The Elusive Bride

by Stephanie Laurens

  But first we have to deal with the unexpected conclusion of Gareth’s mission, and I must rush downstairs to play my part.

  E.

  So we’re left with the questions of who killed Ferrar, and why.” Standing before the hearth in the large drawing room of Elveden Grange, Royce glanced up as Emily returned. He’d just concluded relating the events of the day for the benefit of the assembled ladies—Deliah Duncannon, who had arrived with Delborough, Alicia, Tony’s wife, Madeline, Gervase’s wife, Leonora and Clarice, Kit, Jack Hendon’s wife, Letitia, Christian Allardyce’s marchioness, and his own duchess, Minerva, who had, he’d discovered, invited all the families of his ex-colleagues to join their family here for Christmas.

  When he’d stared at her, dumbfounded, she’d smiled and patted his chest. “Your timetable runs too close to Christmas—the men can’t be sure of getting home in time, and you all have young families.”

  He knew better than to argue. There were battles he could win, and ones he wouldn’t. Such, he’d learned, was the nature of married life.

  Those of his ex-colleagues already there and seated about the room had no doubt learned the same. Christian and Jack Hendon were there, ready to, in a few days, play the roles assigned them. The Cynsters and Chillingworth had rejoined them, looking thoroughly pleased. They’d fulfilled their mission, and despite a number of cuts and slashes, none was seriously injured.

  “I believe,” Royce said, as Emily settled on the end of the chaise beside the chair Gareth occupied, “that we have to revise our assessment of who the Black Cobra is.”

  Delborough nodded. “The Black Cobra is either not Ferrar, or Ferrar was part of a larger whole.”

  “I agree.” Gareth frowned. “If the Black Cobra is not Ferrar, then presumably the Black Cobra killed him, or ordered the killing—so that still means the Black Cobra is here, in England.”

  “Here in Suffolk, or close by,” Tony said.

  After a moment, Delborough shook his head. “Ferrar had to be very high in the cult’s organization. He was vital to the cult’s success through his role in the governor’s office, and given his nature, I can’t see him taking any subordinate position while knowing he was the lynchpin for the cult’s fortunes.” Delborough met Royce’s eyes. “We saw Ferrar giving orders, and the elite guards, including the assassins, obeyed. I’d suggest that all we know favors the notion that the Black Cobra is a group—two, three, or more, we can’t say—but Ferrar was one. Presumably the other Englishman we saw was another.”

  Royce nodded. “And that other Englishman, who appeared to be Ferrar’s equal, might have been the one who killed Ferrar, or had him killed.”

  “If we accept that the Black Cobra is a multiheaded beast,” Gyles Rawlings said, “then it’s most likely the other members are known acquaintances of Ferrar.”

  Royce met Gyles’s eyes, then nodded and glanced at the window, at the dark beyond. “It’s nearly evening, but I believe it’s time we paid the Earl of Shrewton a visit. If we leave now, we’ll be at Wymondham before he sits down to dine.”

  They’d brought Ferrar’s body to Elveden in a dray, ready to deliver to his father at Shrewton Hall.

  “What about Larkins?” Devil asked. “Did Ferrar kill him, or was it someone else?”

  “From what you told me,” Royce said, “it was most likely Ferrar—it was someone Larkins trusted implicitly, so unlikely to be merely one of Ferrar’s friends. However, now that Ferrar’s dead, that’s neither here nor there, but we’ll certainly take Larkins’s body with Ferrar’s—it might help convince the earl that he needs to do whatever he can to assist us.”

  There were a number of volunteers eager to help convince the earl, but Royce kept the group to four—Christian, the other most senior peer, and Delborough and Gareth, both of whom could with authority bear witness to Ferrar’s deeds, and those of the Black Cobra, in India.

  When Devil tried to insist that he, too, should go, Minerva narrowed her eyes at him. “You”—she waved an imperious finger indicating all the Cynsters and Gyles Chillingworth—“will ride back to Somersham Place immediately. None of you might be seriously incapacitated, but I can see cuts—great heavens! I can see blood—and your wives would never forgive me if I didn’t send you home to be tended. Now.”

  Seven large men stared back at her. Minerva didn’t budge, didn’t bat an eyelash.

  Nor did the ladies gathered around her, who, as the silence stretched, brought their gazes, too, to bear on the recalcitrant males…until they broke.

  With one last dark look, Devil inclined his head. “Very well.” He glanced at Royce, who’d been studying the ceiling. “We’ll see you tomorrow, no doubt.”

  “I’ll send word later tonight, once we’ve learned what we can from Shrewton and—I hope—heard from Monteith’s party. They should be at Bedford tonight.”

  Devil raised a hand in salute, and led the others out.

  Royce followed with Delborough, Gareth, and Christian, bound for Shrewton Hall.

  The other members of the Bastion Club and Jack Hendon exchanged glances, excused themselves, and retreated to the billiard room, no doubt to mull over the happenings of the day while knocking balls about the table.

  Minerva and the other ladies watched the male retreat with approval. As the door closed behind the last pair of broad shoulders, as one they turned to Emily.

  “We’d love to hear of your travels,” Minerva said.

  Letitia sank into the chair Gareth had vacated. “Tell all,” she advised. “Start at the beginning—when did you go to India?—and more importantly, why?”

  Emily looked from eager face to interested eyes, and saw no reason not to comply.

  In a cold stone room off the laundry of Shrewton Hall, near Wymondham, the Earl of Shrewton stood staring down at the body of his favorite son.

  Roderick Ferrar’s body lay on its back on one of the room’s benches. The earl’s servants had laid Larkins’s body on another bench nearby, yet the earl had given no sign of even noticing Larkins. From the moment he’d led them—Royce, Christian, Delborough, Gareth, and the earl’s elder son, Viscount Kilworth—into the room, the earl’s attention had fixed on his son’s remains.

  The shock on the earl’s face was there for all to read.

  Kilworth, too, was visibly shaken. “We didn’t even know he was in the country.”

  “Who did this?” The earl swung to face Royce. “Who killed my son?”

  “A friend of his known as the Black Cobra.” Succinctly, Royce explained their interest in the Black Cobra cult and its leaders. “We were following your son because he’d fetched and was carrying a copy of a letter from the Black Cobra that the Black Cobra wants back. The original of that letter is signed with the Black Cobra’s distinctive mark, and sealed with your family seal.” Royce indicated the seal ring on Ferrar’s finger.

  Head lowering so they could no longer see his eyes, the earl said nothing.

  Royce swung to the other body. “The day before, Larkins—your son’s man—seized another copy of the letter, and he, too, was killed.”

  The earl made a dismissive gesture. “I want to know who killed my son.”

  “They were killed with identical daggers,” Royce said, “of a type used by the Black Cobra cult’s assassins. The Black Cobra killed your son, or ordered him to be killed. So we have a common goal in that both you and I want to know who the Black Cobra is.”

  Royce paused, then, including Kilworth with a glance, asked, “Do you know who the Black Cobra is?”

  The earl snorted. “Of course not—I have no interest in any foreign mumbo jumbo.”

  “There’s not much of that about the Black Cobra cult—they’re solely interested in acquiring money and power, and are very willing to use terror and vile deeds to gain both.” Royce kept his gaze fixed on the earl. “Do you or Kilworth know the names of any of Roderick’s friends in Bombay? Has he mentioned anyone as associate or friend, who might be involved, or might know more?”
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  The earl stiffened and lifted his head. “I know nothing about any cult—it’s ridiculous to even suggest my son was involved with such people.”

  “Your son’s seal is on the letter,” Royce coolly reminded him. “There’s no doubt of his involvement at some level. The original of that letter, with Roderick’s seal, will be delivered to me shortly, and given the interest at the highest levels that the depredations of the Black Cobra cult has engendered, that letter will, sooner or later, find its way into the public domain. Any assistance your family can provide in identifying the Black Cobra—the man who killed your son—will, naturally, mitigate any adverse implications.”

  Gareth glanced at Delborough, and Christian beside him, and saw they, too, were suppressing satisfied smiles. There was steel beneath Royce’s smooth tones, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind what would happen if the family did not assist. Yet no threat had actually been uttered.

  Well versed in such subtleties, the earl heard the warning. His face mottled as he glared. “This is nonsense! My son has been killed, that’s all there is to it.” Swinging on his heel, he pushed past Christian and stalked out.

  Leaving Kilworth, who even physically was very unlike his sire, a tallish, slender gentleman with dark eyes—not the pale cold blue of his father and brother—to try to smooth over the moment.

  “He’s in shock,” Kilworth said, as if in exculpation, then added, “Well, so am I.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But Roderick was his favorite, you see.” His tone made it clear that if it had been he lying dead on the bench, he doubted his father would be half as exercised. He gestured to the door. “Come. I’ll see you to your horses.”

  As he walked beside Royce down the long corridors, Kilworth kept talking—he was the sort of man who did. The rest of them were happy to listen.

  “We knew nothing, you see—last we heard he was off to India to make his fortune. He wasn’t one for writing letters. Well, we had no idea he’d even come home.” He glanced at Royce. “Did he just arrive?”

  “He landed in Southampton on the sixth of this month,” Delborough said.

  “Oh.” Kilworth’s expressive face fell, then he grimaced. “As you can see, we aren’t close—weren’t. Roderick and me. But still…I’m surprised he didn’t contact the old man.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t?” Christian asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Kilworth saw their doubts, and smiled. “The servants never liked Roderick, but they like me, so they always tell me…things like that. None of us here knew Roderick was in England, of that I am completely sure.”

  They’d reached their horses, held by grooms in a side courtyard.

  Kilworth halted, waited while they mounted, then he looked up at Royce. “I doubt you’ll get anything from the old man, and the harder you push, the more he’ll dig in his heels and bluster. But…I’ll contact those of Roderick’s friends I know of here, in England, and ask if any of them have heard what he was up to in India, and if he mentioned who were his closest friends there.”

  “Thank you.” Royce inclined his head. “You’ll find me at Elveden Grange until this is over.”

  Kilworth frowned. “It isn’t over?”

  Royce shook his head as he turned his horse. “Not by a very long chalk.”

  They returned to Elveden Grange to discover that the ladies had held dinner back for them. The instant they walked into the drawing room, Minerva rose and directed the whole company to the dining room. Over a relaxing meal they reported on the earl’s recalcitrance, and the possibility that Kilworth might manage to learn more.

  “The countess is long dead, and his sisters are older and have been married and living in their own households for years,” Minerva said. “I doubt they would know anything.”

  “Roderick was his father’s favorite for a very good reason—father and son were cut from the same cloth.” Letitia sat back in her chair. “Whatever viciousness you detected in Ferrar, he learned at his father’s knee. Kilworth, on the other hand, is a much more gentle, rather scholarly soul. He took after the countess, much to Shrewton’s unveiled disgust. Shrewton tolerates him only because he is his heir.”

  “And now his only surviving son.” Minerva rose. All the ladies followed suit.

  Royce glanced at the men, saw his inclination mirrored in their faces. He pushed back his chair. “We’ll join you in the drawing room. There’s much still to be discussed.”

  While the men followed the ladies down the hall, Royce’s butler approached him with a missive on a salver. Royce took it, opened it, and read the message within, then slid it into his pocket, and went on, following the other men into the drawing room.

  Once they were settled in the comfortable chairs and chaises, Royce began, “When we first commenced this mission”—he nodded to Del and Gareth—“when you contacted me, and then left Bombay with the four scroll holders, we would have said that Ferrar’s death would mark mission’s end. Instead, we have Ferrar dead, and the Black Cobra still out there. This feels more like the end of Act One in a drama that still has some way to run.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” Gareth said, “that with Ferrar’s death, the threat of the seal on the original letter exposing his involvement has evaporated. He can no longer reveal who the real Black Cobra is. Yet you say Ferrar was thrilled to have retrieved a copy, suggesting there’s more in the letter than we’ve yet discerned. Regardless, if after this evening the Black Cobra doesn’t call off the cultists harrying Monteith, then we can be certain there’s something else about the letter that threatens the real Black Cobra.”

  “Indeed.” Royce nodded decisively, and looked at Emily. “Do you have your copy?”

  She’d been carrying it in her pocket in anticipation of that request. Pulling it out, she unfolded the sheet, and handed it across.

  Royce took it, read it aloud, then passed the sheet around.

  Del regarded him. “You’re more used to evaluating covert communications than anyone else here. So what do you think?”

  Royce considered the sheet, by then doing the rounds of the ladies. “I can comprehend the purpose behind the second half of the letter, where the Black Cobra is making overt advances. But why bother with the first half—the social chitchat?”

  The copy had reached Minerva’s hands. She studied it as she said, “Some might say it’s simply camouflage for the rest, but…” Head rising, she looked at Royce. “Not you.”

  He smiled. “No, not me.” Transferring his gaze to the others, he went on, “It’s almost certainly the case that the first half has a purpose, but it’s hidden.”

  Gareth frowned. “It’s common for princelings—and Govind Holkar, to whom the letter is addressed, is an epitome of the type—to crave acceptance into the upper echelons of local English society. I”—he glanced at Del—“all of us interpreted the first half of the letter in that light. As a social inducement, if you like.”

  “That may be so,” Christian said, retaking the letter, “but that suggests that this Govind Holkar would be specifically interested in knowing that at least one of these ten people named would be visiting Poona. Given he was negotiating with the Black Cobra, who we now know to be more than one person, what are the odds that at least one of these people is part of our multiheaded beast?”

  “If the attacks on Monteith continue, then those odds increase.” Royce looked at Del. “I take it Poona is a hill-station?”

  “In effect,” Del replied, “it’s the monsoon capital for Bombay. All those English who can, including the governor and his staff, relocate there for the season. All the wives and families usually remain there throughout the monsoon period, although their menfolk often go back and forth. But Poona was once the Maratha capital, and many of their princelings, like Govind Holkar, live there much of the time. That’s why, when we thought the Black Cobra was Ferrar alone, we took the first half of the letter to be…well, merely information the writer, Ferrar, knew Holkar would be pleased to know.”

  G
areth grimaced. “If we’d known those names might have greater significance, we could easily have learned more before we left.”

  “Spilt milk,” Royce said. “Now we know, how can we learn more?”

  Gareth looked at Emily. “Do you know any of those named?”

  Christian handed her the letter. She took it, scanned the names she’d transcribed the day before. “I was only in India for six months, but then again, I was in the governor’s household.” She paused, her eyes on the page, then she grimaced. “It’s as I remembered. All these people are members of what is popularly known as the Government House set—which I assure you has nothing to do with the governor. They’re a group of younger people who are rather wild, and Ferrar was a major figure within the group.”

  “So he would know all ten personally?” Royce asked.

  Emily pulled a face. “I really can’t say. He would certainly have known all socially, but how well he knew any one of them…I had little to nothing to do with that group. In my aunt’s words, they’re ‘rather fast,’ and she is a master of understatement.”

  “Which,” Clarice said, brows high, “makes that section of the letter even more believable as a social bribe.”

  Royce took back the copy, folded it. “Regardless, we’ll know the truth very soon—by tomorrow at the latest.” He looked at the others. “I’ve received confirmation that Monteith reached Oxford yesterday. He should be at Bedford tonight. With luck, he and his escort will be joining us tomorrow.”

  “His escort?” Gareth inquired.

  “Two more of my ex-operatives,” Royce said. “Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel, and Deverell, Viscount Paignton.”

  “Ah.” Minerva rose and crossed to tug the bellpull. “That means Penny and her brood, and Phoebe and hers, will arrive tomorrow—I must organize their rooms.”

  Royce looked at her, but made no comment while she quickly spoke to the butler who’d appeared.