Stephanie Laurens: The Brazen Bride

“Yes,” Delborough said. “They must be. One of them at least.”

Royce arched a brow. “I’m not disagreeing, but why so certain?”

“Because Thurgood was taking the letter to someone. He had to have met someone on the heath-why else would he stop? He was on a strong horse, he wasn’t shot-in fact, the way he was killed, given he was still in his saddle… he had to have approached his killer very closely.”

Royce blinked. “You’re right. I forgot about him being in the saddle. Whoever killed him…”

“They had to have embraced.” Charles met Royce’s eyes. “That’s the only way it could have been done.”

Royce nodded. “Perhaps in celebration-which, yes, given the letter wasn’t left on Thurgood’s body but taken, fits with the notion that at least one more person who commands the cult is named in this letter.”

“In Bedford, Thurgood didn’t exactly claim to be the Black Cobra,” Logan said. “He said he was the Black Cobra at that time, in that place-as if he was a representative with direct authority, but not the ultimate head.”

“So we’re looking for at least one more.” Royce read out the names mentioned, men and women both, then looked at Logan, Gareth, and Del. “Any ideas which one it might be?”

All three exchanged glances, then regretfully shook their heads. “We couldn’t even pick Thurgood out of that,” Gareth pointed out. “There’s five other men named, and no way of knowing which one might be Thurgood’s accomplice-turned-killer.”

“If I might point out,” Minerva said from the foot of the table, “in light of your inability, even if that person is named in the letter, then who is going to recognize their involvement enough to point the finger?” She caught her husband’s dark eyes, arched a brow. “Who do they fear? Or is Shrewton still the key? Is he the one the true Black Cobra fears you might show the letter to?”

“An excellent question.” Royce glanced around the table. “Any thoughts?”

Everyone considered, but when no one spoke, Jack Warnefleet said, “It’s a place to start. And Shrewton is close at hand.”

“Indeed.” Royce pushed back from the table. “Gentlemen-I believe we have a body to deliver.”

Royce took Charles, Gervase, and Gareth with him, deeming a duke and two earls, plus a major with direct knowledge of the Black Cobra’s villainy, sufficient to impress on Shrewton the gravity of their inquiries.

It was midafternoon when they reached the earl’s country house, Wymondham Hall, near Norwich. They’d been in the drawing room for less than five minutes when the door opened, and Shrewton’s eldest son, Viscount Kilworth, appeared.

“Your Grace.” Kilworth bowed. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet heard back from those I queried regarding Roderick’s friends.”

Royce waved that aside. “Sadly, there’s been more violence, and another death. I have more questions to place before your father, and there’s another body that I believe he’ll wish to see.”

Kilworth, a lanky gentleman with dark floppy hair and plain brown eyes, paled. “Another body?”

Royce merely asked, “The earl?”

Kilworth shook aside his shock. “Yes, of course. He’s in the library. I’ll…” He looked at Royce, nearly winced. “I expect you’ll want to come with me.”

Royce inclined his head and waved Kilworth on.

He led them to a large library with high shelves stocked with leather-bound tomes. A massive desk sat across one end. The man sitting behind it looked up as they entered-then scowled from under beetling gray brows.

Kilworth gestured. “His Grace wishes to speak with you, sir.”

Royce inwardly smiled a smile he would never let a sensitive soul like Kilworth see. The viscount had used Royce’s honorific as a reminder to his father to toe a civil line. For all his apparent ineffectual niceness, Kilworth was a sane and sensible man. There was steel of a sort beneath the softness.

When Royce halted, waited, the earl rose to his feet, stiffly inclined his head. “Wolverstone. What brings you back here, then? I’ve told you all I know-which was, and still is, nothing. This is a house in mourning. Can’t you leave us to our grief?”

“Would that I could, my lord. Sadly, however, matters beyond these walls continue to unfold. Matters in which your son, Roderick, was definitely involved, at least in the earlier stages.”

“He’s dead now.” The earl looked positively fretful, unable to keep his hands still. With an ungracious wave, he indicated chairs, managed to wait until Royce took his before collapsing back into the chair behind the desk. “Can’t you leave it be?”

Both tone and expression were querulous. If the death of a son could leach the father of life, of energy and purpose, Royce judged that had happened to Shrewton. The earl appeared to be noticeably diminished in presence from only the day before.

“Before you ask.” Smoothly Royce introduced Charles, Gervase, and Gareth, giving each their full title, and waiting for Shrewton to acknowledge each of them. Then he sat back. “I’m here because there’s been another murder related to this business. I’ve brought another body I believe you’ll want to see.” Shrewton opened his mouth to bluster. Royce calmly continued before he could, “This man was a known associate of your son’s in Bombay. Has Roderick ever written to you of a friend by the name of Daniel Thurgood?”

“What?” The earl’s shock was writ plainly on his face. He looked staggered. “Thurgood?”

Royce nodded. “Were you acquainted with Daniel Thurgood?”

The earl looked down at his blotter.

When his father said nothing, Kilworth, who had moved to stand behind and to the left of his father’s chair, cleared his throat. When Royce glanced at him, he rather carefully asked, “Are you saying that the dead body you’ve brought here today is that of Daniel Thurgood?”

Royce looked back at the earl. “Yes.”

Still the earl refused to look up.

The silence stretched.

Somewhat to Royce’s surprise, it was Kilworth who broke it. Looking down at his father, he asked, his tone even, “Are you going to tell them? Or shall I?”

The earl slowly shook his head from side to side. From what little Royce could see of his expression, his face had set in mulish lines-lines of denial. The earl grumbled, “The man was nothing to me.”

Kilworth sighed, straightened, and looked Royce in the eye. “Thurgood was my father’s natural son.”

Royce nodded. “So both Roderick and Daniel Thurgood were your father’s sons.” He made the comment a statement. While visiting the sins of the fathers on the sons was commonplace enough, the reverse operated just as well. Just as damagingly.

Neither Kilworth nor the earl responded.

After a moment, Royce continued, “We gave the body we believe to be that of Daniel Thurgood into the keeping of your servants. They should have laid the body out by now. I would ask you to view it, now, in our presence, and confirm that it is indeed the body of your natural son, Daniel Thurgood.”

The earl glanced up briefly, met Royce’s eyes, then reluctantly nodded. “Very well.”

He rose and led the way out. Kilworth stood back and waved the others ahead of him, bringing up the rear as the earl led Royce to the old stone laundry. Roderick’s body, now shrouded and wrapped for burial, lay on one bench; in the dimness behind lay the body of Larkins, likewise prepared, but less expensively wrapped.

The earl’s steward had had Daniel Thurgood’s body laid out on the bench at right angles to Roderick’s. As per Royce’s instructions, the dagger had been left in place, and the small room well lit with multiple candelabra.