Hamilton and his people-a batman in his mid-twenties but with experience etched in his face, a fierce Pashtun warrior, and his equally fierce wife-escorted her party off the docks, then, with their combined luggage in a wooden cart, continued through the streets of Aden to the edge of the diplomatic quarter, and the quietly fashionable hotel her uncle had recommended.
Hamilton halted in the street outside, studied the building, then simply said, “No.” He glanced at her, then past her to Mullins. “You can’t stay there. There’re too many entrances.”
Stunned anew-and she still hadn’t managed to marshal her senses enough to think through the implications of the cultists’ attack-she looked at Mullins to discover him nodding his grizzled head.
“You’re right,” Mullins allowed. “Death trap, that is.” He glanced at her and added, “In the circumstances.”
Before she could argue, Hamilton smoothly continued, “For the moment, at least, I’m afraid our parties will need to stay together.”
She looked at him.
He caught her eye. “We need to find somewhere a lot less…obvious.”
There was nothing the least obvious about the house in the Arab quarter Emily later found herself gracing. Not far from the docks, and in the opposite direction to the area inhabited by Europeans, she had to admit the private guesthouse was quite the last place anyone would think to look for her-the Governor of Bombay’s niece.
Nestled behind a high stone wall off a minor side street, the modest house was arranged around a central courtyard. The owners, an Arab family, lived in one wing, leaving the main living quarters and two other wings of bedchambers for guests.
At present their combined party were the only guests. From what she’d understood of the negotiations, Hamilton had hired the entire house for the duration of their stay.
He hadn’t consulted her, not even informed her of his intentions. He hadn’t told her anything at all-simply whisked her and her people up, and set them down there with his household.
Admittedly they were safe. Or at least as safe as they could be.
She’d been just a little distracted at the time as the implications of the attack on the docks had finally impinged. Realizing she’d come within an inch of death had sobered and shaken her, but had also raised questions-ones she couldn’t answer.
She was fairly sure Hamilton could. As soon as she’d seen her people settled, and had washed off the dust of the streets, she made her way to the salon that served as drawing room-cum-parlor.
Hamilton was there, alone, seated on one of the long cushion-covered divans. He looked up, saw her, and came to his feet.
With an easy smile, she went forward, and sat on the divan to his left. Opposite, wide doors stood open to the courtyard, with its small central pool and shading tree.
He resumed his seat. “I…er, hope you have everything you need.”
“The accommodations are adequate, thank you.” They were not what she was accustomed to, but they were clean and comfortable enough-they would do. “However”-she fixed her gaze on his face-“I have a number of questions, Major, that I hope you’ll be able to answer. I only caught the briefest glimpse of my attacker, but I saw enough to know he was a Black Cobra cultist. What I don’t understand is why he would attack me, or why a cultist should be here, in Aden, at all.”
When he didn’t leap into reassuring speech, she went on, “The only contact I’ve had with the Black Cobra cult is through the incident with poor Captain MacFarlane and the packet I delivered for him to your friend, Colonel Delborough. I presume the attack today was connected with that?”
Gareth studied her face-her determined expression, the directness of her gaze-and regretfully jettisoned his preferred option of revealing nothing at all. If she’d been a typical miss with not a great deal of wit…but there was intelligence, willfulness, and a definite-potentially dangerous-curiosity lurking behind her lovely eyes…“I suspect the cultists are here to intercept me, and yes, that’s linked to the packet you brought to Bombay. The only reasons they would have for attacking you is if they recognized you, and either thought you might still have the packet, or simply wanted to punish you for your part in the packet’s loss.”
“What’s in the packet the Black Cobra wants so desperately?”
As he’d thought-far too quick-witted. He’d hoped to gloss over his mission, conceal the major aspects, but…her moss-hazel gaze was too acute, too intent. And many-she, certainly-would argue she had a right to know, now more than ever given the cult had just demonstrated that it wasn’t inclined to overlook her part in the affair. He inwardly sighed. “I assume you’d prefer I start at the beginning?”
“Indeed.”
“Five of us-Delborough, me, Major Logan Monteith, Captains Rafe Carstairs and James MacFarlane-were sent to Bombay by Governor-General Hastings with specific orders to do whatever was needed to bring the Black Cobra to justice.” He sank back against the cushions, his gaze fixing, unseeing, on the wall opposite. “That was in March. Within a few months, we’d identified the Black Cobra, but the evidence was circumstantial, and given our suspect, our case needed to be beyond question.”
“Who is the Black Cobra?”
He turned his head and regarded her. If he told her…but the cult had just demonstrated it didn’t care if she knew or not, and now she was with him, had been seen with him…“The Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar.”
“Ferrar? Great heavens! I’ve met him, of course.”
“What did you think of him?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Not a nice man.”
“Indeed not. So we knew it was him, but had no way to prove it conclusively. We kept searching…then, while James was at Poona fetching you, he stumbled on a letter from the Black Cobra to one of the princelings. We’d found similar missives, but this one was different. It was signed by the Black Cobra, but sealed with Ferrar’s personal seal-the ring seal he wears on his little finger and can’t take off. Once you’d brought that letter to us, we had what we needed, and we’d already consulted others back in England, so we knew what we had to do.”
He saw her shut her lips on an eager prompt, but she’d guessed at least part of it. “We have to get that letter-the original-to the Duke of Wolverstone in England. Ferrar, of course, will do everything in his considerable power to stop us. Our instructions from Wolverstone-he’s the key planner in this-were to make four copies, and each bring one home, all traveling by widely different routes.”
“To make it harder for the Cobra to stop you.”
He nodded. “With James gone, there are four of us, now all on our way back to England. Only one of us has the original, but the Cobra doesn’t know which one, so he has to try to intercept each of us.”
Head tilting, she studied him. “Are you…” She paused, eyes on his, then went on, “I suspect you’re carrying one of the copies-a decoy, as it were.”
He was glad there was no one else in the room. He frowned. “How…?”
Her lips curved briefly. “On the wharf, you and your men wanted to chase the cultists-if you’d been carrying the original, you wouldn’t have risked engaging directly. You would defend, not attack-you’d do all you could not to draw attention to your party.”
He humphed. “Yes, well, from here on, we’ll be running. My orders are explicit-I’m to do all I can to distract the cultists between here and the Channel, do all I can to make them chase me, to make the Cobra throw as many of his forces in Europe into dealing with me.”
“Without making it obvious you’re carrying a copy and not the original.” She nodded, then looked frowningly at him. “You’re not carrying the letter on you, are you?”
“No.” He couldn’t see any reason not to tell her. “It’s in one of those wooden scroll holders the Indians use to ferry documents.”