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.”
Gareth 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.”