Fool's Paradise: A Lady Priscilla Flanders Mystery

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  He wondered where Beamish’s daughter had learned to be this brazen and how many times she had practiced with other men. Had Beamish been betwattled by his daughter, or had he worked very hard to keep her reputation intact despite her hoydenish ways? A man who could keep ministers in his pocket surely could cover up his daughter’s improprieties.

  How much did Miss Beamish know about what was really going on in Novum Arce? Playing along with her crude seduction might get him some answers. He had seldom bested Pris in any game of wits, but he doubted Beamish’s daughter was Pris’s match, so . . .

  He returned her flirtatious smile. “And talking on the public street is so . . . so not intimate.”

  She laughed. “You are a lady-killer, Leonard, aren’t you?”

  “The name has been associated with me before.” He caught her hand. Pressing it to his bare arm, he bent toward her. “But that could be changed by the right woman.”

  “And what type of woman is that?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she put her three longest fingers against his lips.

  “No,” she whispered, “this is not the place for such a conversation.” She slid her fingers slowly down over his bottom lip. “Don’t you think it would go better with wine? It is not common knowledge where the Imperator stores his best, but I happen to know. A bottle of an excellent vintage would make our conversation more convivial . . . and intimate.”

  “Thank you, domina mea, but—”

  “You can call me ‘Bellona.’ That would please me.” She leaned forward to brush her breasts against his chest. “It would please greatly. And I enjoy showing my gratitude to those who please me.”

  He stepped back, trying not to show his disgust. She acted like the most slovenly whore in London. “I must complete an errand for the commandant.”

  “He can wait.” She seized his hand. “I cannot.”

  Neville drew his hand away before she could press it to her breast. Hoping his regret sounded sincere, he said, “On this matter, he made it clear he cannot wait, domina mea.”

  “Bellona!”

  “He cannot wait, Bellona,” he repeated obediently, then dropped his voice to a murmur. “I will be with you as soon as I can. An hour, no more. Imagine the delicious anticipation we can savor.” He lifted her hand to his lips and heard her quick intake of breath. He lowered it, unkissed, as he whispered in her ear. “Delicious anticipation.”

  She moaned and smiled. “I was certain there was something about you that I liked, Leonard. Now I know. You remind me of me.”

  He could not imagine a worse insult.

  “You are,” she continued when he did not speak, “not afraid of going after what you want. I admire that in a man.” She looped her arm around his in a quick motion he had not expected. “But one glass of wine will not keep you from your task for the commandant . . . or the one you will be performing for me afterwards.”

  Every instinct told him to rip his arm away from her, but he said, “One glass and one glass only now.” He picked up the lantern with what he hoped looked like a careless motion. “We will finish the bottle . . . afterwards.”

  “I like how you think, my dear Leonard.” Her slight emphasis should have been a warning to any man who might believe he could have the upper hand in any affaire with Bellona.

  He sent a silent apology to Pris, because he was certain Bellona would drag out that glass of wine for as long as she could in an effort to seduce him into forgetting his duties. That would be her goal. His would be to flirt and to escape as quickly as possible.

  PRISCILLA HEARD the faint tap on the window. Finally! Pausing to peek into the darkness, she hoped the motion beyond the glass signaled Neville had arrived at last. He should have been there almost an hour ago. She had wavered between annoyance and worry something was amiss.

  Irritation kept her from giving into her body’s demand for sleep. The waves of exhaustion she had experienced during the wine festival had returned, and every movement felt as if she carried ten pounds of iron on her shoulders. She had considered maybe it was for the best that Neville had been delayed and that she should blow out the lamp and get in bed to sleep her fill.

  But now he must be here!

  She wrapped her stola around her hair and over her shoulders. She left a drooping section in the front so she could pull it across her face if she needed to mask her identity. When she opened the door and stepped into the night, scattered raindrops pelted her face fiercely, driven by the wind that sent the clouds scudding across the night sky.

  Where was Neville?

  A motion to her left! She heard the flapping of a cloak being pushed aside and caught a quick glimpse of light reflecting off a white uniform.

  “Here,” came a low whisper in Neville’s beloved voice. “Beneath the window.”

  She rushed to his side. “I started to think you were not coming.”

  “I was delayed by Beamish’s daughter. It seems she has taken a personal interest in me.”

  “A very personal one; Roxanne warned me.”

  “Warned you?”

  She slipped her arm through his and leaned into him, taking care not to kick over the lantern by his feet. “Roxanne wanted to be certain I had not grown attached to Mr. Williams, because her lady disliked competition.”

  “You could have warned me.”

  Her laugh was filled with relief. “I have not had a chance, and, to own the truth, I assumed a Roman legionary could hold his own against one lusty wench.”

  “I was not so sure of that when she clamped her talons on me.” He chuckled. “Beamish has got a surprise coming when she gets home.”

  Priscilla waved aside his questions as she came to her feet. “We cannot delay any longer.”

  He pulled his cloak back up over his head even though the spitting rain had halted. He put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close so to anyone glancing in their direction, they might pass as a single soldier on his way back to the barracks. Overhead, the moon played peek-a-boo with the clouds, illuminating the ground before slipping away again. They tried to avoid the pools of light and had to come to a stop more than once to wait for the light to fade again. She held her breath the whole time they passed by the windows where the legionaries’ voices reached into the night.

  Once they were past, she released it and drew in another filled with the scents that were uniquely Neville’s. She had not guessed how she would miss such minor aspects of him when they were kept apart, day after day, week after week.

  “Any word from Duncan?” she asked.

  “No, but I am not worried. I know that he is looking for us, and he is like a foxhound when he gets the scent.”

  “And he will have to discover a way to get a message to us inside the walls.”

  He chuckled. “Duncan has done more than that in more harrowing circumstances.”

  “I would ask, but I suspect I do not want to know.”

  “Probably not.” He lifted his arm from around her shoulders and pointed to the right. “There are the granaries. How many are there?”

  “According to the records I have been copying into the ledgers, there are three.” She saw they were set at the three points of a large triangle, an odd configuration, but then again, what was not odd in Novum Arce?

  “Let’s hope one of these three is the charm then.”

  Priscilla shared his hope as she climbed up two steps to the door on the first granary. It opened, and she stepped aside to let Neville shine the light from his lantern inside the building. Quickly, they realized it was completely empty. The second one was as well. All we need is one, she reminded herself as she had too often in the past few days.

  She walked up the two steps to the door on the third stone building that, like the other two, had no windows. She put her hand on th
e latch and murmured a quick prayer before she raised it.

  Wheat spilled out onto her toes, and she hastily shut the door. Or tried to. The grain beyond it prevented her from closing it completely. When Neville told her to step aside, she obeyed and took the lantern. He pressed his shoulder against the door and shoved it shut. She sighed when she heard the latch click into place.

  “If the guns are in there,” Neville said as he jumped down from the top step, “we will never find them. I can check back here regularly, but if I had to wager a guess, I would say nobody would be foolish enough to store them beneath piles of grain that could collapse on one at any time.”

  “Then where are they? I have checked every public building in Novum Arce and most of the private ones.” She came down to stand beside him. “Maybe I was wrong, and the guns were never there. So much of this place is make-believe. Maybe they were, too.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t believe that.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because the guns would not have been moved after you chanced to see them.” He gave her a wry grin. “After all, why would someone play a trick on someone they barely know?”

  “For the fun of watching us scurry around the compound, trying to look into every building?”

  “I don’t believe that,” he said again. “We will figure it out.”

  Priscilla gave him a tight smile. She appreciated him trying to keep up her spirits, but her heart was heavy with the prospect of returning to her lonely room and playing a role she had come to hate. She wanted to see her children and the silly puppy Isaac had brought home. For the first time, she even looked forward to Daphne’s daily drama about the upcoming wedding.

  The idea of admitting defeat was not as horrible as she had imagined before. Whoever had sent Neville out to spy on Sir Thomas would have to be satisfied with what information they had. They could inform Lord Beamish where his wayward daughter was, and then he could do his fatherly duty and collect her himself. Only the thought of never learning what had happened to the other Beamish servants kept her from urging Neville to find a way to sneak out of Novum Arce right now. How could she go back to her family and leave Roxanne never knowing what had happened to the man she loved?

  Sudden tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. She pressed her face to Neville’s chest, gripping the front of his tunic and wanting never to let go.

  “Pris,” he said against her hair, “you have told me many times to have faith. Now it is my turn to say the same to you.”

  “I am tired.” Her voice was uneven with the emotion she could no longer contain. “Every day, it feels as if I am trudging through mud. I want to go home and put my feet up and take a nap until I am not tired any longer.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, it is time to put an end to this charade.”

  “I know, but we need to . . .”

  Priscilla stared toward a passage between the two granaries.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  As if on cue, the clouds drifted from the face of the moon to send a shaft of light to earth in front of them. She drew in a sharp breath when she saw what looked like another granary storage building hidden within the triangle created by the others.

  “It is a fourth building!” She stepped away from him. “But there are only three in the ledgers. Maybe they don’t intend to use that building for grain.”

  “Or maybe they use it when they want to hide something in plain sight.”

  She agreed. There was no reason to have a fourth building that did not appear in the ledgers unless it was for times when the Imperator did not want anything about it in the community’s records. Would they find the missing guns behind its door? Or would it be something else altogether? Or nothing?

  No, she refused to give into pessimism again. Taking Neville’s hand, she led the way, slipping between two granaries as the moonlight vanished again. He wove his fingers between hers and squeezed gently. Warmth spread from his skin to hers, and her exhaustion fell aside as if it had never existed.

  “Try the door,” he whispered.

  She stepped up and reached to raise the latch. It would not move.

  “It is locked,” she and Neville said at the same time.

  She turned to face him, and he motioned her aside. Only then, as the light from the lantern struck the door, did she notice a heavy metal lock hanging from a hasp about a foot above the latch.

  Neville handed her the lantern and drew his knife. She watched as he put the tip in the lock where a key should go. He shifted it with care and patience. It took several minutes, but then a click as loud as a shout echoed through the space between the granaries.

  “I had forgotten you know how to pick locks,” she said, shaking her head. “You always amaze me.”

  “It is a skill that often comes in handy, whether I need to get out of a Cornish cell or into a Lakeland granary.” He lifted the lock off and threw the hasp aside before he opened the door.

  She slid back the front of the dark lantern enough to allow a finger of light to splash out then followed him through the doorway.

  Four pairs of wide eyes caught the light and stared back at them. An old woman crouched on the floor behind three men. No, two men and a gangly youth. The men and the boy wore ragged clothing that might once have been dark blue livery. The woman’s simple dress was as ripped and filthy, but the fabric was appropriate for an upper servant.

  “Is one of you Asher Snow?” Priscilla asked.

  The younger of the two men stepped forward. “You know my name. Will you tell us yours?”

  She pressed her hands over her mouth to silence her cry of joy. They had found Lord Beamish’s missing servants.

  Chapter Fourteen

  WHEN PRISCILLA stepped past the door, she quickly introduced herself and Neville by the names they had taken in Novum Arce. She glanced around. Except for the door, which Neville had closed behind them so no light would betray them, there was no break in the stone walls. Some hessian jute had been tossed on the stone floor in two corners for makeshift, very uncomfortable bedding. A bucket by the door held water and another at the back of the space reeked. A single trencher held a small amount of food that smelled almost as bad.

  Asher Snow was as tall as Neville and looked to be in his early thirties. His black hair was unkempt, but he kept his shoulders back in the pose every good footman learned. He gestured to the old woman. “Allow me to introduce Miss Redding, who has, until recently, served as companion to Miss Beamish.”

  Miss Redding tried to struggle to her feet, but when she began coughing hard, Priscilla hurried to her and urged her to remain where she was. In the lantern’s light, the old woman’s lined face was the gray of death. She hoped Miss Redding was in better condition than she appeared. Pulling off her stola, Priscilla draped it over the shivering woman.

  “Thank you, madam,” Miss Redding said in an obviously educated voice.

  Asher pointed to the man on his left and said, “This is Harrison, Lord Beamish’s coachee.”

  “Madam, sir.” The coachman bowed his head to her and Neville. His thinning hair was steel gray. He must have been of much wider girth before the servants were taken from The Rose and Thistle because his clothing hung on him as if draped from a single peg.

  “Davis is our tiger,” Asher continued.

  The lad, who could be no more than sixteen or seventeen years old, dipped his head as the coachman had. He was good-looking with shoulders too broad for his form, the very type of youth who could handle the luggage in the boot and would make a fine figure riding on the back of the carriage.

  “You don’t have anything to eat, do you?” he asked.

  “I am sorry—”

  Priscilla was interrupted by Neville setting the lantern down and pulling a pouch from beneath his cloak. “It is not
much, but I took it during an encounter I had earlier this evening.” He arched a brow toward her, and she realized he had taken it while trying to elude Bellona’s seduction. “Like I said, it is not much, but . . .” He held out the pouch, and the boy seized it, almost tearing it open.

  As the lad pulled out a slice of bread and some cheese, Asher said in a slightly embarrassed voice, “Sometimes a day or two goes by without any food being delivered to us.”

  “Who brings it?”

  “We never see a face because the deliveries are at night, and the person wears a cloak.” He exchanged a weary look with the coachee. “We learned trying to rush him was useless because the person never comes alone. The others are armed.”

  “With swords?”

  “No, with pocket pistols.” His mouth twisted. “That is why we did not rush forward when you unlocked the door. We figured it was being opened to deliver us food.” Glancing at Davis who was examining the other food in the pouch, he sighed. “It’s been almost four days since the last visit.”

  “Have you been imprisoned since you were snatched from the inn?” Neville asked.

  “Yes, but not always here.”

  Priscilla glanced at the men then continued draping her stola over the older woman’s shoulders. Letting Neville handle the questions now would give her a chance to comfort Miss Redding. She watched Davis, the tiger, pull a few slices of fruit from Neville’s pouch. A growing boy needed more than the scanty meals served to the prisoners.

  She fought her outrage that these people had been starved while there was plenty of food for the residents of Novum Arce. Lord Beamish would be furious because he would see their mistreatment as a slap to his face. What mattered now was getting these people healthy enough so they could escape when she and Neville found a way to slip them past the guards at the gate.