Brazen Bride (44 page)

Returning her gaze to the dead man’s graying face, she felt a sense of shared purpose, of people coming together in pursuit of a common goal. For the first time, felt a part of that whole. She’d been committed to helping Logan, but that had been personal. Now she, too, was a part of this group devoted to seeing justice done and the Black Cobra exposed.

Royce glanced at Delborough and Hamilton. “Any idea who he is?”

“He was an associate of Ferrar’s in Bombay, but I never knew his name.” Del glanced at Gareth. “Do you know?”

Gareth stared at the man for a long moment, then said, “Thurgood. Daniel Thurgood.” He looked up at the waiting faces. “He was a friend of Ferrar, one of his circle.”

“A close friend?” Tristan asked.

Gareth grimaced. “No closer than others I could name, at least in public. In private?” Gareth shrugged. “Who’s to know?”

“Indeed.” Royce looked at the dagger. “Same type of dagger, same style of blow—from very close. He was killed by someone he trusted implicitly.”

“And that someone is still out there,” Logan said.

Royce nodded. “We haven’t yet succeeded in beheading the Black Cobra. Whether they were a group of equals or a tiered hierarchy, the head, the real power, the most dangerous of these villains, is still at large.”

“And not far away,” Jack Warnefleet said.

Royce glanced around the circle. Many of the other men did, too. Despite the weak winter sun’s valiant attempts to break through the clouds, it was still chilly and cold, and they’d all come out without coats.

“Let’s go inside,” Royce said. “We can discuss this latest twist and hear Logan’s report in comfort. In the drawing room,” he added, as if to assure the ladies they would not be excluded.

Royce stepped back; all the other men shifted as if to fall in with his directive.

But not one of the ladies moved. Minerva flapped an absentminded hand. “Wait a minute.” She was studying Daniel Thurgood’s face. She nudged Letitia, beside her. “Is it just my imagination, or is there a resemblance to Ferrar?”

Letitia, who had also been staring at Thurgood’s face, slowly nodded. “It’s the bones—the browline, set of the eyes, the chin. Imagine him with Shrewton’s pale eyes and fairer hair and . . . he’s very like Ferrar.”

Clarice, beside Letitia, arched her brows. “For my money, he’s even more like Shrewton himself.”

Deverell frowned. “He—Thurgood—said something about being a bastard.” He glanced at Logan. “What did he say exactly?”

Linnet, beside Logan, answered. “When he broke his word—a word he’d sworn on his honor as a gentleman—and ordered his men to kill us, Logan prodded him about being a gentleman. Thurgood laughed and said he’d been born a bastard, and was simply living up to his birth.”

Everyone stared at the body. Royce murmured, “What if he’d meant the phrase ‘living up to his birth’ to mean behaving, not like a bastard, but like a Ferrar—one of Shrewton’s get?”

“That Shrewton sired bastards is common knowledge,” Clarice stated, “but their actual identity isn’t widely known. Given the resemblance, and I do think it’s strong, then Thurgood’s parting shot sounds like a typical piece of Ferrar arrogance.”

“Overweening, maliciously superior arrogance has been a hallmark of the Black Cobra cult from its inception,” Delborough said.

Everyone looked at Royce. Gaze locked on Thurgood’s body, face hardening, he slowly nodded. “I believe we should deliver this body, too, to the earl at Wymondham Hall.”

“Indeed,” Minerva said briskly. “You may proceed to do so after luncheon.” She looked at Charles, Deverell, Logan, and Linnet. “I assume you four missed breakfast, which means you must be famished.” Spreading her arms, Minerva gracefully waved everyone to the door. “Let’s go in, and I’ll have you shown to your rooms. You can wash and refresh yourselves, then we can all sit down to an early luncheon, and over the table we can learn the details of your adventures.” She met her husband’s eyes. “And add the recent revelations to all else we know, and see where we now stand.”

Minerva gestured again, and everyone obeyed, moving in orderly fashion back indoors.

Royce’s lips twisted wryly, then he turned to Demon. Del, Gareth, and Logan also hung back.

“I won’t stay,” Demon said. “If I don’t return to Somersham there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll carry this latest news”—with his head he indicated Thurgood’s body—“and the suspected connection to Devil and the others.”

Royce nodded. “Do.”

Demon saluted, stepped back. “We’ll be ready and waiting should you need us.”

Royce met his eyes. “Hold yourselves ready—I’ve a strong premonition I’m going to need you all before this mission ends.”

Demon nodded to the other three, then headed for his horse, took the reins, fluidly mounted, then, with another salute, rode away.

“They’re good men—the Cynsters,” Del said.

“Good fighters,” Gareth added.

“Good friends,” Logan echoed.

“Indeed.” Royce looked at Logan and smiled. “But you’d better get inside to be shown to your room, or my duchess will be displeased.”

That no one in the house would want Minerva to be displeased didn’t need to be stated.

Gareth tossed the tarpaulin back over Thurgood’s body. Leaving the cart in the forecourt, the four men went inside.

H
alf an hour later, they were all seated around the long table in the dining room. Linnet, in a pale blue gown Penny had loaned her, and Logan, as brushed and as neat as he could be, had been steered to chairs on either side of Wolverstone’s carver, so that when they spoke the whole table could hear.

They, Charles, and Deverell were allowed to assuage their appetites first, while the rest of the company nibbled and chatted about less consequential matters. Children, Logan noted, were a source of much comment.

“At least the nursery windows don’t overlook the forecourt,” Kit said. “If they realized there was a dead body in that cart, my eldest two would be clambering all over it.” She paused, then added, “Most likely pulling out the dagger, just to see.”

“Royce found them a set of tin soldiers,” Jack said. “I was up there earlier, checking on our two, and your eldest two, aided by a bevy of the others, I might add, were not even halfway through Waterloo—they’ll be engaged for hours yet.”

From various comments, Logan gathered that Minerva, she who must not be displeased, had taken advantage of the mission her husband had undertaken to invite all the families of the ex-comrades he’d drawn into the mission to spend Christmas there, at Elveden.

The house was, consequently, awash with young children. As each family had also brought nannies and governesses, the children were not much in evidence, not least because, as far as Logan could understand, the children were familiar with each other, and could be relied on to play together, albeit sometimes with less than desirable results.

He’d never been a part of such a gathering—one so openly relaxed and comfortable, with so many adults as well as children, all at ease with one another. He glanced at Linnet, across the table, and found her chatting with Alicia, who apparently also had older children, not hers, but brothers who were her wards. Even as he watched, Madeline and Gervase joined in. Madeline, too, was guardian of her younger half brothers, and Gervase had three younger sisters under his wing.

Letting his gaze wander the table, it seemed to Logan that every possible construction of “family” was represented, and all were happy and content. He noted Del and Gareth likewise watching, listening, taking it all in; they, like him, had yet to forge their families—this was what lay ahead for them.

As shining examples, he felt they couldn’t have found better.

These men were like them, warriors to the core, their ladies their equals in every way. As for the families they’d created . . . there was so much joy, so much pride in their faces as they talked of their children.

Even Royce and Minerva, the most august and powerful pair present, shared the same sort of connections, with each other, with their children, with the other married couples around their table.

Each couple had found their way into marriage, and forged a strong partnership and a life worth living. The prospect dangled before Logan’s nose. He glanced at Linnet, even more determined than before to seize it, secure it. To have this sort of future for his own.

His plate empty, he set down his knife and fork and reached for his wineglass.

At a signal from Minerva, footmen materialized to silently whisk away the used plates.

Once the platters had been replaced with bowls of nuts and plates of cheese and dried fruits, Royce glanced at Logan, at Charles, Deverell, then Linnet. “If you’re ready, might I suggest you start at the beginning.” His gaze returned to Logan. “From when you left Bombay.”

Logan nodded, and obliged, paring the story to the bare bones. Even so, when he described the wreck off Guernsey, nothing could hide how close he’d come to death.

He passed the story baton to Linnet for a while, then took it back once she reached the point where he’d remembered all. Succinctly he described the journey to Plymouth, the attack by the three other ships, the result, then their joining Charles in the tavern, beating off yet more cultists before taking refuge at Paignton Hall.

Deverell helpfully took up the tale, filling in the details of their journey to Bath, then Oxford, with Charles concisely outlining how they’d got rid of their followers before turning for Bedford. “But they must have had a watcher stationed in the town.”

Logan nodded. “They were taking no chances.” He described how he and Linnet were on watch when the smoke started outside the hotel, how they’d been trapped with the cult waiting outside to pounce the instant they emerged. He told of their escape over the roofs, then the unexpected clash in the small yard.

Recounting the incident brought the details into sharper focus; in the heat of the moment, he’d had no time to analyze. Exchanging a glance with Charles and Deverell, Logan concluded, “I’ve fought cultists many times, but with that number of assassins . . . we were lucky to escape with our lives.”

The other two men nodded. Linnet said nothing at all.

Logan met her gaze, steady, calm, assured. He continued, “We didn’t wait to see the outcome of the battle between the cultists and the townsfolk, although the townsfolk seemed to be winning.”

“My coachman will be able to fill us in—he’s following with the carriage and our bags,” Deverell said. “He should be here shortly.”

“So Thurgood took the letter and headed this way.” Royce leaned forward. “Then on the heath, his horse went lame, and he made the mistake of exchanging it for one from Demon’s stable.”

“Attacking Demon’s old trainer when the old man tried to stop him,” Charles put in. “A man old enough to be Thurgood’s father.”

Royce arched his brows. “Then Demon saw, gave chase . . . what then?”

“The trainer raised the alarm, Demon raced in, saw Thurgood making off over the downs.” Deverell recounted the story as Demon had told it. “Demon sent his men, who were already mounted on the horses they were exercising, straight after Thurgood, but he himself paused to check that the old man was all right before going himself. He caught up with his men just as they lost sight of Thurgood. They came over a rise, and he simply wasn’t ahead of them anymore. There was another rider, a man apparently out for a constitutional—well-dressed, good horse. Demon hailed him, described Thurgood and the stolen horse, and asked if the man had seen him. The rider pointed onward, and Demon and the others rode on. But they found no sign of Thurgood that way. They turned back and rode in a sweep, and that’s when they discovered the horse with Thurgood’s body still in the saddle.”

After a moment, Royce asked, “Did they see any other rider—anyone other than the rider they spoke with—who might, conceivably, be Thurgood’s killer?”

Deverell shook his head. “Demon said it
could
have been the rider he spoke with, or, given the time Thurgood was out of their sight, someone else entirely. He inclined toward the latter, because the rider he spoke with gave no indication of any hurry or concern, and—most telling to Demon—his horse didn’t either.” Deverell glanced around the table. “We all know how hard it is to hide emotions from our mounts. If the rider they saw had killed Thurgood, then he could only have just done so, and should have still been keyed up and tense, at the very least.”

Royce grimaced. “So—we have Thurgood, like Ferrar, killed by person or persons unknown, but in exactly the same way, so we’re looking at the same killer or killers.” Straightening, Royce reached into his pocket and drew out a folded sheet. “Let’s see how this latest information fits with what we already have.”

From further down the table, Emily Ensworth leaned forward. “Is that my copy of the letter?” When Royce nodded, she said, “I’m certain Thurgood is one of those mentioned in the social chatter in the first half.”

“I thought I’d read the name.” Unfolding the sheet, Royce glanced at Logan. “Emily made a copy of the letter so I could study its contents—which gained greater pertinence when Ferrar was noticeably happy to seize Hamilton’s copy, even though it was a copy. Now you’ve told us Thurgood, too, was pleased to lay his hands on a copy. More, Thurgood came after you, and set the cultists on you in an all-out attempt to wring that copy from you—all after Ferrar was dead.”