The bamboo screens fitted between the verandah’s front pillars were presently lowered against the late afternoon sun and the dust stirred up by a troop of sepoys engaged in parade drills, leaving the bar wreathed in cooler shadows. A distant hum of conversation rose from two groups of officers seated further down the long verandah; the clink of billiard balls wafted from an alcove off the verandah’s far end.
“True.” Gareth claimed a glass. “But I doubt the good marquess envisioned us going around him.”
“I can’t see that we have any choice.” Along with the other three, Logan looked at Del.
Staring into his beer, Del felt their gazes, looked up and met them. “If, as we believe, the Black Cobra is Roderick Ferrar, then Hastings won’t thank us for bringing him the news.”
“But he’ll still act on it, surely?” James reached for the last glass left on the tray.
Del glanced at him. “Did you notice the portrait behind Hastings’s desk?”
“The one of Prinny?”
Del nodded. “That’s not company property, but Hastings’s own. He owes his appointment to Prinny-pardon me, His Majesty-and knows he can never forget it. If, presuming we can find it, we take him incontrovertible proof that Ferrar is our villain, we’ll place him in the invidious position of having to decide which master to appease-his conscience, or his king.”
Frowning, James turned his glass between his hands. “Is Ferrar really that untouchable?”
“Yes.” Del’s voice was reinforced by Gareth’s, Logan’s and Rafe’s.