too. Del turned to Royce. “We’ve never seen either of them anywhere—which means they could be either hostages or accomplices.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Logan whispered, his gaze on the parlor window and the unlikely sight beyond it. “We know Rafe was traveling with some young lady. Is one of those two Rafe’s lady? And if so, where’s Rafe?”

  “Or are both of them simply hostages, or accomplices, or whichever, and Rafe and his lady are somewhere else entirely?” Devil shook his head. “There’s no way we can tell.”

  “But what are they doing?” Gyles asked. “And where’s the Black Cobra? Have we sighted any man who might be him?”

  The collective answer being a resounding no, they concluded the Black Cobra was very likely in the parlor with the ladies—hostages or accomplices, whichever they happened to be—but because of the angle and the position of the window, he was hidden from their view.

  “All right,” Royce said. “What we have is the principal force of the Black Cobra—the central nest of vipers, as it were—here at the inn. Presumably they’re here for a reason—it could be that they’re waiting for something or someone, perhaps for Rafe, who’s been captured and is being brought to them. Why here, we don’t know. Why the ladies, we also don’t know. But with the ladies in the parlor and the Shearers in the kitchen destined to be the first casualties if we attack, we can’t make a move. As things stand, all we can do is watch and wait, too.”

  He glanced around, saw nods, heard no arguments. “But the one thing we can do is ensure that no matter what happens, not one of the bastards in there gets away.”

  Ten minutes later, a tight cordon of fighting men encircled the inn, ringing it with steel and well-trained muscle.

  Satisfied, Royce settled alongside Devil to keep watch on the parlor, on the ladies within—who gave every appearance of amiably chatting while they daintily consumed scones and sipped tea.

  Twenty

  Rafe couldn’t explain the sense of urgency th
at gripped even tighter, sank its talons deeper, as he turned down the lane to the Laughing Trout Inn.

  Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce flanked him. Immediately behind them rode Hassan, with Rose up before him.

  Hidden within the woods, the inn was still a hundred and more yards further on when two men stepped out from the trees bordering the lane and waved them down.

  Rafe recognized one and hauled on his reins. “Cynster!”

  Grinning fit to burst, Demon signaled him to silence and waved him to dismount, reaching for the bridle of his prancing mount.

  Rafe swung down to the ground, slapped his hand into Demon’s palm, and had it wrung. They briefly embraced; of all the Cynsters, Rafe had been closest to Demon. His gaze ranging ahead toward the inn, Rafe demanded, “What’s going on?”

  They all gathered around. The other gentleman who’d been waiting tipped a salute Rafe’s way. “Tristan Wemyss, another of Wolverstone’s colleagues.” Rafe shook hands as Tristan continued, “We have the inn surrounded.”

  “Why?” Christian Allardyce asked. He and Jack Hendon were as puzzled as Rafe.

  Tristan exchanged a look with Demon, then said, “Because we believe the Black Cobra’s inside.”

  “What?” Rafe paled. His gaze locked ahead. “Loretta’s in there.”

  “Oh, great heavens!” Rose clutched Hassan’s arm. “The fiend himself has her.”

  Demon waved placatingly. “She’s safe at the moment.” He glanced at Rafe. “Which one is she—the blond, or the dark-haired one?”

  Rafe frowned. “Loretta’s dark-haired. But she was the only lady in the inn when I left, and Mrs. Shearer has brown hair.”

  “Mrs. Shearer’s in the kitchen with her menfolk. Two ladies are in the parlor taking tea—presumably the dark-haired one is your Loretta. Also in the inn are the Black Cobra’s guard, according to your colleagues mostly assassins, and we believe the Black Cobra himself, and his closest advisor and the captain of his guard, are also inside.” Demon met Rafe’s eyes. “They appear to be waiting for something, and at a guess that something is you.”

  Rafe nodded. “I need to get closer.”

  “I’ll remain on guard,” Tristan said. “Leave your horses here.”

  “I’ll stay, too,” Jack Hendon said. “We need to make sure no innocent accidentally stumbles into the action. The rest of you go on.”

  They did. Demon led them through the woods, then at a point where a stand of fir gave them better cover, they crept closer to the inn, to where, from behind a large tree, four men kept watch on the forecourt of the inn, its front door, and the front hall’s lead-paned windows.

  Rafe was welcomed with immense relief, not least by his close friend and fellow-courier Logan Monteith. Gabriel Cynster, another old friend, smiled and slapped Rafe’s back. While Gabriel continued the watch, Rafe was introduced to Gervase Tregarth and Tony Blake, another two of Wolverstone’s men.

  Every impulse Rafe possessed was screaming at him to rush in and seize Loretta, to keep her safe; contrarily, every experienced instinct was warning that rushing in without knowing the situation might prove fatal, for them both. He nodded at the inn. “So what’s afoot?”

  Logan drew him into a crouch alongside Gabriel, from where they, too, could scan the front of the building. “Ferrar’s dead.”

  “What?” Rafe stared at his friend.

  Eyes on the inn’s façade, Logan grimly nodded. “Larkins—Ferrar’s man—you remember him?” When Rafe nodded Logan went on, “Ferrar sacrificed him in order to get away with Del’s copy. Then Ferrar himself took Gareth’s copy—we’ll explain how later. He was taking it somewhere, presumably back to his lair, when he was killed, too, and the letter taken.”

  “The copy was taken?”

  Logan nodded. “Those here realized, then, that there was something else in the letter, not just the seal, that the real Black Cobra, whoever he is, didn’t want to reach Wolverstone. But even though Wolverstone had had Gareth make another copy, so we’ve had the words to study, no one can see what the crucial point is. No names leap out at anyone, yet we’re all now sure the Black Cobra is named in the letter. Yesterday, the Black Cobra sacrificed another man—Daniel Thurgood. He was Ferrar’s half brother, who’d come after me and had seized my copy.

  “Which brings us to here and today.” Logan nodded at the inn. “It seems the Black Cobra wants every copy of that letter, and he’s in there waiting for you to come back and hand the last—the original—over to him.” Logan looked at Rafe. “Where is it?”

  Eyes on the inn, Rafe replied, “I left it in the inn’s parlor, on top of the dresser.”

  Gabriel glanced at him. “The parlor where we think the Black Cobra’s waiting with the two ladies?”

  “The parlor directly across from the front door. The window looks over the lawn on the opposite side of the inn.”

  Gabriel nodded. “That’s the one.”

  Rafe’s mind raced, considering, assessing. “I need to know exactly what’s going on in the inn—who’s doing what and where.”

  Gabriel glanced back. “Tony did the last circuit.”

  Tony Blake crouched on Rafe’s other side. “We have men watching all four faces of the inn. There appears to be no one in the rooms facing the lane. As you can see”—he nodded at the façade before them—“there’s men—cultists, most likely assassins—stationed in the front hall, but we can’t tell how many. There have been sightings of people moving in the rooms upstairs—not looking out, but possibly searching. At the rear of the inn, in the kitchen, the innkeeper, his wife, and son have been tied to chairs, and are being guarded by at least five assassins. On the far side of the inn, the only room occupied appears to be the parlor. Royce, Devil, Del, and a few others are keeping a close watch on that room, but they can’t see the area to the right of the window. They can see the sofa on which two ladies are sitting—your dark-haired Loretta and another with pale blond hair. Both appear English, both are taking tea, nibbling scones, and chatting—to all appearances oblivious of anything being wrong.”

  “So they may not know there are cultists in the inn?”

  “We think the blond-haired lady arrived with the cultists,” Tony said. “We’re working on the assumption that she’s a hostage taken from a nearby manor.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is it possible your Loretta could feign supreme indifference to the cult, to the Black Cobra himself?”

  Rafe nodded. “If it seemed the best thing to do.” He frowned. “Mind you, I would have thought it more likely that she’d be arguing, giving him, or whoever else is in there, hell.”

  “We’re not sure there is anyone else in the room with them. They don’t seem to be interacting with or acknowledging anyone else.” Gabriel looked at Rafe. “You know the room—could there be someone in the area we can’t see through the window?”

  Rafe visualized the parlor. “There’s another armchair on that side of the sofa, and further back along the side wall, a sideboard, and then the hearth and the area before it, so yes, there’s a significant section of the room that must be out of sight.”

  Tony cursed beneath his breath. “That’s what we feared. We have to assume that the Black Cobra’s in the room with them, possibly even with some of his assassin-guards.”

  After a moment, Rafe asked, “So what are we doing?”

  Gabriel shifted. “We’re sitting here watching, waiting for them to move.”

  “But they’re waiting for me to arrive—they’re not going to move until I do.” His gaze on the inn, Rafe rose. “I’m going in.”

  “No—wait!” Logan stood, grabbed his arm. “You can’t just go walking in there.”

  Rafe nodded. “You’re right. I’ll have to go back and get my horse. No need to tip them off that you’re all out here.”

  He turned to march back through the trees.

  “Wait!” Tony hissed. “You can’t simply”—he gestured at the inn—“recklessly barge in there.”

  Rafe arched a brow, then
looked at Logan. “Loretta’s in there, very possibly trading insults with the Black Cobra. I’m not not going in.” He glanced at Tony. “With all of you out here, no matter what happens, the Black Cobra is finished, and while the cultists don’t realize you’re here, the advantage remains with you. But we’ve reached a stalemate—one there’s no benefit to us in prolonging. The longer we wait, the more risk one of them will see something and realize they’re surrounded, and then the situation will rapidly deteriorate, especially for Loretta and the other lady.”

  Rafe looked at Gabriel, then at Christian. “At some point I have to return and walk into that inn as if nothing untoward is going on. It’s better I go in now than wait. None of us—Loretta, the rest of you, or I—gain anything by waiting. Once I appear, the Black Cobra will be distracted dealing with me—he and his men in that parlor especially will be concentrating on me. For those minutes, I’ll be at least equally in the driver’s seat as he.”

  A second of silence ensued, then Christian nodded. “As much as I’d like to say there’s a better way, there isn’t. You’re right. We need to bring this to a head, the sooner the better, and to do that, you need to go in.”

  “But,” Tony said, exchanging an exasperated glance with Christian, “Royce will have our heads, or worse, if we act without warning him and the others.”

  Rafe glanced back at the inn, pulled out his watch. “Five minutes.” He glanced at the watch, then at Tony. “You have five minutes to reach Wolverstone, then I’m riding in.”

  Tony went.

  Rafe exhanged a glance with Hassan and Rose, then turned and strode back through the wood.

  On the opposite side of the inn, Royce was crouched alongside Devil behind a ridge formed by an old fallen branch, watching the action, or lack of it, in the inn’s parlor, when Deverell appeared at his elbow.

  Royce arched a questioning brow.

  “Viscount Kilworth is here, asking to see you urgently.” Deverell looked toward the inn. “Apparently Minerva heard his story and sent him on with one of your grooms. They ran into our pickets, who brought Kilworth on. I left him in the small clearing, but he’s adamant about speaking with you.”