Stephanie Laurens - The Brazen Bride

“This time,” Alex concluded, “we will not wait for Carstairs to make landfall in England. We strike before, and strike hard, enough to knock him off-course. Then we follow and strike again. But once the captain lands in England, it will be me and my guards he will face-you, Saleem, will lead the elite. We will not rely as we have in recent times on the lower orders of the cult-they are not sufficiently effective in this land.”

Both men inclined their heads in acquiescence; both pairs of eyes gleamed with fanatical expectation.

“The Black Cobra will be in the field tomorrow.” Alex’s tone was pure ice. “And we all know the Black Cobra is deadly.”

Both M’wallah and Saleem smiled in clear, malevolent anticipation. Neither had appreciated being held back, restrained by the more reserved role Alex had chosen to play in England. Now, however, they were about to be unleashed, and they couldn’t wait to taste blood again.

With a wave, Alex dismissed them.

Rising fluidly, then bowing low, the pair backed from the room.

Leaving Alex alone.

Entirely alone, yet being alone had its advantages.

Dwelling on all that would be gained-imagining Carstairs, and through him the elusive puppetmaster, being served their comeuppance-Alex purposely wove violent, vindictive anticipation into a cloak to keep the chill of the night at bay.

Royce sat at the head of his dining table, extended to accommodate the Cynsters, all six cousins and their wives, Gyles Chillingworth and his wife, as well as all those who had already been sleeping under Royce’s roof. The Cynsters and Chillingworths had arrived en masse, possibly-Royce wasn’t certain-invited by Minerva, at a time when their staying to dine was a foregone conclusion.

Certainly Honoria, Devil’s duchess, had marched into the drawing room, touched cheeks with Minerva, then sat and demanded to be fully briefed on all that was going on.

It wasn’t that Royce minded the company-indeed he valued the men’s support, both physical and mental-but having so many independently minded, strong-willed females all together in one place, a place not that far from real and present danger, was making him edgy.

And not just him.

Still, it seemed that this was one of those crosses that had to be borne in the interests of matrimonial harmony. Over recent years, he’d grown a lot better at simply accepting what had to be.

Of his combined troops, only Christian Allardyce and Jack Hendon, already on the coast waiting for Carstairs to land, and Rafe Carstairs himself, were absent. Royce suspected the three were very much in the minds of many about the table.

Devil, seated at Minerva’s right at the far end, leaned forward to say, “It doesn’t make sense that the last person-whoever is what’s left of the Black Cobra-isn’t named in that letter.”

“I also find it hard to believe,” Gabriel Cynster put in from midway down the board, “that Shrewton doesn’t know who that person is.”

“Actually,” Gyles Chillingworth said, “that I can believe. However, I do agree that Shrewton could, just as I’m sure we could, find the answer-learn who that other person was-if we had time.”

“Sadly, we don’t have time,” Lucifer Cynster bluntly observed.

Around and around the discussion went.

Royce, Charles, Gervase, and Gareth had reported on their visit to Wymondham Hall. The result had been discussed and picked over, their suppositions reshaped, re-formed, rephrased, yet they constantly came back to the same point, the one inescapable conclusion.

Del returned to it. “Regardless of all else, the one thing that’s certain is that there is someone else out there, and we don’t know who he is.”

“More,” Royce said, reclaiming control, “Carstairs is heading in. He’s expected to reach our shores tomorrow.” It was the first time he’d stated that-that their time frame was that tight. The meal was long over. He pushed back his chair. “I suggest we repair to the drawing room, put our heads together, and string as comprehensive a net as we can across the area.”

Everyone rose with alacrity, and followed Minerva back to the drawing room. When they were all settled, the ladies on the chaises and chairs, the men lounging against walls or furniture, some with hip propped against the back of their lady’s chair, from his customary position before the hearth, Royce scanned their faces. “Jack Hendon and Christian Allardyce are already in place-Jack, I understand, is haunting the harbor itself, while Christian is patrolling the town. As soon as Carstairs lands, they’re primed to whisk him away into hiding, then send word here. This will almost certainly be our last chance to catch the Black Cobra committing any criminal act on English soil.”

“And if we don’t catch him?” The haughty question came from Minerva, sitting in her usual chair to Royce’s right.

He smiled down at her. “If we don’t, then we pursue him by other means.” He looked at the others. “But I won’t disguise the fact that such a pursuit will be more difficult, and a lot less assured of success. Aside from all else, as Gyles pointed out, identifying the remaining villain or villains is going to take time, and they’re not going to wait in England while we do it.”

“So putting everything we can behind capturing our remaining villain-the Black Cobra’s ultimate head-is our preferred option, our best way forward.” Devil arched his brows at Royce.

As Royce nodded decisively, Logan asked, “Which port is Rafe heading for?”

Royce met his eyes. “Felixstowe.”

Logan was asleep, his arm around Linnet, when an unexpected sound dragged him from slumber.

The sound was distant, yet… he lifted his head the better to hear.

Linnet stirred, then stilled-listening, too.

The sound resolved into thudding hoofbeats. As the seconds passed, it became clear the rider was heading for the house.

Logan pushed back the covers.

“That can’t be good,” Linnet muttered, and slipped from the bed. Grabbing the coverlet, she wrapped it around her nightgown.

Buttoning his breeches, Logan stepped into his boots, roughly tugged them on, snagged his shirt from the chair as he went past. His face was grim as, shrugging on the shirt, he opened the door.

Linnet followed him into the corridor. Other doors were opening, both gentlemen and ladies venturing out in various states of undress.

No one asked what was happening, or who it was. Grim-faced, they all headed for the main stairs.

No one imagined it was good news.

They halted on the stairs and in the gallery above, all looking down into the front hall. Candles were burning on the central table. As they watched, Minerva lit a lamp. Royce was already at the door, tugging the bolts back.

Hamilton, Royce’s personal butler, arrived in his butler’s black just in time to swing the door wide.

They all saw the rider, exhausted and worn, trudging up the front steps.

Royce spoke with him, voice too low for any of them to hear, then he drew the man inside, Hamilton closed and bolted the door, and Royce consigned the drooping rider into his care.

Everyone saw the letter Royce held in his left hand.

Minerva joined him, holding the lamp high as Royce raised the missive, broke its seal, unfolded the sheet.

Read.

They all held their breath. Waited.

Only Minerva was close enough to see her husband’s face. She laid a hand on his arm. “What’s happened?”

Royce looked at her, then up at all of them. A moment passed, then he said, “Carstairs has disappeared. He failed to meet his guards at Felixstowe, but two others of his party-his man and some lady’s maid-made it to the rendezvous. As matters now stand, no one knows where Carstairs, and the young English lady apparently traveling with him, are.”

Silence stretched.

Eventually, Charles broke it, putting their collective thoughts into words. “Carstairs is out there somewhere, and we still don’t know who the Black Cobra is.”

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author STEPHANIE LAURENS began writing as an escape from the dry world of professional science, a hobby that quickly became a career. Her novels set in Regency England have captivated readers around the globe, making her one of the romance world’s most beloved and popular authors. The Brazen Bride is her forty-second work and the third in The Black Cobra Quartet.