A hand on her shoulder roused her enough to realize she had fallen asleep. Neville squatted by the chair and whispered, “Why don’t you rest?”
“We need to make plans for finding Bella Beamish,” she argued, though there was nothing she wanted more than to close her eyes and sleep. She and Neville had agreed on the ride north to use Miss Beamish’s name as a code word for learning more about the baronet’s plans and if he truly intended to amass an army. Alone, they would speak plainly, but when they were with others, they would pretend their sole reason for their journey was to uncover the truth about Miss Beamish’s location.
“There is time later. Rest now, and I will have a tray sent up to you. It will be best for everyone.”
She nodded, knowing he could not say more when Duncan stood within earshot. “I think that would be wise, Neville.”
After he drew her to her feet, she kissed his cheek, bid Duncan a good evening, and took her leave. She hoped she had enough stamina to climb the stairs to the room that had been made ready for them. This baby business was going to slow her down more than she had planned.
NEVILLE WATCHED Pris go up the stairs at a painfully slow pace. He did not realize he had sighed until Duncan asked him what was amiss.
“Nothing. Tired.”
“You?” His friend chuckled. “The Neville Hathaway who cut a wide swath through the ton and was welcomed at every door and every assembly, no matter the hour?”
“I think you are confusing the man I am now for an earlier version.” He was glad Duncan had misunderstood.
He was not tired, but Priscilla looked exhausted. Convincing her to rest was usually a thankless chore, but he had to find some way to get her not to push herself too hard. The only way to persuade her to listen to him would be reaching St. John’s community and learning the truth as quickly as possible. If they could find Miss Beamish and her servants and return them to Lord Beamish posthaste, that would be a bonus, but he needed to concentrate on the task the Prince Regent had given him.
Lizzie, Oldfield’s daughter, arrived with a large oval tray holding the largest tea Neville had ever seen. In addition to sandwiches and cheese, pieces of roasted meat were piled high at one end. Small cakes and sweets claimed another section of the tray. She placed it on a chest that was dark with age. With another curtsy, she hurried away after asking them to ring if they wished more.
“More?” Neville asked in amazement. “There is enough for a dozen men.”
“Speak for yourself.” Duncan picked up a plate and placed a generous serving on it. “Mrs. Oldfield is a cook of rare talent. I may try to steal her away from you.”
“I doubt Lady Cordelia’s cook would be happy to hear that.” He winked as he selected a roast beef sandwich. “Or Lady Cordelia.”
Instead of agreeing with the obvious, Duncan asked, “Do you wish to hear what I have learned about the goings-on around here? Or has the man you are now changed to the point he no longer cares?”
Neville chuckled. “I doubt I could ever change that much. You have had plenty of time to meet people and get them to tell you what is on their minds. So what are they talking about?”
“St. John’s latest insanity.”
“More than about a missing heiress and her servants?”
“It might have been a nine day’s wonder, and there is curiosity about what happened to Miss Beamish. That is, however, nothing compared to curiosity about what St. John is doing. I visited a variety of public houses, inns, and other gathering places. At every one, without fail, the conversation turned to St. John.”
“What are they saying?”
Duncan went to stand by the largest window where the wild wind battered rain against it. “From what I was able to discover, St. John and his fellows have settled somewhere up there in a high pass. He has been purchasing land west of here for almost a decade. No one took note of it until he started bringing people there, settling them in, and building a wall around the place to keep the curious out.”
“Who does he think he is? Some great feudal lord?”
“Don’t laugh, Neville. He is up to something, but no one knows what.”
“Really? You don’t know what is going on?”
Duncan sat back down in his chair. “I saw no reason to tramp through the wet gorse to pay a call when I was informed that no strangers were welcome past his wall. After all, we are not here to see what that loose screw is up to.” With a shrug, he began to eat.
“True,” Neville replied, though he hated to wait to satisfy his own curiosity. “We are here to find Miss Beamish. Any news on her?”
“Apparently her carriage is now at an inn on the west side of Windermere. A place called The Rose and Thistle.” He raised his hands that held a sandwich in one and a sweetmeat in the other. “Before you ask, my boy, I have not been there either. The mists and rain and wind settled in for the past two days, so I decided to enjoy the comforts of Tarn’s Edge. You could use a better stocked cellar.”
“I did not know there was anything in the cellar.”
“Nothing worth drinking, and that I did check. Fortunately, I never travel without a couple bottles of whisky. I had your man decant it and put it on the sideboard in the dining room next door.”
“I should have guessed you would make yourself at home.” Neville picked up a piece of cheese. Taking a bite, he added, “To own the truth, I agree with your sentiment about leaving St. John to his insanity. Focusing on what we came here to do is the best idea.”
“I am glad to hear that. Wandering through the fells is a worthless way to spend our time. I speak from experience. We Scots have known these fells for longer than history has been written. Some of the bravest or most stupid, your choice, of the border reivers dared to come this far south, though I cannot imagine how they could have driven a herd of cattle back over the border. And before that, the Scots stopped the Romans here and never let them conquer us.” He grinned. “They saw our faces painted blue, and Hadrian decided to build his wall to denote the edge of civilization at that very spot. Beyond it lay chaos and barbarians.”
“Did you ever stop to think they built the wall because the legionaries saw your faces without the paint on them?”
Duncan wagged a finger at him. “Such insults will keep my whisky unshared.”
“We cannot have that, can we?” Neville chuckled with his friend.
An hour later, filled with good food and fine whisky, Neville asked Duncan how long he intended to stay at Tarn’s Edge.
“How long do you need me?” his friend asked.
“If you could stay another day or two that would be good.” A day or two would allow him time to examine the carriage that had been abandoned at the inn near Windermere and ask questions about St. John’s community which was in the fells beyond the town.
“I can do that.”
“I appreciate it. I know you would prefer to be with your wife after a fortnight apart.”
“Cordelia is having her rose garden replanted, and I do not intend to return until the task is finished.” Duncan added more whisky to his glass. “She frets about where every plant is placed. I made the mistake of being there when she redid her white garden, and she drove me out of my mind.”
“I can understand.” He did not add that Pris’s aunt annoyed him at the best of times.
“So why do you need me here for a day or two? Though I hardly need to ask.”
“No doubt, he has some tasks that he needs done while we go to The Rose and Thistle Inn.” Pris’s soft voice came from behind him.
Neville turned, glad her eyes were no longer heavy with exhaustion and more color warmed her face. “Pris, I thought you were resting.” He was not surprised that she had guessed the first step in his plan to find out what St. John was up to. By adhering to the façade of searching for Miss Beamish, they c
ould keep anyone else from learning the real reason for coming north.
“I did rest, but I am still hungry. I hope you left something for me.”
Neville looked at the decimated tea tray where only a few pieces of cheese and meat, both dried from the heat on the hearth, remained. He exchanged a guilty glance with Duncan. “I can ring for more.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Oldfield answered the bell this time. She was a neat woman without a black hair out of place or a spot on her white apron or dark gown. Welcoming them as warmly as her husband and daughter had, she nodded when Neville asked Mrs. Oldfield for additional sandwiches.
“For Lady Priscilla,” he added, though he did not need to explain himself. There was something about the housekeeper that made him feel like a naughty lad who had been caught trying to steal a pie cooling in a doorway. Surprising heat climbed up the back of his neck when the housekeeper’s expression became chiding before she looked at Pris. He was relieved when she said only, “Of course, I will bring more food for her ladyship.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Oldfield,” Pris said, gracious as always.
“Whatever I can do for you, say the word. I know how it can be at times like this.”
Pris’s golden brows shot up, and she put a finger to her lips before glancing toward Duncan who was picking through the tray for something that caught his fancy. Mrs. Oldfield nodded with a smile before hurrying away.
Neville marveled at the unspoken communication shared by two mothers. If he had not been privy to Pris’s condition, he doubted he would have guessed what they were not talking about.
Duncan excused himself to seek his own bed. “Country hours,” he said. “To bed with the birds and up with them again.” He winked at them before adding, “Guess I have changed, too.” He paused long enough to kiss Pris’s cheek before bidding them a good night.
“What was that about? Changing?” she asked as Duncan disappeared upstairs.
“Two old men regretting their youthful mistakes.” He took her slender hand and led her to where he and Duncan had been sitting. He sat her on the upholstered chair and took the wooden one for himself.
“You are hardly old, Neville.”
“Older than you.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, that is ancient.”
He laughed, but grew serious as he asked, “Pris, will you be ready to travel again tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
“Are you sure? You could stay here with Duncan.”
She got to her feet. “I have come all this way, and you want me to stop now?”
“What I want is for you to be safe.” He looked up at her, so beautiful, so brave . . . so stubborn. “The roads have gotten rougher as we have come north.”
She drew aside the draperies and looked out to where a few stars had poked through the clouds to admire their reflection in the lake. He wondered when the rain had stopped. “You need to stop worrying so much and let me help while I can. In a few months, I shall be as big as a barn.”
“I can’t envision that.”
“You shall see soon enough.” She laughed as she let the velvet draperies fall back into place. She waved away the brownish cloud that burst from them. Sneezing, she crossed the room to where he held out his handkerchief. She smiled her thanks as she took it before she sneezed again.
He was surprised when she knelt by his chair, but he withheld his protest that she should sit comfortably while in her delicate condition. She had made it more than clear that she did not appreciate him questioning every action she took.
When she put her hands on his arm, she gazed up at him. “Do say that you will not protest me going to Windermere with you tomorrow, Neville. You know as well as I that there are people who find you intimidating to talk to, especially when you are firing one question after another at them.”
“True.” He nodded, knowing this was a battle he could not win. She was correct in her reasoning, and she would never do anything to endanger their unborn child. “But you must promise me one thing, Pris.”
“What is that?”
He lowered his voice so only she could hear him. “When I sneak close to St. John’s settlement to discern exactly what they are doing, you will remain here at Tarn’s Edge.”
“Yes. I promise, Neville.” She rose and slid onto his lap, putting her arms around his shoulders. “And I always keep my promises.”
As her soft lips found his, he made himself a pledge as well. He would keep her safe . . . no matter what he had to do.
Chapter Five
BY THE TIME THE carriage had reached the inn the next day, it was raining. Neville held his cloak over Pris as they hurried toward the door beneath the creaking sign. The faded letters on it spelled out the inn’s name: The Rose and Thistle. Remnants of paint stuck to the wood, but Neville could make out the faded image of a red Lancastrian rose crossed by a Scottish thistle. Once, when the Lancastrians and the Yorks fought their War of Roses and when the borders were a constant battlefield, such symbols would have been dangerous. Now they looked old and tired.
He did a quick scan of the dooryard and smiled when he saw a barn behind the inn. Once he had Pris inside and out of the storm, he would get the horse to shelter. He hoped the morrow would have better weather so local residents would be out on the streets. That would allow him and Pris to ask casual questions to garner any information they could about St. John’s activities before his first scouting mission.
He threw open the door and ushered Pris into the small entryway. He had to push an inner door closed, but it refused to latch, swinging back to reveal a staircase beyond it. Pulling off his cloak, he shook it out on the stone floor before following Pris into a narrow room with a long bar, a few tables, and a hearth where the blazing fire was a welcome sight.
The only occupant was a woman standing behind the ancient oak bar. She watched him and Pris with curiosity. Her skin was almost the same shade as the top board, and like the wood’s grain, her face showed every year she had lived in the unforgiving region. The kerchief covering her brown hair was the same unbleached linen as her apron. Her cleaning cloth made ever smaller circles as Neville escorted Pris to a settle beside the fireplace that took up the whole wall on the opposite side of the room. A gray-striped cat looked through half-closed lids then continued its nap as near as it could get to the leaping flames.
Neville returned to the bar. Water fell from his greatcoat to puddle between the stones.
“Ale?” the woman asked.
Instead of answering her question, he asked, “Are you the landlady?”
“Aye. Are ye and the lady plannin’ t’stay the night?”
“If you have a private room.”
She glanced around the deserted bar. “I ’ave a room ye can use, but I cannot say it will be private. There be a lot of traffic near the lake.”
Neville kept his innocuous smile from slipping. Did she expect she could gain a few more pence from him with such tactics? “What is the price for a private room and a place for my horse?”
She gave him a number that was probably outrageous for the area but far less than he would have paid closer to London. He negotiated a bit as any innkeeper would expect him to do, then pulled out a handful of coins. Tossing them on the bar, he watched her scoop them up with the ease of practice.
“Sup be extra,” she said as she stashed the coins beneath her apron.
He placed a few more coins on the counter, got instructions for where to take the horse and their bags, then walked back to where Pris was holding her hands out to fire. It would have been more comfortable driving in the closed carriage, but she had suggested it might be easier to get answers if they were not seen as nobility. So they had borrowed Duncan’s small carriage, left their coachee back at Tarn’s Edge, and made sure the vehicle was liberally covered with mud
by the time they arrived at the inn.
Even in a plain gown and a rain-battered bonnet, Pris was beautiful. She smiled, and his heart did a somersault as it had the first time she had given him that special smile which was as intimate as a kiss. When she held out her hand to him, he took it and let her draw him down to sit beside her.
“We have a place to stay for the night,” Neville said. “I doubt it will be much.”
“As long as it is clean and dry.”
“I cannot promise either.”
She chuckled. “It is one night. Tomorrow, we will be back where we belong.” She did not speak Tarn’s Edge’s name. As always, she was the perfect co-conspirator. “What now?”
“I need to look around.”
“You?” She arched her eyebrows.
“With your help, Pris. Can you speak with yon landlady while I tend to the horse? That will give me an excuse to ask questions of anyone I chance to see outside. Anything that happens in the area will be repeated at an inn when the ale is flowing freely.”
She rose gracefully and walked over to the landlady. At the same time, he headed for the door. He yanked up the collar on his greatcoat and tilted the broad-brimmed hat he had borrowed from his coachman. He hoped more cold raindrops would not fall down his nape.
When he reached the doorway, he paused and smiled. Already Pris had drawn the landlady into conversation, talking as if they were longstanding friends. That was Pris’s way. No one could resist her genuine charm. He wondered if she had always been that way or if it was a skill she had to learn as a vicar’s wife. Either way, it served them well now.
The rain seemed to be coming down harder, if possible. Ducking his head, Neville led the horse around the back of the inn. It needed paint, but otherwise was intact. It would keep the horse and carriage dry.
“Need ’elp, mister?” called a young voice as Neville began to unharness the horse.
He looked at the stable. A lad, who looked to be close to Isaac’s age, stood inside, just out of the rain. The boy’s face was thin, and his wrists protruding far below his cuffs suggested he had had a recent spurt in growth. Neville could have tended his horse on his own, but he motioned for the boy to assist him.
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