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 anylikely 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 GervaseTregarth, 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
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