Sailors leapt down to the dock, hauling thick ropes to the capstans to secure the ship. Hearing the heavy rattle and splash as the anchor went down, then the squealing scrape as the railing was opened and the gangplank angled out, Del headed for the companionway to the main deck.

He swung off it in time to see Cobby scamper down the gangplank.

Reconnaissance, in this instance, wasn’t simply a matter of scanning for those with dark skins. Southampton was one of the busiest ports in the world, and there were countless Indians and men of other dark-skinned races among the crews. But Cobby knew what to look for-the furtiveness, the attention locked on Del while attempting to remain inconspicuous. If there were cultists waiting to strike, Del was confident Cobby would spot them.

Yet it was more likely the cultists would watch and wait-they preferred to strike in less populated surrounds where escape after the event was more assured.

Del strolled to stand with Mustaf, Amaya and Alia. Mustaf nodded, then went back to scanning the crowd; he’d been a sowar-a cavalryman-until a knee injury had seen him pensioned off. The knee didn’t discompose him in other ways; he was still a good man in a fight.

Alia bobbed her head, then resumed casting shy glances at the young sailors who rushed back and forth along the deck.

Amaya looked up at Del with liquid brown eyes. “It is very very cold here, Colonel-sahib. Colder than my cousin’s house in Simla in the winter. I am being very very glad I was buying these shawls from Kashmir. They are just the thing.”

Del smiled. Both Amaya and Alia were well wrapped in the thick woolen shawls. “When we stop at a big town, we’ll have to get you some English coats. And gloves, too. They’ll help keep out the wind.”

“Ai, yes-the wind, it is like a knife. I am understanding that saying now.” Amaya nodded, plump hands folded in her lap, thin gold bangles on her wrists peeking from beneath the edge of one shawl.

Despite her sweet face and matronly disposition, Amaya was quick-witted and observant. As for Alia, she would instantly obey any order from her uncle, aunt, Del or Cobby. When necessary, the small group operated as a unit; Del wasn’t overly worried over having Amaya and Alia with them, even on the upcoming, more dangerous leg of their journey.

Regardless, knowing the Black Cobra cultists’ vindictiveness, he wouldn’t take the chance of leaving the women anywhere, even with Mustaf to guard them. To strike at him, the Black Cobra was perfectly capable of wiping out his household, simply to inspire fear, and to demonstrate his power.

Human life had long ago lost all meaning for the Black Cobra.

A shrill whistle pulled Del’s attention back to the dock. Cobby caught his eye, snapped a jaunty salute. All clear.

“Come.” Del took Amaya’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Let’s go down and head for our inn.”

Cobby had commandeered a man with a wooden cart. Del waited with the women while their luggage was ferried down the gangplank and loaded in the cart, then he set off, leading the way off the dock and straight up High Street. The Dolphin wasn’t far; Mustaf followed with the women close behind, with Cobby bringing up the rear, ambling alongside the carter, eyes constantly shifting this way and that as he chatted.

As Del walked up the street, he found his gaze drawn downward-to the cobbles that covered the ground, to the first steps he was taking on English soil after so many years away.

He wasn’t sure what he felt. An odd sense of peace, perhaps because he knew this time his travels were over, a sense of anticipation over what his new and as yet unstructured future might hold, all tinged with a healthy dose of apprehension over what lay between this moment and being able to get started on shaping his new life.

Their mission to bring the Black Cobra to justice.

He was in it now. There was no going back, only forward. Ahead, through whatever fire the opposition might send his way.

Raising his head, he filled his lungs, looked about. It felt exactly like the moment after the charge began.

The Dolphin was a town landmark. It had stood for centuries and been refurbished several times; it currently sported two wide bow windows fronting the street, the solid front door in between.

Del glanced back along the street. He couldn’t see any likely cultists, but there were plenty of people, carts, and the odd carriage thronging the cobbled thoroughfare-plenty of cover for anyone watching.

They would be watching.

Reaching the inn, he opened the door and went inside.

Securing suitable rooms was no difficulty; his years in India had left him very wealthy and he wasn’t of a mind to stint either himself or his small household. The innkeeper, Bowden, a solidly built ex-sailor, responded appropriately, cheerily welcoming him to the town and summoning lads to help with the luggage as the others joined Del in the foyer.

With the rooms organized and their bags dispatched, and the women, Mustaf and Cobby following the luggage up the stairs, Bowden turned to Del. “Just remembered. I’ve two letters waiting for you.”

Del turned back to the counter, brows rising.

Reaching beneath it, Bowden produced two missives. “The first-this one-came on the mail coach nearly four weeks ago. The other was left last evening by a gentleman. He and another gentleman have looked in every day for the last week or so, asking after you.”

Wolverstone’s escorts. “Thank you.” Del accepted the letters. It was midafternoon, and the inn’s public rooms were quiet. He sent an easy smile Bowden’s way. “If anyone should ask for me, I’ll be in the tap.”

“Of course, sir. Nice and quiet it is in there at present. Just ring the bell on the bar if you need anything.”

With a nod, Del sauntered into the dining room and through an archway into the tap, a cozy room toward the back of the inn. There were a few patrons, all older men, gathered about small tables. He went to a table in the corner where the light from the rear window would allow him to read.

Sitting, he examined the two missives, then opened the one from the mystery gentleman.

The lines within were few and to the point, informing him that Tony Blake, Viscount Torrington, and Gervase Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst, were holding themselves ready to escort him further on his mission. They were quartered nearby and would continue to call at the inn every evening to check for his arrival.

Reassured that he would be moving forward, in action again soon, he refolded the letter, tucked it inside his coat, then, mildly intrigued, opened the second missive. He’d recognized the handwriting, and assumed his aunts had written to welcome him home, and to ask and be reassured that he was, indeed, heading up to Humberside, to the house at Middleton on the Wolds that he’d inherited from his father, and that remained their home.

As he unfolded the two pages, crossed and recrossed in his elder aunt’s spidery script, he was already composing his reply-a brief note to let them know that he had landed and was on his way north, but that business dealings on the way might delay him for a week or so.

Reading his aunt’s salutation, followed by an enthusiastic, even effusive, welcome, he smiled and read on.

He wasn’t smiling by the time he reached the end of the first page. Laying it aside, he deciphered the rest, then tossed the second sheet on the first and quietly, but comprehensively, swore.

After staring at the sheets for several minutes, he gathered them up, rose and, stuffing the sheets in his pocket, made his way back to the inn’s foyer.

Bowden heard his footsteps and came out from his office behind the counter. “Yes, Colonel?”

“I understand a young lady, a Miss Duncannon, was due to arrive here some weeks ago?”

Bowden smiled brightly. “Yes, indeed, sir. I’d forgotten-she asked after you, too.”

“Indeed. I take it she’s left and headed north?”

“Oh, no, sir. Her ship was delayed, too. She didn’t get in until last week. Quite relieved, she was, to learn you’d been delayed, too. She’s still here, waiting on your arrival.”

“Ah. I see.” Del suppressed a grimace and started making plans. “Perhaps if you could send word to her room that I’ve arrived, and would appreciate a moment of her time?”

Bowden shook his head. “No use at present-she’s out, and she’s taken her maid with her. But I can tell her as soon as she comes in.”

Del nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is there a private parlor I might hire?” Somewhere where he and his unexpected burden could discuss her onward journey.

“I’m sorry, sir, but all our parlors are presently taken.” Bowden paused, then said, “But it’s Miss Duncannon herself as has the front parlor-perhaps, seeing she’s waiting to see you, you might wait for her in there?”

“An excellent notion,” Del responded dryly. “And I’ll need to hire a carriage.”

But again Bowden shook his head. “I’d like to oblige, Colonel, but this close to Christmas all our carriages are spoken for. Miss Duncannon herself took the last of our post chaises.”

“Fortuitous,” Del murmured. “I was wanting the carriage for her.”

“Well, then.” Bowden grinned. “All’s well.”

“Indeed.” Del pointed to the room to the right of the foyer. “The front parlor?”

“Aye, sir. Go right in.”

Del did, shutting the door behind him.

With white plaster walls and heavy timber beams crossing the ceiling, the parlor was neither overlarge nor cramped, and boasted one of the wide bow windows looking out on the street. The furniture was heavy, but comfortable, the pair of chintz-covered armchairs well-supplied with plump cushions. A highly polished round table with four chairs stood in the middle of the room, a large lamp at its center, while a crackling fire sparked and flared in the grate, throwing welcome heat into the room.

Gravitating toward the hearth, Del noticed the three watercolors above the mantelpiece. They were landscapes depicting green pastures and meadows, lush fields and richly canopied trees beneath pastel blue skies with fluffy white clouds. The one in the middle, of rolling heathland, a vibrant patchwork of greens, caught his eye. He hadn’t laid eyes on such landscapes for seven long years; it seemed odd to gain his first sense of home via pictures on a wall.

Glancing down, he drew out the letter from his aunts; standing before the fire, he scanned it anew, searching for some insight into why the devil they’d thought to saddle him with the duty of escorting a young gentlewoman, daughter of a neighboring landowner, home to Humberside.

His best guess was that his doting aunts had some idea of playing matchmaker.

They were going to be disappointed. There was no place for a young lady in his train, not while he was a decoy for the Black Cobra.

He’d been disappointed when he’d opened the scroll he’d selected and discovered he hadn’t picked the original letter. Nevertheless, as Wolverstone had made clear, the missions of the three decoys would be vital in drawing out the Black Cobra’s men, and ultimately the Black Cobra himself.

They needed to lure him into striking, and for that they needed to reduce his cultists sufficiently to force him to act in person.

Not an easy task, yet by any reasonable estimation it should be within their collective ability. As a decoy, his role would be to deliberately make himself a target, and he didn’t want any extraneous young lady hanging on his arm while he was so engaged.

A tap on the door had him hesitating, then he called, “Come.”

It was Cobby.

“Thought you’d want to know.” Hand on the knob, his batman hovered by the door he’d closed. “I ducked back down the docks and asked around. Ferrar arrived over a week ago. Interesting thing is he had no bevy of natives with him-seems there was no room left on the frigate for more than him and his man.”

Del raised his brows. “Definitely interesting, but no doubt he’ll have had cultists coming in on other ships.”

Cobby nodded. “So you’d think. But it does mean he won’t necessarily have all that many just at present. Might have to resort to doing his own dirty work.” Cobby grinned malevolently. “Now wouldn’t that be a shame?”

Del smiled. “We can but hope.”

He nodded a dismissal and Cobby left, closing the door behind him.

Del glanced at the clock ticking on a sideboard. It was already after three, and what daylight there was would soon fade. He fell to pacing slowly before the fire, rehearsing suitable words with which to break the news to Miss Duncannon that, contrary to his aunts’ arrangements, she would be heading north alone.