Look what people are saying about the Lady Priscilla Flanders Mysteries . . .
“Jo Ann Ferguson leads readers on a wild adventure of murder and mystery, and while the only hint at romance comes in the very last pages, readers can’t help but fall in love with the characters.”
—Romantic Times of A Rather Necessary End
“With this book, she proves that she can plot a mystery novel with enough twists and turns to capture and retain the mystery novel reader’s interest. And for the romance novel reader, the relationship between Neville and Priscilla is beginning to simmer nicely.”
—Rakehell.com of Grave Intentions
“Ferguson keeps the delightful duo’s antics as fresh and invigorating as ever. Clever use of secondary characters helps carry the tale forward while keeping the blossoming love between the main characters a lightly trod path of sweet desire.”
—Romantic Times Top Pick 4 ½ stars on The Greatest Possible Mischief
“Fast-paced and full of twists and turns, Digging Up Trouble will keep readers until the very end. Jo Ann Ferguson is a storyteller full of surprises!”
—Affaire de Coeur
“. . . a pleasurable read as Priscilla makes the search for her friend’s killer a priority. Hopefully, there will be another book in this series soon.”
—Romantic Times of The Wedding Caper
“The adventure that begins is one of sheer mystery and fun, as the highwaymen abduct Priscilla in order to force Neville to come back into the fold and help them figure out who is killing the members of the Order.”
—Romantic Times 4 Stars of Gentleman’s Master
Lady Priscilla Flanders Mysteries
Gentleman’s Master
Fool’s Paradise
Short Regency Fiction
Lord of Misrule (A Regency Yuletide Collection 1)
Yule Be Mine
(One Winter’s Night: A Regency Yuletide Collection 2)
Fool’s Paradise
by
Jo Ann Ferguson
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-575-1
Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-584-3
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2014 by Jo Ann Ferguson
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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Cover design: Debra Dixon
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Landscape (manipulated) © Kevin Eaves | Dreamstime.com
Woman (manipulated) © HotDamn Stock Designs
Fountain wall (manipulated) ©GueSphere | Dreamstime.com
:Epft:01:
Dedication
For Echo
Who keeps me looking good and loves Aunt Cordelia as much as I do
Chapter One
AS SHE WALKED along the sun-splashed shore road on a warm spring afternoon, Lady Priscilla Flanders Hathaway had no idea she was being stalked. Her usually observant mind was focused on the errands she had to complete before she returned to her home on the cliffs overlooking the sea. She paid no attention to the birds singing in the hedgerows or the cat slinking along the ground in pursuit of them. Lost in her thoughts, she never guessed she was being as steadily hunted.
And why should she? The seaside village of Stonehall-on-Sea had been quiet after the disturbing deeds of more than three years ago. Since that fateful evening when she had discovered a dead man in her garden, her life had changed. In most ways for the better.
Priscilla was pleased at how her children had welcomed her husband, Neville Hathaway, who had recently been raised to a baronage, into their lives. Perhaps it was no surprise because he had known them since birth. More than a few people were shocked that a parson’s widow had married a man with a less than pristine reputation, but those same people had been horrified when she, as an earl’s daughter, had previously married a man whose only title was vicar.
Foremost among those disapproving was her aunt, who would be arriving on the morrow. Nothing stayed tranquil when Aunt Cordelia called. The terse note that had preceded her informed Priscilla that her aunt intended to air her opinions about Pricilla’s behavior and that of her children after their recent visit to the country home she shared with her most recent husband. It had mentioned nothing about Neville, which was no surprise because Aunt Cordelia seemed to harbor the hope that if she ignored him enough—or insulted him enough—he would vanish. Priscilla wondered how her aunt could cling to that expectation when Aunt Cordelia was married to one of Neville’s best friends, Duncan McAndrews.
As Priscilla chuckled at her thoughts, she imagined someone thinking she had taken a knock in the head. One should not stroll along a country lane laughing to oneself. She could imagine what Aunt Cordelia would make of that.
The truth was that she missed Neville. He had gone up to London several days ago, and she knew he would not be back for at least another fortnight. He had been summoned there by someone so highly placed in the government that Neville had not been able to reveal his name, even to Priscilla. As high as the Prince Regent? Neville had handled difficult matters quietly for him in the past, but he refused to discuss the details of those situations. She suspected the prince’s name was the sole one Neville would keep from her.
A glint close to the hedgerow on the path’s right side caught her eye. What was that?
“Who’s there?” she called, then felt even sillier when she received no reply.
A low grumble came from her right. A grumble or a growl?
Suddenly she was aware of how far she was from the village. Her shrillest scream would not reach even the closest outlying cottage. If she ran . . .
No, she was not going to flee from what might be only her imagination. Not now. Even though she had not yet shared the tidings with anyone but Neville, she was in a delicate condition. It was a most unexpected situation for a woman who had recently announced the betrothal of her older daughter. The children would be as thrilled as Neville was, but she had no interest in having everyone keep her from doing the slightest thing simply because she would have a baby in five months. She had worked side-by-side with her late husband, Lazarus, during her previous three pregnancies, and she saw no reason not to keep to her regular schedule now.
As regular as it could be with Daphne asking her endless questions about various minutiae for the upcoming November wedding. Daphne wished it to be perfect, even after Priscilla had warned her no event could be without small mistakes. Daphne refused to listen. She thought . . .
The leaves in the hedgerows rustled. Was something trying to thrust its way through the thick tangle? The growl came again.
Closer.
Priscilla’s steps
quickened. Her heart thudded. It faltered when she stared at the break in the hedgerow ten feet in front of her. Mr. Atkins drove his sheep from field to field through that narrow gate. The beast following her could come through there as well. But what could it be? No great predators prowled the southern coast of England, though occasionally a beast escaped from a traveling show and killed farm animals until it could be trapped or slain.
She searched her mind. Had she heard of a circus nearby? Surely if a beast had gotten out, word of it would have spread.
She was letting her imagination get the better of her.
“Silly,” she said under her breath. A terse laugh battered at her lips.
Something leaped at the hedgerow to her left, rattling it wildly.
She grasped her skirt, raising it so she could walk faster. Not quite a run. She needed to save a burst of speed for when she reached the gap in the hedgerow. Her breath was loud in her ears, echoing beneath her simple straw bonnet.
She drew in a deep breath and held it as she neared the gate. Something jumped at her from the shadows. She gasped and fled.
Then she heard laughter behind her.
Laughter?
From a fearsome beast?
Slowing, she steadied her breathing. More laughter rang along the lane. Familiar laughter.
Priscilla turned and saw her husband and young son leaning against each other, weakened by guffaws. She shook her head as she walked back to them. Even though she was pleased to see Neville standing beside her son, she was going to let him know she was not amused by his behavior. But first, she wanted to know when he had arrived from London and why he had returned so soon.
“Neville, you are going to prove my aunt right,” she said, scanning his face and seeing the tension he was trying to hide behind a smile. “You are a bad influence on Isaac.”
He grinned at her, and her heart began to pound anew. Not with fear, but with the resounding love she had never expected to find with her late husband’s friend. With his dark hair and sparkling eyes, Neville Hathaway was the most dashing man she had ever met. As well as the most vexing. On dits whispered he had lived a criminal life before his family’s tarnished title had come to him, but she knew him as the man who cared deeply for her and her family, a man loyal to his friends and dangerous to his enemies, a man who was not ashamed of his past as he shared his present and his future with her.
If only he could put aside his pleasure with such pranks . . .
“Quite to the contrary,” Neville said in his warm, deep voice that never failed to send a pulse of joy careening through her. “This time, young Isaac was the bad influence on me.” He put his hand on her twelve-year-old son’s shoulder. “It was his idea.”
“I see, and while it may have been his idea . . .” Priscilla tried to don a fearsome frown when she looked at her youngest, but failed when she saw the bright twinkle in his eyes. Every day, she could see more of his father’s features on his young face. His hair had darkened over the winter, but with summer, it would lighten again to the golden-brown it had been when he was an infant. “No matter whose idea it was, Neville, it is clear you heartily embraced it.”
“I do believe you have said, more than once, that it is important to listen to the children.”
“And heed them?” She began to smile then froze when she heard a strange, sharp sound.
“Mama, look!” cried Isaac as he tugged on a rope she had not taken note of before.
A lanky puppy, yipping wildly, exploded from behind him. Only Neville grasping her around the waist and gently lifting her out of the pup’s reach saved her gown from large, muddy paw prints. For a moment, she thought the whole creature was mud-colored. Russet patches appeared along its matted fur.
“This is Bay-o the wolf,” Isaac announced, his cheeks barely able to contain his smile.
“Beowulf,” Neville corrected with an indulgent smile.
“What is a Beowulf?” Priscilla asked, sidestepping again to avoid the pup’s muddy coat.
Neville chuckled. “Beowulf is a who. The hero of a great epic poem from a few centuries before the Conquest. Parts of it were translated a few years ago from an ancient manuscript. One night, when I was having dinner with a Scottish poet named Walter Scott, he told me about Beowulf between fish and dessert.”
“Beowulf fights a troll, Mama!” Isaac bounced from one foot to the other.
“Very brave,” she said.
“Like my new dog.”
“Your new dog?” She looked from him to Neville who had the decency to wear a sheepish expression. “You do know being near dogs makes your great-aunt sneeze.”
“He can stay in the garden when Aunt Cordelia visits.”
“Or at least what will be left of my garden after he digs it up.”
“Mama, Beowulf needs us. He has no other home.”
Before she could answer, Neville said, “Isaac, take Beowulf home and await us in the garden. Your mother and I need to speak of this matter. We will let you know our decision.”
“You will let me keep him, won’t you, Mama?” Isaac clearly wanted to be reassured before he obeyed.
“Do as Neville asks, please.”
Isaac nodded and gave a tug on the rope. The boy and the dog went along the road, each one trying to pull the other.
As soon as her son was out of earshot, Priscilla asked, “Neville, how could you agree to let him have a dog without consulting with me?”
“Atkins caught the pup chasing his sheep and was ready to dispatch him when we chanced upon them. Young Isaac, ever the champion of justice, was determined the pup be given a lesser punishment than death when no damage had been done to the herd. Atkins condemned the pup to a life sentence with Isaac as his warden.” He took her hands between his. “A task your son accepted, exactly as his mother would have wished.”
“That is true.” She could not help being proud of her son. “But really, Neville . . . a dog?”
He laughed and drew her closer. “You have taken one cur into your home and heart and tamed him, Pris.”
“If you refer to yourself, then you speak in error. I daresay the day you are tamed, Neville, is the day the sun sets and does not rise again.”
“Ah, Pris, you give no quarter when it comes to the sport of words.”
“Would you wish me to?”
He released her hands and put a finger beneath her chin. “No.” He kissed her right cheek, and she put her hand against the buttons on his embroidered waistcoat. “Never.” His lips brushed her left cheek. Her other hand settled on his shoulder. “I would not change you an iota, Pris.” His mouth found hers.
No matter how many times she enjoyed her husband’s kisses, she relished each one as if it were the first. When he offered his arm, she slipped her own within its crook and continued with him toward the village.
“How are you feeling today, Pris?” he asked.
“Fine.” She laughed. “Though you might have considered my state before you and Isaac tried to frighten me half to death.”
His smile vanished. “Pris, forgive me! I never imagined we would frighten you. Are you certain we did you and the baby no harm?”
“I am certain.” She slapped him playfully on the arm. “Stop fretting like a hen with a single chick, Neville.”
“I will, but you must own that I am about to become a rooster with a house filled with chicks.” He leaned his head against hers. “I think Isaac is ready to give up his place as baby of the family.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He was asking some mature questions. It seems there is a young lady in the village who has caught his eye.”
Priscilla rolled her own. “Heaven above save us! It has been hectic enough with Daphne and now Leah suffering calf-love for boy after boy.”
“Are yo
u sure you want to go through this again?”
“Very sure, if for no other reason than to see you go through it for the first time.”
He laughed and tweaked the straw rim of her bonnet. “You can be a cruel woman, Priscilla Hathaway.”
“And you are a mysterious man, Neville Hathaway. I did not expect you home so soon.”
“Need I wait here while you rush to warn a lover to flee?”
She slapped his arm. “Be serious, Neville.”
“I am.” He shook his head. “No, I am not. If I discovered some bounder trying to woo you, I would not give him a chance to escape.”
“You are worrying needlessly.”
“Better me than you. That would not be good for our baby.”
She paused in the middle of the lane. “I agree, so tell me what has you really worried.”
All humor fell from his face. “Not here, Pris. When we are at the house and alone. I promised that I would keep this information to myself, save that I can share it with you. The one I promised comprehended, albeit reluctantly, that my best solutions always come when we work together.”
Before she could reply, the day was shattered by a distant scream. It rose, then quickly vanished. Sharp words, distorted by the breeze, rushed toward them.
“Where is that shouting coming from?” Neville asked.
“Need you ask?” She took a deep breath and stepped away from him. “After all, it was your idea to let Isaac have a dog.” She hurried toward her home, hoping the damage would be minimal so that nothing would postpone her hearing what Neville had to tell her.
THE HOUSEHOLD was in a complete uproar when Priscilla entered the stone house, and she knew she would need to be very patient while she waited for an opportunity for her and Neville to be alone. The fact that one of the footmen was not at the door, ready to open it, warned her the situation might be more out of hand than she had despaired.
From the direction of the kitchen came shouts and the crash of pots and pans and bowls. Mrs. Dunham, the cook, shouted, “Catch ’im!”
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