Fool's Paradise

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Madmen became dangerous when their addled plans were thwarted. Though St. John did not have a villainous reputation, how would he react if someone challenged him? Even if his army was incompetent, people could be hurt or killed in a melee.

  “One other problem,” she said with a sigh. “Bellona has no interest in returning home. She is out from under her father’s thumb and is enjoying an elevated status here while not having to comply with his unreasonable expectations.”

  “Her father is unreasonable?” He gave her a wry smile. “It would be simpler if our fair Roman princess was eager to leave.”

  She whirled to look out the window behind her. “Did you hear that?”

  He strained his ears for the sound she had heard. There it was! A faint scratching as if something were in the walls. That was impossible, because the building had been constructed from stones pulled from the fells.

  Ignoring his aches and bruises, Neville dashed to the window. He looked both ways and saw nobody. “Wait here!” He threw open the door and went out.

  A group of four or five people was walking along the street leading from the commandant’s house toward the center of Novum Arce. In the other direction, two guards stood at the gate. If there was anyone closer, he could not pick them out of the shadows.

  Turning, he went back inside. He shook his head. “Someone may have been spying on us, but I could not see anyone nearby.”

  “We said nothing other than the fact that we know Miss Beamish’s real identity.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “We need to find a place where we can speak without being overheard.”

  “That will not be easy for me. We are watched constantly in the fields.”

  “I can find excuses to walk through Novum Arce. I have been watching everyone . . . to see if I can discern the truth you are looking for.”

  “Be careful. You are watched closely, too.”

  She nodded grimly. “If I am questioned, I can pretend I am on an errand for Domitilla and went to the wrong place by mistake.”

  “I don’t like you wandering about alone. I have heard the comments the men make about any woman they see out walking.”

  “I know the risks. Roxanne has warned me how women are expected to marry.”

  He turned toward the door, fighting back a grimace at the return of the ache through his muscles. “Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Out of Novum Arce. Now. I will not have you leered at and pawed like some doxy.”

  “It is too dangerous.”

  “Too dangerous for you to stay, I agree.”

  “No, I mean it is too dangerous for us to try to sneak away.”

  He listened, appalled, as she repeated Bellona’s tale of the man who had tried to leave the settlement.

  “And,” she continued as he cursed colorfully, “we cannot go until we discover the truth. You promised to find it out, and I will not let you break your promise.”

  He drew her into his arms and captured her mouth. Her need for him branded his lips, stealing his breath and setting his heart pounding at a fierce tempo. Her pliant curves caressed him as she melted against him. Whispering her name, he relished the shiver that swept along her skin.

  He tipped her face back so he could gaze into her loving eyes. “All right, but if one of these over-zealous pseudo-legionaries comes too close—”

  “I will let you know.”

  “You better.” He pressed his mouth to hers, not wanting to think how long it might be before he had a chance to kiss her again.

  Chapter Ten

  THE NEXT TIME Neville had a chance to see Pris was only two days later at a command performance that required the attendance of everyone, save the gate guards, in the great hall of the principia. Neville would have liked to find an excuse to avoid attending because it would have been the perfect time, when everyone was occupied, to sneak into portions of the compound that were off-limits to a mere laborer. However, the other fieldworkers had insisted he go with them while they enjoyed the Imperator’s wine and not thinking about the toil awaiting them at sunrise tomorrow.

  He wondered how they could forget it, even with a few jugs of wine. At least his muscles no longer cramped so badly he could barely move in the morning. He occasionally woke at night when he shifted and a muscle complained. He reminded himself that Wellington’s soldiers worked as hard every day toting gear and marching across the heated plains of Spain to fight Napoleon’s troops again. His admiration for them increased threefold. At day’s end, he collapsed on his cot and wished Pris was beside him to kiss away his pain. He wanted more than a few stolen kisses. She was his wife, and she was risking her life trying to find the information he had vowed to uncover while he was stuck digging up worms and grubs.

  The first thing that struck him when he entered the principia was the deafening noise. Everyone seemed to be shouting. The cacophony pressed painfully on his ears.

  “Mr. Williams!”

  He heard the voice only because Pris’s reached into his heart as well as his ears. He looked along the hall and saw Aunt Tetty waving. He was about to wave back and look for Pris when he realized she and a woman he did not know were sharing a low couch with the old woman.

  “Be right there,” he yelled back. With a wink at the other field hands, he told them to save him a spot. “Near the biggest wine jug.”

  That brought a round of laughs as they hurried to claim good seats near the walls where they could listen without being observed emptying several jugs of the Imperator’s good wine.

  Striding to where Pris sat, he wove past other lounging sofas where groups of women and men were talking. Their voices faded and their noses wrinkled in distaste as he moved past them. He heard an intentionally loud insult behind him, but ignored it. He found it more difficult to elude the fingers of women who were interested in him sharing their couch. Some of the women looked to be well born, but they acted like harlots on London’s lowest streets.

  How much coercion was St. John putting on his subjects to marry and reproduce? Such an edict was guaranteed to cause trouble. It already had. One of the fieldworkers had come to work that morning with two black eyes and a broken nose. Though he claimed the injuries had been caused by his clumsiness, the truth was that he had flirted with a woman already claimed by a stronger man.

  Neville smiled when he reached where Pris sat. When she gave him a playful grin, he knew she had seen his efforts to disentangle himself from the bolder women.

  “Will you join us, Mr. Williams?” Aunt Tetty asked over the din.

  “Thank you, but I should sit with my comrades from the fields instead of among these fine people.”

  “Nonsense,” the old woman said. “Everyone is equal in Novum Arce, so you are welcome to stay with us.”

  “Do stay,” added the dark-haired woman he had not met. “Like you, we are servants.”

  Pris’s smile broadened. “You do not know Roxanne Parker, do you? Roxanne serves as the magistra’s abigail. Roxanne, this is Leonard Williams.”

  “Mr. Williams, it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Cordelia’s.”

  He had to hold back a laugh at the idea he and Cordelia might ever describe themselves as friends then realized she was talking about Pris. How he wished Pris had chosen a different name!

  The three women shifted, and he found himself sitting between Pris and Aunt Tetty who kept them laughing with her tales of medicines she had tried—very unsuccessfully—to distill.

  He frowned when he heard a muffled sound in the distance. What might have been a sharp retort had its edges sanded off, so he could not tell what it was. It repeated a couple of more times. Even so, he could not identify it when his ears were battered by the tumult in the principia, though he guessed someone was shooting on the fells. He wondered what prey could be found on the barren hills.
He hoped it was not human.

  Suddenly Roxanne tugged on Aunt Tetty’s arm. With a lame excuse about finding a clean goblet for her wine, the brunette drew the older woman away.

  “So,” he said with a leering grin, “we are alone at last. What would you like to do about that?”

  Priscilla smiled at Neville, wishing she could throw her arms around him. She was grateful for Roxanne’s attempts at matchmaking, but must be careful not to show a preference for Neville’s company when she had seen men brawling over a woman.

  “How is the planting going, Mr. Williams?” she asked.

  He leaned an arm along the curved back, and she could not help but notice how bronzed he had become. The last time she had spoken with him, the light had been dim. Now she admired how muscles rippled along his arms.

  “It is going apace. Or so I am told. And you, Kenton? Is everything all right for you?”

  “I would say we are doing fine right now.”

  “That is good to hear.” He glanced around the space. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She laughed and lowered her voice. “I keep seeing resemblances to a large assembly at Almack’s.”

  “How so?”

  “The hierarchy is well-established, and certain people speak only to other certain people. A few guests have arrived already into their cups, and nobody seems interested in dancing when they can gossip.”

  Neville grinned. “Trust you to see such similarities. We could go out and kick up our heels in a dance to entertain the hoi polloi.”

  “Hoi polloi is Greek. Not Latin.”

  “But, as I recall, the Romans revered the Greeks and borrowed liberally from their culture. We could swirl about in a waltz and shock everyone.”

  “The waltz is not unacceptable any longer. I have heard it is danced at Almack’s now.”

  “Why not do so at our Roman version of Almack’s?”

  With a laugh, she shook her head. “I should have guessed you would take my comments to reductio ad ridiculum.” She tilted her chin and regarded him like an impatient tutor. “That, my dear sir, is Latin. It means—”

  “Take an argument to its most absurd conclusions. I am not completely unlettered.” He leaned closer to her and whispered, “I trust you are feeling well enough to shake a toe in a waltz.”

  “Stop worrying. As I told you, I am—we are fine, save I have had no luck in my search.”

  “Nor have I, but . . .” His voice trailed away.

  “But what?”

  Neville did not reply as his gaze swept the room.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  “Any clue to the real reason for this feast tonight.”

  “Roxanne told me today is the day the Romans celebrated Vinalia Urbana, a festival to celebrate the gods’ influence on wine.”

  “That explains the abundance of wine being poured, but what is the real reason for recreating a festival that has been forgotten for the past millennium?”

  “I think we are about to find out.”

  He stood as the curtain behind the throne fluttered, showing people were moving on its other side. “I need to join the other fieldworkers.”

  Priscilla wanted to argue and ask him if they could meet after dark, but he was right. She watched as he wove a path toward the main door. He crossed to the other side and was welcomed heartily by the other sowers. As he sat, the blare of a horn resonated through the principia.

  With as much pomp as if the whole royal family had entered the hall, Sir Thomas and a small group appeared from behind the curtain. Bellona stood on his right as he took his throne. She put her hand on the top, making it obvious she was accepted within the inner circle. None of the others stepped as close to Sir Thomas as she did. Instead, they arranged themselves in a half circle behind her. If Sir Thomas was their emperor, then Bellona was declaring herself his closest advisor.

  Heads bent toward each other throughout the hall, and a whispered buzz filled the space. Sir Thomas did not act as if he heard, but Bellona’s shoulders straightened and her chin lifted in a satisfied pose.

  Priscilla groaned. Lord Beamish’s daughter had no reason to leave Novum Arce. Why should she when she was the highest ranking lady in the settlement? That honor was never offered by the ton to a baron’s daughter.

  Across the hall, Neville was scowling, and she guessed he had come to the same conclusion. There had to be something Bellona wanted that would lure her away from Novum Arce. But what?

  Her mind went round and round as she tried to figure out ways to persuade Bellona to return home. She had already spoken of how her family must miss her, and Bellona had talked about how dangerous it was to try to slip away. But if they were able to promise Bellona a safe passage out of Novum Arce . . . would she go? Certainly, the troops training here were incapable of putting up much of a fight.

  She shuddered as she recalled Bellona’s words about the thief who tried to flee from Novum Arce. Someone had been able to capture him and drag him back behind the wall. Maybe the legionaries were not as incompetent as they appeared.

  Sir Thomas stood to speak, and the principia became as silent as a tomb. Even the clink of wine glasses halted.

  Priscilla tried to listen but Sir Thomas was not an inspired speaker. His droning voice seldom rose or fell. The only exception was when he mentioned Pax Romana. Real enthusiasm filled his words then.

  She struggled to stay awake. To fall asleep in the middle of Sir Thomas’s speech would draw attention to herself. She blinked and blinked, but each time it was more difficult to reopen her eyes. She remembered how much sleep she had required when she was pregnant with her other children.

  Cheers met a pause in Sir Thomas’s speech. From the other side of the room, Neville’s eyes caught hers. She could not read his thoughts, but the tension in his shoulders told her that, though he was applauding like everyone else around them, he had taken note of something unsettling. Something more than the misplaced fervor ringing through the room.

  During the cheers, Roxanne slid back onto the low couch. She clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. While the others watched Sir Thomas as he continued in the same monotone, Roxanne’s gaze was focused on Bellona. Priscilla could tell the abigail was as worried about the change in Lord Beamish’s daughter’s status as she was.

  But instead of speaking of her disquiet after Sir Thomas left to fervid applause, Roxanne asked, “What do you think of Mr. Williams? He seems quite taken with you.”

  “He was kind to talk to me after you and Aunt Tetty left abruptly,” Priscilla replied, though she would rather have asked if the abigail had known Bellona would appear at Sir Thomas’s side.

  “We left because we felt he wanted to talk with you alone.”

  “He did.”

  “Did he ask you to walk with him in the moonlight tonight?”

  “What?” she choked out, hoping Roxanne was not suddenly able to discern her heart’s cravings. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he looked at you as if you were a treasure he had been searching for his whole life. You don’t have to remain an abigail forever. You can marry.”

  Pris smiled. “You are a romantic, Roxanne.”

  “I know.” Her smile wavered. “If I cannot be happy with the man who holds my heart, I would like to see someone else happy.”

  “Have hope that you will be reunited.”

  “I try. I know, if he could, Asher would have come by now.”

  “But if he does not know where you are—”

  “He knows. He was with me when one of the men who confronted us at the inn mentioned Novum Arce and Sir Thomas by mistake. Even though they wore masks to conceal their faces, I could tell the other men were furious with him. If Asher could get here, he would straightaway.” She brushed away tears.


  Priscilla embraced her friend and considered this new information. To what lengths would Sir Thomas go to keep his community secret and secure?

  “CORDELIA?”

  Priscilla turned carefully from where she was placing Domitilla’s extra stolas in a cupboard. She did not want to bump the small statues of household lares in their wall niche. She had been told the woman with a flute was the guardian-goddess of the household while the male holding a spear was a lar militaris, who watched over the commandant on the field of battle. There had been a similar female in the quarters shared by the women who worked in the laundry, and she had been told no true Roman household would be without one or two of the statues.

  “Is it time for the midday meal?” Priscilla asked. Domitilla had decided earlier in the week the servants should dine at the same time. Priscilla was not sure what led Domitilla to such a decision. She had not given any reason, and no one had asked.

  It was becoming simpler every day to respond to her aunt’s name. She smiled at the young girl behind her. Juno worked in the kitchens. In a normal house, she would have been called a scullery maid because her duties focused on cleaning the pots and taking out the scraps.

  Juno giggled, looking younger than her thirteen years. “It is for you, Cordelia.”

  “For me? What do you mean?”

  “Come with me.” She grabbed Priscilla’s hand and almost ran toward the back entrance to the house. Flinging open the door, she crowed, “See what I mean?”

  Neville stood there, holding a small reed basket. He tilted it toward her. “A friend of yours suggested you might like to be properly courted, so with her help, I prepared a grand nuncheon for us.”

  “And you thought I would like to be courted by going on a picnic?” She shook her head. “That is not very Roman.”

  “Then we shall call it an al fresco meal. Maybe not Latin, but close because it is Italian.” He held out his hand.

  She heard muffled giggles as she put her hand on Neville’s. Juno must have been joined by the other kitchen maid who worked in the stillroom.